Page 276 of Vasmora

The strands bounced and jostled, forcing Zevander to clutch one of the thick threads for balance. He turned to see Lothare step onto the web behind him, stumbling as the surface wriggled beneath his boots.

Light flickered through the tightly-woven funnel, and Zevander moved forth with senses on high alert. Eyes constantly scanning, sword poised to strike.

The deeper they ventured, the sensation of something watching them sent a prickle across the back of his neck.

A massive shadow slipped overhead, and Zevander slowly drew his sword.

At no further movement, he kept on.

The tunnel narrowed around the sounds of grunting that echoed through the passage.

After moments of pushing forward, a faint blue glowed ahead, likely the source of light, and the passage bulged around a webbed sphere that spanned about six meters across and about thrice Zevander’s height. A perfect dome of sticky, overlapping silk, within which a hollow had been carved.

A series of barky, wet coughs erupted from inside, and Zevander frowned, stepping into the sphere.

Caught in a tangle of webs, Cadavros hung limp, long, raspy inhales marking each slow breath he took. His usually tessellated skin had darkened to a waxy rot, black veins crawling over him and faintly pulsing. Blood oozed from the corners of his lips, falling onto the white silken web at his deformed feet.

Eyes rimmed red, he hardly seemed to have the energy to lift his head. “If you’ve … come to kill … me … you’re too … late.” He chuckled and coughed again, spitting more blood onto the web. “He’s … already … doing … the favor.”

By the looks of him, he wasn’t bluffing.

“He longs to inhabit another host,” Zevander said.

“I suppose … he’s grown … weary of my … reluctant nature.” A smile pulled at his ruined lips.

Zevander stared back at him, not an ounce of sympathy for his suffering. “You have to die before he can take another host.”

“Yes.”

Tipping his head, Zevander trailed his gaze lower, to where the amulet dangled from his throat. He lurched toward it, but Cadavros snapped a bony hand over the relic.

Silence lingered between them, before Cadavros ran his thumb along its surface. “I didn’t … want this. I only wanted … to revive … the dead … veins.” His lip trembled. “Once … long ago … I wanted … to be … the hero.”

“It’s not too late.” It was Lothare who spoke that time.

Cadavros snorted, blood trickling from his exposed nasal cavity and lips. “Isn’t it? I’ve brought … down a wall. Razed … kingdoms. Destroyed … lives.”

Zevander ground his teeth, his finger brushing the bulge in his pocket, where Branimir’s bloodstone served as a reminder of life he’d stolen. A life he would pay for.

“You … turned out … to be … a surprise. Perhaps … my most … treasured moments … were training … you.”

“Can’t say the same.” Zevander’s tone remained flat. Emotionless.

The amusement on Cadavros’s face shriveled, and one hard yank of the amulet broke it free from his neck. “I wonder … sometimes. What … could’ve been.” He sucked in a strained breath, staring down at the amulet. “We aren’t … born … wearing the … mask … of evil.” His gaze flicked back to Zevander. “My sister?”

“Dead. Captured by Loyce.”

Cadavros mustered a somber nod, tears wavering in his eyes, and as he reached out, the amulet dangling from his fingertips, his body snapped ramrod straight with a crack. He cried out, a gut-wrenching sound of agony tearing through his throat.

The amulet fell from his grasp onto the web below, and Zevander lunged forward, quickly swiping it up.

“Do you … have … the binding … dagger?”

“Yes.” Zevander yanked it free from its protective sheath and strode toward Lothare, handing both the blade and the amulet to him.

“Seal … the amulet with blood … right away.” Cadavros spoke quickly, before he arched again, his trembling body vibrating the webs around them. “Sealing it … will keep him from … awakening in … one of … the other … infected. He’ll … be forced … to infect … a new … host.” He clawed at his throat and coughed, globs of black ooze spilling from his mouth. He sucked in a sharp inhale, gasping for breath. “He’ll … have to leave … my body first. After … it’s sealed. You must … throw … the amulet … into … the vein!” Another shriek of agony ripped through his chest, and his spine snapped, the sound of splintering bones crimping Zevander’s lip. “The molten lava … hardens … the blood. Encases … the amulet. Kills … the … infection.”

Zevander threw a nod at Lothare. “Seal it with your blood,” he said.