Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ZEVANDER

T hrough a thick, white fog, Zevander and Kazhimyr peered across the mire of dead wood, where, in the distance, the dreaded Corvus Keep perched on a weathered, stone hill. Not much was known about the castle, abandoned long before Zevander’s time. No scribe mage would’ve dared to scrounge the history of it, nor the small village within its crumbling walls that lined the perimeter, not with all the bloodthirsty Carnificans that’d made it their home.

“We’ll continue on foot,” Zevander said, dismounting Obsidyen. The thick muck served as a natural trap that the Carnificans would exploit to eat the horses alive. Not that it was any less treacherous for the two Letalisz, but at least they had the ability to defend themselves. Outside of snapping teeth, Obsidyen would have little at his disposal, while the Carnificans tore at his flesh with long, overgrown nails and teeth grounded to pointed tips.

“What do you say, nine furlongs?” Kazhimyr asked, as he tied his horse to a nearby tree, out of sight.

“I’d say so. We should make it just before nightfall.”

The two set off down to the foot of the hill, where the dying grass met the foot-high deep, murky water. A white vapor hovered over the pygwog lilies gathered at the surface, while the stench of Aethyr and decaying foliage mingled with a foul odor that reminded Zevander of the sewers in The Hovel.

With the first step, his leather boots sank to his calf. Thankfully, caligosian leather didn’t leak so much as a drop—although, it did have a tendency to shrink a bit when wet, squeezing his foot with each step.

“Well, this is going to be a fun nine furlongs.” Kazhimyr’s comment had Zevander smirking, as he trudged forward, the water climbing higher. “I hope you plan to make this one suffer.”

Zevander exhaled a sigh, reminded that he hadn’t yet clued in his fellow assassin. “We won’t be killing this one.”

“Pardon? Hard to hear over the sound of shit water splashing around me. It almost sounded like you said we’re not killing him.”

Zevander offered no more than a glance over his shoulder, catching sight of Kazhimyr tottering ungracefully in the soft muck. “I’m taking him to the dungeons of Eidolon.”

“But the king has ordered his execution. That is how we get paid. That is how we keep from having our own heads severed.”

“Yes, it’s how we get paid. Indebted to a king for a crime we never committed.”

“And how is sparing this mage going to change that?”

“He possesses the blood stones for the septomir.” The knee-deep water slowed their pace, as the muck thickened, swallowing Zevander’s boot with each step.

“The blood stones? The ones that are quite illegal to collect because they require a magic that is entirely forbidden by Imperial Law?”

“Those are the ones.” Zevander’s boot sank into a soft pit, and he hooked his hands beneath his knee to lift it from the suctioning soil. “He can break this wretched curse. The stones are far more powerful than the flame.”

“Which will be fantastic, until the king finds out, and we’re executed. And what about bringing him back to the very castle where you placed a ward to keep everyone out? Do you trust this rogue mage, known to be mad , I might add, around your sister?”

It was a question he’d pondered the whole ride to Corvus Keep. Zevander had made a point to keep his sister protected, his home guarded, but he’d be damned if he’d let the mage get off so easily, without having fulfilled his end of their bargain. “He’ll reside in the dungeons. I’ll shackle him with copper.” The only element known to weaken a mage. “He’s relatively harmless, but he’ll be useless after.”

“Harmless … pfft . He was a member of the Magestroli. The king’s most powerful.”

“Shhhh.” Zevander came to an abrupt halt, ears perked, picking up on the faint sound of water moving. The moment he threw back his cape and reached for the sword at his back, swinging wide, a black serpent struck out of the water, fangs bared. Its fiery tongue merely kissed his cheek, before the blade struck its flesh, slicing through as easily as if its bones were liquid.

The upper half of the serpent fell into the bog, splashing the rotten concoction of blood and muck in his face. Wiping it away, he twisted around to find Kazhimyr sinking into the water that now reached his thighs. His hips.

Quicksand.

“Fuck!” Kazhimyr teetered and rocked in place, arms flailing, as the muck pulled him deeper. To his waist. His chest.

Zevander reached for his outstretched hand before the Letalisz could slip completely beneath the water. Forcing all of his strength into the toil, muscles shaking, he yanked Kazhimyr’s arm with such violence, the other Letalisz shot up out of the water on a gasp.

Bending forward, he coughed, spitting murky swamp water out of his mouth.

He glanced up. “Behind you!”

Zevander swung around, sword still at the ready, as two Carnificans snarled and hopped their way through the water, toward them. The easy way they traversed over the bog indicated they’d hunted those grounds regularly.

Eyes blood red, wrinkled and weathered skin a pale white, with a flat nose, and lips that appeared to have been chewed away to expose pointed teeth—it was hard to believe they were once normal citizens going about their day. Any semblance of their former selves lay hidden beneath a mask of savagery.

Zevander raised his palm, mentally drawing the Aeryz glyph, and thrust his hand forward. A blast of air sent the Carnificans sailing backward, splashing into the muck. Two more advanced, but before Zevander had the chance to swing his sword, the scorpions etched into his flesh rose up in a black smoke, taking form as colossal-sized beasts. On the strike of the scorpion’s stinger, one of the Carnificans reached out, grasping the thin, metallic tip of the stinger in his palm.

“’The fuck?” Zevander had never seen such a thing.

The Carnifican crushed it, sending the scorpion into a trembling, hissing fit, and it thrashed its tail, striking another Carnifican, who exploded on impact. The second scorpion struck, hitting the first Carnifican in the neck. He let out a high-pitched screech, one that Zevander silenced with a swing of his blade.

At a roar from behind, Zevander turned to see white smoke drifting upward from Kazhimyr’s palm, his eyes an icy blue. He directed the mist toward the three approaching Carnificans, and all three of them skidded to a halt. Frozen. Skinny rivulets of red scattered beneath their skin as their veins lysed. Their flesh split open, tearing their bodies into small pieces that fell with a splash in the water.

The scorpion with the crushed stinger curled into black smoke, and from it emerged a new scorpion, its stinger glinting before driving through the abdomen of an oncoming Carnifican.

In the distance, Zevander caught sight of a dozen more, bounding toward them in their unsettling hops that made scarcely a splash across the water. Kazhimyr’s mist sent another blast of white smoke over the bog’s surface, which turned it to ice around their pale, bony legs. As the Carnificans wriggled and roared in a failed effort to get loose, Zevander’s scorpions struck, the metal slicing through their bodies, severing them in half.

Within minutes, all the Carnificans lay in severed bits across the mire.

Reeling back their sigil powers, the two Letalisz stood breathing hard, Zevander’s heart hammering in his chest. Calling on the powers of sablefyre expended his energy levels and had left him drained. Still, the two kept on, trudging through the remaining three furlongs of sludgy wetlands, without further incident, until they eventually reached the solid castle grounds.

Unfortunately, the few Carnificans they’d encountered in the bog were only a small fraction of the hundreds believed to inhabit Corvus Keep.

To the right lay what appeared to be the ravaged remains of a ribcage and leg bones, the size indicating the victim had been no more than ten. A spindling child, if Zevander had to guess. As they neared the castle, more bones lay in piles across the yard, their species indiscernible in the heap.

“I can’t say I won’t accidentally kill the crazy, old mage after that miserable fucking trek.” Kazhimyr dislodged a chunk of muck that’d dried to his leather tunic.

“Aren’t you the slightest bit impressed that he survived it?” How Dolion might’ve managed such a feat remained a mystery. While his power had been honed over a number of centuries, he lacked strength in his old age.

Kazhimyr groaned, knocking the heel of his boot against the dead grass, onto which more wet muck slipped away.

The scent of death and decomposition clung to the back of his throat, as Zevander crossed the yard toward the dilapidated door of the castle that stood cracked open.

The two pushed past the creaking iron doors into the grand entry hall, where a stone raven stood in the center, its wings broken and chipped with age. Tapestries, tattered and torn, dangled haphazardly over the water-stained, stone walls, and the portraits of royal lineage hung cocked and faded, punctured with violent destruction.

What was undoubtedly a once-grand foyer stood in decay, its remnants scavenged and destroyed.

“Whatever happened here … it must’ve been horrible. It’s as if they left everything and fled.”

Zevander scanned over the ruins, his thoughts darkening as he took in the state of the castle. “I’d venture to say they didn’t flee. Not by choice, anyway.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing in the history books that speaks of anyone occupying this castle. Only that it belongs to Nyxteros.”

The sound of crumbling stone alerted Zevander to the right, just as two Carnificans came charging on all fours, like animals. From his hip, Kazhimyr yanked a curved, double-bladed dagger that, under a glow of white light, extended to a spear.

Zevander unsheathed his black sword.

The Carnificans charged without hesitation, as was the state of their minds. They attacked relentlessly and without fear.

Zevander swung, just missing the Carnificans that ducked fast. As one of them scrambled toward him, he unsheathed his dagger and stabbed the ruthless creature in the throat. He twisted in time to slash another in the gut with his sword, slicing its stomach open with one hard yank of the blade. Another advanced, and he parried a jab to its skull, striking with unerring precision.

A half dozen more poured out of rooms, charging from the right and left. Dozens more after that, until Zevander and Kazhimyr stood back-to-back, fighting off the mob of berserkers. For every swing of Zevander’s sword, Kazhimyr parried with a stab of his spear.

“Remind me … again … when we’re supposed to start … shitting ourselves?” Kazhimyr asked, jabbing his spear into the abdomen of his attacker. When he yanked it back out, a glob of jellied organs spilled onto the floor.

“Right about now, I’d say.” Zevander swung wide, lopping off the head of a Carnifican that rolled across the cement.

Their sigils emerged, Zevander’s scorpions and Kazhimyr’s deadly mist of ice. Three Carnificans climbed the stinger of Zevander’s scorpion, just before the appendage slammed into the cement, slicing one of them in half. The other two slipped off on impact and met the same fate.

A snowy blast of white mist hurled three other berserkers into the wall in a bloody explosion of limbs and bone. Zevander and Kazhimyr backed themselves up the crumbling staircase, until a tingle rushed over Zevander’s skin, and he realized the Carnificans were no longer advancing.

They’d passed through a ward.

On the other side of a shimmering wall, his scorpions fought off the dozens more Carnificans that emerged to fill the great hall.

Zevander reached out to call them back, and the oversized arachnids faded to a cloud of black smoke that crawled beneath his sleeve.

Khazimyr bent forward, palms to his thighs, catching his breath. “Well, that was about as fun as stroking my cock with a gauntlet.”

Carnificans charged after them, slamming into the invisible force like a shield of liquid glass that stood between them and the two assassins.

“Judging by that ward, we must be close.” Kazhimyr sheathed his spear back into its holster at his hip. “And I suppose that answers the question of how .”

Wards expended incredible energy, so the likelihood of Dolion using his own blood magic was slim. Which meant the blood stones were with him.

The two Letalisz split up, Kazhimyr taking the west wing of the castle, while Zevander took the east. Room after room turned up nothing more than overturned and ravaged furniture speckled with blood, piles of bones and carcasses, and the stench of death everywhere he turned. Down a long corridor, he came upon a door that looked like it’d been pummeled with a battering ram, its surface marred in deep dents. The iron hinges had cracked, as though something had crashed into the unyielding barrier with no success.

One strong heave failed to move it. He took a step back and gave one forceful kick that swung the door so hard against the adjacent stone wall, it cracked down the center. Dagger at the ready, he climbed the winding staircase, catching the faint sound of whimpering from above. When he finally arrived at the topmost room of the turret, he stepped cautiously across the creaking wood and scanned the open space. In the upper rafters of the room, he spied the glow of yellow eyes staring down at him. The mimicrows, sent to spy.

“I’ve made a grave error,” a weak voice said from behind, and Zevander swung around toward its source. In the shadowy corner, he found a glint of silver belonging to a shoe buckle, and an outstretched leg.

“How so?”

“To speak would be my demise.” The scratchy nature of Dolion’s voice suggested little water had been consumed, and probably little food, unless he’d managed to scrounge some vermin, though the Carnificans likely hunted anything with a pulse. On closer examination, Zevander noticed the disheveled state of the man–his white beard kinked and ungroomed, his hair standing about his head, clothes carrying more than a few days’ grime.

Before the old man could answer further, Zevander unsheathed two blades at his hip. He spun around and hurled them toward the glowing eyes.

Two quiet thuds.

Two birds fell to the floor.

The third took flight before he could yank the next blade, zipping through the open window where the shutters had been torn away.

He threw out his arm, and a scorpion stinger impaled the bird in flight with one quick strike, then retracted just as fast. The growls from below indicated the Carnificans had scavenged it as a welcomed meal.

One more scan showed no other evidence of the mimicrows.

“Those gods damned birds. Always listening.” He shifted on the floor, groaning when he stretched out another leg, as if he’d been sitting there for days. “The red stone. With the silver markings.”

“Your vision was wrong?”

“Not wrong. Incomplete. After we met at the tavern, I dreamed again. Terrible things. War. Famine. The complete destruction of Aethyria.”

“You’ve always raved of those things.”

“My dreams never showed me scorpions .”

Zevander let out a mirthless laugh. “Are you implying I’m your great villain now? That I will bring about this end of days ? You are mad.”

“You will join Cadavros in his destruction. This much I know for certain.”

“Then, why not attempt to destroy me now?”

“Because I saw the Corvugon in this vision, also. And with you having fetched the final stone, I do not see how that is possible now.” A dry cough jerked his body, and Zevander unclipped the waterskin he’d brought on his journey, handing it off to him. One exceptionally long swill later, and Dolion lowered the flask, wiping at his mouth. “Don’t suppose you brought any ale.”

“Unfortunately not.”

The slight smile on his face sobered. “My visions, real as they may seem … perhaps they’re unreliable .”

“What is this Corvugon you mentioned?”

“They were messengers of the dead, believed to have been the beloved pets of the Death Goddess. Sizeable raptors with teeth and claws designed for tearing flesh. Centuries ago, they evoked as much fear as the dragon.”

He considered for a moment that the egg tucked under the girl’s bed could’ve very well been the creature Dolion described. “These raptors … they would bear eggs like a bird, or a dragon?”

“Yes. Large, black-scaled eggs, smelling of brimstone.”

“And what does the stone with the silver marking have to do with this Corvugon? You once believed the stone was the end of this destruction. The end of Cadavros. The end of the fucking curse that supposedly makes me so much of a threat.”

Hands clutching the top of his head, Dolion screwed his eyes shut. “I was wrong. My visions failed me.”

Zevander ground his teeth, biting back the urge to punch his fist through a wall. “No. If your visions failed you, then I collected all those stones for nothing. And I surely did not collect those stones for nothing, old man.”

Brows furrowed, he sat thoughtful. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

When he didn’t elaborate at first, Zevander said, “Speak freely. The mimicrows no longer report back to the king.”

“The king didn’t send those crows. It’s the magehood that hunts me now. The very men who accused me of being a raving fool now covet those stones. They’re the ones who drove me here.”

“It makes sense that one person holding all of that power is a threat to them.”

“Of course.” He swallowed back another long gulp of water. “But they don’t wish to destroy it, as they were ordered to destroy the first septomir, by our gracious king.” Interesting, that the king had also outlawed demutomancy which would’ve ensured the power of the septomir would never return. “No … they want to possess the weapon. And they want me to reveal where the seventh bloodstone lies.”

“It seems you’d be more of an ally to them, with you and the magehood desiring the same thing.”

Dolion scoffed and turned away. “Not in the least. As I said, I made a mistake, but my intentions were good. Who knows what they’d do with that kind of power.” The focus in his eyes faded as he stared, perhaps imagining it then. “They will use any means of torture to extract the information from me. Then dispose of me for failing to remain quiet.”

“Do you suspect they believe your visions? This famine and pestilence you fear?”

“I suspect they’ve always believed.”

“If you’re so foolish as to trap yourself in a castle with Carnificans, why not just give them what they want?”

He tipped his head back, resting it against the wall. “Do you know the history of Corvus Keep?”

“Outside of housing Carnificans, no.”

“Strange, isn’t it? This castle has existed for most of my life. Certainly, for all of yours. Yet, we know nothing about it. Why was it abandoned? Who occupied it before the Carnificans?”

“What is your point?”

“Prior to the Carnificans taking control of it, there existed an entire race. The Corvikae.”

The name didn’t strike a familiar chord, at all. Nothing he’d ever read in the history of Nyxteros had spoken of them.

“They were mortals who once occupied this land,” Dolion prattled on. “Lived in this castle.”

“Mortals haven’t existed in Aethyria as long as the Umbravale has existed.”

“You’re wrong. History is wrong . Centuries ago, well before my time, they existed here. On these lands. Those with no power. No blood magic.”

“So, what happened to them?”

“They were driven away. Forced beyond the reaches of civilization. To the deepest trenches, where no Mancer would dare to venture.”

There was only one place Zevander had ever heard of, aside from the mortal land, that struck fear in the minds of all Aethyrians. “The Crussurian Trench …” Beyond the reaches of civilization, in the dark and icy depths, where creatures more vicious than the Carnificans dwelled.

“Yes,” Dolion answered in a sobering tone.

The sound of footsteps echoed from below, and eyes widening, Dolion swiped a blade from beside him up to the dusky light, his hands trembling. Kazhimyr appeared soon after, coming to a stop alongside Zevander, and on a relieved exhale, Dolion lowered his weapon.

“Who drove them away?” Zevander asked, returning to their conversation.

“This far north, I’d suspect Solassions. Mothers, children, warriors, even their sacred priestess, were marched from their burning village to the trench, and cast into the depths of Hell.”

“How do you know this?” Zevander asked.

Dolion waved his hand over the stone walls, and the red glowing images and words of an ancient language appeared etched on their surface by blood ink. A binding spell that kept it preserved. While Zevander’s Primyeria, the ancient tongue, was a bit rusty, he’d learned it from his mother as a child. What had been etched into the stone told the very story Dolion had just relayed. “There are books I found in the dungeons. Their scribes must’ve hidden them away during the siege, but these … these are the last words of the only survivor.”

Zevander dragged his attention back to Dolion. “I’ll ask again, why the change of heart about the stones?”

He sat quietly for a moment. Thoughtful. “The seventh stone has always been a source of speculation, one the magehood has argued over since the Age of Renewal. For centuries, it remained a mystery.” He tipped back another sip of the waterskin, polishing off the last of Zevander’s supply, and handed him the empty vessel. “My apologies. I didn’t want to consume all of it.”

“Finish your explanation.”

“The silver markings on that stone are unique to the Corvikae, who were known to worship the Goddess of Death. The very ichor that ran through her veins, ran through the veins of the Corvi people.”

“And?”

“If my vision is correct, the mortal I sent you after may be the first, or the last, of the Corvikae bloodline. She may carry the blood of the death goddess. And while I may be many things to many people, I am not the vehicle for mortalicide.” Lips pressed to a hard line, he shook his head. “I certainly don’t want to fuck with the daughter of a death goddess.”

A flash of the girl’s goddess-like face slipped through Zevander’s mind and tensed his muscles. “As young as she is, she hasn’t had her powers long, then.”

“I suspect not. But what do you mean, hasn’t ? Is she …. Is she alive?”

“The girl still resides in Mortasia,” Zevander answered in a flat tone.

“Oh, thank the gods. Thank the ever-loving gods of mercy!”

“Mortasia?” Kazhimyr asked. “You ventured to the feared wastelands and never said a word about it?”

Zevander inwardly groaned. “It was uneventful.”

“How is this possible?” Dolion interrupted. “How does she live?”

Zevander ground his teeth together, the question taking him back to that night, and the thousands of times since that he’d asked himself that very question.

The realization dawning across the old man’s face only prodded his anger.

“You couldn’t do it, could you? Something kept you from killing her.”

Instead of answering, the Letalisz fought the urge to bite off his own tongue and said, “I have seen the egg of this Corvugon. It’s with her.”

“Then, it is true. It is true that they have returned!”

Wicked curls of anger snaked down Zevander’s neck, as he set a hand to his hip, the other stroking his jaw. “The stones we’ve collected, the lives we’ve taken, they are useless, then.”

“Those stones are holding back a castle full of Carnificans at the moment. While they are not powerful enough to prevent a pestilence, the six hold enough power to create a ward. And need I remind you that those you’ve killed were not exemplary citizens. They kept Nilivir as slaves, for fuck’s sake.”

“And need I remind you that I do not kill for charity, or to rid the world of fucking evil. I kill for purpose, and that purpose was the curse you promised to break. And, so, how do you intend to recompense? Before you answer, allow me to advise that we were sent by the king to execute you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot break the curse without the blood stone of the Corvi daughter, and I will not be responsible for ending their bloodline twice. Kill me, if you must.” The bastard had the audacity to tip up his chin, as if such a thing would offer him some dignity. “In fact, I insist. I’ve attempted it a number of days already. I’m a coward.”

“Perhaps I’ll just kill her and take those heavy stones off your hands.”

“You’ve tried and failed. A war is on the horizon, Zevander. To rid yourself of the flame would leave you defenseless. Practically mortal.” With a small bit of struggle, he pushed to his feet, stumbling backward a step. “Your curse, though a burden today, may prove useful tomorrow. It is an unrivaled power you possess.”

Zevander unsheathed his blade. “Or you might just be a raving old man who needs to be silenced.”

“Silence me, then.” He tossed off his own weapon with a clang of metal and held his hands out to the side in surrender. “I’m begging you. It does not change your circumstances. Or your fate.”

Jaw clenched, Zevander snarled at the old mage’s stubborn refusal. His hands shook with the urge to throttle him, for daring to imagine the Letalisz would allow him to so easily dissolve the bargain they’d made.

“What do we do?” Kazhimyr asked, breaking him of his murderous thoughts. “I suspect the moment he’s dead, that ward will fall.”

“It most certainly will.” Dolion jerked his head toward the staircase. “You better leave now while you have the chance.”

“You’re coming with us. You’ll stay at Eidolon.”

“I will be putting you at great risk, Zevander. And if I’m captured by the magehood, I could only hope for a swift execution. So, please. Do your king’s bidding.”

Zevander let out a spiteful chuckle, a mere fraction of his ire. “You owe me, old man. The magehood is the least of your worries now.” If Dolion couldn’t rid him of the curse, Zevander would force the old mage to figure out a way to slow the progression of its transformation in him. He didn’t give a damn about Dolion’s shifty morals, or the fact the girl was the last of her kind. It enraged him that he hadn’t been able to kill her.

“There’s still the issue of getting back to our horses.” Kazhimyr strode toward the window and peered out. “Much harder with an extra body.”

“Should you choose to walk,” Dolion countered.

“You’ve a better plan?”

Dolion cocked a brow and turned to the stone wall beside him. A glowing streak of light trailed his hand as he circled it against the wall. “ Accipezimu equivonis .” The crumbling stone shimmered, opening up on the dark hill where their horses stood tied to the trees.

The view offered a glimpse of shadowy figures quickly bounding toward the helpless animals. Carnificans.

“What say you, Brother?”

Zevander let out a low growl and nabbed the collar of Dolion’s cloak, yanking him to within punching distance. “Nothing tricky, or I’ll burn you alive.”

Nodding, the old man swiped up a leather bag from beside him, clanking whatever was inside, and they stepped through the shimmering circle.

Once on the other side, Kazhimyr loosed the horses, while Zevander yanked his sword for the oncoming Carnificans. No more than a few yards from having their hands severed, the berserkers froze, their eyes fixed on something behind Zevander. He turned in time to clock a mage stalking at his back, and when the stranger thrust his palm toward them, Zevander drew his cape, shielding him and Dolion from the flame that burst forth.

Intense heat beat against the cape, failing to break through the fireproof barrier, as Zevander protected his quarry from the blaze.

Dolion curled into a tight ball beside Zevander. “You should’ve pushed a blade through my heart back at the keep, you fool.”

Zevander hardly flinched at the weaker flame that did little more than warm his cloak—nowhere near as intense as the sablefyre that sizzled inside his own veins, desperate to lash out. “ He ’s the fool, for having picked an unfair fight.”

The heat shifted to a frigid cold, and Zevander kept the shield in place a moment longer, to keep Kazhimyr’s mist from touching Dolion. While the flame in his veins protected Zevander’s blood from freezing, it certainly wouldn’t have done much for the mage.

The cold lifted, and Zevander threw back the cape, sending forth three large scorpions. Two more mages had appeared, the first lying in chunks of split flesh, his veins having split open.

Zevander held his blade at the ready for the first who dared to charge. Unlike the Carnificans, completely devoid of magic, the mages moved swiftly and efficiently, avoiding the snapping strike of the scorpions’ stingers.

Kazhimyr sent another blast of ice which the mages blocked with an invisible shield, deflecting the mist away from them.

“Keep it steady!” Zevander shouted.

Their powers could only hold the shield for so long. As the two assassins had learned in their training, the best weapon was exhausting the enemy. Using up whatever energy reserves they had and parrying with a counter attack. The scorpions waited, snapping their claws as Kazhimyr held a steady blast, forcing the mages to expend their magic to hold the shield. Both sides were undoubtedly growing weary as their power slowly depleted.

Zevander, on the other hand, patiently waited, mentally counting off the seconds that ticked by.

Until those shields finally fell.

All three of his scorpions struck fast into the hearts of the two mages. One of them split in half, as the metallic stinger swung out. Within minutes, all three mages lay mutilated on the grassy knoll.

Kazhimyr bent forward, wheezing as he fought to catch his breath. “For gods’ sake … I’m getting too old for this shit.”

The scorpions skittered back to Zevander, and he glanced toward the Carnificans, who’d retreated back to Corvus Keep. As the remaining mage, who’d been stung in the heart, squirmed and writhed, Zevander drew his blade and stabbed him in the skull before he could call on a mimicrow to relay what had happened.

Dolion stood over the fallen mage and sighed. “This won’t be the last we’ll see of them.”

“I suspect not,” Zevander said, sheathing his sword.