King's Folly (Book 2) (51 page)

“You sound as if that’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all, you just have me wondering if the rest of you is as nimble.”

“You’re not wearing a kilt, Oenghus.” She patted his chest, and trotted across the street to update her lieutenant.

FLURRIES
FELL
,
SOFT
and silent, muffling the city and footsteps. Shapes moved in the whiteness, drifting through the streets, detached from one another, hurrying towards shelter in the early morning snowfall.

Virgin snow gathered on Oenghus’ fur mantle, and he glanced at his only companion in the bleakness. Acacia huddled beneath hood and cloak, tense with expectation. It felt like the whole of the city held its breath. The feeling was palpable, thick as the snow, and a mystery to the foreigners. Oenghus hoped it was nothing more than an approaching storm, or the reality that followed a night of revelries.

Their boots crunched underfoot, approaching the first tier gate and the Crimson guards. The gates stood open, the Crimson watchful on their walls, slashes of color in the blinding white.

They passed under the portcullis and swinging gibbets without challenge. As soon as they moved beyond the walls, a gust from the Bitter Coast slammed into the barbarian, bringing snow and ice, and a churning world. Trudging down the hill, Oenghus and Acacia braced themselves. They found refuge in the flatlands, amid creaking rookeries and narrow streets—empty streets.

“Why do I feel someone is about to plunge a dagger into my back?” Acacia mused.

Oenghus unslung his shield, and adjusted his mantle, tucking it behind the axe in his belt. “It’s likely the cold.” He sounded unconvinced by his own words.

“The whores aren’t even out.”

“Bit early yet.”

“Not for the hungry and desperate.”

Oenghus had nothing to say to that. They walked through the white, until it opened to a square, to thousands of bowed forms collecting snow in the shadow of a titan’s heel. The Crimsons’ eyes fell upon the new arrivals, and Oenghus pulled Acacia down into the line of devout—both willful and forced.

“Zahra protect us,” Acacia murmured. Oenghus could feel the tension in the Knight Captain’s body, the muscles flexing, preparing to fight, and the unease rippling beneath her skin.

“Just don’t burst into divine light and we should be all right.”

The titan Dark One rose over their heads, towering over city and sea. Oenghus and the others had caught glimpses of the monolithic statue all throughout the day before, had moved around its shadow, but never within range. The titan’s face was lost in the swirl, save for the burning fires of the Dark One’s eyes, far above, guiding ships into the harbor and fear into sailors’ hearts.

Oenghus glanced around, noting the position of the Crimson and the buildings lining the square. He plucked Acacia’s sleeve, motioning with his chin. Slowly, they began moving out of the line, towards a lane.

Out of the falling snow, shadows emerged, marching through the swirl with a thunderous chant. The sound pounded between Oenghus’ ears, drove at his heart, and the berserker steeled his mind against fear. He gripped the captain’s arm, but her forehead was pressed to the snow, murmuring a fervent prayer.

The Crimson sunk to their knees.

A horde marched through the square, winding down the road on its way to the bay. Eight feet of sinew and muscle, as crimson as the guards’ armor, the flesh of the marchers was hard as steel, and claws filled the space between their fingers. These monsters were Grawl, spawned from the Void, with no mouth or nose, only depthless eyes that brought madness to anyone who dared meet their gaze. The horde was joined by slaves, driven by masters with whips and jagged chains.

The Grawl’s chant beat at the inside of Oenghus’ skull, clutching his heart and sowing fear. He swallowed the reaction, and raised his eyes from the snow, watching the line. The Nuthaanian’s eyes widened. A Herdsman marched with the Grawl, driving them with a barbed, black whip that moved unnaturally, as if it lived. White as snow and hairless as a worm, the general of the Dark One wore shadow as a mantle, trailing shadow and tendrils of nothingness.

“Blood and ashes,” he said between his teeth. The Chant thundered, the listeners’ hearts spasmed, and breath came in shallow gasps.

Acacia reached for Oenghus’ hand, gripping it tightly as the two fought against the wave of horror that the chant invoked. The Nuthaanian wanted to rage, to charge, to roar at the Voidspawn in challenge. Some of those present did, but not in challenge—in terror. Overcome, a handful in the assembled crowd darted, screaming with madness, only to be hunted down and impaled by a Grawl’s claws. Some were snatched from the snow by the Crimson, and thrown into line, chained with the rest of the miserable slaves.

In the flurry of madness, Acacia pulled Oenghus back, slowly, and together they finished their journey into the lane. In the shadow of buildings, they retreated, through twisting lanes and alleys until the Chant died to a distant drone.

Oenghus clenched his fist, searching for something to drive it against. He had stood against Grawl, but never run.

“Focus on our task, Oenghus.” Acacia’s voice broke through his building rage. “We’re two against a horde, and your death won’t help your nymph.”

“You’re with the bloody Blessed Order,” he growled. “Aren’t you keen to smite a courtyard of Voidspawn?”

“If I could,” she admitted, “but I’m a Knight Captain. You have me confused with an Inquisitor—they’re the ones that send soldiers to the slaughter.”

He grunted. They turned, moving father into the lane, following twisting alleyways, working their way around the square. But their progress was soon halted by a winged visitor. Luccub landed on a roof, dislodging a small avalanche of snow on their heads.

Oenghus glared at the imp. He grabbed an icicle and pulled, breaking it from its perch. Before he could throw the icy missile at the imp, it chucked a rock at his head.

This time the Nuthaanian ducked.

The winged imp flew into the sky, disappearing into the whiteness. Acacia bent to retrieve the rock. When her fingers touched the stone, they activated a rune. Light flared, runes swirled, forming a scrawl of words in the air. Acacia squinted at the jagged lines and severe slants interspersed by chaotic loops.

“Can you read this?”

“Oh, aye, it’s the Scarecrow’s hand all right.” He tilted it sideways, and squinted. “Says
Maiden’s Court
, I think.”

Acacia rubbed her head. “Is Marsais always so cryptic?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

❧

Maiden’s Court
was far from maidenly, and not easy to find. Its brick had long been buried under filth and the drains were clogged with rot, both animal and human. The snow that managed to flutter between building tops was instantly defiled by the air, and touched ground as black as the muck surrounding it.

Oenghus frowned at the enclosed court, gazing at vacant windows and scorched stone walls. His hackles rose, he gripped his shield, and Acacia put her back against his.

A large crash behind turned them around. A hidden gate tucked into the arch dropped, sealing them in, and the windows bristled with barbed bolts, all aimed at the paladin and barbarian.

A voice echoed off the stones. “If you come quietly, we’ll spare your three friends.”

“I don’t suppose this is a scheme of Marsais’?” Acacia murmured, counting barbed bolts and the eyes gleaming from windows and sewer grates.

“Not a scheme, but I’m fairly sure he’s to blame.” Oenghus gripped his axe.

“The scarred fellow put up a fight,” the voice continued calmly. “The young man pissed his pants, and the boy—well you can see for yourselves.”

A figure appeared high overhead, hoisting a bound boy over the side. Elam screamed and fought and raged against the ropes, kicking the dingy brick with his boots.

Oenghus growled, and dropped his axe and shield with a clatter. Acacia followed, raising her hands in surrender.

ISIILDE
STRETCHED
ON
the mattress. It wasn’t plush and it wasn’t filled with feathers, but it was clean and the blanket covering her body was warm. She rolled to the side, searching for her bed mate, but found his spot empty and cold. A steady rhythm of footsteps told her where he was.

She cracked an eye open, and lowered the covers. In nothing but his trousers, Marsais paced by the window, turning the already threadbare rug into tatters. The window was frosted, and the world beyond was grey with early morning light. She did not want to leave her cocoon just yet.

“No sign of them?” she yawned, feeling a twinge in her wrist. A faded bruise marred her freckled skin, but she could not recall what it was from. Then again, there were bruises most everywhere on her body.

“None.”

He was worried, she could tell. Waiting was taking its own toll on the nymph. Her stomach could only twist into so many knots. She rubbed the sore spot on her wrist, and rose from bed, dragging the blanket with her to squint through the frosted window.

Snow covered the filth of the street, and a few brave travelers trudged through the thick snowfall. Isiilde shivered, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders, wishing Oenghus would appear. His death had hit her hard, but his sudden rebirth—sudden as far as she was concerned—was joyous.

When Marsais had confided his vision of Oenghus to her, he had been apologetic, but it had not mattered, Isiilde’s world had brightened, and her memories of fire and death had paled in comparison.

“Should we risk another Whisper?”

Marsais sighed, stopping beside his nymph. “I fear the first might have been intercepted.”

“But how could one Whisper be snatched from the air unless someone was expecting it?”

Marsais whistled, and she looked at him, cocking her head. He whistled again, a different tune, like that of a blue bird, and then a creaking chirp like a swallow. She laughed when he produced the mocking call of a seagull.

“Shall I imitate a rooster in the hen house next?”

His arms snaked around her, lifting her off the planks, pulling her body against his. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and smiled into his twinkling eyes. “Only if you explain why you are mimicking birds.”

“Whispers, my dear,” he said, carrying her back to the bed, “have their own signature. “Like a scent, or a voice, or a whisper in a lover’s ear.” This last was said against her own ear, and his purr made her shiver.

“But only if one recognizes it,” she ventured.

Marsais’ lips ceased nibbling her neck, and he lay back on the pillow, staring up at the creaking rafters. “Indeed,” he sighed.

“So who might recognize you in Vlarthane?” she asked, planting her elbows on his chest. He looked uncomfortable, not owing to her elbows or her weight pressing on his body, but from her question.

“Do you remember when Oenghus made mention of the notches in my belt?”

The nymph narrowed her eyes, but her questions were interrupted by a persistent tapping. As one, they looked towards the window, where a familiar set of eyes framed by filth and fur peered in. Marsais rushed to the window, throwing open the pane and exposing the room to the elements. Kasja entered with a gust of wind and a flurry of snow, hopping to the floor. She shook herself like a wet dog, and smiled up at Marsais.

Words passed between the two in the musical language of the Lome, quick and flitting as a bird on snow. Isiilde sat up, the blanket drawn around her shoulders, and waited.

“Blast it,” Marsais barked, rushing over to his clothes. “The giant, block-headed imbecile!” he pulled his shirt over his head.

“What is it?”

“I told him the
Hooked Hand
,” he growled. “The
Hooked Hand
, not the bloody
Crooked Man.
”

Isiilde sighed, closing her eyes. Her guardian did not have the best hearing—she knew that from long years of patient testing and sneaking past his snoring hide.

“But he’s alive?”

“Yes—for now.”

“How did Kasja find us?” Isiilde looked at the shuffling bundle of furs sniffing her feet. The woman did not smell good at all, and the nymph vaguely wondered when Kasja had last bathed.

“From your hair.”

Resigned to answers that were both direct and vague, Isiilde pressed the subject. “My hair?”

Marsais gestured at his own with a waving, sporadic gesture. “Kasja pulled out a strand of your hair in the Lome city.”

“Oh. I thought it was for a love potion or something.” Isiilde stood, pulling on her own warm clothes, while the woman sniffed her leg. Isiilde patted her on the head, and the woman looked up with bright eyes.

“Kasja is an augur, a tracker of sorts, who uses physical components to divine things about her surroundings, and sometimes the future as well.”

At the sound of her name, Kasja dug deep in her fur tunic, drawing out a little doll made of twigs, and wrapped with red hair. Isiilde paused, unsure how to respond, so she continued dressing. It appeared they were going for a walk.

“She’ll lead us to the others.” Marsais cinched his boots, and stood. “Now, my dear, do you want to try your illusion weave?”

“I’d rather try a transformation.” Rather than risk the guards noticing her at the gate, and seeing through an illusion, Marsais had turned her into a bird for a glorious afternoon.

“Start with an illusion.”

“All right.”

“Good,” he smiled.

Isiilde straightened from her boot laces and closed her eyes, focusing on the runes that Marsais had been weaving around her for the past week. Once they were firmly in her mind, she pictured the illusion: the shape of the face, the color of eyes, the roundness of ears, and the mop of brown hair, all of which had belonged to a stableboy with whom she had once gambled. The nymph had won a pair of trousers for her efforts.

With a breath she summoned the Lore, tracing runes. Fire around stone, adding water to the wispy threads, then a pinch of spirit to draw the boy’s image from her mind and place it into the mix. With a final word, and a flourish, she bound the illusion to her form. The boy’s likeness settled over her with a tingling touch.