King's Folly (Book 2) (4 page)

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

Movement in the trees and a crash of limbs alerted the group to company. The paladins braced themselves. A large shadow emerged from the trees. Oenghus stomped into view, baring his teeth at the paladins. “There’s a recently abandoned cave awaiting. On your feet, Scarecrow.”

“Reapers?” asked Acacia.

“An ill-tempered cave bear. I’ll carry you again, Sprite.”

“But Marsais—”

“The captain will carry him on her back if need be. Up you go.”

Isiilde wrapped shaking arms around his neck, clinging to her guardian with all her strength. He readjusted his kilt, covering her as he had done before.

“Not likely.” Acacia nodded to Lucas and Rivan, who hoisted Marsais to his feet, draping his long arms over their shoulders. Together, they dragged the lanky Wise One after their guide.

The cliff face sharpened as they neared. A granite wall rose over the canopy, crowning the mountain slope, its surface marred by cracks and crevices. Water streamed down the face, slicking the rock.

Oenghus skirted the base, until they came upon an area littered with boulders and broken trees. A wide overhang cut into the cliff face as if an axe had chipped the stone. The group passed through a curtain of icy runoff into dry ground and eerie quiet.

Acacia whispered a prayer, and her shield began to glow, illuminating a crack of deeper dark at the back. Oenghus led the way in, crouching and shuffling forward, while Acacia simply ducked her head until the narrow passage loosened its grip. A cavern greeted the group. Water dripped from stalactites, gathering in deep pools scattered throughout the uneven maw.

“The bear?” Acacia’s question echoed and bounced back at her.

“We came to an agreement.” Oenghus gestured towards the back of the cave where a boulder had been rolled in front of a hole in the wall. “I’ll remove the barrier before we leave. He’ll have a nasty headache when he wakes.”

“He could be dinner,” offered Lucas, lowering Marsais to the ground.

“I’d rather keep him as a last defense.”

Lucas’ scarred lip twisted upwards in agreement.

“We can seal the entrance if needed.” Oenghus pointed to a stalactite poised over the exit.

“I’d rather not suffocate ourselves,” Acacia said. She made a circuit around the cave, searching its nooks and crevices. “It appears clear. We’ll need a fire, lieutenant.”

The paladin slapped Rivan on the shoulder and the two men left to gather wood.

OENGHUS
HELPED
ISIILDE
slide off his back. She was shivering and wet and utterly miserable. She remained where he set her, staring yet unseeing. He frowned with concern, tugged on his beard, and glanced around the cavern.

“One moment, Sprite,” he said, walking over to a rock slab. Blowing a long breath from his lips, he closed his eyes. After a minute, he began to chant in a low, murmuring whisper, more prayer than Lore.

“Oenghus,” Marsais warned with a breath.

The Nuthaanian ignored his old mentor, tracing an intricate pattern on the rock. When the weave was complete, he opened his eyes and stepped back, holding his breath. Slowly, the rock began to glow, pulsing with increasing warmth. Marsais shifted, trying to rise, his gaze transfixed on the questionable enchantment.

The rock glowed like molten, nearby water boiled, and the throbbing increased tempo. Steam hissed from the stagnant pools. Oenghus quickly retreated, grabbing his daughter and pulling her away.

“Bollocks.”

“What?” Acacia asked, backing up with the giant. At her inquiry, the pulsing subsided, and the rock glowed evenly, throwing heat into the cavern.

Marsais exhaled with relief. “Only took you 800 years.”

“Shut it, Scarecrow,” Oenghus grunted. He led his daughter closer to the heat, settling her on the hard rock. The voluminous shirt he had given her after her combustion in the dungeons began to steam.

“What about Marsais?” she asked.

“I’ll get to him, Sprite.”

Isiilde collapsed, curling against the hot stone.

“What usually happens?” Acacia helped Marsais move closer to the heat.

“Very ill occurrences,” Marsais wheezed. He leaned against the rock, resting a useless hand on Isiilde.

Oenghus crouched at her side. “You’ll feel better soon,” he murmured, slipping a massive hand over her stomach and another on her forehead.

The Lore sprang to his lips, and he waded into ebbing currents of power, mending flesh and spirit with a healer’s touch. The wounds of her body were slight, but the wounds to her spirit cut deep. She had been brutally raped, collared by her attacker, subjected to further humiliation during the ensuing trial, used as a pawn by a madman, chained and nearly raped again, and finally she had killed a man.

The cruelty and horror of the past days had battered her spirit, rendered the blaze down to a candle’s flame, wavering in the darkness, on the verge of being snuffed. The Keening would have surely taken hold of the nymph, if not for the formidable spirit of Marsais—the wavering flame that was Isiilde curled around a blazing sun.

Careful not to disturb the precarious flame, Oenghus withdrew from their bond, leaving her to Marsais’ care. When the link was broken, the cave returned, and Isiilde spiraled into a deep sleep. She slumped against Marsais. A healing always demanded a price from the body.

Oenghus blinked away the familiar disorientation as his focus returned to the cave. Acacia was unwrapping Marsais’ hands, revealing the crushed flesh and bone beneath. “What was the traitor who came through the portal weaving?” she asked.

“A message to Tharios,” Marsais answered.

“Were you able to stop it?”

“Not precisely.”

“A Blood Oath,” Oenghus guessed.

“Of course.” Acacia frowned at the seer’s mangled hands. “A Forsaken is bound by deeds. His spirit will return to the Oath Taker. But to enter that state willingly as he did with that blade—” The hardened veteran shivered. “It’s madness.”

“Fanaticism,” Marsais corrected, and then gasped, bracing against a wave of pain as she slid the rings off his broken fingers.

“In the dungeon, when you were trying to distract Zander, were you serious about Karbonek?”

“Unfortunately. Only an Unspoken would be so devout. Tharios will know we are alive. And if a Blood Oath was involved then he’ll see through the spirit’s eyes.”

“Save your breath, Scarecrow. You’ll need what strength you have left for this.”

At the healer’s words, Acacia relinquished her position, moving to the side. Oenghus unlaced the long sleeves of Marsais’ robe. Working slowly, he peeled the fabric from the seer’s skin, and finally over his head. The rain had washed away the grit and sand from the duel, leaving a clear view of the damage. Burns covered his body, a Reaper’s bite had savaged his right shoulder, and the bandage around his side was soaked with fresh blood.

“Water,” Oenghus grunted.

Acacia grabbed her helm and searched the cave for suitable water. A moss covered ledge provided a clean flow. She filled her helm with the trickling stream and brought it back. Oenghus took the offering. After helping Marsais drink from the helm, he uncorked his flask of Brimgrog, and added a single drop.

Sensing Acacia’s puzzled eyes, he explained, “If I heal him with debris in the wound—sand, cloth, what have you—it’ll fester. Brimgrog burns the water clean.”

“You’ve been guzzling that since you were poisoned. Won’t you run out at this rate?”

“I haven’t refilled it since my Rite—six hundred years or so ago.”
While Acacia tried to swallow this claim, Oenghus poured the water over his patient’s wounds.

Marsais clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. Wiry muscles strained across his narrow chest.

“The Hound nearly gutted you with that spear,” Oenghus observed. He instructed the captain to keep dousing the wounds with water and gently picked up Marsais’ right wrist, resting the mangled mess in his own massive hand. “Am I right in thinking you want these back the way they were?”

“Hmm, you know how vain I am.” Marsais’ light tone was forced, but the words that followed were a whispered plea. “They’re the only weapons I have, Oen.”

“I know, old friend,” Oenghus said, steeling himself for the task ahead. “By the way, I’m up a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred?” Marsais looked skeptical.

“I was exiled from Kambe. That puts me one kingdom above you.”

“No,” Marsais argued. “We would be tied if you hadn’t singed your beard.”

“The Void we are,” Oenghus glared, stuffing a piece of leather between Marsais’ teeth. “I have Gwaith, the Isle of Winds.” He directed a pointed glare at the captain. “Kambe and that little kingdom along the coast—Carpinvale. That’s four kingdoms I’m exiled from.”

Before the seer could argue with his tally, Oenghus invoked the Lore. One by one he began pulling each finger straight, mending the delicate bones an inch at a time.

Marsais spat the leather out. “I have Gwaith, Kiln—” He forced each word past clenched teeth, fighting to stay conscious. “—and the
entire
bloody Ocean. That counts as two.” Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“The ocean counts as one,” Oenghus growled when he was done. “Bandage that hand, Captain, and wrap it snug. The bones need to settle and mend for a few days or he’ll end up with crooked fingers.” He started on the left.

“That’s absurd, Oen.” Marsais’ voice cracked with pain. Bone shifted, grated and straightened. He gave a harsh cry, arching his back. The veins on his neck strained, and he fought for breath, forcing out his words in defiance. “I had a blasted god banish me from his domain. Carpinvale is ruled by a self-proclaimed king who was a fisherman.”

“Isn’t that what you were?” Oenghus grinned, surveying his work. After a moment, he huffed in satisfaction. “I think these will stand up to your scrutiny, ye bag o’ bones.”

“We are tied,” Marsais persisted, slumping with exhaustion.

“Not if you want me to heal the rest of you.”

“You can go to the Pits. I’m the one who taught you how to use the Gift.”

Oenghus snorted at the remark. “Aye, like my father taught me to swim. Tossed me in a river and hoped I’d float while he watched and laughed.” He placed his hands on Marsais’ stomach and forehead. “Shut your trap, Scarecrow. And don’t you dare dream about Isiilde.”

Oenghus surged into Marsais, repairing wounds and closing flesh, transferring pain to his own body.

Marsais was never easy to heal. His spirit was blinding. And confusing. There was not just one, but a multitude that stretched into eternity. Oenghus focused fully on the task, avoiding the fractured spirit of the ancient. To dwell on its every shifting shape, to study it, to even comprehend, would drive him to insanity. As soon as flesh was mended, he withdrew, shaking the chaotic spirit from his mind.

Marsais was sleeping as soundly as his nymph.

Lucas and Rivan returned with pitch wood. The two paladins stopped, puzzling over the rise in temperature. The glowing rock in the middle of the cave quickly cleared their confusion.

“All quiet, Lucas?”

“All quiet, sir.”

“Still want a fire?”

Acacia looked at Oenghus in question.

“I’d rather not try that weave again,” he murmured.

“A fire will do. Take first watch, Rivan. Stay in the crevice, unseen.” The young paladin set down his armful of wood, and wearily trudged towards the exit, disappearing again.

Oenghus rose, refilled the helm, and took a long drink. When he turned, Acacia’s slanted gaze was focused on his leg. He followed her eyes and discovered that a Reaper had gnawed on his calf.

“I can heal that,” she said, cinching the last of Marsais’ bandages. “And your other wounds. Although my skill is nothing compared to yours. You have a gifted touch.”

“You sound surprised.”

“The word healer and berserker don’t exactly go together.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He offered her his most charming smile.

“I’m sure you think so.” Eyes flickered to his calf. “Are you talented enough to heal yourself?”

“I’m fine.” He sat down on the other side of Isiilde.

“I’ve seen a corpse look brighter.”

“Aye, well, the stone adder venom almost sent me there. It’s all the worthless drinking I do. Not much will kill you when your veins are full of brew.”

Acacia snorted. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust the other two,” he corrected.

“They’re good men. I chose them for a reason.”

“So was Isek Beirnuckle,” he argued.

“So you’re going to stand guard until you pass out?” Acacia smoothed her short hair. “Typical Nuthaanian.”

“Don’t you dare call me stubborn. I only permit that from my Oathbounds.”

“You’ll be no good to the nymph until that poison is gone.” His beard twitched. “Would it help you to know that I was ordered to assist the Archlord?”

“By whom?”

“The night before the duel, a Whisperer from Iilenshar sent me a message, asking me to assist the Archlord without question. If I knew you’d be involved, I wouldn’t have accepted.”