Page 162 of Vasmora

“Hurry!” Lothare shouted, waving us on.

When we finally reached him, I glanced back to see the bloodbinder on all fours bounding toward us, and behind him, a swarm of Aqedormisz crawled over the walls in pursuit.

“Hurry!” I cried out to him. “Faster!”

“Go! Now!” Lothare shoved me through the portal, from where I spilled out into stark white sand.

Zevander followed after, trailed by the mercenaries who’d guarded the entrance. Lothare was the last to slip through, and I only caught a glimpse of the bloodbinder reaching out for us before the portal shimmered and faded.

A howl fractured to a human scream, echoing from somewhere beyond.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

KAZHIMYR

“You’re certain there are no dragons …” Kazhimyr stumbled after Dravien, his leg throbbing and stiff, body cramping with dehydration.

“Locals haven’t seen them in this stretch for centuries,” the Elvyniran said over his shoulder, trudging through the endless white sand of Draconysia.

Locals. Kazhimyr could hardly fathom someone choosing to live in that vast hellscape.

In the distance stood the mountains, known to house the fearsome creatures of the north. Few had the balls to live so close, and those who did were thought to be mad.

Hunger clawed at Kazhimyr’s stomach, the craving for meat tingling his tongue as he stared at the back of Dravien. Gods, he could almost taste that copper flavor of sticky blood, bitter and inviting, filling his stomach. They’d walked for hours with no sign of food. Not a rabbit or even a mouse that might hold him over.

“Seek him out.” That raspy voice from before echoed in his head, and Kazhimyr squeezed his eyes shut to silence it.

“I’ve already sought him. He’s dead.”

“What’s that?” Dravien glanced back again.

“Nothing. I’m starving,” Kazhimyr groused.

“There should be a farm just over this hill, if I recall.”

“You’ve been this far north before?”

“A few times, yeah.”

“What purpose did you serve?” Kazhimyr didn’t mean for the question to come out the way it had, but he also didn’t care enough to correct himself.

Dravien sighed. “I was her henchman. Of sorts.”

“An assassin?”

He lowered his head, letting the silence between them linger. “Sometimes. Other times, I was employed to retrieve secrets.”

“What? With torture?”

Dravien didn’t answer, and it was then Kazhimyr understood his sudden hesitation. He’d heard rumors through the mines, how the general would take boys in, abuse them in all manner of ways and discard them if she found no further use for them. It wasn’t the physical abuse that troubled him so much as what he’d heard had taken place in her bed.

Again, he might’ve offered apology, had he given a damn about the Elvyniran.

Instead, he huffed. “Are you certain your navigational skills are intact?”

Dravien snorted. “You’ve been following me for hours. You only now thought to ask if I have my wits about me?”

Kazhimyr’s smile quickly faded when he caught another glimpse of the vast stretch of white sand that burned his eyeballs if he stared for too long, and his stomach curled into itself once more, the hunger so intense he could’ve eaten the ass end of a horse right then. Seven hells, he needed distraction. As much as he hated chatting, it kept his mind off the craving for raw meat–something he likely wouldn’t find in those parts where monsters dwelled.