Page 112 of Vasmora

Dravien gripped one of the legs with his good hand, face scrunched and red as he pulled in futility. “Damned thing won’t budge!”

Another roar echoed from somewhere behind Kazhimyr, and he craned his neck to see a second Orgoth mutation charging toward them.

Kazhimyr pushed at the leg pinning his own. “Go!” he ordered to Dravien, who cradled his grotesquely bent arm. “Up the staircase to the second floor!”

No hesitation, the Elvyniran dashed off up the staircase, two steps at a time, his heavy armor undoubtedly making every step feel as if he were lugging tree trunks.

Sword in hand, Kazhimyr chopped away the leg and pushed himself out of the pile of hissing meat, just as the second Orgoth arrived. Jumping to his feet, Kazhimyr turned to face him, his vision turning fuzzy, fading to black.

Drifting. Blackness.

He opened his eyes, and the Orgoth stood motionless, staring with those bulging black eyes.

Go!

Insectile legs ticked against the floor, as the Orgoth turned itself completely around and bolted in the opposite direction.

Frowning, Kazhimyr spun for the staircase and took off after Dravien.

The sound of distant screams from below brought him to a halt, but only for a moment before he kept on. Along a series of corridors, he finally caught up to the Elvyniran, who hobbled in spite of his efforts to stand tall and stiff like every other trained soldier.

Kazhimyr caught a whiff of meat and sweat as he shadowed the man who still hadn’t seemed to realize he was following after him. He peered through his helmet, each blink of his eyes growing longer. A second longer. Two seconds.

The blackness lingered, and when Kazhimyr opened his eyes again, he was walking so closely behind the Elvyniran, he could see the fine scratches in his armor.

What am I doing?

He ground to a halt, removing his helmet for a breath, and that was when Dravien spun around with his dagger raised. His shoulders sagged. “Thank the gods. Can’t say I’d have fared well with my left hand.”

Wordless, Kazhimyr shoved the helmet back on and took the lead again, heading toward the palace entrance where a few of the guards had gathered. “Shoulders back, arms at your sides,” he quietly said over his shoulder.

Heads down, they slipped past the other guards, unnoticed.

Or so he’d thought.

“Hey!” one of them called out, and Kazhimyr ground his teeth, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade as he turned around. “You heard anything?”

“Loyce is dead.”

“You sure?”

Before Kazhimyr could answer, a commotion rang out just inside the palace.

Guards shouted.

Steel clanked.

He looked down to see spiders, hundreds of them, scuttling past the guards, past Kazhimyr and Dravien, along the path away from the palace.

Fleeing?

“What in the gods is going on?” one of the soldiers yelled, jumping back as a cluster of spiders scampered past him.

“A scourge!” another answered.

Kazhimyr turned back on his path, and his muscles locked stiff as a blackness rolled in from the fringes. “Seek him out,” the distorted voice echoed in the void. “Go to him.”

“Hey!” Dravien’s voice interrupted. “Wake up!”