King's Folly (Book 2) (27 page)

Marsais felt a surge of panic course through his bond with Isiilde. He twisted as much as he dared, still battling with the entrapped golems. The fourth, smoldering golem had abandoned the prone captain, and charged the ravine. Rivan stepped forward to engage the monstrosity. He clutched his sword like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“Captain!” Marsais shouted, redoubling his efforts, channeling the Gift until a tidal wave of power thrummed through his veins. He didn’t dare drop the cage now, not so close to victory. Arms straining, he clenched his jaw, and tore his eyes from the scene, concentrating on bringing his palms together.

Acacia staggered to her feet, shield abandoned, arm hanging limply at her side. The third golem struck with a fist, delivering a glancing blow. She reeled, swinging her sword wildly, catching rotting flesh, and ripping away decay without noticeable effect.

“Marsais!” The nymph’s scream was snatched by the wind. Rivan’s sword bit flesh, his shield caught thunder, and the monster’s fingers curled around his armor. The fourth golem lifted the paladin off his feet. Trapped in a vice-like grip, Rivan hacked and swung, gasping for air as his armor crumpled with every expelled breath.

The nymph’s scream changed as fear turned to fury, rising over the din of battle and spreading its wings with thrumming power.

The nymph burst into flame.

Fire arced from her blazing silhouette, sizzling through the chill, flowing into the closest golem and rolling into the rest like a crashing wave. The golem’s fist loosened and Rivan fell through a wall of heat into cool snow. Isiilde’s scream transformed, soaring into a haunting melody that froze Marsais’ blood. Her voice fueled the flame, twisting it with white hot fury.

Nearly caught in her destructive ecstasy, Marsais smothered their bond, shielding himself against the power beating at his mind. With a final push, he brought his palms together with a smack, closing the Orb of Force around the trapped golems. Fire and flesh sprayed into the night, mixing rot with snow, and ash with iron.

The seer turned to face his enraptured nymph. She stood barefoot and naked on the edge of the ravine, clothed in fire and lashing flame. An unnatural fire consumed the remaining golems, eating them like tinder, along with the surrounding trees.

Her voice continued to rise, gaining intensity, peaking with desire. Acacia and Rivan dove into the ravine, burrowing into the
 
snow, as a wave of flame roiled over their heads. Marsais stilled himself and stood his ground, preparing for the worst. He pulled the veil from between their bond, letting Isiilde’s spirit surge into his own. His skin heated, and a cry of pain ripped from his throat along with a chant that battled hers. Arms snaking, voice straining, he gathered the fires to his hands, rolling them into a blazing ball.

Isiilde focused on the seer, seething with divine fury. An emerald blaze smoldered in her eyes, and she fought. Her voice beat back the winds, chased away the snow, battering Marsais like a fishing boat on a churning sea. The storm was fierce, but short-lived. He snatched the last trailing wisps from her lithe body and slapped his hands together with an explosion of energy. The shockwave ripped through trees, felling the giants with an earth-shaking crash.

Ash and timber and trailing brands fluttered to the ground, and in the deafening silence, in the aftermath of destruction, Marsais realized what he had done. The nymph collapsed in a pale heap, her spirit flickered once through their bond, and then blinked into nothingness.

Time crawled sluggishly, stretching into an eternity of fluttering heartbeats. Marsais raced across the snow, leapt into the ravine, landed on the other side, and scrambled up the slope, catching her body as it slid down the trampled snow. With a curse, he flipped over her limp body, pressed his palms against her breast, seized the Gift, and sent a jolt of healing energy into her heart. Desperation gave birth to another powerful surge, jerking her body with its force.

Acacia rose, staggered, and half fell against the ancient. Placing a hand on the nymph’s forehead, she bowed her head and prayed, low and beseeching until warmth traveled from her veins into the nymph.

A fluttering spark ignited in the darkness. Marsais focused on that tiny spark, cradling it gently, handling it with care, afraid that too much force might snuff it out. Slowly, carefully, with the patience of a mountain, he nurtured that spark as one might blow gently on a wavering flame, channeling a finite strand of Life into its center.

When her spirit flickered, Marsais withdrew, fearing he would snuff out her life a second time. His healing talents were limited. Another was needed, immediately: Oenghus.

He wove another cold ward, and cast about. The traveler’s cloak was singed but intact. He snatched it from the snow, wrapped it around her body, and gathered her up in his arms.

“Your pelt, Rivan. Quickly.”

The young paladin’s face was covered with blood. His helmet was absent, his armor crushed, but he pulled himself to his feet, only to fall face first in the snow a moment later. Acacia scrambled to retrieve the pelt, tossed it to Marsais, and checked on her soldier.

She looked into the seer’s eyes. “Go.”

Marsais wrapped the pelt around Isiilde and took off, leaving the Knight Captain and her wounded soldier in the middle of a burning forest.

“
CAN
YOU
SEE
anything?” Lucas whispered.

Oenghus could see enough, far more than he wished. These weren’t the sort of men he’d let within a mile of Isiilde, and for that matter, he’d be dammed if he’d risk the captain and her fresh-faced young paladin.

The two spies lay on the bank opposite a village. The icy water lapped at the barbarian’s snow-dusted beard. “You can’t see anything?”

“My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Oenghus glanced at the paladin, and the scars around his eyes. He grunted in acknowledgement and explained what he saw.

The village was fortified, surrounded by deep trenches and bristling stakes. Three longhouses sat on the river’s bank, canoes and longboats were tied to shore, guarded by fur clad sentries who looked like grizzled bears in the storm—all normal enough, save for the men and women impaled by stakes.

“Heathens,” Lucas spat. For once, Oenghus had to agree. The dead should be buried, not picked apart by carrion and worm in open air.

“We need supplies.”

Lucas nodded in agreement.

The storm was both a blessing and a curse. On a night like this, most everyone had taken shelter, which meant fewer guards and a concealing storm. Unfortunately, the needed supplies would also be kept close at hand. The boats, however, looked promising.

Oenghus eyed Lucas’ armor. “Stay here, Tin Man. I’ll see what I can scavenge without waking the dead.”

“Not likely,” Lucas said, unbuckling his armor. Oenghus grunted, following suit. They stripped down to their clothes, unslung their shields, and stowed their gear, moving up stream to ford the river. They waded into the icy current with nothing but their knives.

There was a saying throughout Fyrsta, and Lucas cursed himself silently for not heeding it: never follow a Nuthaanian Berserker.

The barbarian moved into the current, fighting the river and baleful winds. The water rose to his waist, and he grit his teeth, pushing the creeping numbness from his mind. Oenghus fought the power crashing against his chest, pushing through, and swimming where needed. As he neared the opposite shore, he kept his chin to the water, eyeing the crude fortifications. Lucas swam to his shoulder, teeth knocking together in the night.

A lone guard leaned against a mooring post. It was impossible to see his eyes in the blur of flurries, or his head for that matter. The storm was cover enough. The two warriors glanced at each other and crawled onto shore, ignoring the sludge that gathered on the banks.

Oenghus squeezed his bulk between the stakes, and slipped beside a longhouse. Firelight glowed from between cracks in the timber. Festivities hammered at the walls, and a wave of raucous laughter rolled into the howling wind without.

Stealth, Oenghus determined, was not a concern. He stepped on a barrel, grabbed the under hang of the sloping roof, and hoisted himself up, peering through the gap between roof and wall.

From the outside, it sounded like a clan gathering, full of carousing and brawling, but thoughts of his homeland were quickly shattered. The Suevi were smaller than his own kinsmen, shaving the sides of their heads and leaving a long streak of black hair dangling down their tattooed backs. Their mead was red, their goblets—bleached skulls, and the carcasses roasting on the spits looked too familiar for his taste. Wildness dwelt in the men’s eyes, and their women cowered like dogs from their kicks, fighting for table scraps.

Oenghus dropped back to the ground, landing in fresh snow. “Flesh-eaters,” he confirmed in Lucas’ ear, just as Marsais had said. In silent agreement, the two men crept from hut to hut, avoiding the sentries huddled miserably around fire pits.

The two spies peeked into dark huts until one proved promising. Coals glowed red behind a heavy fur drape, illuminating a room filled with baskets and goods. A lone figure huddled on a mat; his snores filled the void between the howling winds. For the occupant’s sake, Oenghus hoped he had sense enough to remain sleeping.

Moving swiftly into the room, Lucas and Oenghus plundered the goods, filling sacks with dried herbs, vegetables, and salted fish. A heavy blanket, cloak, a pot, waterskin, clay jug, a pair of trousers, and boots disappeared into their sack. The sleeping occupant never stirred, except to cough and mutter in his drunkenness.

Oenghus slipped outside and pressed his bulk into a shadow. Two furred figures dragged a third between them. Darkness seeped into the tracks of the two legs gliding over snow. When they vanished behind a gust of flurries, he tapped the curtain behind him, signaling for Lucas to emerge. They moved on to the next outhouse, a wooden shed with a sloped roof.

The scrape of steel echoed from inside and Oenghus put his eye to a gap. A squat figure sharpened a cleaver, darkness stained the butcher’s block, and two scaled human like shadows feasted on a heaping pile of entrails. Reapers kept as pets.

Oenghus moved away in disgust. A hide-covered structure caught his eye. Two sentries milled in front, huddled beside a flickering fire. They weren’t guarding a house, or a hut, but a squarish shape that didn’t set right in Oenghus’ gut. Instincts prickled the back of his neck. Lucas caught his arm, jerking his head back towards the river.

They had what they needed. It was foolish to risk more.

But Oenghus shook his head, ignoring the silent urging. Instead, he moved around the structures, making his way towards the squarish shape, and peeked between the hides.

“Bollocks,” he cursed. The hides concealed a cage of sturdy timber filled with miserable humans huddled in a knot for warmth. Lucas glanced inside, and frowned, then jerked his head towards shore. Oenghus nodded, and the two moved away with their loot.

The longboats were guarded, but the canoes were plentiful and haphazardly arranged along the bank. Lucas deposited his sack, and climbed inside. The paladin turned to find the barbarian securing a canoe to his own with a length of rope.

“Retrieve our gear, and wait for me down river,” the low rumble was as close to a whisper as the Nuthaanian could achieve.

“You’re going back?”

“I’ll not leave those men and women in that cage.”

“They’re heathens, the lot of them, leave them to their fate. Your nymph could be freezing by now.”

“She could, but those captives are bound for the cleaver.”

Before Lucas could argue, or follow, Oenghus turned, stalking back through darkness and storm. Stealth was no longer a concern. He materialized in front of the cage—a swift, hulking shadow charging from the sleet. A knife plunged into one fur-clad form, and a fist pounded the second. Before the stunned sentry could shout, Oenghus took the man’s head in his massive hands and twisted. A limp body crumpled to the snow.

A spear struck wildly from the ground. Oenghus stepped on the shaft, snapped it, twirled the spearhead and plunged it into the dying sentry’s throat. The man’s gurgles were lost in the wind.

Ripping his knife from his enemy’s chest, Oenghus turned to the cage. The eyes of the captives were wide with fear. He raised a finger to his lips, and they cowered from his bulk as he neared. Oenghus gripped the iron lock, muttered the Lore of Unlocking, and wrenched it free. The lock fell into the snow, and he swung open the crude door.

The captives stood frozen in place. “Run you bloody fools,” he hissed.

His tone snapped them into action. A young man raced out, snatching up a spear and the rest followed, darting in all different directions.

Oenghus snorted at their stupidity. He couldn’t help that, but he had given them a fighting chance. A long, urgent horn rose above the howling wind. The captives were loose. Obscured by the storm, he imagined the longhouse doors being thrown open, warriors scrambling for weapons and armor in a drunken haze, charging blindly into the night.

Shapes moved in the shifting snow, but avoided the giant shadow. Oenghus stalked back to the shore unchallenged in the brewing chaos. Two captives had already cast off, and another two were trailing on his heels. He grabbed the edge of the canoe, pushed it out, and started to climb inside.

A Suevi charged from the darkness, cleaver raised. The captives on Oenghus’ heels started to run, but the smallest tripped and fell in the snow. The second captive twisted and slipped trying to reach the fallen form. Oenghus grabbed the canoe, lifted it with a surge, and hurled it at the attacker. The boat caught the man in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The giant rushed forward, ripped the cleaver from the Suevi’s hand, and brought it down with a crunch, severing neck from head.

The prone captives watched in shocked silence as Oenghus heaved the canoe off the ground, and into the water. The smaller of the two, he noted, was a boy, and the other, obscured by filth and furs, a thing that met his eyes with a feral gaze. Oenghus jerked his head towards the canoe, holding it steady. The two hopped inside as a knot of Suevi rushed into view.