Page 75 of Vasmora

The incessant sound of hissing and clicking rattled my nerves, and jaw clenched, I unleashed a raw, guttural scream through my teeth, my muscles trembling with pent-up rage. My broken finger pulsed in agony as I tightened my hands to fists, but I didn’t care.

Pain wasn’t the worst suffering. Not anymore.

Through the pitch blackness, I crawled my way over Melantha’s body, the chain scraping behind me, and felt for the opened door. Muscles battered with exhaustion, I swung it shut, and slumped against it, the panel hitting my spine as the creatures punched against the other side.

“Stop it,” I whispered.

They beat against the door again.

“Stop it.” I spoke the words louder that time and covered my ears. “Just stop.”

Another hard whack drummed in my chest.

“Stop!” I screamed.

The pounding and hissing faded for the insectile ticking across the floor. The bugs that’d come to feed. They tickled across the tops of my feet, passing me for Melantha, and the squelching sounds of mastication that followed turned my stomach.

Perhaps it was better, to be carried away in the bellies of bugs.

Maybe that was the only escape from the place.

I stared into the endless void, every terrible moment, from the time Zevander had slipped from my hand, passing through my mind in cruel detail.

“Please live.” Those final words echoed from my memories, and I closed my eyes over tears.

“I tried.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I tried so hard, Zevander,” I whispered. “But I’ve grown tired. And I am lost.” My hand brushed the pocket where I’d tucked the ampoule, and a crushing defeat washed over me on recalling that I’d given it away.

How quickly I would’ve consumed it, though. By gods, even if my heart screamed in protest, I would’ve swallowed that poison and welcomed the silence.

Instead, I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in my arms.

And in that hopeless dark, I finally broke.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ZEVANDER

The obvious route into the general’s lair would’ve been the main road, but knowing it’d be lined every few hundred feet with hidden guards, Zevander had opted for the steep cliff, instead.

Rain pelted his face as he stared down the impossible height of slick stone, wishing the gods didn’t have to be such cunts. Hundreds of meters below him, he could just make out the tops of the trees, their canopies far too weak to break his fall should he slip. He’d worn special gloves, with prongs that bit into the rock, allowing him to pull himself up one tedious step at a time. Above him shone a row of equally-spaced stone gargoyles, from which water poured in steady streams, while wind whipped around him, either promising that one misstep could send him slipping to his death.

Every clink of steel against stone on the climb up marked the seconds until he’d know whether, or not, Maevyth still breathed.

Gods help them all if she didn’t.

Fifteen meters above the gargoyles sat one of many chimney shafts used to expel heat and smoke from the kitchens. Perhaps the palace’s only weak point. Zevander had intentionally waited until nightfall, when the stones would be cooled, the smoke less constant.

His hooked glove caught the opening of the flue, and Zevander pulled himself up alongside it, his fingers slipping on the wet soot. He slammed his elbow against the rusted and weak iron grille that covered the opening, until it nearly collapsed inward, allowing just enough give for him to yank it from the surrounding stone. Twisting cautiously, he caught a glimpse of the crumpled metal disappearing into the darkness below. Once clear, he hauled himself upward and into the shaft, soot and bitter ash immediately thick in his throat. Residue clung to the air like hot grease, burning his eyes as he wriggled his way inside the narrow opening, below which the flue widened for a thirty-meter drop.

Arms and legs outstretched, Zevander managed to scoot himself over the stones, his boots finding purchase on the uneven masonry, hooked fingers gripping the blackened surface.

As he made his way lower, the hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he froze in place.

A plume of smoke and embers billowed up the shaft, and Zevander buried his masked face into his leather sleeve, not daring to cough. Orange light glowed around him, where skinny embervines veined the stone, capturing floating bits of cinder from the air. A living plant that inhabited chimney flues and prevented any damage to the masonry.

Zevander dropped the remaining ten meters to the smoke chamber, where the flue split into two passages, one side opening on a blazing flame in the kitchen’s hearth, the other leading to a long stretch of blackened stone that remained cool to the touch. An abandoned shaft that connected to a boarded-up hearth in the former chambers of General Loyce’s father. It was said he’d once burned a slave alive in that hearth for the mere enjoyment of it–a sight that General Loyce was rumored to have witnessed as a young girl. Zevander had learned about it years ago from the Golvyn as a possibility for escape, though he’d never attempted it, given the treacherous drop from the cliff.

After crawling through the chilly, unused shaft, he reached the abandoned hearth’s damper. Hand outstretched, he sent a blast of flames toward the iron, melting it away to create an opening just wide enough to fit a body through. He removed his sword and satchel, letting them drop to the firebox with a quiet thud, then climbed through the hole he’d created.