Page 134 of Vasmora

“No.”

He rolled his shoulders back. “It seems you stand to gain from this. Crowned king of Nyxteros would secure your place. All he asks is that we hand over the girl.” The skepticism Zevander had picked up during Andalone’s exchange with Akmyrios seemed to have faded rather quickly.

Again, he found himself watching for the twitch in the man’s thumb.

“How did you injure your hand?” Perhaps Lothare had noticed it, also.

“What?” Andalone asked, finally lifting his gaze.

“Your hand. It’s injured.”

He cleared his throat. “The journey back. When we were attacked, I fell off my horse. It’s inconsequential. With all due respect, we must act quickly.” The man lurched, and Zevander raised his palm at the same time Lothare drew his sword and pressed the blade against his comrade’s throat.

“Tyvonys, if you’d be so kind.” Lothare didn’t bother to divert his gaze as he spoke.

Andalone’s eyes widened, flicking from Lothare to the approaching mercenary. The moment Lothare lowered the sword, Andalone’s body snapped straight, arms splayed at his sides as an imperceptible force gripped him.

Images appeared, projected as before, showing Akmyrios and the silver-haired boy standing across the length of the sarcophagus from Andalone and Keiryan. Akmyrios waved his hand, and the lantern opened, the metal creaking through the tomb. The rat creature scampered out, and as both Wrathborne turned to run, it leapt onto Keiryan.

The mercenary’s outcry reverberated off the walls, and Andalone spun around for his companion. Slashes of his sword failed to keep the beast from tearing away chunks of Keiryan’s body, as it quickly dodged each strike, forcing Andalone to draw back to keep from killing the other man. When the rat latched onto Keiryan’s throat, Andalone reached down, yanked it by the long pink tail and tossed it in the air. With a quick arc of his blade, he split the creature in half. The two halves landed on Keiryan in a splash of black fluid, from which spiders emerged and skittered across the floor toward him.

Andalone backed away, but his foot caught on Keiryan’s outstretched limb and he tumbled backward. Light flashed through the tomb, and Andalone turned toward a shimmering ward that flickered around Akmyrios and the boy.

Zevander had no doubt the ward was created by the stones Akmyrios had stolen from Dolion.

When Andalone raised his hand, the skin over his knuckles had peeled back, revealing raw flesh and a peek of bone. His hand shook, and when Keiryan let out a gut-wrenching scream, he turned his attention back on his friend.

Black veins pulsed over Keiryan’s face and stomach, thickening and merging together to form the familiar black carapace Zevander had seen before. The crackle of splitting bones heralded more outcries, and Keiryan fell forward, his body twitching and trembling. Long fibrous appendages tore through his leathers, fangs sliding down from his top lip.

“Gods help us,” one of the men standing around Zevander muttered beneath his breath.

Zevander would’ve sneered at that, if every one of his senses wasn’t tied to tracking their movements, waiting for one of them to attack Maevyth.

“Enough.” In one quick slice, Lothare ran his blade across Andalone’s throat and a stream of thick blood poured from the gash, spilling over the ashen underbrush.

The image faded and, hands pressed to his neck, the mercenary collapsed to the ground, blood pulsing out of him as he failed to stem its flow. Choking and gasping, he stared skyward as Lothare knelt alongside him and removed his mask. The man’s face rippled and stretched, bones shifting and popping, rearranging themselves until he resembled the mage from the alehouse.

Wulric.

Head tipped, Lothare stared down at him, watching his final panting breaths rake out of him in what must’ve been an agonizing end. “Only men with egos choose to be called liege. My men call me Lothare.”

The mage finally stilled, his eyes wide and vacant, face drained of life.

Without bothering to look at her, Lothare pointed toward Maevyth. “Anyone lays a hand on this woman, I’ll kill you myself.” His words didn’t put Zevander at ease. Didn’t loosen the grip he had on his magic, waiting to unleash it on the first to approach the two of them.

Lothare pushed to his feet and glanced around at his men. “We’ve long disregarded the word of men in fine robes. I see no reason to trust them now, particularly when he’s killed two of our own.” He turned to Zevander. “Is it true you’ve been to the mortal lands? You’ve seen these creatures yourself and know of their destruction?”

“It is.”

Lothare shoved his blade back into its sheath. “Then, it seems we have a prince to save.”

“I suspect it might be too late,” Zevander challenged, the flame burning in his blood and ready to strike.

Lothare paced, stroking his hand over his jaw. “Akmyrios said the god can be bound by the blood of a first-born.”

“Yes, but he failed to mention how. I suspect there’s more involved than bleeding across an amulet.” Again, Zevander swept his gaze over the surrounding men.

“Akmyrios seems to know the ritual quite well. And he’s holed up in a temple dungeon at the moment.”