Untold Tales

by Flynn, Sabrina

  Oenghus led his group outside, onto the curtain wall. Men scurried on the walls, repairing and reinforcing defenses. Along the way, Oenghus found the scout captain. “Only us three.” Glancing at Morigan, he wondered if she could manage that many weaves in her state. But the healer was looking at the courtyard in consideration.

  The group filed down a stairway, and stopped on the steps, just above the black earth. It was a good fifteen feet to the temple steps. Oenghus could manage the leap, but not the others.

  “I wonder if I could bind stone to the earth,” Morigan mused. Oenghus twisted, looking up at the woman on the higher step. He wasn’t keen on experimenting with a new weave—not yet anyway. Morigan, however, looked willing. She had that look she got whenever she was going to try a new remedy.

  Before Morigan could summon the Lore, Oenghus walked back up the steps and planted his feet in front of a heavy stone crenellation that had been knocked from the battlements during the attack. He bent his knees, slapped his palms to the sides, and heaved. Lifting the stone, he waddled to the edge, and pushed the rock away from him. It fell, landing with a splat in the black earth, in the space between temple and stairway. The top poked conveniently out of the ground. Every soldier on the wall stopped to gawk at the feat of strength.

  “Stone bound to earth,” he grunted.

  “Thank you, Oen,” Morigan said. She lifted her blood-stained skirts and jumped from stair to stone to temple step. The others followed her lead.

  Oenghus put his fist to the Nuthaanian stonewood as Gaborn shouted, “In the name of Emperor Soataen Jaal III, open this temple!”

  There was no answer.

  Oenghus pounded his fist against the door a second time. The entire temple seemed to shudder. He sensed watchful eyes staring from one of the stone Auroch heads glaring down at the group from high above.

  “We’re here to help,” Morigan spoke directly to the statue’s snout. Oenghus glanced back at the soldiers on the wall. Their eyes were desperate. How many clerics had they slaughtered in an attempt to kill the witch? Would the soldiers continue to try, now that an easy path was available?

  The Void they would.

  With a growl, Oenghus turned back to the impregnable door and threatened it with the weight of his hammer. “Open this door or I will lay it to ruin!” This time, his bellow shook the stonewood.

  A heavy bar was lifted on the other side of the door. The warding runes pulsed once and went dormant, fading back into the wood.

  The door to the temple opened.

  A thin, trembling man who was well into the Keening and dressed in dingy white robes squinted from the crack. His rheumy eyes were confronted with a banded leather breastplate and the folds of a kilt. The acolyte’s neck creaked upwards, as he searched for the head on the towering figure.

  Oenghus glowered down at the man.

  “May we come in?” a pleasant voice inquired. Morigan elbowed her way past Oenghus and smiled at the acolyte.

  The man’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Are you soldiers of the Emperor?”

  “Captain Gaborn is,” Morigan started to introduce herself, but Oenghus had had enough pleasantries for one day. He planted his hand on the stonewood and pushed, hard. The door smacked into something that grunted. Just as he suspected, the acolyte was bait.

  Oenghus stormed in to find one dazed paladin holding a hand to his helm and two others with weapons drawn. He caught a sword on his targe and spun, putting the first paladin in front of his comrade.

  “Oh, by the gods, put your weapons away,” Morigan’s sensibleness was louder than a shout. All four warriors froze like guilty children. “The Emperor sent us to aid you.”

  Oenghus bared his teeth at the outright lie. Gaborn kept his mouth shut.

  “Where’s your priest, or Inquisitor, or whatever the bloody Void you call the torturer? Zemoch wouldn’t let this bag o’ bones scrub his chamber pot.”

  “Oen,” Morigan elbowed the giant.

  “How dare you speak of a Guardian in such a manner!” The square-jawed paladin who had been introduced to Oenghus’ shield bristled.

  A fourth paladin stepped from an alcove, dressed in blued-armor and Zemock’s red and black tartan.

  Oenghus eyed the large warrior. “Always hiding in your holes, frightening the weak to do your bidding.”

  Morigan looked at her kinsman and sighed. But the tall, veteran paladin ignored the berserker, and looked to the more sensible of the two. “I am Knight Captain Keeling,” he said, resting a hand on his sword hilt.

  “Scout Captain Oakstone of the Emperor’s Watch,” Gaborn stepped forward with a salute. “This is Morigan Freyr and Oenghus Saevaldr, both Wise Ones of the Isle, both healers of renown.”

  The paladin rubbed his pale beard thoughtfully. “I have heard of you both.” Whatever he had heard, it must have been one of the more favorable tales circulating about Oenghus, because the paladin seemed satisfied. “How did you traverse the earth?”

  “We’re Wise Ones,” Oenghus waved his fingers mystically at the man.

  “How many men did you bring, Captain?”

  “A squad to scout. Twelve men in all, but the army is waiting on the border of blackness.”

  “The men in the keep seem to think that a witch is responsible,” Morigan nudged the conversation in the most pressing direction. “We wish to see her.”

  “The witch is the cause of all this—or so most think,” Keeling explained. “The soldiers in the keep are screaming for her blood.”

  “Are you of a different opinion?” Morigan asked.

  “No, but my superior is.” His eyes darted towards a wide archway and a closed gate that revealed little of the inner sanctum. “I’ll take you to the Inquisitor.”

  Keeling gestured, and marched towards the gates. With a brief prayer and a flare of light from his palm, the gate unlocked and he pushed it open, leading the way in while his men barred the entrance. The heavy gate closed on their heels, sealing them inside the grand hall.

  Oenghus frowned at the stark waste of space and the towering rune-etched steel statue that dominated the opposite end. This far north, the Kamberians preferred Zemoch over Chaim or Zahra. Devotees of the Nuthaanian Guardian called him the Stalwart One. The statue’s eyes were distant, facing north, ever watchful, ever ready to beat back the crazed Wedamen. But it was the men who froze along the walls yearly who kept the hordes at bay—not the Guardian. Zemoch was nothing but a waste of good steel.

  Oenghus eyed the giant flail that the Guardian held, the spiked ends dangling like merchant scales. Knight Captain Keeling raised a fist in salute as they passed. Oenghus, however, ignored the kilted Guardian. The group walked beneath a warded arch, down a long, equally stark hallway, and stopped in front of a reinforced door with a jailer’s slat.

  Keeling knocked. The slat was thrown aside. A pair of thoughtful green eyes looked through the peep hole, and a woman’s voice demanded, “What is it, Captain?”

  “Soldiers of the Emperor have arrived along with two Wise Ones. They walked over the earth, Inquisitor.” Keeling stepped aside, and the eyes narrowed as the paladin introduced the new arrivals to the Inquisitor behind the door.

  “We’re here to stop the taint,” Captain Oakstone said. “We’d like to speak with this witch, Inquisitor Ashe.”

  “Step back,” the Inquisitor ordered. “I’ll allow Morigan Freyr to speak with—”

  “Oh, by the goddess,” Morigan rolled her eyes, “Stop with all the mystery and let us speak with your prisoner. You can either let Oenghus and me in, or we’ll take our leave and let you all rot.” She placed her hands on her hips, and Oenghus gulped—the gesture was never a good sign where Morigan was concerned.

  A long moment passed as Ashe and Morigan locked eyes. Oenghus plotted who’d he’d knock out first before putting his impressive shoulder to the door. If needed, he could break the hinges right off the stone.

  The Inquisitor’s gaze flickered to Oenghus. “How old are you, Wise O
ne?”

  Oenghus scratched his beard, puzzled. He removed his hand from his unhelpful beard and began counting the centuries off on his fingers.

  “He’s very nearly a thousand,” Morigan answered.

  “I have a good twenty years left,” Oenghus growled.

  “You Wise Ones may come. Step back and leave your weapons.” With a sigh, Oenghus made a show of removing his war hammer, daggers, shield, and stepped back, passing the weapons to Gaborn. Morigan handed over her various knives and a sap that dangled from her belt.

  A bar was lifted, the wards ebbed, and a latch was thrown. The door opened. A silver-haired, green-eyed woman stood in the frame, hand resting easily on a mace at her side. Farther down the hallway, a younger, black-haired woman in white robes stood with a cocked crossbow in hand. She looked nervous.

  The Inquisitor stepped aside and jerked her chin at the Nuthaanians. Oenghus ducked beneath the lintel as he followed on Morigan’s heels. The door slammed shut behind him, and a large helmeted paladin planted herself in front of the exit, sizing Oenghus up. He ignored the guard, jerking his chin towards the younger woman.

  “Your acolyte best steady her finger.”

  “A precaution,” Inquisitor Ashe explained. “We lost a good number of soldiers and civilians in the initial invasion, but the majority—they fought and killed each other.”

  “Over the witch?” Morigan asked.

  “I’m not sure she’s a witch,” the woman admitted. “It’s complicated.” She turned on her heel and marched down a long hallway of tidy cells. Pristine stone and polished steel—the Blessed Order liked its walls white; it was easier to scour the walls, paint over the blood, and begin an interrogation with a tidy slate.

  The back of Oenghus’ neck itched with threat as he walked, fully aware that the young, twitchy woman with the crossbow was following at a deadly distance. The Inquisitor stopped at the last cell. Without his targe, he felt like a fish in a barrel. A target as large as he would be hard to miss.

  The Inquisitor turned to them both. “Sergeant Farin’s report was very clear and it was corroborated by the other soldiers who survived the trip back from the gorge. They all saw the same thing: a naked woman with her hands inside a dying tree and her feet connected to the roots. Ordinarily, this, coupled with the taint, would be condemnation enough; however,” the battle-hardened woman paused for a breath, “I think she may be a nymph. And if so, by the Law of our Order, she is the property of the Lord of the land, and I cannot simply execute the creature.”

  “Aye, the Law’s always getting in the way of a good burning,” Oenghus grumbled.

  Ashe frowned at the barbarian. “You cannot deny this taint on the land.”

  “Why aren’t you sure?” Morigan asked, distracting the two from each other’s throats.

  “I’ve never seen a nymph—only illustrations,” Ashe admitted. “Have either of you?”

  Oenghus tugged on his beard. “A handful of times.”

  “I have healed two nymphs in my lifetime,” Morigan answered.

  The Inquisitor looked relieved.

  “Let’s see her, then.”

  Ashe leveled a severe look on the hulking male. “I only let you in because of your age and race.”

  “That, and you had no other choice,” Oenghus bared his teeth and gestured at the door. “I promise I won’t run off with your prisoner.”

  The Inquisitor unhooked a ring of keys from her belt, selected one, and inserted it into the lock. The door swung open.

  A woman sat cross-legged in the middle of the cell floor, chained by a single shackle entrapping her ankle. Her hair was autumn, red as a changing leaf, and her eyes were spring, green as life eternal. Her skin glowed with summer, and the sight of the woman stole the barbarian’s breath away as sure as the chillest winter.

  The prisoner wore a simple robe that failed to conceal her shapely curves. Oenghus eyed the sweep of her sharp ears. Definitely not Kamberian.

  “Why is she chained?” Morigan asked.

  “I thought it wise. There is no denying what the soldiers saw—she wields power that we do not understand.”

  “Fear,” the woman said. Her voice was music, but it brought discord to the towering male. A wave of dizziness slammed into Oenghus. A torrent of memory, of soft words and eager lips, of love, burning like the sun in his breast. The eyes of spring stared at him with a knowing gleam.

  Oenghus staggered backwards, transported. He was running. Every breath was agony and every footfall sank into a deep snow drift. A weight was slung over his shoulder, wrapped in fur, bumping against his back. The braying calls of a hungry pack beat between his ears and panted down his neck. A realm of ice stretched to the horizon.

  He blinked, slapping his hand against reassuring stone: steady, solid, timeless and simple.

  The Inquisitor stepped forward, shouldering past Morigan, and slammed the door shut. “She has bewitched him.”

  The trigger happy acolyte raised her crossbow.

  “Don’t be absurd, he’s a Nuthaanian.” Morigan was at his side. “Oen?”

  The man in question shook himself, and pushed off the wall, opening his eyes to Morigan’s concern. “It’s nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Just thought I knew her. You know?”

  The healer looked into the sapphire eyes of the ancient. She did not know, but being long-lived herself, she could guess at some of it.

  “Battle fatigue,” he grunted.

  Morigan swallowed down a laugh. Grimstorm did not get fatigued. Instead, she turned to Ashe. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Is she a nymph?” the Inquisitor asked.

  “I would say so, but I’ll need to examine her further.”

  “Until now, the prisoner has not uttered a word.”

  “Hasn’t she?”

  “No.”

  “Did you, or any of your men lay a hand on her?”

  “The Knight Captain was eager to interrogate her. However, the Law forbids us from interrogating a nymph, it would be as productive as questioning a dog.”

  “Right,” Morigan smoothed her skirts, “well I’ve questioned dogs before, they’re quite informative.” The healer pushed the door back open, and this time, she stepped in before Ashe could stop her. Oenghus followed on Morigan’s heels. Despite the Nuthaanians’ towering presence, the woman on the floor did not appear to be frightened; instead, she looked worn.

  “I’m Morigan Freyr. And this is Oenghus Saevaldr. Do you have a name?”

  “I have many names,” the nymph answered.

  “Why do they fear you?” Morigan asked.

  Green eyes flickered to the paladin. “She knows.”

  “You poisoned a tree and defiled the land,” Ashe accused.

  “Not I.”

  Oenghus moved between the paladin and the nymph, shielding her from her questions. “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  Oenghus knelt. “Did the men touch you?” his question was a low growl.

  “I am broken from the tree. I am weak.”

  Oenghus searched her eyes, trying to recall a name, a time, a when—anything at all. He felt as if he knew her every strand of hair, her every curve and breath. He was drawn to her and could not bear to look away for fear she would vanish.

  “We can heal you,” Morigan offered.

  “The land needs healing,” the nymph said.

  “Did you cause this rot?” Morigan asked.

  “No.”

  “Were you keeping it at bay?” Oenghus questioned.

  “No.”

  “Trying to stop it?” he tried again.

  “Always.”

  “Always, what?” Ashe pressed.

  “I arrived too late.”

  Ashe stiffened with impatience, but Morigan held up a calming hand, and voiced the question, “Too late for what?”

  “An old wound has festered. I need your help.” The nymph looked at Oenghus, then, leaving no doubt as to whose help she required.

  “Well,” Oen
ghus tugged his beard, “who better to lance an infection than two healers, aye?”

  The nymph smiled. And he remembered.

  Passion and Fire

  An Unknown Age

  SNOW. AN ENDLESS tundra of white and a dull orb that hung above the bleakness. The barbarian ran, fur boots broke the thin ice, and he sank to his knees in snow with every footstep. His breath swirled in the cold and his lungs burned. He had been running all night, with the relentless, hungry howls on his heels.

  He lifted his leg again—another stride, one over the other, pumping his heart. What had started as an insignificant weight on his broad shoulder became a crushing burden. The barbarian tightened his hand on the unconscious Goddess wrapped in fur, and cursed his impulsiveness.

  A black spot entered the white—darker, bluer—an ice cave. Ulfhidhin glanced over his shoulder and made for the cave. The frost fiends were close, there wasn’t much time. They had followed his trail of blood.

  The barbarian shivered from the elements, from exhaustion and fear. He trudged up the slope to the cave, his beard rasping against his frozen furs. The cave gaped, and he stood on the peak, gazing into its throat. A good place to make a stand, he thought as he took another step, and slipped.

  Ulfhidhin wrapped his arms around the Goddess, shielding his prize as he slammed onto the sheet of ice. Momentum propelled him down the slope, into the cave. The barbarian’s descent ended with a crack. Instinct propelled him to the side, rolling him away from a falling spike of ice. The frozen spear shattered on the floor, inches from his head.

  He exhaled, resting his forehead on the warmth beneath his body. The Goddess moved beneath him, her eyes wide, struggling against the constricting fur and the weight of the wild-eyed man on top of her.

  “Hold still,” he growled. Sapphire eyes blazed. But the Sylph was not intimidated. With one final, jerking movement, she freed her hands and slapped her palms against her abductor’s ears.

  Ulfhidhin grunted, his ears rang, and he stumbled to his feet, shaking his head like an aggravated bear and nearly trampling the Goddess in the process. She scrambled in the opposite direction.