King's Folly (Book 2) (29 page)

Marsais leaned slightly back, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “They believe that Kasja is dead—that she is an evil spirit disguised as one of their own.”

The feral woman spat into the river and rolled up her sleeve, exposing a filthy forearm. A dagger slipped from layers of fur, falling into her right hand, crossing, and slicing skin. The blade disappeared with equal speed. Kasja stood in the canoe, balancing against the rocking boat, raising her arm, letting the blood run free for all to see.

Wolf-pelt reached out, swiping the cut with his fingertips. He tasted her blood cautiously, and spat. More words were spoken, spears bristled, the argument heated, and finally Marsais interrupted, low and musing. All eyes narrowed.

Oenghus and the paladins shifted uneasily. Only the gods knew what Marsais had said—and the Lome. Surrounded by spears and bows, and sitting in a canoe with a waterfall rushing downriver, Oenghus felt like a fish in a barrel. If a fight broke out, there would be blood.

A voice echoed from the mouth of a cave above—a sharp, commanding voice. Wolf-pelt snarled, slapped a fist to his chest, and gestured at them with his spear.

“Hmm, they’re taking us to their chieftain who will decide our fate.”

“I don’t like this, Scarecrow.”

“Neither do I,” Marsais admitted. “This is no mere village. They do not like outsiders, most especially ones in armor.” Marsais spared a pointed look at what was left of the paladins’ armor.

“I’d rather be on solid ground,” Acacia said.

“Agreed.” Marsais turned to Wolf-pelt and inclined his head. Oenghus climbed out first; his size elicited a ripple of gasps as he bent to take Isiilde from Marsais’ arms. Moving carefully, Marsais followed, stepping from the canoe. His sharp features were strained with fatigue. Isiilde's wavering spirit was taking its toll on his own.

“I was hoping Kasja was the chieftain’s daughter,” Oenghus grumbled.

“That didn’t work out so well for you on the Isle of Winds.”

Wolf-pelt stepped forward, reaching towards the bundle in Oenghus’ arms. The giant moved away, throwing the bobbing dock off balance with his weight. Spears bristled, muscles tensed, and Oenghus growled low in warning. Marsais thrust a long arm between the two men. Words flew quickly from his lips. Wolf-pelt gestured towards the bundle. Marsais hesitated, but slowly obeyed, peeling back the cloak covering the nymph, revealing her pale face and fiery hair.

A murmur rippled up the cliffs. The Lome pressed against walkways and stretched on ropes, straining to catch a glimpse of the unconscious faerie.

Marsais spoke again, his voice low and dangerous and full of warning. The warriors eyed the seer, and as one, they began to laugh. It was not a cheerful sound, but the braying of wild dogs.

The paladins shifted, fingers twitching towards weapons. The voice from above cut through the warriors’ laughter, and Wolf-pelt gave a sharp command.

“We’re to surrender our weapons,” Marsais translated, handing over his eating knife with great ceremony. More laughter rippled through the watching warriors. Oenghus fixed a baleful eye on the lot of them, deciding that Wolf-pelt would die first. At Marsais’ arched brow, he grunted, and hefted
Gurthang,
passing the rune-etched war-hammer over. With spears at their back, the paladins followed suit, and the group was ushered towards the ladders.

“Can you manage with your arm, Captain?” Marsais asked.

“I’m more worried about Oenghus and his size,” she replied, eyeing the flimsy ladders.

“Not the first woman to be worried,” the giant bared his teeth. Acacia did not comment, but put her one good arm to the ladder and began to climb. Marsais took Isiilde from Oenghus, shifting the limp nymph to his shoulder. Time was of the essence, and he feared they had already delayed too long. Isiilde needed a warm bed to recover, not a bundle of furs in a rocking canoe surrounded by icy winds.

Kasja gestured towards the ladder. When Marsais began to climb with Isiilde balanced on his shoulder, the furred woman shot up a rope with squirrel like ease, followed by her agile little brother. Oenghus waited until they stood at the cave’s entrance before following. The ladder creaked and swayed in protest as he began to climb, and the rungs groaned under his weight.

The Lome watched, breath held, waiting to see if their craftsmanship would survive. A collective exhale swept past the natives’ lips when Oenghus joined Marsais and Acacia on the landing. Solid stone supported them, a ledge that had been carved into the cliff face. A deep cave led into the unknown, guarded by eagle-headed, bull-legged stone statues.

“The Lome worship the beasts of the land,” Marsais explained as the group moved inside. Carvings covered the walls, from the smallest sparrow to massive bears. “They value a creature’s strength and agility, and here—the eagle is a sign of watchfulness. If an animal can survive in the wilderness, then so can the Lome, but only if they mimic the animal’s behavior.”

Oenghus ducked his head as they filed down the passage, turning as the tunnel demanded to fit his bulk through the stone. The Lome stared at him in awe. He pointed to a depiction of a bear on the stone, and then gestured at himself, showing the smaller men his teeth through his braided black beard. The guards’ eyes widened, and they nodded to each other, conversing in their musical tongue.

An iron gate sealed the end of the tunnel. It opened at Wolf-pelt’s swaggering call, and shut after they passed the threshold. The gate echoed hollowly like a prison door, sealing the group in. Another long passage twined through the rock, widening with every step. A constant theme ran throughout the art on the walls—the Lome’s fight against Voidspawn and barbaric tribes.

At least this tribe didn’t revere the Void.

Kasja half crawled, half walked, moving swiftly with the group. Oenghus leaned close to Marsais’ ear. “Where does Kasja stand in the tribe?”

“She is touched in the head.”

“A woman after your own heart.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Foresight?”

“Hmm, I’m not entirely sure.”

“Madness, then?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you stop being so vague,” Oenghus growled in his ear.

“Madness, foresight, or a brilliant deception—take your pick.” The edge of Marsais’ long lips twisted ruefully. “Madness, Oen, is feared, but foresight in a madman is revered, and if she has sense enough to feign such a gift, then that makes her brilliant.”

“Well you’d know, being an expert in matters of madness.”

“So says the berserker.”

A sharp, poking spear silenced the two ancients. Oenghus tried to twist around to glare at the offender, but the stone prevented the movement. Instead, he glared at the back of Marsais’ head, trying to ignore the itch of threat along his neck.

They turned a corner, the passage opened, and Oenghus blinked. Stone steps spilled down the side of a cavernous valley. A sprawling city was nestled in its underground embrace, bustling with activity and light. Luminous vines, carefully cultivated in neat rows, climbed up stone structures and the valley’s sides, glowing as bright and blue as a full moon.

“Amazing,” Marsais breathed with wonder.

Oenghus couldn’t be bothered with the view, not with a squad of armed men poking blades at his back. They were led down the long winding stairs into a sea of Lome, who parted for the prisoners. The natives watched the prisoners pass with curious eyes. Underground, in their cavernous city warmed by natural springs, the Lome shed their furs for simple black garments. The natives were a dark-haired people with pale skin that was tattooed with spiraling art. The complex designs glowed like the vines.

A chant rose among the watchers, rising in tempo with every passing step. Lips moved as one while their dark eyes and glowing faces followed the prisoners in unity.

“What’s going on?” Acacia asked, turning back towards Marsais.

“Hmm, I believe they are purging the evil we bring. You’re not the first armored warriors they’ve encountered.”

A ring of stalagmites rose in the center of the city like columns striving to join their twins high overhead. Each column bore the visage of a predator: eagle, bear, wolf, and cougar. The prisoners were ushered between the pillars. In the clearing beyond, a grizzled, one-eyed warrior whose skin glowed with tattoos sat on a throne of bones. The chieftain was a large man who dominated the bone chair. He wore a frost bear pelt with pride, and his gnarled hand rested on a sharp axe.

A single bright eye looked from the prisoners to Kasja and her brother, Elam, then found a resting place on Wolf-pelt. The warrior stepped forward, talking animatedly, gesturing from Kasja to the prisoners.

Kasja scuttled out into the open, moving towards the throne, interrupting the exchange with a hiss. The chieftain said little, appraising the group and listening to the growing argument between Wolf-pelt and Kasja.

During the exchange, Oenghus studied the chieftain, and the images on his bare scalp took shape: eyes. Hundreds of tattooed eyes covered his scarred scalp.

The chieftain gestured sharply, and the arguing Lome fell silent. For the first time, their leader spoke, his voice low and grating in the echoing ring. There was, Oenghus noted, a jagged slice across the
 
chieftain’s throat.

Marsais turned towards the group to translate. “This is a sacred city to the Lome. As outsiders, we cannot leave, but V’elbine, the chieftain, has granted us sanctuary. Our strength will be added to the clans.”

V’elbine gestured towards the bundle in Marsais’ arms. Wolf-pelt stepped forward, reaching out a hand, and Oenghus clamped down on the warrior’s wrist before he could touch the nymph. With a growl, he shoved the warrior back.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. V’elbine said a sharp word. Silence descended and Wolf-pelt froze, quivering like a dog on a leash. The chieftain nodded to Marsais, who peeled back the cloak covering Isiilde’s pale face.

V’elbine’s eyes widened, the Lome leaned in for a look with varying degrees of surprise and a ripple of excitement. The chieftain gestured at the nymph in a grandiose manner as he spoke. Oenghus did not like his manner at all.

“V’elbine,” Marsais translated, “will take Isiilde as his own and the captain will be given to another worthy warrior. Since Kasja owes you a Blood Debt, Oenghus, you are now her master, and the boy’s.”

“Bollocks.” Oenghus silently vowed to never rescue another group of captives as long as he lived.

Marsais turned back to the chieftain. Whatever he said, it elicited a roar of laughter from the natives.

“I have informed them that Isiilde is my Oathbound and the captain is yours. He has graciously allowed you to keep your woman.”

The fate of Isiilde stole the humor out of the statement.

“And you?” Acacia asked, raising her voice to pierce the din of noise.

“I have informed our hosts,” Marsais began, placing Isiilde in Oenghus’ arms, “that I will not give her to another, and if anyone attempts to take her from me, I will kill every last one of them without mercy.”

The paladins had witnessed Marsais’ powers—they did not laugh, and neither did Oenghus.

Marsais addressed V’elbine again, and translated the exchange. “He says that their tribe is honorable. They respect the Oaths between man and woman—until one is dead. I must fight for my claim to her, to the death. The chieftain will honor the outcome, much like the Blessed Order’s Law concerning nymphs.”

“Well don’t bloody play around this time, Scarecrow.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Marsais stepped into the center of a hastily formed circle of Lome. A number of warriors stepped before their chieftain, all seasoned and eager and strong. Wolf-pelt slapped his chest and bellowed a boast, strutting into the circle with threat that did not need translation. The chieftain nodded to the puffed up rooster, and the warriors fell back in line, while another stepped forward offering Marsais a spear and sword. He shook his head, and pointed to the Lome who held their weapons.

When he selected his eating knife, the crowd laughed again, but their amusement was cut short by a sharp gesture from V’elbine. Silence settled on those assembled.

Marsais stood at the opposite end of the circle and pointed his little knife at his opponent, folding his other arm behind his back. Wolf-pelt hefted a spear, and the two combatants waited for the chieftain’s signal—whatever that might be. While eyes were focused on Marsais’ knife-hand, Oenghus looked at his other. He was weaving one-handed—without the Lore.

V’elbine raised his fist, and brought it down in a breath. Wolf-pelt lunged, Marsais thrust out his hand, clenched his fist, and the spear point faltered. The warrior gasped, stumbling back, dropping his weapon in shock. While minds were catching up to eyes, Marsais jerked back his arm, ripping Wolf-pelt’s heart from his chest.

Screams shrieked through the crowd, echoing and fearful, full of horror. As the warrior crumpled, Marsais caught the bloody organ and turned towards the chieftain. Blood rolled over his outstretched hand, dripped down his sleeve and pattered on the stone. Still poised, Marsais addressed V’elbine.

Oenghus did not know what he said, but the seer’s tone sent a shiver down his spine. V’elbine did not reply. The grizzled chieftain only nodded, one curt gesture that held fear.

Marsais dropped the heart at the chieftain’s feet, turned, withdrew a dingy handkerchief and methodically wiped his hands clean. “We will concern ourselves with leaving at another time,” he said. “For now we have sanctuary.”

A
BROODING
OCEAN
stretched beyond the horizon, and an uneasy foothold clung to its coast, battered by harsh winds and endless waves. The town of Drivel huddled behind its walls. For all the observing that Isek Beirnuckle had done over the centuries, he would never understand humans. They walled themselves up, living like rats in their nests fighting over morsels of food, when a vast wilderness would give them room to breathe and stretch. Safety did not come with numbers, as they so often hoped. Numbers brought betrayal, murder, and grief.