Page 76 of Vasmora

The dark hearth didn’t hold a speck of light before he slammed his boots against the wooden panel covering the opening. In one powerful kick, the wood buckled, and Zevander stepped out into a dark room that clearly hadn’t been occupied in centuries. Thick webs clung to every corner, the scent of mold hardly noticeable with his nose clogged in soot, as he leaned back in for his satchel and weapon.

He moved swiftly toward the door, catching the flicker of a shadow through the gap below, where light filtered in. Footsteps retreated, and Zevander cracked the door just enough to see a guard casually strolling down the corridor. Once he’d turned the corner, Zevander slipped out of the room and strode in the direction of the kitchen, eyes scanning, ears piqued. He peered around a shadowed recess to find another guard approaching and pressed himself flat to the wall.

All too aware the soldiers had been trained to spot small inconsistencies, he didn’t bother to kill him and don his uniform. Instead, he waited for him to pass and strode quickly toward the cistern, an exceptionally large water reservoir located in the heart of the palace.

After a few more steps, the corridor split, one path veering to an archway that opened on the cistern. A forest of evenly-spaced, white stone pillars supported the vaulted brick ceiling, where tiny shafts drilled into its surface allowed rainwater to run off into a massive pool contained within a wall of carved stone below it. The rainfall kept the water fresh, though the scent of brine and minerals clung to the back of his throat. Not even the soap could mask it.

Baskets of laundry sat waiting for the next day’s wash, and Zevander swiped up a servant’s cloak, concealing as much of his sword, satchel and leathers as he could. He tossed his gloves into the deeper water and unclasped his mask, stuffing it in his satchel, then smeared the soot from the chimney over the scars on his cheek and neck, making himself as invisible as any other sordeszi, who wore weeks of soot on their faces. Thankfully, the chimney sweeps were a common sight in a palace with as many hearths as the general’s. While vanishing into smoke would’ve certainly been a more effective means of hiding, Zevander didn’t plan to leave the palace without a fight, so better to reserve his energy.

From the cistern, he traveled back toward the kitchen, lowering himself to a crumpled hunch as he hobbled past the other workers, who didn’t spare him so much as a glance.

A Solassion guard posted outside the kitchen, absent of the armor worn by the other guards he’d seen, gnawed on the remains of a turkey bone, grease glistening across his fingers. The guard called out to him as he passed. “Hey, where’s the tankard I asked for?”

Zevander paused and turned his head to the side, though not enough for the man to glimpse his face beneath the hood of his ragged cloak. Peering back into the kitchen, he noticed a tankard had been set beside a cask, and biting the inside of his cheek, he hobbled toward it.

“All the way to the brim,” the guard said after him, and tore off another bite of meat.

Impatience goaded him as he waited for the slow drip of the cask to fill the cup, and with a frustrated growl, he carried the tankard back to the guard, pushing it into the other man’s chest.

Fluids splashed over the rim as the man dropped the turkey bone for the drink and Zevander turned away, keeping him in his periphery.

“’The hell is this? I said to the brim, you lazy cunt,” the guard spat. “Go fill it!”

The cup clanged to the floor beside Zevander, its contents forming a puddle around his boot. He’d have cored out the guard’s mouth with the rim of it, but the approaching chatter of voices stilled him. He could neither afford a scene, nor spare another minute.

“You hear what I said?”

It was only a matter of time before the guard would notice the caligosian boots sticking out from below the cloak, or the unnatural curve of Zevander’s back as he bent too low for his tall frame.

Before the man could utter another word, Zevander spun back to him, pressed his palm over his nose and mouth, and dragged him into a shadowy alcove where ceramic cooking pots were stored. The soldier kicked and clawed at the assassin’s hands, his muffled scream silenced when Zevander drove a blade behind his ear, holding him while his body trembled and seized.

Blood spilled over the terracotta, as Zevander lay the man’s lifeless body against the wall, careful not to clank the pottery, then covered him with burlap sacking and straw scattered on the floor to protect the pots, until the guard was essentially formless in the dark.

Spots of blood dotted the dirty brown cloak he wore, and keeping to the shadows, Zevander tucked away what he could to hide it, watching two women dressed in the telling white and gold of Loyce’s gildona slaves walk past the adjacent corridor ahead. Once they’d gone, he slipped out, making his way toward the primary tower and down a spiraling staircase.

Voices emerged from the dungeons below, and at the bottom of the stairwell, he found three guards gathered in front of a prison cell halfway down the corridor, smoking their tobacco and casually laughing. While none of them seemed to notice him, Zevander inwardly cursed. He couldn’t recall General Loyce ever having so many guards posted about the dungeons. The woman was far too arrogant to imagine anyone could infiltrate her lair.

Clutching his cloak, he took slow, calculated steps. Added a hobble to his otherwise steady gait. The men laughed, ignoring him.

Except for one.

Zevander kept his eyes turned away, his mind two steps ahead of his body.

“Hey!” the guard called out, just as Zevander passed their group.

He slowed his stride, already reaching to his shoulder, where his sword stuck upward behind his neck in the folds of the oversized cloak.

He could feel their eyes on him.

The metallic rasp of steel alerted him that they’d taken notice of the inconsistencies of his disguise, and he spun around, throwing the cloak off as he drew the sword from his back.

Dropping into a crouch, he raised his palm and knocked one of the guards backward with a blast of Aeryz.

The other two charged forward, and Zevander raised his blade, steel clashing with steel as he blocked the first guard’s swing, then he spun around, lashing wide to parry the other guard’s attack. Heat pulsed down his spine as his scorpion stirred and stepped out of his flesh, a colossal shadow at his back.

Eyes wide, the guards stared up at the creature, faces drained of color.

One fast strike of the scorpion’s tail split the first guard down the middle, piercing his armor like a hot blade through silk. The one he’d knocked back spun on his heel in the opposite direction, and the scorpion scuttled after him, skewering the guard before he could reach the stairwell. The man’s body slammed face-first into the stony floor, before being hoisted into the air where his legs and arms trembled and seized then burst into flames. The third guard opened his mouth for a scream, but Zevander slapped his palm over it, pushing him back against the stone wall.