Shadow & Storms (THE LEGENDS OF THEZMARR #4) by Helen Scheuerer EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Helen Scheuerer
- Language: English
- Genre: Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 6.7 MB
- Price: Free
WILDER
When Wilder Hawthorne came to in the cold, damp cell of the Scarlet
Tower, his first thought was of Thea: fierce. Unflinching. His.
‘We don’t say those words again until we’re on the other side. Until we
can say them Warsword to Warsword,’ he had told her, the warrior who had
stolen his heart and soul, who had walked into the swirling mist of the Great
Rite to face her fate and the Furies themselves.
She would light up the midrealms with her storms, and the thought
comforted him as he rolled onto all fours and dry retched over the wet
stones. The oppressive magic of the Scarlet Tower pressed down on him,
making him dizzy and nauseous. The proximity to the sea and the Veil left
everything wet. The cell stank of rot. There was no window to hear the
crash of waves beyond, or taste the briny air.
The sounds of the prison changed with each passing moment.
Sometimes there were a thousand prisoners just outside his cell, desperately
clamouring for something, the noise overpowering. The next moment it was
as silent as a graveyard. Worst of all, there was no way to tell what was real
and what was a figment of his imagination, or some illusion woven beyond
the confines of this wretched place.
Goosebumps rushed across his skin as he realised he’d observed the
same thing before. How long had he been in this cell? How many times had
he woken with the same thoughts, the same physical reactions? There was
an eerie familiarity to it.
Manacles rubbed his wrists and ankles raw, treated with a recognisable
form of alchemy; a more potent rendition of what Wren had concocted.
Once, he’d been able to break iron chains with a simple brace of his body.
But not here. Not now.
The restraints rattled as Wilder shifted stiffly to a sitting position,
resting his bare back against the sodden wall, the sensation cold and
shocking against his fevered flesh. He had been stripped of everything but
his undershorts, including his shitty armour, though he couldn’t remember
when he’d been relieved of his weapons and clothes.
He couldn’t remember
the journey here at all, only that he’d been so crazed with the effects of the
arachne venom that he’d almost prayed for death. He shuddered at the
memory of the monsters creeping towards him and Thea, a grotesque fusion
of spider and human and darkness. One had sliced his forearm open with its
pincers, leaving a translucent film of poison behind, burning him from the
inside out.
The only thing that had stopped him wishing for his end was Thea, and
the longing to see her again, as the Warsword she was always meant to be.
For he knew in his bones that she would emerge victorious, Naarvian steel
in hand, vows of vengeance on her tongue.
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