Page 88 of Vasmora

The fourth had gone after the mage, who managed to vanish into thin air before capture.

As quickly as they’d arrived, the four men mounted their horses with their quarry, and as Zevander jolted forward to stop them, they rode off into the night.

“C’mon!” he said, tugging Maevyth after him. He hoisted her up onto one of the saddled horses he presumed had belonged to the felled soldiers who lay bleeding out on the alehouse porch.

Zevander vaulted himself onto the horse behind her, and they took off into the woods, after the four horsemen.

* * *

Taking Maevyth’s hand, Zevander ducked low behind a dense thicket at the top of a wooded hill, while the men they’d followed kept on, their horses cantering down a path toward a small camp of about two dozen, or so, tents. He summoned his cloaking glyph to ensure anyone on guard wouldn’t see them, though Zevander had already performed a cursory scan of the area.

“Who are they?” Maevyth whispered.

“Don’t know. But they managed an attack on two Lunasier soldiers and a mage within a matter of seconds, so I’m guessing they’re not harmless.”

The four assassins dismounted their horses, and one of them carried the bloodbinder off through the camp.

“What’s the plan?” Maevyth asked, her silver eyes practically glowing in the dark.

“Well, since you’ve still not eaten, perhaps I’ll raid their food before anything else.”

“I’m fine. I just want to be rid of this band,” she said, rubbing her wrist. Her toneless voice told him she wasn’t fine. Must’ve taken all her strength to hold back the flood of emotion behind her eyes. A dam waiting to break.

He knew that mere hours with General Loyce was enough to crack the mind, and she’d suffered weeks of her abuse. The coldness of her voice. The singular focus. She was clinging to the task of finding the bloodbinder like a lifeline. To avoid splitting open the truth of what she’d endured.

Days after his release from the General, Zevander recalled having gone about like his mind wasn’t filled with unspeakable horrors. He’d reunited with what was left of his family, certain things would return to what they’d been when he last remembered home.

It’d been a slow trickle at first. Small flashbacks that struck out of nowhere. The inability to sleep soundly. Waking to phantom pain where his scars marked his abuses. Nightmares and visions so vivid, he’d sworn they were real.

So badly, he wanted to sweep her up into his arms, to ground her, but holding her wouldn’t take away the memories. So he’d wait. However long it took, he’d be there when the weight of it would inevitably crash down on her.

Zevander’s ears perked at a sound, but before he could register what it was, a deep raspy growl rumbled behind him.

Maevyth lurched, and he gripped her arm, urging her to move slowly.

“No use hiding.” The tip of a sword pressed into his spine. “My friend here can see right through that little vanishing trick of yours,” the intruder said in an Eastern Solassion accent.

Zevander called back the vanishing cloak and raised his arms to show he wasn’t holding a weapon. A physical one, anyway. He turned slowly around, to find a man dressed like one of the four assassins from earlier. Beside him, loomed a colossal beast that looked like something spawned from the depths of Nethyria. The kind Zevander had only heard about in stories.

Razorwolf.

Thickly muscled, its elongated body was built for speed and power. Unlike most wolves, its fur was coarse and bristled, something of a shield. Down the curve of its spine and forearms, protruded jagged spikes that gave it its name. About six feet in height, the wolf-like creature, with long incisors and glowing silver eyes, snarled back at him, baring its teeth.

It was in that moment that Zevander realized whose camp they’d stumbled upon.

Only one mancer in all of Aethyria had ever managed to befriend a pack of razorwolves.

Kael Vexmoor.

Zevander stared back at the man whose face was covered below the eyes. He’d been trained to pick up cues of intent. A slide of a gaze. Amusement. Hostility. The man carried himself with a sort of calm patience.

With a jerk of his sword, he urged the two of them to their feet, the wolf’s crackling growl still humming beside him in warning.

Zevander contemplated two possible outcomes. Kill the man. Fight the beast. Risk alerting the camp and however many more wolves might be prowling nearby.

Or go quietly, as asked.

It was all in the man’s body language. The loose grip of the sword. But more importantly, the way his eyes never once scanned over Maevyth with any ill-intent.