Page 39 of Vasmora

“How do you know Theron?” The old man’s question came as a small relief.

Before Zevander could answer, a high-pitched screech echoed through the trees. One he recognized. Zevander slowly raised his hand for the sword at his back, but the old man reached out before hesitating to grip his arm and jerked his head toward the other direction. Zevander followed the path of his gaze toward a half-dozen wild turkeys off in the distance.

That screech certainly hadn’t sounded like turkeys, though.

A streak of white shot out from the trees, tearing across the clearing toward them, and three pale Carnificans leapt onto the beasts. Feathers flew in the air, the other turkeys scattering into the woods. Teeth sank into flesh, tearing off chunks of meat that dangled from their bloodstained faces. One of them braced its hands and yanked a turkey’s head from its body.

“Since when do they prefer anything but human meat?” Zevander whispered, ducking behind a fallen tree trunk.

The older man crouched beside him. “Since I showed them to hunt game, instead.”

Zevander twisted around. “Showed them?”

The old man didn’t bother to take his eyes off the Carnificans. “They’re not as mindless as you might think.”

“Why are they this far north?” Corvus Keep, their home, was a good couple of days trek from there. Zevander turned back toward them, spying one looking right back at him, watching him as it tore apart its kill.

“They began pushing this way about a year ago. Too many of them crowded in one keep meant little food to go around.”

Zevander didn’t avert his gaze. While he’d been told that staring them in the eyes was a threat, looking away was seen as weak. “Too many would suggest a high number of mancers ingesting toxic levels of vivicantem. The king would have everyone believing there’s a shortage of it.”

“It so happens to be the kingsmen poking around Corvus Keep.”

Frowning, Zevander sailed a glance over his shoulder. “The mages looking for old texts?”

“No.” The man’s bushy white eyebrows lifted. “Carriages dropping off Carnificans. What do you know of the texts?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Few can say they’ve walked the bowels of Corvus Keep, but I’m one of them.” The old man turned away, heading back in the direction of his cabin.

Sparing one more glance toward where the Carnificans sat licking the bones, Zevander followed after him.

“I’ve read their texts. Studied their way of life.” From inside his coat, the stranger pulled a flask that he uncapped and tipped back before holding it out to Zevander, which the assassin declined. “What’s your name?”

“Zevander.”

“Mine’s Oswin. Oswin Moorwood. How’d you know Theron?”

Zevander hesitated at first.

It wasn’t common for him to speak of his time at the mines, or with General Loyce. Very few were privy to his friendship with Theron but telling him might establish trust and hasten things. “We were imprisoned by the Solassions together. He sacrificed his life for my freedom.”

The old man paused his steps, a troubled expression creasing his brow. “And now you’ve come asking favors from his father?”

Zevander didn’t bother to answer the question.

Oswin seemed to study him, chewing on his thoughts. “How’d he die?”

“By General Loyce’s hand. For what it’s worth, I intend to kill her.”

The old man snorted a mirthless laugh, his jaw clenched. “I’d say the odds are against you, Boy, but I give you credit for trying.”

“You know the general?”

“I knew her father quite well.” Brows pulled tight, he tipped back another swill of his drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “If my boy was willing to sacrifice his life for you, I guess you must be worth the trouble. I’ll take you across the channel to Luximos. You’re on your own coming back.”

“Fair enough.”