Page 145 of Vasmora

The guard’s face ashened. “Th-th-the berserker?”

“Yes. I want him posted outside my door at all times, should anyone, or anything, come close.”

“Sir, we’ve a number of guards posted.”

“I am your king! Do as I say!”

The guard’s head lowered, and he gave a terse nod. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“And where is my daughter?”

Head still lowered, the soldier answered, “In her chambers. Guards are posted there, also.”

“After we release the berserker, bring her here. The beast can look after her, as well.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” He spun away, and King Sagaerin tottered after him, as he headed down the corridor.

Dolion jerked his head for Allura to follow, and they trailed after King Sagaerin and his guard, down the dark corridor, to a stone wall that appeared to be a dead end. The guard pressed his palm to the stones and pushed, revealing a secret passage. After swiping up one of the sconces on the wall, he led the small group down the winding, stone staircase to a level of the castle Dolion had never visited before. The temperature dropped, casting an unbearable chill, as he glanced around at walls that appeared to carry ancient carvings. Brutal scenes of torture and death that left Dolion frowning.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Sagaerin said. “My father would send me down here alone as punishment when I was a child.”

“Godsblood,” Allura murmured from behind. “How could anyone send a child to this place?”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and followed a short passageway to a vestibule, nothing but a small, round room housing a steel vault that stood a good five meters in height. A low hum of growls erupted from the other side, and Dolion stepped back.

“What is that?” Dolion asked, his skin prickling.

The guard placed the sconce into one of the nearby brackets and set to work on a dial embedded into the vault’s surface.

“For years, I’ve been preparing my defenses. Endless trial and error. Experimentation. Akmyrios found a way to train Carnificans–the wild, fearless beasts. But did you know they are drawn to a certain color of light? Their high levels of vivicantem make them twice as sensitive to it.”

“So, you’ve been transporting Carnificans from Corvus Keep?”

“No. We had to ensure purity. Had to get the dosing just right.”

A sickening cold settled in Dolion’s chest, as he forced his mind to absorb the king’s words. “You subjected perfectly healthy mancers to this?”

“In trial, yes. But did you also know that Orgoths respond to vivicantem, as we do? It requires quite a bit more, of course, but they too can reach the point of toxicity.”

Dolion shook his head and paced, pointing toward the vault. “This is unethical! An abomination of science!”

“This is what is required, if we’re to survive this plague!”

A mechanical pop echoed off the walls, and the guard slowly pulled open the oversized door. A darkened room lay on the other side, only a singular stream of light shining down from somewhere above. In that illuminated pool lay the half-eaten remains of a cow, its entrails spilled, blood spattered over the surrounding floor. The stench of death and rot crinkled Dolion’s nose.

Peering in, the guard took measured steps toward the entrance and paused there. All seemed quiet. Too quiet for something referred to as a berserker.

The guard stepped closer and waved the king forward. “I believe it’s safe, Your Majesty. The orb, if you will.” He put his back to the chamber, and not a second later, his feet flew out from beneath him, and as his body slammed against the stones, the guard let out a grunt.

Thick hands on the ends of pale, muscled arms gripped his ankles, the hulking figure they belonged to obscured by the shadows.

Dolion’s muscles tensed, and Allura squeezed his arm.

The guard’s face ashened, and he reached out a hand, just as his body was yanked backward. His cries died to a gurgle. Then silence.

King Sagaerin exhaled a shaky breath. “Soldier, show yourself.”

A dark mass flew through the air toward them and plopped onto the stones with a wet splash. The guard’s skin, still covered by his tunic and trousers, lying in a heap like a discarded dress.