(THOB) Chapter 75: The Soup (Patreon)

“W…why?” Ezril croaked, his attention on Loren. His throat was dry, like a pipe clogged with sand. It made the words come out hoarse. With them came the taste of blood.

“Because your trust was the easiest to gain,” was all she said. Then she came at him with the ferocity of an intoxicated animal.

She stopped short suddenly and her eyes turned wary.

Ezril’s hand felt heavier now, strained. When he moved it, it weighed much more than he remembered. His fingers twitched but remained fisted, refusing to unclench at his command.

In them was his Sunder.

He was unaware of when he had drawn it. His body had moved on its own. Though he was thankful for it, he didn’t care for the twitch in his empty hand that craved the weight of his bow. His Sunder was already heavy enough as it was.

Loren sneered at him. “What are you going to do, Father?” she mocked. “You can barely lift that abomination.”

She was right, but he still saw the fear in her eyes. For a brief moment she glanced at his bowl, then back at him. Whatever she noticed incited a horror in her eyes. Now she looked at him with the same expression she had when she’d called his Sunder an abomination: horror and disgust.

He took her moment of confused hate and flung his Sunder with everything he had. It crashed through one of the windows, sending shards of glass flying as it disappeared into the night. Then footsteps drew his attention.

He turned, leaned into the motion, and swayed to the side. It pulled him out of the way as Loren brought down her dagger. It’s point barely missed his head.

He planted another foot down, regaining his balance, poor, though it was. He struck her throat with an open fist before her hand came up again. The force pushed her away from what should’ve ended in a firm grip before Ezril’s hand closed. His body’s response was sluggish, it felt like a life time passed before his body obeyed his commands. His vision waned further. His knees almost buckled under his weight.

Loren came at him again, blood seeping from her lips. She came with a frenzy. Clearly she was no fighter. Ezril stepped back as she slashed upward. Then, quickly, he stepped in after her wide swing, and wrap his hand around her neck. This time it held.

He frowned. Under his grip, her throat was weak. His blow had crushed it. There would be no information to be gained from her.

Her hand moved again in his contemplation and Ezril’s shoulder exploded in pain. His vision deemed. Darkness clawed at the edge of everything. A pain his lips were too heavy to release wracked his body, spread from his shoulder. Loren shoved her dagger deeper into his shoulder. Then she attempted to twist it and failed. Unwilling to surrender to defeat, she tried again.

Thought evaded Ezril. Pain was all he could comprehend. In it was a bleak thought. She could not speak; he could not gain any information from her. And he would not die.

He swung her to the side, putting his weight behind the action.

The wall was closer than he’d anticipated and Loren hit it with a fury, the sound loud as two horses colliding. She howled in pain but held her dagger tight. She shoved it deeper into his shoulder, ignoring the blood that trickled down her face. She twisted. This time she succeeded and Ezril howled in pain. There was no doubt in his mind the soldiers had noticed his Sunder. Still, they were taking too long. He could feel himself fading.

Who sent you?

He’d meant to speak but the words remained unsaid. It wasn’t like she could have offered him an answer. It wasn’t as if she could’ve offered him anything. The simple thought angered him. To be bested by her, to be put down by a woman who didn’t even know how to wield a dagger. It appalled him. It infuriated him. And it woke him.

In his rage, he pulled her from the wall. His hand firmly wrapped around her neck, he shoved her back against it. Again. And again. And again. Each thud was succeeded by a guttural howl.

Loren’s hand came free of the dagger, loose. Then it fell limply to her side. In his eyes he saw her. There was no fight left in her. Her face was bloodied. She looked nothing like she did when she’d walked in; nothing like she had the last few months.

Ezril shoved again, and her head hit the wall with a splat, like a burst water sack.

Tired, he looked into the eyes of the girl who had tidied his room for the better part of a year. He saw nothing. No recognition. No pain. No life. Only nothingness.

And he felt nothing.

With the last of his strength, he discarded her to the side and fell against the wall, supporting his weight as best he could. His knees finally gave out beneath him and he slumped to the floor.

Time ebbed, accompanying him with the dull sense only pain gives.

The door burst open a second time and he knew he would not survive the next attack. His brothers ran in, soldiers behind them. From the little Ezril could see, Olufemi looked raged and hungry for blood.

Salem knelt before Ezril a moment after. He studied him with a panicked visage. “What happened?” he asked.

Words weighed down on Ezril’s throat and he had to force them out. “The soup…” he whispered. “Poisoned.”

Salem barked out a few orders so loud they grated against Ezril’s ears and he comprehended nothing of them.

He had long recognized the taste of the soup; why it had made him nostalgic. It was not the same, but it reminded him of his travel with Urden. The months he had spent with him. The meals they had eaten. The odd taste of meat that never seemed completely cooked or roasted, sinewy and tough.

“Blood…” he croaked, remembering Father Nemael’s words to him in the smithy. “It… it’s… Titan blood.”

Salem barked another set of orders then turned his attention back to Ezril. Eyes filled with panic, he spoke. “Something’s wrong with your eyes, brother. They’re black.”

Ezril managed a faint smile. Salem knew how to speak in metaphors. It was perhaps a part of his high birth. Perhaps his vision was getting too clouded. Ezril raised his hand. It didn’t budge, so he let it lie where it was. “No, brother.” He croaked an empty laugh. “My eyes are blue. You know this.”

Salem shook his head violently. “No,” he insisted. “They’re black, brother. Like someone took the night and poured it into them.” His panic grew with each word. “It’s not just the blue, brother. It’s the white. It’s everything. It’s all black.” He frowned, panic verging on horror, but he would not lose his calm visage. “All of it.”

He lifted Ezril by his hand and Olufemi joined him. “How much of the soup did you take?” Salem demanded.

Ezril couldn’t see well. Darkness clawed at the edge of his brothers. On Salem it was strong. On the soldiers it varied. On the objects in the room it seemed almost translucent. On Olufemi, there was nothing. It soothed Ezril’s vision, so he focused his gaze on him.

“…Enough,” he said at last, answering Salem.

Salem cast his gaze to the bowls. Only one place at the table had no occupant when they had barged in. He looked back at Ezril, horrified. “By Truth! Brother! What did you do?”

Ezril smiled mockingly for reasons unknown to himself. As his brothers pulled him out of the room, he spared a glance at Loren’s body, then his vision swirled, and the darkness took him.

I did what I had to.