A Thread in the Tangle (40 page)

“Blast it, girl!” he growled.
 
“You’re too old to be bounding around naked.”

“Hardly, Oen,” she defended.
 
“Remember, I’m a nymph; not a girl.
 
Here, hold these.”
 
She stuffed her papers into his arms and picked up her clothes.

It was a long way back to the Spine.
 
What little energy she had regained during her restful interlude was quickly depleted.
 
Oenghus slowed his pace so she could lean on his arm for support.
 
She was focusing on the faint scuffing of her slippers against the stone underfoot, when a blur of movement sped across the corridor ahead, zipping into the temple.
 
Her ears stiffened with alarm.

“Oen,” she hissed, but her warning was unneeded, he had either sensed something close, or observed the blur.

Oenghus stalked to the corner and scanned the corridor beyond.
 
Isiilde peeked around his hulking form with wide eyes, staring down the hallway.
 
A pair of gilded doors waited at its end.
 
One of the ornate doors, which was usually closed, had been left opened, affording a glimpse of the golden temple dedicated to Zahra, the Guardian of Righteousness.
 
Her heart fluttered with excitement, but mostly fear.

Oenghus motioned her to stay where she was, and then moved down the hallway towards the shrine.
 
Without pausing, he eased the door open, and slipped in with surprising stealth.

Long moments passed—moments that the nymph spent chewing nervously on her lip as her mind conjured up numerous scenarios, none of them heartening.
 
What if the Imp slipped past Oenghus and darted out here?
 
Worse yet, what if it sealed Oenghus inside, and she was left all alone with the foul thing?

Isiilde looked right, and then left, eyeing the lonely corridors.
 
It seemed an opportune time to run away, and one might expect that from the nymph, but her foolish concern for a warrior who could crush a man’s skull with one hand outweighed her fear.

The journey from corner to door was a blur.
 
Before she knew it, she was standing at the threshold of the shrine, about to undertake the most courageous act she had ever dreamt of in her short life—the nymph entered the shrine.
 
However, she instantly regretted it and pressed her back against the door, scanning the torch lit chamber fearfully.

The door moved, clicked shut, and she gulped as Oenghus paused, glancing at her over his shoulder with annoyance.
 
She smiled innocently and gave him a little wave.
 
He shook his head at her foolishness and continued onward.

A long chamber of smooth stone and evenly spaced columns stretched before her.
 
Deep pools of shadow drowned the flickering torch light that clung to the alcoves along the wall.
 
A painting hung in each alcove, depicting the gleaming goddess and her fearless struggle against the Void.
 
The battle over the Orb was depicted in all its glory.
 
The Dark One’s own eyes seemed to gleam from the shadows while Zahra’s golden gaze reflected a pool of light.
 
Zahra was encased in golden plate mail, white hair billowing behind her, as radiantly fearsome as the shadowed figure whom she battled.

The nymph was sure it was all very inspiring, but truth be told, she felt little love for the Guardian, because in her mind, the Imp should have been struck dead the moment it entered her sanctuary.

With barely a sound, Isiilde darted down the chamber, joining her guardian and sticking close to his broad back.

Every time she stepped into a pool of shadow, she squeezed her eyes shut.
 
It was during one of these black outs that Oenghus stopped mid-step, causing her to collide with his back.
 
She bounced off him, and would have fallen if he hadn’t steadied her.
 
Stuck between terror and curiosity, she clutched the back of his robes, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Oenghus stopped to the side of an arch leading into the horseshoe shaped prayer room.
 
Warm candles lined the tiled walls, illuminating a fountain in the center.
 
A golden statue of Zahra knelt by the edge of the shallow basin.
 
Eyes of amber serenely gazed into its waters, representing the Guardian’s humble supplication to the Sylph.
 
A clawed monkey’s paw curled over the goddess’ shoulder, and Isiilde bit back a scream.
 
A heartbeat later she heard an odd chattering, followed by the rest of the fearsome creature.

The Imp was much as she remembered, what little time she had to study it.
 
The fiend looked like a greasy monkey with big leathery wings, except its fingers and toes ended with curving claws.
 
Its lashing tail was barbed and it had a wide mouth with an odd assortment of mismatched teeth.

The Imp danced on top of Zahra’s head.
 
The chattering noise, she realized, was the Imp’s equivalent of singing.
 
Oenghus invoked the Lore, barely a whisper on his lips.
 
His fingers moved purposefully at his side, tracing an unknown combination of runes.
 
She usually tried to watch every weaving, but the Imp held her in rapt attention.
 
It stopped on the statue’s head, and began relieving itself into the sacred fountain.
 
The stench of its urine made her gag with revulsion.

Oenghus thrust his hand towards the creature, interrupting the Imp’s cheerful song as a crackling chain of lightning burst from his fingertips.
 
Unfortunately, his aim was poor.
 
Zahra’s head was blown clean off her neck and the Imp was startled into flight, but not before the charge of energy hit the spray of urine.
 
The Imp screeched, rebounding off the walls in agony.

“Bollocks!”
 
Oenghus moved farther into the circular chamber, hurling another bolt of lightning at the creature.

With a frantic flap of wings, the Imp spiraled under the wave of crackling energy.
 
The charge slammed into the wall, punching through its surface, sending jagged shards of stone and tile raining onto the floor.
 
The Imp shot through the air, its deadly tail slashing over her hair as it dashed towards the main chamber.

Isiilde spun around.
 
A bristling hound materialized in the Imp’s wake.
 
It charged her with gleaming eyes and large, deadly spikes that stood on end.

Oenghus shoved her to the side, rushing forward to meet the giant hound.
 
She poked her head around the corner in time to see the hound leap for Oenghus’ throat.
 
Her scream pierced the chaos.
 
But the hound never connected with the Nuthaanian’s throat, instead, it passed right through him, landing behind Oenghus, who kept running.
 
He ignored the beast, thrusting out his hand, hurling an enchantment towards the exit.
 
And before the Imp could scamper out, a sealing rune flared to life on the double doors.

The fiendish hound skidded on the polished floor, snarling its frustration, until its cold eyes locked on her.

“Oen!” Isiilde screamed, however, it wasn’t the barbarian who responded to her call—the torches surged, flaring to her defense, leaping gleefully towards the hound, only to pass right through, sending bright, hot embers bouncing across the floor.

“It’s not real,” he bellowed, throwing another charged bolt towards the Imp who was frantically tugging at the door.

The hound might not be real, but her fear was.

In a blind panic, she bolted down the main chamber with the beast breathing down her neck.
 
She glanced over her shoulder and tripped on her skirts, falling to the stone just as the hound leapt.
 
Pain split her chin, the torches flared at her cry, feeding on the masterpieces of paint.
 
She squeezed her eyes shut, but death never came.

Isiilde risked a peek at the snarling beast on her back.
 
A mouthful of fangs lunged towards her face, passing right through flesh and bone, leaving her terror filled body unharmed.

The beast was an illusion conjured by the Imp, and nothing more.
 
Feeling more than a little foolish, she wiped the blood from her chin in disgust, and gingerly stood while the hound continued its useless attacks. For principle’s sake, she kicked the apparition, but her foot passed right through, and she nearly slipped in the blood on the floor.

The Imp flapped back down the burning hall towards the prayer room, zipping past her with a lash of its razor tail.
 
Oenghus barreled after it, chucking his knife at the fiend.
 
The hilt slammed into the Imp’s head, sending it spiraling through the air, and into what remained of Zahra’s statue.
 
The Imp bounced off and fell into the sacred pool with an impressive splash.
 
Oenghus threw another crackling bolt into the basin, agitating the water to life with sizzling energy.

Unfortunately, Oenghus misjudged the power of his weave.
 
The delicate fountain exploded, sending a spray of water and stone hurling in all directions.
 
Despite all of this, the Imp still twitched, screeching in pain as its body convulsed like a fish on shore, flopping pathetically in the crackling puddle of water.
 
Isiilde covered her ears, unable to tear her eyes from the creature’s death throes.
 
Eventually, the charge sputtered out and Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the overcooked fiend.

Oenghus growled, walked over to the little corpse and kicked its carcass, sending it flying into the decapitated statue.
 
Isiilde couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the creature who had suffered such an unpleasant death.

“Let me see that.”
 
Oenghus lowered himself to one knee, lifting her chin to examine the gash.
 
“I thought I told you to stay outside, Isiilde.”
 
He looked from her cut to the burning paintings and cursed under his breath.

“I misinterpreted your gesture,” she explained reasonably, trying to distract herself from the excruciating pain burning along her chin and the bright blood on his hand.

Oenghus snorted, wiped his hand carelessly on his robe, and stood, stomping over to the dead Imp.
 
He snatched it up by its tail—distaste plain on his face—and tucked it under his belt so its head dangled towards the ground.

“You’ve made a mess, Oen,” Isiilde pointed out.
 
Zahra’s serene head lay some distance from her body.
 
“I don’t think Zahra and the Sylph will be happy with you.”

“She’s never happy with me,” he muttered.
 
“And you’re not one to be talking, Sprite.”
 
He gestured toward the smoke filled chamber where the paintings were being consumed, their canvases curling as her fire licked at the oiled flesh.
 
Despite the loss, she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel remorseful—the paintings were far more stunning on fire.

“I suppose we better find someone to clean this mess up.”

As it turned out, someone had already heard the commotion and smelled the smoke.
 
Clerics and acolytes came rushing into the temple; the first weren’t happy with Oenghus, and the latter were sent scurrying for buckets.

The remaining clerics turned on Oenghus, who ignored their righteous wrath, pushing through through the lot of them with the Imp thumping against his leg.

Isiilde followed, poking miserably at her chin.
 
Without warning, the Imp sprang back to life, chattering angrily at Oenghus who was taken by surprise.
 
The creature raked its claws and teeth against his thigh, freeing its tail from his belt.

She was too shocked to scream as the Imp flapped wildly away with a squeal of delight.
 
They both stood, watching its flight in gaping silence.

“I thought it was dead,” she finally whispered when it had flown out of sight.

“It was,” Oenghus said, and then shrugged one of his massive shoulders before continuing to their rooms.
 
His robes were torn and shredded at his thigh, and a stain of blood was spreading on the dark blue cloth, but he seemed not to notice.

“You’re bleeding, Oen,” she observed.
 
His only response was the deep, rolling grumble of an irritated bear.

Twenty-two