King's Folly (Book 2) (7 page)

“I’d like to bloody know what Tharios is after, too.” Oenghus’ voice shook her back to the present. She caught Rivan staring at her, and he quickly looked away, gazing into the forest while keeping an ear cocked towards the conversation.

“You don’t know?” Marsais asked, incredulously.

“Why the Void should I?”

Marsais gave the barbarian a pointed look. Oenghus grunted, tugging on his beard, and promptly changed the subject. “I knew Tharios was trouble, but I didn’t think he’d have the bollocks to do something like that.”

“I underestimated him as well, Oen. And Isek, too. I thought Tharios would wait until after the Nine cast their vote and ousted me. In fact, I was counting on it.”

“You
knew
Tharios was after something? And yet you didn’t stop him sooner?” Acacia regarded the ancient as if he were a raw recruit.

“I knew he was after
something
, yes. I did not know precisely what until—the day Isiilde was attacked.” There was pain and regret in his voice. “I had intended to act at the proper time, but I was outmaneuvered.”

A wave of guilt rippled through Isiilde. She had distracted him and left him open for betrayal. She felt his gaze on her, and a bandaged hand covered her own, but the gesture of comfort only caused her more distress—bandaged as they were, he could not even squeeze her hands.

“Before we go forward with the answer to your question, Captain, we must go back some 3000 years to the widely accepted, but utterly fabricated, tale of the Isle’s origin.”

This statement earned everyone’s attention.

“The founding legend goes that Hengist Heartfang, one of nine, known unimaginatively as the Circle of Nine, claimed a sparsely populated island off the coast of what is now known as the Fell Wastes. It is said that these powerful men and women were seeking solitude so as to keep their knowledge of runes secret. Supposedly, Hengist, in his infinite and near divine wisdom, raised the Spine from the bedrock, thereby becoming the first Archlord of the Isle.”

Isiilde had heard the story many times during her apprenticeship. She was no longer surprised that the tale was false. It seemed everything was more complicated than history claimed. There was no black and white in the realms, only grey, full of blunder and shameful deeds.

“As with most things, there is some truth in the lie,” Marsais muttered. He paused to suck the marrow from a bone and chucked it into the fire. Isiilde could sense his hesitation, and knew he needed time to collect his thoughts.

Reluctantly, he continued. “What is not well known is who inhabited the Isle first. Have you all heard the name Pyrderi Har’Feydd?”

The captain and Lucas sucked in a sharp breath. Oenghus shut his eyes and winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. Isiilde looked at her guardian with concern. The pain, however, seemed to pass, and he leant against a rock, crossing his massive arms.

“For the sake of our younger members, let me explain.” Marsais’ eyes shone knowingly at her and his voice took on a gentle rhythm, as it always did when he told a story. “Pyrderi Har’Feydd was a faerie. Mind you, not as they are now, but as they were before the Shattering—he was one of the Lindale.

“The Lindale bore a connection with all life. As such, they killed only when needed, and took no pleasure in war. Pyrderi, however, was not content with the way things were. He began wondering of things better left unthought, dabbling in darkness and slaughter, opening his spirit to the Void.

“Deeds of torture and cruelty twisted his spirit, working contrary to all that he was. Eventually, a fiend from the Nine Halls began whispering to him in dreams, slicing through the veil between realms. Rather than shun this menace, Pyrderi welcomed every shadowed touch and he became the first Fey—a lifeless heart beat in his cold body.”

The nymph shivered. Every child was threatened with tales of the Fey. The royal nursemaid had been fond of such stories; however, Oenghus never recited them to her. The Fey were said to dwell in Somnial’s Realm, snatching naughty children in the night from beneath the shadows of their beds. Endless torture and terror awaited those who were taken.

“It was Pyrderi who, in his twisted experiments and gleeful tortures, created the Fomorri—a race of every nightmare ever dreamt.”

Isiilde knew of the Fomorri too. Their kingdom could be found in the east, to the south of Kiln, bordering the Great Expanse. More animal than man, legend said they had been formed by the maggots of the slain and cast no shadow. Once, while rifling through restricted books, she had seen a sketching of one. It was a disjointed mutation, twisted and haphazard, with a maw that split its face from ear to ear, bristling with three rows of teeth. Isiilde had wished she had never seen such a thing. But now she had—in the flesh. The Reapers were just as terrifying.

“With that explained—” Marsais paused, stroking his stunted goatee, gazing at some unseen thing on the rocks. “Hmm, try the red one. That ought to do the trick.”

Both paladins turned to look over their shoulders. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing there. Thankfully, his lapse was short.

“Pyrderi and the Isle,” she said, nudging him into the present.

“Yes of course.” He shook the confusion from his mind and continued, “The Sylph was heartbroken. One of her treasured creations had embraced her enemy. It was the beginning of the decline to her favored realm.”

Across the fire, Lucas’ dark eyes blazed, and his tongue lashed with righteous indignation. “Are you privy to the Sylph’s moods, Seer?”

“Hmm, I believe I’m the one relating this tale, so for the remainder of my narration: Yes, I am privy to her moods. Feel free to haul my arse to an Inquiry.”

Lucas seethed from across the fire, but Marsais met his anger with unwavering calm.

The bald paladin unnerved her. Scars covered his dark head, and presumably, the rest of his body. The skin was smooth, but twisted and pale, as if he had been badly burnt. Twin scars curved upwards from his lips, twisting his cheeks into a gruesome smile. Only a purposeful blade could have made those cuts.

With a flicker of irritation sparking through their bond, Marsais continued undaunted. “Chaos spread as Pyrderi gathered followers, and a new threat began to whisper in the lands: Pyrderi’s fiendish mentor, Karbonek, wanted to visit Fyrsta. His growing number of followers searched and found a way. On a certain Isle, off the coast of what is now the Fell Wastes, the veil between realms is thin, as it is on the Isle of Blight.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Acacia said slowly. Her words sounded like a curse.

“At the Sylph’s urging, Ulfhidhin recruited a group of formidable warriors known as the Nine. Hengist Heartfang was their leader. Together, with the god’s elite fighters, they stormed the isle.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucas interrupted again.

“It’s the truth.”

“The wild god, Ulfhidhin, once abducted the Sylph. They are sworn enemies.”

“Are they?” Marsais glanced at Oenghus, who grumbled.

“By the Sacred Texts, yes.”

“Well then,” Marsais shrugged, “it seems you have your answers already.”

“Let him finish, Lucas,” warned Acacia. “No more interruptions. If you would be so kind, Marsais?”

Marsais inclined his head. “Unfortunately, Ulfhidhin and his warriors were too late. Pyrderi had already completed the ritual; however, the crossing between veils weakened the greater fiend, along with Pyrderi. Seeking to take advantage of their vulnerability, the Nine struck, but they were outnumbered by the Fey, and Karbonek, even weakened, was formidable.

“Ulfhidhin fought the greater fiend, and pushed him back, blow by blow, but the fiend was too powerful. Karbonek impaled the god. With the last of his strength, Ulfhidhin wrapped a chain around the fiend’s neck and dragged him back through the Gateway.

“In that moment, Hengist killed Pyrderi. The Fey’s spirit was tied to the ritual that summoned his god and the Gateway closed, but the chain remained, trapping Karbonek between veils. The Gateway’s abrupt closure resulted in an ill occurrence—when Karbonek began to claw and tear his way back, the earth stirred.

“The tunnels that his followers had hewn from the bedrock were raised. And Hengist, in his wisdom and desperation, bound himself to the rock, sacrificing himself for eternity. In essence, he warded the Spine with his spirit, entombing Karbonek and trapping the Fey. Ulfhidhin, along with his elite warriors, and all save one of the Nine perished.

“You see the Spine is not a stronghold, it is not a monument to knowledge, nor a testament to greatness—it is a prison.”

SILENCE
ANSWERED
THE
revelation. Gentle rain drummed against the earth and the flames crackled cheerfully in the fire pit.

Oenghus shook off the silence. “That gods’ forsaken room that has no name—let me guess: Pyrderi and his followers?”

“Very insightful for a barbarian.” Marsais’ jab earned him a baleful glare.

Acacia cut to the point. “You handed a madman a map to a trapped fiend who was powerful enough to kill Ulfhidhin?”

“I told him where he could find the map, yes.”

“Can Tharios free Karbonek?”

“Ordinarily, no.” Marsais cleared his throat. “However, I’ve learned that Tharios recently acquired Soisskeli’s Stave.”

“
The
Soisskeli? The Chaos Lord who bound the dragons and used them to fight Iilenshar? The very same Chaos Lord who was defeated by the Serene One in battle?”

“I believe there is only one Soisskeli.”

Acacia blinked. The implications were daunting. “Legend claims that the Stave has infinite binding capabilities. Is that true?”

“Anything not of this realm, yes.”

“Can Tharios reopen the Gateway?” Acacia asked, slowly.

“Not without aid.”

Isiilde held her breath. She could feel Marsais’ hesitation through their bond. Whatever his internal conflict, he came to a decision—it felt like plunging over a cliff. “Not only can Soisskeli’s Stave bind, but it can also activate a Runic Gateway—a portal between realms.”

Oenghus cursed.

“The Sylph preserve us,” Acacia breathed, touching her lips in supplication.

Lucas surged to his feet. “You knew all of this and yet you spilled your cowardly guts to an Unspoken to save a nymph some discomfort?” Rage rolled off the paladin. His fists flexed, as if gripping a sword, preparing to run the seer through.

“There is far more at stake than you know, Sir Lucas,” Marsais stated, firmly.

“What could possibly be worse than freeing the Fomorrian god from his prison? It will be the Isle of Blight all over again!” Lucas took a threatening step forward.

“Lieutenant.” His captain’s calm order halted his advancement. Lucas stiffened and took a step back, but the smoldering glare he directed at Marsais made Isiilde shrink.

“Marsais, I have to agree with my lieutenant. Any of us would have suffered without question to keep this knowledge out of Tharios’ hands. Except for your attachment to the nymph, I can’t imagine what would take precedence over a threat such as this. You have traded this realm for a single life. How many innocents will find a far worse fate than the one that awaited us in that dungeon?”

The paladins stared at Marsais, even Rivan turned from his post. Isiilde could hardly breathe. Marsais’ words rang in her mind: ‘
If it had been anyone else.
’ Guilt, she discovered, was a stifling burden.

“The choice was mine. Their blood will stain my hands.”

“Then you will bathe in it,” Lucas spat. “All for a nymph!”

Oenghus surged to his feet with a growl. “Watch your tongue, lad.”

“Gentlemen,” warned Acacia. The two warriors stopped short of blows, but their eyes remained locked. The aggression was palpable, and so very cold. Isiilde began to shiver.

Oenghus glanced at her. “It’s not because of you, Sprite. Don’t dare think that for one moment. I’d wager Tharios could find the cursed tomb anyway. At least this way, we’re alive and we know his plans. This isn’t the first time the realms have been threatened. We’ll take care of it, so don’t you
dare
put this on her head, paladin.”

“Take care of it—how are we to do that? We don’t even know where we are.” Lucas took a step back, but he continued to scowl at the Nuthaanian.

“Aye, we’ll bloody take care of it.” Oenghus bared his teeth. “We’ll go kill the bastard, then I’ll gut the traitorous little weasel.”

“Brilliant plan. Direct and simple,” Acacia said dryly.

Oenghus shrugged. “I’m sure the Scarecrow has a plan. He always does.”

All eyes focused on Marsais. A sudden flutter of panic seized Isiilde. The cave narrowed, the rock pressed on her head, squeezing every last bit of air from her lungs.

Marsais abruptly stood. “I need to stretch my legs. Walk with me, my dear?”

❧

Rain dripped lazily through a protective canopy. The redwoods swayed, sighing with contentment in what was nature’s equivalent to a hot bath.

Isiilde leant against a tree, resting her forehead on the red bark. The earth was soft beneath her feet, and warm. Moss tickled her toes and silence filled her ears. Peace soothed her fear, and slowly, her heart calmed.

Marsais stood attentively at her side, resting a hand on the small of her back. He was alert and wary, scanning the forest for threat even though they weren’t far from the cave.

“Is it safe here?” she asked.

“Presently, but who knows what the night will bring.” Marsais regretted the words the instant his nymph paled.

Numbly, she followed him as he walked, watching as he picked mushrooms and plants, handing each to her, so she could eat. The strange mushrooms were gold, and they smelled like apricots, but tasted like pepper. By the time they came across a gurgling stream, she had eaten her fill.

Fifty paces downstream, the flow plunged over a boulder, forming a crystal curtain of water. The pool was red, stained by the redwood’s fibrous bark. It reminded her of blood.

Isiilde stood on the bank, gazing at her reflection. Her hair was matted and tangled, her face smudged with mud and blood, and her clothing tattered. She did not care; however, an immediate urgency proved impossible to ignore. She left Marsais, who was scanning the ground, to relieve herself behind a tree.