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heart tattooed a fragile beat, a mere whisper of its once
steady rhythm. Flaccid limbs buckled beneath him, the
essence of his soul bid him farewell and journeyed toward his
swollen tongue. Soon it would escape through his mouth and
disappear like dust. This was the reason he'd seen death;
he'd prophesied his own demise.
Strong arms cradled him and carried him to the bed, the
honeyed timbre of the man's voice placing him into a
catatonic state. "Mine," he rasped. "All mine through all
eternity."
Accepting his fate, the man called Owen closed his eyes
and walked into the demonic realms of Hell.
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The Sin Eater's Prince
by Keta Diablo
Chapter Sixteen
His path drawn by a primordial map of pale white stars,
Andras soared through the sky with an image of Owen's face
etched on his brain. He couldn't think about what had
transpired during the three days Owen had been ensnared in
Dagan's insidious clutches. He had to concentrate on the
single goal of freeing him.
The crumbling towers of Carew Castle came into view
below him. He circled the massive structure and noticed only
one turret that wasn't exposed to the open sky. Decades of
harsh elements had eroded the exterior and interior, like so
many of the ghostlike castles dotting the Welsh landscape.
Against a boom of thunder, he landed on his feet near the
gatehouse. The air hissed with menacing undercurrents, and
around him the enormous trunks of the yews groaned as if
warning him the wrath of Hell was about to unfurl.
He checked his weapons: the Prince's sword holstered in
the scabbard about his waist and the twin dirks he'd stuffed
into his high leather boots. The daggers would do little to
keep Dagan at bay, but perhaps they'd serve as a distraction
in a crucial moment.
Only one long tooth had met his fate during the battle at
Abergwaun, which meant four of Dagan's minions still lived to
wreak havoc on the unfortunate. If Andras had his druthers,
all would die tonight by his blade. A long shot, he knew, but
he kept repeating the words, "Die by my blade," while
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creeping along the algae-riddled wall of the barbican. With
Duw, all things were possible.
"Who goes there?" a voice rang out, quaking with panic.
Why would one of Dagan's demons tremble over his
expected arrival? While they should fear Glyndwr's claymore,
five against one were fair odds in their favor. With little time
to ponder the reason for the man's apprehension, Andras
picked up a hefty stone at his feet and tossed it into the
night. Seconds later, a loud clank against the metal gait
echoed in his ears. As expected, the long tooth stepped out
from his barricade to investigate while Andras slipped through
the deteriorating archway over the entry.
The walls of the structure vibrated when a snap of
lightning cracked the air. On the heels of the unexpected
flash, a section of limestone splintered from the ceiling,
missing his head by inches. A close call, no doubt a prelude of
what awaited him.
Drawing on a memory of long ago, he closed his eyes and
imagined the layout of the castle in daylight through the eyes
of a ten-year-old boy. Uncle Maxen's penchant for archeology
had brought them to the doorstep of many abandoned
historical haunts.
If recollection served him, the northwest tower resided at
the end of the winding staircase. He tamped down the surge
of fear rising up from his gut not fear of losing his life, but
raw-edged terror over Owen's fate at the hands of Dagan.
He found it hard not to imagine the worst: Owen becoming
an object of Dagan's lustful desires, or worse, an object of his
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bloodthirsty cravings. Andras embraced the fear. In fact,
sheer black panic propelled him up the stairs.
A door loomed ahead, the only possible entrance to the
interior of the tower. A resonant chant filtered through a tiny
crack in the wall, so minuscule he wondered how the ancient
mantra had slipped through.
Another sound found him, the demonic howls of wolves
along the moors. The hair at the nape of his neck and
forearms stood at attention. Another possible hindrance he
didn't have time to think about now.
He checked his weapons one last time, and when the door
burst open, he decided someone from above must be
watching over him. A trio of long tooths sped by without
bothering to look left or right, their red eyes glowing like
burning embers, their jaguar-like incisors gleaming against
the torches in their hands. In a blur of motion they clambered
down the steps as if Cwn Annwn, the spectral black hounds of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]