Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [91]
Murmur’s voice came, “Eat well, Scour.”
“What are you talking about?” said Demascus. His voice cracked and broke. Whatever front he had thrown up had obviously faltered with the boy’s life.
“You’ll discover that soon enough,” said the demon. “You, and everyone in this chamber, and perhaps everyone in the entire city of Airspur will become food for my slumbering sibling.”
She had to get the Hells out of there. Her hands shook, and she fumbled her first attempt at the human’s restraint.
“I … I see. Why is Scour asleep?”
“Because of you!” Murmur suddenly raged. It grasped Demascus’s cage and shook it like a terrier shakes a cornered rat.
Riltana removed Chant’s remaining manacle. She whispered, “All your stuff is in that chest beneath Carmenere’s cage. See it?”
The pawnbroker rubbed his wrists and nodded. He was pale and battered, but the human’s eyes were dark with determination. He muttered, “We’ll make this demon sorry for what it’s done.”
“No!” she breathed. “What we’re going to do is create a distraction! We free a passel of other prisoners, the ones that look like they still have some kick in them. Then, when Murmur’s busy chasing them down, we free Demascus, and we run from here like greased pig-snugglers!”
“I’ll help free the prisoners,” said Chant. “Then we’ll see.” The pawnbroker glided out of the cage as quietly as she herself could have managed, despite his bulging belly. She followed.
The demon had let go of Demascus’s dangling cell. The deva shook his head to clear it from the rough handling.
“Tell me one thing,” said Demascus, his voice even more strained. “You didn’t cause that spike of power at the shrine? You didn’t summon me with some sort of ritual?”
“No,” said Murmur. “Why would I be insane enough to call forth one of the few beings who ever bested me?”
“A servitor told you of the shrine?” said Demascus. “Who?”
Murmur grated, “I hardly bother to learn their names; they all become food in the end. It was … The one who liked to wear a hood. He told me of the spiritual spike, and how I might profit from it. Hold—I remember. My mind is improving apace with the molting finally complete.
“His name is Kalkan.”
CHARTER TWENTY
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
ONLY A HINT OF LIGHT LEAKED AROUND THE EDGES OF HIS blindfold, but Demascus could sense Murmur’s presence—a blot of inimical cold, far too close. His battered body throbbed, and the manacles were a torture all their own.
But all that went away as the demon’s words hit home.
“You … you know Kalkan?” asked Demascus.
The leaden voice replied, “Enough talk. I’ve given Scour something to wake its appetite. It’s time for the main course. You, Demascus.”
The pain crashed back down on him, and it served as the conduit for a cold draft of pure fear. He did not want to be eaten alive by a swarm of semisentient bugs!
“Think of it as an experiment,” continued the abyssal voice. “How long will it take the insects to eat through your skin and bone before they get to your heart or brain? Everyone I’ve thrown into the pit lasts at least a song. The screaming usually stops before that, but that’s only because the bugs have eaten the tongue and soft tissues of the throat.”
The bolt on his cage being drawn back scratched his ears. A presence defined by the smell of blood and rot moved closer.
He spasmed in the manacles, forcing his strained muscles to jerk as hard as they could against the restraints. But the metal cuffs only cut deeper.
He panted, motionless again. “I don’t want to go into the pit,” he said. He was amazed at how matter-of-fact his voice sounded.
“But you’re the perfect sacrifice,” said Murmur. Demascus turned his head from its stagnant breath. “Of all the creatures I’ve collected to feed my sibling, your spiritual presence is the most vital. It radiates from you like a fire. When Scour eats you, it will finally wake, I’m certain of it!”
Cold,