Page 158 of Vasmora

The sight of those waves chomping against the sand churned a sickness inside me. While I’d grown up not far from the sea, I’d never personally ventured beyond the depth of my ankles. Into any vast body of water. I couldn’t begin to fathom a corridor of caves miles below the surface, a bridge between continents, and to know it was inhabited by vicious creatures only heightened my fear.

Eight miles in stood the portal that would spit us out into Draconysia, according to Lothare. A distance that felt like an eternity in my head.

Lothare and his men combed the shoreline in search of the cave’s entrance, an invisible gateway said to be marked by a particular stone in the sand. Red and gleaming like a jewel, it apparently served as a warning, according to Daelan. One even the animals tended to observe.

“Few years back there was rumor of a man who’d ventured out for a swim. Paid no attention to the cave’s entrance and got sucked inside.” Daelan nodded toward the sea. “Twice a year that passageway is dangerous, when the Aqedormisz come out of slumber. No way out. He so happened to swim in the smack of their feeding season.”

I sailed a glare at him. “If you’re trying to calm my nerves, you’re doing a horrible job of it.”

Daelan chuckled and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ah, you’ll be fine. They’re in hibernation. Still got another fortnight, or two, before they’ll be waking up. Starving.”

“What do they eat, aside from the occasional unwitting swimmer?”

“For centuries, they fed on the dragon eggs left in the tunnel. Absolute delicacy for them.” He shrugged. “Now? I don’t imagine they get much of a meal, confined to the portal. Probably why they hibernate so long.”

I slowly nodded. “So, a large group, like ours, would make for quite the feast.”

“Oh, yeah.” Daelan snorted, shaking what looked to be pumpkin seeds from a small pouch into his palm. “They’d probably get a season’s worth out of us,” he said and tipped the seeds back, offering the pouch to me.

I raised my hand, shaking my head to decline. The knots in my stomach tightened, and I turned to see Zevander crouched low, examining something along the shore. He waved Lothare over pointing toward what must’ve been the red rock in the sand. The moment Lothare nodded, the knots snapped, and holding the back of my palm to my mouth to keep from losing what little I’d eaten, I closed my eyes, inhaling deep breaths to calm my nerves.

“How soundly do they sleep?” I dared myself to ask, turning to see Daelan throw back another handful of seeds.

Daelan shrugged a second time. “Don’t know,” he said around a mouthful, bits of seed flying past his lips. In my preoccupation, I failed to notice it was the first time I’d seen his face. Rugged, with gray stubble, he must’ve been about three times my age, if judging in mortal years. Handsome, despite the many scars marring his face. “Never actually saw one of these beasts, to be honest.”

“Have you ever traveled the portal before?”

“Nope.” He tucked his pouch away and covered his face with the black mask. “Only one who’s made it through is Lothare. Crazy bastard.”

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I rubbed my temples, my nerves raw and trembling.

Lothare waved us over, and the group gathered around him–mercenaries, wolves and their pups. “We’ll form a line. Those with the strongest defensive magic will take front and rear. Pups and females will take center.” He pointed to Zevander and me. “You two will be situated in the center, as well.”

“We’ll take front,” Zevander argued.

Lothare’s lips stretched to a smile, and he shook his head. “I’m certain your scorpions are a fun trick, but they’ll be no match for these creatures, should they wake. Their power is ancient.”

Zevander raised his palm and summoned a flame.

Lothare’s mouth could’ve housed a goose egg as wide as his jaw hung open, eyes mesmerized. The whispers of the other men confirmed the anomaly of Zevander’s power. “You wield sablefyre.”

“No, I wield illusion. Would you like to touch it and find out?”

Lothare’s jaw snapped shut, his eyes narrowing to a flat expression. “Unfortunately, we can’t risk it. The tunnel is filled with gasses that could ignite. Therefore, the two of you will remain in the center.” He lifted his gaze, and I followed the path of his attention toward the bloodbinder behind us, who snarled and snapped his teeth, a chain at his throat held by one of the bigger mercenaries in the group. “Muzzle him. We can’t risk a single sound.”

Nodding, two of the Wrathborne, twice the height of the bloodbinder, gathered around him, and as one of them raised his palm, the beastly bloodbinder froze, convulsing. The other mercenary fashioned a metal contraption on his face, with a leather bit that reminded me of the scold’s bridle women in Foxglove Parish were sometimes forced to wear—a hinged, iron headpiece that served as a very effective torture device. When the mercenaries stepped away, the only sounds coming out of him were quiet chuffs that his handler silenced with a jerk of the chain.

Must’ve been a terrible situation for him, not quite mancer, not quite wolf. Perhaps punishment from the gods for having stripped so many of their power for the amusements of General Loyce. An act of karma.

“All right, line up,” Lothare ordered, pointing a few of the men toward the front and back.

Zevander grumbled beside me about not needing his flame to kill, as we mingled with the pups and females toward the center of the group. Rho trotted up, snapping his teeth at the hem of Zevander’s cloak, and I smiled, in spite of the bile rising up into my throat.

“Maybe that’s the point?” I said, bending down to pet the pesky little pup. “You’d be best to defend us poor, weak females.”

“You’re neither poor, nor weak. I just don’t like the idea of being trapped.”

“Do you fear enclosed spaces?”