The Rider's Legend

Hell-Horn

Chapter Six. HellHorn.

It felt like there were worms in his brains.

Sick little pale things sliding in through his ears and rooting into his skull. It felt and smelled distinctly of the gaunt-faced man who liked to goad him. Nethore named him 'Wizard' even though he was certain that the man's name was Eli. A black wall of shadow kept the Wizard from touching the bond Nethore coveted so lovingly but the Wizard kept trying, circling inside of him and looking for an opening.

Still all he faced was a wall. A wall that had been a mile thick, but in the scorching light of his cell that was constant and burning, the wall was shrinking. That didn't stop the Wizard from showing him images; memories and sensations so real that he had fallen for them the first time.

"Stupid little dragon," the man hissed through clenched teeth. "Let me in."

Eyes, as cold and violent as an ocean's storm, were fixed on the Wizard. Nethore's head was pressed down onto the floor; he had no energy to fight off the Wizard and keep his head up. "No."

A tail thrashed behind him, a bolt of searing pain ripping through his skull. Nethore curled in, claws clutching at the ground as the Wizard circled again, desperate this time.

Then, something slipped in.

An image: the Wizard's memory of dark stone and distant screaming. The image reminded Nethore of that evil mountain where the air was sour with diseased bodies and minds. This cavern was filledwith bodies, little two-legged people stretched out on strange instruments that were making them cry and shake. Blood seeped from them, and Innochs – who were too bad to be called Innochs, so Nethore called them demons – feasted on the flesh of the dying.

But there was one sound that Nethore fixated on. A sound that shouldn't belong in the Wizard's memory. And as the scene shifted, Nethore saw her. A fraction of the woman she was, but it had been here when Nethore failed to be her dragon and protect her. A skeleton of the human was imprinted in the Wizard's memory. Naked and sobbing, she lay chained to a post. That white-blond hair had been sheared so her head was bald, and she pulled like Nethore pulled at the chains that held her.

In that memory, Nethore saw the jut of her shoulder-blades and the points of her spines. Heard the screaming that echoed through the memory the Wizard fed him gleefully as something long and pointed descended and blood just sprayed outwards. The human's body jerked and each breathless sob that caught in her throat broke his heart.

No wonder his human wouldn't paint anymore.

Those eyes turned towards the Wizard in the memory, unseeing and bright with agony. Her mouth was swollen, her nose bloodied, but there was a deadness to her face, broken only by the spasm of agony as the whip lashed once more.

"You are punishing her too much. We can't afford to let her die, yet," the Wizard had said.

The demon that turned was the one his human had referred to as 'Amon'. "She will not die. That's why we have you, Wizard."

Sharp eyes fixed on the Wizard standing at the door, gleefully feeling the heartbreak flashing no matter how hard Nethore tried to shove it down. He barely had time to blink, or to scramble back as the Vidalin lunged. Weakened muscles heaved as a black, blinding rage encompassed him. All anger before had been miniscule, a tributary building into a river coursing through him. It broke and the lights blinding him in the room dimmed.

A chain link, one that had held stubbornly for five months, broke and metal slid along his body as he surged forward, and his own shadow grew behind him, wings spreading even though his were still pinned to his body.