18. Eighteen
The ass crack of dawn was terribly early to be up, the sky still an eminence of indigo. All was quiet, aside from his panting breaths and the obscene slurping around his cock. As promised, the nightmares hadn’t been too bad, but Awimak saw the need to make it up to him, anyway. Ryurikov wasn’t about to complain.
He twisted his fingers into soft dark hair, let his bare palms journey across the coils of bough-like horns, rough against his skin. His hold on them tightened and Awimak stilled his movements, permitting him to thrust into the long, consumingly hot mouth to his heart’s content. When Ryurikov climaxed, it was with an arch of his back, and a low, drawn-out groan. Awimak swallowed his offering with an audible gulp, and released him with a final long, hard suck. He licked around his own mouth with languid delectation.
A lazy smirk draped Ryurikov’s lips. “Thank you.”
Leaning on an elbow, he reached up to wipe saliva from the jut of Awimak’s chin, barely visible underneath the skull. Still hazy with sleep and lust, he gave in to temptation and stroked his knuckles over the side of his demon’s face. In the rising sun, the labyrinthine carvings on Awimak’s skull glowed gold, reflecting pinks and oranges, filling Ryurikov with fascination and a warmth that quickly overwhelmed. The sudden, desperate need to kiss his demon slammed into him like a fist to the chest.
Fortunately, he recognised that for what it was, and just as quickly, Ryurikov was awake and on his feet, hoisting his breeches back up, walking away. He grit his teeth against the surge of emotion, forcing it all the way back down into his guts and hopefully, right out of his ass.
YOU CANNOT ESCAPE FOREVER, Awimak called after him and damn him for sounding so fucking pleased.
He entered the hut—not escaped into—to find the hag in the rocking chair by the hearth. With his lips pressed in a line, he manoeuvred around cauldrons and cages to perch on the raised edge of the stone hearth. He waited for Jezibaba to say something, but she only kept knitting, now working on something maroon.
“I’m told Valka was taken by a drake, so I’ll need the hut to head for Od Peming Rise.”
A brief pause of the clicking needles. “We’re already headed there.”
Ryurikov raised his brows. “How does it know?”
The sigh that left Jezibaba was long, broken by phlegm, and told of the suffering of someone ancient. “The broom, weedling. It knows.”
“Right.” He paused, unsure of what to do. Going back outside was out of the question. Ryurikov didn’t do feelings, and the onslaught of them needed to be felled and burned. Something he couldn’t do if he was around Awimak. So he lingered, fidgeted, helped himself to some cold stew, then watched Jezibaba’s gnarly hands work uneven wool.
If the hag had anything to say, it fell away at a slight jolt vibrating the hut. Jezibaba glanced up, grey brows knotting with a frown.
“We’ve stopped,” she said.
“This is unusual, how?”
Jezibaba grumbled incomprehensibly, adding, “We’re out of forest to walk through. Guess you’re going on foot from here.”
Ryurikov grunted and stood to grab his things, but hesitated. “In Eastcairn. What…was the risk to Awimak?”
The hag’s gaze darted to him. “What do you mean?”
“He’s basically a tree, isn’t he?”
At that, those lizard eyes rolled so far Ryurikov thought they might pop out the back of her skull.
“He is not a tree, he is of the earth.”
“Last I checked, trees were very much rooted in the earth. Well,” Ryurikov motioned around him, “aside from the hut’s legs. Just tell me if there’s a risk of him getting hurt. I’d ask Awimak, but the fucker is evasive.”
“Said fucker can hear everything you say, you know.” Jezibaba jerked her head in the direction of the kitchenette window. “He’s listening in as we speak.”
“Awimak!” Ryurikov pivoted to glare out the paned glass. The demon’s goliath shape ducked away.
“If there had been no risk,” Jezibaba continued when Ryurikov made to walk out, “Awimak would have been able to vanquish the Skin Crawlers himself. They pose a threat to his livelihood as much as the rest of Vale, in case that detail escaped your sapless head.”
Ryurikov’s mind hurtled faster than a spooked horse. Fuck. She was right, he’d never given it a thought. He excelled at not deliberating matters, it was his best and most useful skill.
“I’ll deal with it later,” he muttered, grabbing his bow and quiver from the table. “Stay here, Awimak. I don’t want you with me.”
With that, he exited the hut, left through the parted trees and hopped down into a hazy forest. Blue-tinged smoke curled up off the ground. He wrinkled his nose, his footfalls silent as he made for the edge. He couldn’t hear a bird or the chitter of an insect, the atmosphere churning with an eerie frisson that had Ryurikov wrap his cloak more firmly around himself despite the invasive warmth.
He knew where that warmth came from, and by fuck, he hated it, somehow still surprised when he emerged from the last of the trees into nothing but ravaged lands.
Whatever once stood here was gone, burned entirely to the ground. Like Eastcairn, like his home. The air thick with dark smoke, blocking daylight. Fat droplets of rain dragged swirls of dusty blue with them, sizzling and turning to steam.
The puppets of Clutchers walked through ash-laden ground, what remained of their clothes scorched into blistered skin. There were no Skin Crawlers yet, although Ryurikov thought he heard their screeches echo far in the distance. Od Peming Rise was difficult to make out through the smoke, but if the hut had been on its way to it, then the path to the mountains would lay ahead.
He grasped his long dagger tight and snuck, although there was little to hide behind. Charcoal crunched under his boots, the heat threatening to melt the leather. Ryurikov cursed under his breath when a smouldering protrusion singed his cloak, and gathered the fabric around himself a second time.
Squatting behind a half wall of molten stone, he peered around for a way forward. The surrounding ruin sloped upward and, assuming it would lead him to the foot of the mountain, he continued to walk in a crouch.
A chorus of dry crunching bones forced him to a stop. He hid behind another structure, mostly broken, and peered around its corner. Ryurikov started at the group of mobile corpses, heads twitching and jerking, stumbling about in a specific direction, like a unit of marching soldiers. There were at least twenty of them—the nest of Clutchers here had to be impossibly large.
Ryurikov lowered to sit in ash, pliant like snow, to wipe his sweat-damp forehead. The heat was unbearable, entirely different to that of the sun. Smoke hitting his lungs made it difficult not to cough and alert nearby creatures. His thoughts flicked back to Awimak, and his gaze to the forest, now but a shadow behind brumous blue, glad he’d told the demon to stay put. Awimak might have survived the disaster in Eastcairn, but this was on an entirely different level.
Everywhere he looked, there was naught but desolation. Skin Crawlers would have laid waste to this place years ago and most of the everlasting fire had moved on. Ryurikov rubbed his index finger over his thumb in thought. Was this what the Thuidal Kingdom looked like, with nothing left but corpses sucked dry and reanimated?
A shake of his head cleared the thought. From where he sat staining his beautiful clothes, the smoke curled away from rain enough to reveal the foot of the mountain. Once the dry crunching faded, he pushed up and darted toward it, hopping over debris in a rush to get the hell away from there.
Hours of walking but the sky didn’t clear, although its hue changed from azure-tinged to obsidian. Scree awaited him at the bottom, the stones jagged and darkened with soot. They clattered down with each precarious inch he climbed, the noise echoing through the haunting stillness clinging to the air. He hoisted himself up a crag and sat on its edge to rest, throat sore and breathing laboured.
There was little to see from here, the smoke shrouding all in a blanket of death. Ryurikov lowered his hood with a tired sigh, glancing over his shoulder. There was much to climb, still. And once he got on top, what then? Dragons and drakes and whatever else lived there would burn him to nothing, most likely.
Was this even worth it, for someone who was in all likelihood dead?
Ryurikov got back to his feet before his cowardice caught up with him. If nothing else, he could confirm Valka was gone. He would no longer have to wonder, to yearn for what could have been.
Od Peming Rise wasn’t steep so much as it was a precarious climb. He was thankful for his gloves, the stone rough and painful even through the leather. The higher he climbed, the harsher the winds became, and the more rain lashed him. Scaling a particularly steep drop, among the patter and gales, Ryurikov realised there was another sound.
A tune.
The tune of a flute, its melody sweet, like a lullaby.
A thrill of excitement darted down his back, prompting him to climb faster. Once he reached the top at last, he took a moment to catch his breath, then to appreciate the beauty of his accomplishment.
Lush verdancy, a manifold of waterfalls, and brightly coloured flowers lay ahead of him, sunlight transforming mist into luminous rainbows. That was nice too, he supposed, but that climb. Glancing down, the ashen wasteland was no longer visible, thank fuck, and he hadn’t yet been burned to a crisp by defecating dragons, either.
He waved his hands, encouraging the fresh air up into his nostrils, and inhaled deeply. That melodious flute was louder now blustery winds and rain were no longer beating him over the head.
This place was what one might consider a paradise. Flowers of impossible hues in full bloom, clover carpeting the entire stretch of ground as far as he could see. Ryurikov realised he could have brought Awimak with him, after all. His big demon would have loved this, there were trees everywhere, too.
Od Peming Rise appeared to be as harmless as it was beautiful. Most astonishingly, the first sign of life were lizards. Brightly coloured ones, easily lost among the vibrant flowers as they ran to and fro, standing on their hind-legs and taking… Notes.
They were taking notes, parchment and quill in claws.
Drakes, Ryurikov realised, no taller than the height of his boots. One skittered past him, entirely unbothered by his presence, pink scales radiating like abalone shells. It stopped by a large plant with a long stalk and flame-like flowers, balanced itself on its thick tail, and began scratching away, the ink a shimmer of blue.
Ryurikov burst into laughter. A full on, loud guffaw that had him clutching his stomach and gasping for air.
All this time, Od Peming Rise was believed to be a fearsome place, where dragons and wyverns and drakes, even the odd lindworm, tore anything to pieces, burned all to blackened crisps. No one who valued their life went venturing into these mountains, they had learned to leave these creatures alone centuries ago. Yet here he was, standing doubled over in waterfall-softened grass, in one of the most picturesque places he’d ever travelled to.
The little pink drake glanced at him, its cold grey eyes measuring, maybe a little judgy.
Ryurikov finally controlled himself enough to wheeze, “You crafty fuckers.”
His lungs seized with lingering chuckles as he straightened up and carried on. This didn’t seem like a place Valka would spend all of her time, but it was worth looking around, at least. There had to be someone willing to pay handsomely for this sort of information.
He followed the sound of the flute, rounding a tall cliff awash with several narrow cascades. He jumped over brooks, hopped across large boulders. The drakes were everywhere, and they were all equally studious. Ryurikov stopped to observe one as bright as a sunflower, studying what appeared to be two blue insects, mating midair.
He opened his mouth before he could even think of something uncouth to say—something hit him between the shoulders, hard, sending him off the boulder he’d ascended and to the grass below.
“What the fuck—”
What felt a suspicious amount like a boot slammed into his back next. Unfortunately, he had no chance to recover when another blow hit him in the side. He rolled over, caught the foot trying to stomp his stomach with both hands and twisted it. The sharp yelp that bounced off the cragged cliffs was feminine, and even before he saw the bright flash of copper hair, Ryurikov knew who it was.
His heart skipped a beat as he jumped back up while Valka retreated a few paces. He tried to lower his hood, but she raised a flute, long and bone-white, and played a tune.
Not a sweet lullaby this time, but something sharp, vicious, and it prompted every drake nearby to turn its head toward him. Within a flash they descended upon him, a swarm of vivid scales. Teeth sank into his limbs, tearing through clothes, his skin.
Ryurikov cried out. Attempted to pry them off as they piled on. They were heavy, he struggled to remain upright as they climbed, jumped, gnawed. He punched one leaping at his face and sent it flying sideways while Valka retreating further to keep playing that fucking flute.
“Valka!” Ryurikov shouted over the drake’s wet snarls. “Stop, it’s me!”
He cried in agony at the shrill series of notes. All drakes collectively chomped down, tearing into him. His hands found his daggers, ran the blades into the skulls of those latched onto his feet and arms. They were easy enough to kill, to kick off, but fuck it hurt, each bite worse than the next.
The tune stopped, and so did the oversized lizards, slithering away through grass like possessed snakes. Ryurikov staggered to his feet and the tip of a gleaming sabre greeted him. It slashed upward.
He saw the blood whip from his face, heard the blade cut through the fabric of his hood, then the pain set in. He stumbled back, clutching at the right side of his face with a trembling hand.
Valka stood before him, unwavering, her face twisted with rage.
“Valka,” he said again, pleadingly. He took a few more steps back, soon realising he was at the edge of a cliff, that the fall down would be exceptionally unpleasant. “For fuck’s sake, it’s me, Ruri!”
“I know.”
That was all she said. Yet his heart frosted at the chill in her tone, the cruel iciness in her gaze. In the way she licked her lips, then set them back down on the flute.
Oh, fuck.
A sharp trill, and a kaleidoscope of scales and sharp teeth came upon him. Ryurikov’s foot slipped off the edge. He flailed his arms to regain his balance—would have too, if it weren’t for Valka booting him in the centre of his chest.
When Ryurikov fell, his mind jumped from, “what the fuck,” to, “if only I’d brought Awimak along.” His ruined cloak flapped around him. He kept his gaze fixed on Valka, who watched him descend to his demise.
He met with something hard, the grunt tearing from him loud and startled. Ryurikov’s head spun, the fact he was within powerful arms, hardened by bark and muscle, slow to set in.
Awimak had his face turned upward, eyes streaking a fiery glow, thick hooves making simple work of scaling the mountainside. The sound that left Ryurikov would have been embarrassing on a normal day, but seeing as he’d just evaded death a third time, saved by none other than a demon, his demon, the mewl seemed appropriate.
He wrapped his arms tight around Awimak’s neck, cradle-carried as they ascended, quick to reach the very cliff from whence he’d fallen. When Awimak came to a standstill among vibrant greenery, Ryurikov murmured his thanks, then hopped down to face his sister again.
“Valka,” he said, more sternly this time. She did not offer a response, merely sheathed her sabre and brought the flute out again.
Ryurikov drew his bow before he even knew what he was doing, arrow pointed directly at her head. Her lips were but a breath away from the flute, the stony look replaced by something darker, while a knowing, mirthless smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Kill me, and you’ll have finished all of us off. Was that the goal all along?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ryurikov spat. He hadn’t meant to draw his bow, but damned if he was going to lower it now. “Put the flute down.”
Valka lowered it, twirled it in her hand, then sheathed it at her hip opposite the sword. In turn, Ryurikov swung the bow onto his back and the arrow back into the quiver. He held up his hands in surrender.
“Hand to hand, then,” said Valka.
Behind him, Awimak snorted his displeasure.
“And keep that oversized imp out of this.”
“Hey!” Ryurikov wiped a hot trickle of blood from his cheek. “That imp has a name, and it’s Awimak. I’m not fighting you. And neither will he, isn’t that right?”
His demon snarled. Ryurikov took that as a reluctant agreement.
“Too bad,” said Valka, then ran at him.
They had sparred often as children. Combat knowledge was required for both of them, armed and unarmed, but even back then, Valka had always been bigger, stronger. Ryurikov was lithe, faster on his feet. It took little to out-manoeuvre her, to side-step her forward lunge, or to evade—an elbow connected with his shoulder blade, sending him crashing to the ground. The next blow was delivered to his head, and to his gut, and his ribs.
Ryurikov gasped, blinking rapidly to clear the black spots from his vision. Valka had always hit hard, but this was on another level, each blow fuelled by unbridled rage, her furious scream contorted by hatred. A hard kick to his shoulder forced him on his back. She straddled his throbbing ribcage, each blow that connected with Ryurikov’s face brutal. Until the skin broke, until the bone in his cheek cracked.
Until it all stopped, and Ryurikov coughed hard enough to bring blood up. It splattered back down onto his face. He couldn’t see, vision blurry and obstructed by red, but based on the grunts of outrage and struggle nearby, he guessed Awimak had intervened.
He swore, spat out more blood, and nudged one of his front teeth with his tongue, certain it was loose. Although it was hard to tell when his face blazed with pain.
“You fucking bastard!” Valka shouted. “You killed them all!” Her voice quaked and broke. “Our cousins, all our friends!”
Ryurikov struggled to sit upright. When he managed it, he slouched forward. Awimak had Valka in a firm hold while she fought to free herself. Like a proper tree however, his demon didn’t move.
“And you dare show your face to me?”
“They’re not all dead,” Ryurikov said, wiping the spittle clinging to his split lip.
They weren’t all dead. How could they be? He’d survived, Vasili too. Others would have survived.
“No one’s left alive, except for you,” Valka snarled, her words acidic enough to melt his skin off.
“Horseshit.” He glanced at Awimak for confirmation, but got nothing. “How–How could they all be?”
“Because you sent them all to hell!”
Ryurikov shook his head. “No.”
Valka had ceased her struggling, now only stood with her neck trapped in Awimak’s arms, braided hair a mess. “Anya, Milo, Zoya, Mom and Dad—everyone!”
His mind stopped turning, his heart wasn’t working properly, either. Resolutely, Ryurikov shook his head. He looked back up at Awimak.
“No.” This time, it sounded more like a question, and this time, Awimak answered him.
YES.