King's Folly (Book 2) (50 page)

Acacia unwound Oenghus’ filthy bandage and grimaced. His side was torn open. He opened his eyes at her touch.

“Looks like you collided with a rock or two on your way down the river, Oenghus.”

“Or three, and a hungry wyvern,” he grunted in reply. She pressed a water skin to his cracked lips, and he swallowed. “Long as I ‘ave me bollocks I’ll be fine.”

Acacia frowned, looking down at him severely. “I’m sorry, Oenghus, but you were in the snow a long time.”

As sure as a shot of Brimgrog, the Nuthaanian reached for his crotch, groping for familiarity. When he was reassured that everything was where it should be, he looked at the Knight Captain, whose face betrayed none of the amusement dancing in her eyes.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he huffed.

“I know.” She placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back to the ground. “I’ll get you right, Oenghus.”

“Those hands of yours can do anything they like.”

“I’m of a mind to shove you back in the river,” she warned. Before he could answer, she bowed her head, silently thanked the Sylph, and placed her hands over his wound, praying for the skill to mend his ruined flesh.

ALL
RIVERS
LEAD
to Vlarthane. Its walls rose from a massive lake and its towers climbed up the island mountain, until the city crested and flowed down into the sea.

A steady stream of travelers trickled in and out of the city, walking over a long bridge that dipped its arches in the current, one over the other, striving towards the formidable gates.

A painted barbarian pushed stragglers aside, clearing the way for his line of slaves. His chalk covered hair was pulled behind his head in a topknot, the sides of his scalp shaved, and his beard was twisted into three thick braids. Bones and trinkets hung from his belt, weighting the loincloth between his powerful thighs. The barbarian was sorely missing his kilt.

Oenghus Saevaldr adjusted the shield bumping against his back, and eyed the tiered battlements that wound up the mountain. Sailboats and rowboats flittered over the water, traveling between lake towns, avoiding the oared monstrosities and their lethal ship-breakers.

“It’s huge,” Rivan gawked from the slave line. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“If you wanted sure, boy, you should have been an acolyte,” Lucas growled from the back of the line.

Oenghus glanced over his shoulder, studying the group in their stolen costumes. Convincing the paladins to ambush a group of slavers had not been difficult. However, convincing those same paladins to trade their arms and armor for a rougher sort of clothing, had not been easy. He had had to sacrifice his own kilt—the Saevaldr tartan cloth was too recognizable, even in Vaylin.

In the end, Acacia had compromised, scratching out holy symbols, commanding her men to discard their golden tunics and tarnishing the armor’s sheen with grease and dirt before putting the bundle on a horse. Oenghus’ line of slaves; Rivan, Kasja, and Elam, all collared and chained, were easily freed if needed.

Acacia and Lucas wore a jumble of furs and armor, and carried spears and targes instead of their own heaters. Their travel worn furs and smudged faces weren’t affected, but real.

“This had better work,” Oenghus grumbled, grabbing Rivan by the neck for show. “My fist has a bone to pick with that manipulating bastard.”

“At least wait until we’re out of Vlarthane,” Acacia murmured.

“You just want to hit him first.”

“I’m sure you would let me.”

Oenghus bared his teeth at the paladin, and turned his attention towards the gate, to the crimson guards with their scaled armor, crossbows, and bristling spears. Vlarthane’s banners billowed in the winds; a black circle on crimson.

Three days ago, Marsais had sent a single message via Whisper:
Vlarthane, the Crooked Man
. No word about Isiilde.

One would assume the Crooked Man was a tavern, but one never knew with Marsais—his mind worked in mysterious ways, and he was always suspicious of people standing around all day snatching Whispers from the air. But just because Marsais found the pastime amusing, didn’t mean everyone else did.

A trio of guards stopped them at the gates. A line of crossbowmen on the battlements lowered weapons, their deadly missiles aimed at the towering barbarian who looked like a volatile Ardmoor.

“Slave tax,” the guard’s voice was muffled by his closed helm.

Oenghus grunted, reached into a pouch, and dropped three dented coins into the guard’s hand, one for each slave. The helm tilted down as the man hefted the little coins. He held out his hand for more.

“They’re runts, we won’t get much for them,” Acacia said in flawless Vaylinish. The guard persisted, and Oenghus dropped three more coins into his hand. Finally, Oenghus and his group were waved through, shoulders tense as they passed the formidable portcullis, following the flow of travelers and traders down a spacious road.

The snow was trampled and black beneath Oenghus’ boots, pushed to the sides of the cobblestones, where muck covered drains unleashed nauseous smells. Vlarthane was vast and varied, and traders from the Bastardlands flocked to its markets. Long lines of slaves, driven by men with whips and cudgels, marched down the street towards the market district.

The Vaylinish were not particular when it came to slaves. Anyone brought to Vaylin’s markets was sold to the highest bidder, no questions, scruples, or regulations involved. Lords or ladies could find themselves on the chopping block as easily as a street urchin.

Oenghus turned down a side street where sprawling rookeries clouded out the sky, then down an alley. His slaves shed their collars and chains, and he stuffed the discarded items under a refuse pile. “Remember, stay within sight of each other, and unless you speak Vaylinish, don’t talk.” He put his hand on Elam’s shoulder and steered the boy back onto the street.

Lucas followed with Kasja, and Acacia and Rivan trailed far behind, keeping the giant within sight. Two travelers didn’t warrant much notice, but a group of six attracted attention.

Oenghus stepped aside for a squad of soldiers escorting a gilded litter that whip-scarred men carried on their shoulders. He followed the twisting streets, making his way steadily up the mountain, passing a guarded gate at each tier. The buildings, built from stone blocks that were as thick as the battlements carved into the hill, rose in quality with the tiers.

On the third tier, Oenghus kept to the winding path around the mountain, moving towards the Bitter Coast, while keeping a discreet eye on his group. Oenghus had been to Vlarthane before, long ago, and the city had not changed. It was as formidable and as well defended as he remembered. And although the Knight Captain would not say why, or when, she had also visited Vlarthane. She stopped to question the occasional grocer, or urchin, but every time he caught her eyes, she gave a slight shake of her head.

“To the Pits with Marsais,” Oenghus muttered. Searching for
The Crooked Man
in a city of brothels, taverns, and boarding houses could take a fortnight, and earn them attention. With an oath, he stomped into the nearest tavern, and had his first ale in a week.

❧

When the sea stretched under the falling horizon, Oenghus began to climb down tiers, moving into rougher districts where they were less likely to attract notice. They took rooms on separate sides of the street, in the shadow of the great walls that lined the bay. Oenghus left Elam in their shared room and went down to the tavern to nurse another ale.

Acacia walked into the common room. Firm-jawed, armored, and armed, she earned glances, but none lingered for long. Oenghus pushed out a chair, grunted at her, and signaled the barkeep for another ale. She sat, leaning close to ward off prying ears.

“Kasja ran off,” she said into her mug.

“Bloody Void.”

“Lucas would agree. Elam?”

“He was sleeping when I left him,” Oenghus shrugged. “They can do whatever they like. I’m not responsible for those two.”

Acacia hid a smile in her mug. “Of course you’re not,” she murmured. “She might have had a vision of Marsais.”

“If I never hear the word ‘vision’ again, I will die a happy man.”

“In a city like Vlarthane, there’s a rather good chance of dying before that happens.”

As if her words had sparked the fight, two men erupted from a nearby table. One drew a sword, and the other threw a knife. The knifer won. Blood pooled on the stained planks. The corpse was stripped in a matter of moments, and dragged out back into the alley.

“The city does have a certain charm to it,” Oenghus agreed. “Hardened warriors too.”

“And Grawl.”

Oenghus turned in surprise. “What?”

“Rumor has it that they’ve come for their monthly tributes.”

The berserker spat in disgust, hitting a man’s boot. The squat man snarled, reaching for his cudgel, but Oenghus beat him to it, rising from his chair and grabbing the man’s wrist. Oenghus spoke Vaylinish well enough, but in all taverns there was a common language in which the hulking Nuthaanian was fluent. He lifted the man off his feet, and tossed him towards a newly cleared spot on the floor.

The man did not return.

Oenghus resumed his seat, feeling the eyes of the captain on him, neither disapproving nor amused. “I am trying to behave,” he explained.

Acacia shook her head. “You’re favoring your left side.”

“Your healing was fine.”

“But not good enough.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” The chair creaked in protest as Oenghus leaned back against the wall. “If you like, you can try again. I’ll submit to your healing hands any time.”

“I knew that was coming,” she said, dryly.

“Women can’t resist a barbarian.”

“Although you pass as an Ardmoor, the look doesn’t much suit you.”

“I’ll put on a kilt as quick as can be if you stay the night with me, Acacia.”

“I doubt you could find a kilt in Vaylin.”

“I’ll sew one if I have to.”

She leaned in close. “We have a seer and a nymph to find.”

Oenghus sobered. “I’ve been mulling over the Scarecrow’s Whisper.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“Sometimes he’s a bit too cryptic—for my mind anyway.”

“Is there a possibility that the Whisper was tampered with?”

Oenghus shrugged. “I’ve heard it done, but I have no talent with Whispers myself.”

“Too heavy a hand?”

“Too loud a voice,” he purred like a rumbling storm.

“Are you sure Marsais said
The Crooked Man
?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Could it have been something along the lines of the Hooked Hand?”

“I think I would have noticed the difference,” he growled.

But her eyes were focused elsewhere. Jerking into action, she pushed back her chair and stood, racing out of the tavern. Oenghus was slower than usual, but his long stride and bullying size made up for his lapse.

Cool air slapped his body as he stepped out into the night on the captain’s heels. She stood alert, gazing at a spot across the way, as falling snow gathered on her head and shoulders. Drunken patrons jostled her, stumbling down the steps, and Oenghus stepped behind, forcing them to go around his formidable presence.

“What is it?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Something?”

“A winged-something.”

Oenghus frowned, and stepped down the stairs into the street, turning around in time for a rock to pelt him in the face. A greasy monkey with a misshapen mouth and leathery wings flapped and danced on the tavern’s top, and Oenghus threw a knife with more irritation than skill.

The weapon hit the roof.

Luccub shot into the air with a cackle as the blade rolled off.

“Cursed imp,” an old man spat from the shadows.

“Has he been here long?” Acacia asked in Vaylinish.

The old man peeled back his lips, displaying numerous gaps. “Long enough. The Crimson don’t dispatch pests. Not until the beast snatches a lord’s tooth.”

Acacia dropped a copper in the man’s hands. “Have you heard of the Crooked Man?”

“I’m straight as a stick,” he slurred.

Oenghus swore under his breath, and Acacia stilled, tilting her head at the old man. With a jerk of her chin, she motioned him to the side, under the eaves and a curtain of icicles.

“The message,” she said when he joined her. “Was it in the trade tongue?”

“Aye. What of it?”

“I should have realized sooner.” The barbarian standing before her bristled with alertness, ready to charge off in a direction at a moment’s notice. “In the trade tongue, crooked usually refers to a street, or a shady deal, but in Vaylinish, it means bent.”

“And?”

“The bent man—an old man.”

A dim light shone in the barbarian’s eyes. “We’ve been assuming it’s a tavern, or a street.”

“We’ve spent the entire afternoon asking after an old man.”

“I’ll strangle the Scarecrow.” Oenghus’ chest rose, muscles flexed, and Acacia placed a hand on his bulging pectorals.

“Not yet, Oenghus. Think this through.”

He looked at her hand. “You are not helping me think.”

Acacia started to pull away, but he caught her hand, pressing it to his muscles. “Might help a little.”

“I’m sure a few pints would too.”

The closeness, her hand on his skin, and the meeting of their eyes brought to mind their conversation in the Lome city. About the past, their losses, and the Keening. Realization brightened Acacia’s pale gaze. “Of course,” she breathed. “If you were traveling with a nymph, would you risk staying in a tavern or an inn?”

Oenghus’ beard drooped and his brows drew together in thought. “An inn would be best, but Isiilde draws attention where ever she goes.”

“But old men, dying men consumed by the Keening, would be less likely to notice.”

“That’s right,” he said. “The Vaylinish don’t tolerate infirmities, or weakness. They send their old off to die, out of sight, out of mind.”

“And there is a place where they go to die in Vlarthane, in the shadow of the walls by the catacombs.”

“Takes a nimble mind to unravel the Scarecrow’s ways.”