The Seven Sins, Joslinne Morgan [good fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

1

The cell smelled of must and of mold. The biting night chill that drifted through the slight barred window caused Ralavar to shiver even under his heavy cloak. The cold entered his lungs and caused him to cough violently, racking his entire body and making his head spin. The frail older man’s form shrank deeper into his cloak and he inched back until he was well into a corner, his head resting against the stone wall. He licked his dry chapped lips and felt the side of his head. His silver hair was matted with blood and the whole left side of his face was caked with the stuff. An open wound on his leg was beginning to infect, and pus along with a bit of fresh blood oozed from the corners. How much more torture, he wondered, would he have to go through before they finally discarded him as useless and finished him off? How welcome the idea seemed. A quick stroke delivered by a sharpened axe and a skilled hand would be all it took to end his pain for good. Then he could rest, safe in the arms of his god and filled with divine peace, and to the hells with Lord Valadik and his new Order.
Had he been more alert, Ralavar could have discerned the distinct scuffling sound of soft boots against the wet stone. But he didn’t notice the intruding presence until it was standing right in front of him, arms folded.
Ralavar looked up, some of his alarm must’ve shown on his face, for the intruder said, “No, Ralavar, never fear, ‘tis not a ghost you are looking upon.”
“Against my better hopes,” Ralavar sighed and closed his eyes. “Have you come to kill me, then?”
“No,” the words caused the old man’s hopes to rise. He opened his eyes once more, just to see the intruder still in the same leisurely position about two feet away. “I don’t want you to die.” the words sent Ralavar’s hopes crashing down again. He should have known better than to expect the intruder would pass up the chance to watch their old rivalry come to some grisly end. “Although I must admit, I am surprised they have not yet heard of my location.”
“You think I would betray you?” the old man croaked, lifting his head with what little energy he had left to stare the intruder straight in the eye. “What kind of man do you think I am, Phantom?”
Phantom laughed quietly.
“A fragile one,” he replied. “Whose interest lies in his own benefit, rather than that of another.”
“You have no room to talk,” Ralavar snarled. “You care for no one but yourself!”
“I am rather keen on self-preservation,” Phantom admitted. “Believe me when I say, old friend, that nothing less could keep me from freeing you of those chains right this instant.”
“Then why not kill me? It’d be easier that way, for both of us.”
“I would never stoop to such a thing,” for a moment, Phantom seemed truly insulted.
“What a lie that was,” Ralavar ran out of energy, and his head fell back to the stone. “If circumstances were different, you would not hesitate but would kill me in an instant.”
Phantom nodded his agreement.
“Yes, however, the situation being what it is, I prefer to leave your fate in the hands of the gods. If they see fit to preserve you, then I have no doubt we shall meet again.” He turned around and faded into the darkness, until even the smell of leather and horses that always clung to him had gone.
“When that happens,” Ralavar said to the once more empty cell. “I will kill you.”


If circumstances were different.
Ralavar couldn’t help but think he had spent his entire life repeating that one statement. If circumstances were different, he would never have left in the first place. If circumstances were different, he would have never taken such a risk. If circumstances were different. What a tiresome excuse that was becoming.

Vanity ran her perfect white hands over the smooth obsidian surface of the Seeing Stone. She took a moment to admire the contrast in colors, and how they so complimented each other. Her hands were her pride and joy. The skin was soft and white; the nails trimmed and painted a deep plum color to match her hair, the fingers long and thin. Such perfect hands, she thought, not like her sister Gluttony’s, whose fingers were swollen to the point where they resembled something closer to grotesque sausages. Vanity’s reverie was shattered when a sharp shove between the shoulder blades propelled her forward and she fell. She gave an anguished little shriek and twisted her neck in a vain attempt to try and see if there was a bruise. Wrath stood over her, scowling.
“Stop admiring your perfect beauty and scry!” she snapped. Vanity whimpered pitifully and righted herself until she was standing once more over the ball. The ball clouded, and an image appeared. Lust cooed and squeezed in between her sisters for a better view. The man was young, no evidence of a beard yet on his chin. He was barely five feet tall, and no bigger around than the average twelve year-old. Around his neck hung a thick golden chain attached a mirror. The mirror was obviously enchanted; for the glass was not clear but instead a murky green that was constantly shifting and changing. Avarice omitted an enraged screech.
“That is the Mirror of Disillusion!” she screamed, her gold nine-inch nails just barely missing the ball with a blow that would have surely sent it crashing. “That’s my mirror!”
“Shh,” Sloth said, a delicate yawn escaping her lips. “We’ll get it back for you.” She cradled her head in her arms, halfway closing her eyes.
“Dem right we will,” Envy said, glaring at the image of the man, who was leaning leisurely against a tree with his head tilted back and his eyes closed.
“I’ll do it,” Lust immediately volunteered, tugging on the neckline of her already low-cut dress. Vanity’s hands went unconsciously to her own breasts, which were not nearly as full or shapely as her sister’s. It made Vanity uncomfortable to acknowledge this, or to acknowledge the fact that she had any weaknesses at all.
“How shall we do it?” Gluttony asked, rolling her eyes at Vanity’s gesture and Lust’s knowing smirk.
“We should all strike at once, so that he has no chance of survival,” Wrath said viciously, her hand going to the braided whip that hung by her side.
“No,”
They all jumped and looked around for the source of the voice. Sloth yawned again, her eyes now completely closed; everyone had thought she was asleep. “Hello Master,” she said softly.
“Hello,” Lord Valadik returned the greeting. The Lord of Shadows stepped into view, and all seven sins dipped into low curtsies. Lust’s hand fluttered in front of her breasts in a very feminine gesture, and Avarice’s was so quick that it was hardly polite.
“When shall we get my Mirror back?” she asked, looking askance at her master. Lord Valadik didn’t answer right away, but as he thought he stroked Lust’s neck, and the woman practically melted into a puddle of sensuality.
“I have an idea, a contest,” he said. “I send all seven of you out in a different direction to retrieve the mirror. Whichever is first to claim the prize and bring it to me will be richly rewarded in whatever way they see fit.”
The Sins thought about this for a moment, and then after a time a cruel smile twisted Wrath’s cold features, and Lust’s eyes gleamed at the thought of what she might gain for her reward. Gluttony was dreaming of cakes, pies, and every sort of delicacy one could think of, while Avarice was more occupied on thoughts of gold and other sorts of material wealth.
Only Vanity seemed dissatisfied with the idea.
“But Master,” she protested. “What if one of us was to be harmed in any way? The journey is long and hard…” she wrung her pretty white hands at the very thought of it.
“I’ll make sure none of you will come to any harm,” Lord Valadik promised. He spread his hands and his eye took in each one of his servants in turn. “Begin.”


2
Gluttony

Phantom hugged his black cape tightly around his shoulders to ward off the worst of the cold night air. So far, this strategy was failing. The biting winds seeped through the fabric and sliced through his flesh, leaving no part of him that wasn’t numb. Even with gloves on he still felt as if his digits were going to fall off, and he rubbed them together, creating little friction. If I don’t find somewhere to stay soon, I’ll freeze. He thought.
There was nothing for miles. No one with common sense lived on the Border, and those who did were not normally willing to share what little they had with the less fortunate, for fear that they themselves would starve and that they would be left to be devoured by the hungry carrion swamp creatures with eight-tentacles for strangling their victims and rows of sharp knife-like teeth for which to tear into them. Phantom had only seen one of these creatures once; it was about two feet long and two feet wide – not a big one but a baby – and the grotesque thing had been covered in a thick coating of slime that served almost as a protection against any predators. It had been a dark green, almost the same color as the swamps it lived in, and had eight waving tentacles along with the bud of a ninth one that thrashed in the air as if the creature had not yet learned how to master and control them. The creature had grabbed Phantom’s legs and dragged him to the ground, then stuck its tentacles up any space it could find. The ears, the nose, the mouth…literally trying to eat his brain. Fortunately Phantom had been able to force himself to remain calm, and his spirit had been allowed to drift out-of-body for a while until the creature had finished feasting. Only then did Phantom