Page 234 of Vasmora

Zevander’s instincts snapped, and he raised his sword to strike him, but the Elvyniran had already hurled his weapon. It whizzed past Zevander, lodging into the humanoid that’d darted toward his back.

Zevander growled. Had he not been distracted by the bastard, he’d have killed it on his own. Twisting back for the melee had him frowning.

Steel clashed with carapace. Magic against brute force.

The mutations swarmed them, forming a tight circle around them.

Zevander swung out his sword, hacking off two humanoid heads, and ducked just as Lothare lopped off a third, nearly taking Zevander’s with the sharp swing. The Corvugons kept to the perimeter, spewing silver flames at the outermost ring of mutations. The humanoids exploded into black smoke, flying overhead in rolling wisps before they reappeared again.

Zevander could only manage small bursts of flames, without risking turning one of his fellow defenders into a bloodstone.

“Zevander!” Rykaia called out, and he turned to see her blasting an approaching mutation with Aeryz. Behind her, Torryn charged, daggers drawn, and Corwin hobbled behind them.

More of the creatures scaled the gate, creating an even bigger circle around them.

Zevander stabbed and swung out, dark blood spraying like torrential rain, as he frantically worked to whittle them down.

Rykaia screamed, and Zevander snapped his head in her direction. The distraction cost him, and a mutation barreled into him, knocking him backward.

Teeth chomped toward his face, and he slammed his palm into the beast’s neck. He swiped a dagger from his thigh and drove it upward into the mutation’s jaw, where it popped through its forehead on a spray of black blood. The creature shook against him, and he threw it off. The crowd tightened around him, jostling his body as he pushed to his feet. He stumbled within the circle and jabbed again, piercing the throat of a humanoid that’d materialized in front of him. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of Torryn carrying Rykaia away from the melee.

Mutations broke away, chasing after them, and Zevander dared himself to unleash a wall of sablefyre over them. Teeth grinding, Zevander threw forth his hand, and one of the humanoids lunged toward him. He gripped it by the throat just as his flame rose to his palm. Its mouth hung open, a screeching sound tearing through its chest seconds before it burst into flames, exploding into a cloud of black dust.

In the narrow gap between him and the next mutation, he held out his palm and sent a surge of sablefyre over three of them. Bodies disintegrated before his eyes, while the mutations behind them charged forward.

As he raised his sword to strike, the creatures froze, reared back, mouths gaping. Frowning, he lowered his sword and swept his gaze over a placid sea of mutations standing frozen in place.

They floated upward, hovering in the air over the small group of mancers. A chorus of gut-wrenching screams tore out of them, as their bodies bulged and swelled, their bellies distending, skin stretching tight.

A thunderous crack silenced the screams, and black fluids splashed over Zevander and the others, chunks of meat falling on his face. He raised his hands to find no part of him had been spared of the gore.

Coated in their guts, he turned to find Maevyth standing at the perimeter, her black dress flowing around her, palm raised.

She lowered her hand, and the floating skin and bone remains of the creatures fell to the ground.

What in the gods.

“Apologies for the delay. Not to burst your egos. I didn’t know if you wanted me to intervene.” She plucked a piece of lint from her dress and flicked it away.

Zevander twisted around. Not a single one of the mutations had been spared. Every one of them lay scattered across the ground, nothing more than a husk of skin.

“And you’ve just been hiding this skill of yours this whole time?” Lothare asked, wiping a chunk of what looked like intestines from his shoulder.

Maevyth shrugged. “I don’t like to brag.”

Zevander stared back at her, an unsettling sensation crawling up the back of his neck. Beyond her, he caught sight of Torryn wrapping a torn bit of fabric around Rykaia’s thigh. As he strode that way, a gust of wind blasted his face.

Guts across the yard lurched as Raivox slammed to the ground, followed by the other two Corvugons.

Maevyth drifted toward him, her face lit with a smile.

Instead of Raivox’s usual warmth toward her, he sniffed the air and backed up a step.

“Raivox, come,” she commanded.

He backed up another step.

Her brows pulled tight. “I command you! Come!”