King's Folly (Book 2) (3 page)

Dirt and dry bone swirled in the air. The nymph suddenly sneezed, and three fiery bursts puffed from her ears. Marsais raked his eyes over the debris. Decay in all its morbid stages surrounded them: rotting flesh and dried bone; brittle timber and climbing vines.

“Rivan,” he ordered. “Gather timber, dead vines, anything that will burn.” Marsais kicked a branch against a thigh bone that was still attached to a brittle trouser leg.

Blood and sweat streaked the young paladin’s face. He blinked in confusion, but the nymph was well used to that state. Marsais rarely made sense. She picked up a rotted sack and tossed it in the pile. Rivan caught on, and did the same, adding more kindling as he found it.

To Isiilde, it felt as if she were moving in a fog. Fear was distant. Only rushing blood thundered in her ears, and then Marsais’ grey eyes appeared in her narrow tunnel of vision.

“Forgive me, my dear.” A long strip of filthy cloth dangled in front of her face. Marsais blew on the cloth, dust tickled her nose again, and she sneezed. From Isiilde’s fiery reaction, the material
 
ignited, and flames eagerly licked the brittle fabric, climbing towards his sleeves. He dropped the burning fragment on the pile of debris. The tinder sparked, flame held and began to consume, filling the chamber with heat and rising smoke.

Isiilde stared at the fire, transfixed. It filled her vision, and consumed her mind. The raging fire in the dungeon burned in her memories. Sweet release, and power as she had never known. It terrified her.

“More,” Marsais urged. “Reapers fear fire.”

Isiilde watched the bonfire grow, captivated by its hiss and its seductive dance. An explosion of sparks made her blink. Rivan ran towards his captain, a flaming brand in hand. “Captain?”

“Light it!”

Rivan touched torch to wood. Fire surged, crackling in defiance. Acacia and Lucas backed away from the jagged opening. They piled more timber on the fiery barrier, and the flurry of claws retreated. The younger paladin darted back across the chamber, snatched another brand, and touched it to the third bonfire behind Oenghus.

“Back up, Oen,” Marsais yelled. But the Nuthaanian ignored the order, along with the flames licking at his kilt. “Oenghus, you bull-headed idiot, retreat!”

No response, no retreat, only another bellow that knocked loose a shower of stone on their heads. Marsais clenched his jaw, backing well away from the berserker’s reach. He glanced at Acacia, cocked his head, and shouted, “Captain Mael is naked!”

Acacia narrowed her eyes, Lucas blinked, and Rivan stopped to gape. Oenghus slammed his targe against a scaly attacker, and glanced around. Surprise quenched his frenzied blood lust. He cursed and hopped to the side.

Rivan braced his shield against the flaming barrier and pushed it forward, blocking the archway, chasing the Reapers back. But Isiilde could sense them, just beyond the roaring flame, pacing restlessly in the dark.

“Needs must, Captain,” Marsais said by way of apology.

Oenghus glanced from Acacia to Marsais. “You lied.”

Acacia snorted, surveying the carnage. She wiped blood from her eyes and pressed a hand to a gash on her forehead. Blood pooled at their feet, trickling down small channels cut into the ancient stone.

Isiilde had seen such grooves before—in a slaughtering house on the Isle. Her stomach rolled over the sickening coincidence. There was not much kindling left. She could sing to her flame, make it dance and lash and grow until it licked the heavens, but there was nothing left in the nymph. She felt like a fire pit full of cold ash. And even if she had had the strength, she was more likely to burn them all to a crisp.

“There isn’t enough timber to last the hour,” Acacia noted.

“Don’t Reapers fear sunlight?” Rivan asked. His face was two shades lighter than it had been on the Isle. Beneath the sun, he had reminded Isiilde of a chestnut.

Lucas, however, was as dark as coal, and his eyes were hard as flint, just like his voice. “We don’t even know if the sun will rise in this Void cursed land. Where are we, Seer?”

Marsais did not answer, so Oenghus answered for him. “Not a thousand feet up, and I’d wager it’s not the Nine Halls.” The berserker was covered in gashes, and blood ran down his legs, matting the hair. Despite his wounds, he stood tall and straight, eyes focused on the forest in thought.

“Are you hurt?” Marsais’ voice brought her back. She stared numbly into his eyes. She could not feel her body, and when she could not find her tongue to answer, he checked her over with a distant touch.

“You’re doing fine, Isiilde,” he reassured. “Stay close to me. They’re just Reapers.”

Just. Reapers. His words rattled around in her brain. Was he mad?

Of course Marsais was. But then Oenghus appeared to be enjoying himself. The nymph was not. She drifted closer to Marsais, and her ears drooped as she rested her forehead against his chest. A heavy arm wrapped around her trembling shoulders.

“What was that thing—the man who came through the portal? Why did he stab himself with his own dagger instead of Marsais?” Rivan asked.

The scarred warrior shivered with memory. “A Forsaken.”

“And something more,” Acacia added. “How long do we have before the Gateway closes?”

“Without someone to control it, Runic Gateways are unstable,” Marsais replied. “I doubt it’s still pointed here.”

“One less thing to worry about then. Injuries?”

The captain’s question alarmed the younger paladin, so much so, that he touched his face, checking whether everything was in place. “Cuts, I think.”

“Are you injured or not, Soldier?”

“No, sir.”

“We’re not out of this yet, Rivan. Stay focused. What about you, Lucas?”

“I’ll live,” her lieutenant grunted.

“You always say that,” Acacia retorted. “Is the nymph injured?”

“Nothing a healer can mend.” Her Bonded’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

“Well we can’t stay here all night. The forest is as thick as can be, even in daylight—there will be shadows. We walked right into their nest.” Oenghus eyed Marsais’ wounds. “Can you manage?”

“When have I not?”

Oenghus smirked. “Good. I refuse to carry your bony carcass.” He stomped over to Isiilde. “But I will carry you, Sprite. Up on my back.” He knelt and she obeyed, wrapping her arms around his thick neck. He adjusted his kilt, untucking the long ends of cloth, bringing them up and over his back and head, wearing the kilt in winter fashion. “Captain, I’ll need you as rear guard.”

“Only a fool follows a berserker into battle.”

Oenghus bared his teeth at the woman. “I don’t take you for one.”

“You don’t know me.” She hoisted her shield. “Do we have a plan?”

He shrugged. “Fire, steel, and swift feet.”

“As usual,” Marsais sighed.

“There’ll be nothing usual about this fight.” Oenghus removed his sacred flask. “I’ve been practicing since you bested me, ye ol’ bastard.”

“I’ll wager ten gold crowns that you singe your beard again.”

❧

Oenghus Saevaldr brought his flask to his lips. Brimgrog, the sacred drink that few dared taste, burned down his throat. Fire filled his veins and he roared. The berserker’s battle cry shook the night, rippling through the ruin with threat.

The Reapers had fair warning, but their hunger defied reason. The creatures’ thirst for blood was born from the Void—everything contrary to Life. Oenghus charged out of the archway, a burning brand clutched in his shield hand. Acacia followed with Rivan on her heels, helping Marsais, while Lucas brought up the rear. Those who were able, held a torch.

A hiss joined the clamor of chain mail and steel and thudding boots. The group raced through the crumbling tower, plunging into the forest. And a hundred shadows converged.

Oenghus was ready. He held up the torch and spit Brimgrog at its flickering top. Flames surged towards the enemy, sparking on scales and catching trees. The Reapers shrank back and the group raced onwards, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Thunder rolled above tree tops, dislodging needles from their branches. A white flicker followed, searing the endless stream of Reapers in the warriors’ eyes. The first drop of rain hit Acacia’s helm. The paladin bit back a curse.

It seemed neither luck nor the divine were on their side tonight.

Breathing fire into the shadows, Oenghus chose a direction, and stuck to it. A rolling boom knocked the rain loose from the heavens. It fell in a torrent, smothering their torches and beating their heads.

The Reapers gathered and swarmed around their prospective feast. Oenghus swore a vile oath, hurling his useless torch at a Reaper’s head. The resulting crunch did little to ease his fury—he had singed his beard, and was ten crowns poorer for the wager.

❧

Slowly, and then steadily, the ground began to rise. The barrage of Reapers lessened, the ruins fell behind, and the group climbed a mountainside.

Eager to put distance between themselves and death, they continued their ascent. Despite their weariness, the group pressed on with Oenghus at the lead. Acacia dropped back to help Rivan with Marsais, who staggered and wheezed, while Lucas trudged up the mountain, guarding their backs.

The climb was grueling, a blur of memory where one foot was placed after another, and little else was seen. White hot streaks slashed across the sky. Rain beat on their heads, and the wind threw it in their faces, washing away their own blood and the Reapers’ gore. But more importantly, their scent. As long as blood was in the air, Reapers would continue to hunt.

High overhead, the trees creaked and moaned, thrashing their branches at the storm. Half way up the mountain, Marsais gave out, buckling to the ground with a violent and bloody coughing fit.

“Oen stop!” Isiilde tugged on his beard, directing the giant’s head around like a horse. He turned, eyes wild with battle, hammer raised.

“We need shelter,” Acacia called over the wind, kneeling beside the gasping seer.

At her reasonable order, Oenghus blinked. Slowly, the lust for battle ebbed from his veins. Isiilde untangled herself from his kilt, slid off her guardian’s back and stumbled over to her Bonded.

Oenghus knew Marsais well. The Scarecrow was heartier than he appeared and would push himself through the night, or until he died on his feet. He didn’t much feel like burying his corpse in this weather.

“There’s a cliff ahead,” Oenghus called over the storm. As if summoned, a jagged streak slashed the sky, highlighting a distant rock face through the trees.

“If there is a cave, then there will be Reapers,” said Lucas.

“I’ll deal with them.” Oenghus hoisted shield and hammer. He glanced at Isiilde and hesitated. Marsais was in no state to protect the nymph. “Guard her, Captain.”

“Upon my honor,” Acacia reassured. Oenghus locked eyes with her, and finally nodded. He turned towards the cliff and trotted into the night.

Acacia drew Isiilde beside a massive tree. Its branches were broad and its feather-like needles thick. Lucas and Rivan hoisted Marsais upright, helping him under the shelter.

“Isiilde,” Marsais rasped.

She knelt at his side, feeling helpless. The last time Oenghus had tried to teach her to heal with the Gift, she had burnt every single pigeon in the catch to ash. But even if she could heal, Marsais’ body would demand a price, and they would be forced to carry the tall man up the mountain.

The nymph looked down at him, eyes wide in the dark. “Come here, my dear.” His words were lost in the wind, but she came. At the very least, she could offer him warmth. She buried her face against his neck, reassured by the rise and fall of his chest.

The three paladins waited, swords at the ready, shields prepared, squinting through sheets of rain for danger.

“What did you mean, Captain, when you said the man was something more than a Forsaken?” Rivan did not take his eyes from the shadows shifting between branches.

“We’ll discuss it later.”

Isiilde wondered who the man had been, which Wise One had entered the Gateway on their heels and sacrificed himself for Tharios. In the chaos of battle and shadows, she had not seen the traitor’s face. When Isek Beirnuckle had betrayed them all to Tharios in the Great Hall, there had been ten cowled Wise Ones beside N’Jalss, Eiji, and Tharios. Two had revealed themselves: Shimei Al’eeth, the haughty Kilnish lord who had gleefully crushed Marsais’ hands with a mace, and Zander whom she had burnt to a crisp. But what of the others who had stayed behind to guard intersections in the twisting dungeon, and all the soldiers? How many Wise Ones and Isle Guards were loyal to Tharios?

Somewhere above, a roar shredded the wind. The ground trembled, and the sound of cracking branches filled the night. Thunder cracked the sky, and lightning sundered it.

“Something is wrong. He shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Steady, Lucas,” Acacia warned. “Oenghus is a Nuthaanian Berserker. It’d take more than a handful of Reapers to bring him down.”

“And
if
it’s more?”

“Then we best ready ourselves.”

“To run,” Marsais finished, letting his head fall against the bark. He closed his eyes, and he did not move.

“Marsais.” Isiilde gripped his collar as if she feared he would vanish.