Untold Tales

by Flynn, Sabrina

  The barbarian unhooked his war hammer, retrieved his targe, and planted himself at the base of the ice slope. The first frost fiend, a bristling thing of crystalline shards, slipped down the slope, as surprised as the barbarian had been. Ulfhidhin swung his hammer, but the fiend recovered its footing and leapt to the side. He cursed, dodged a breath of burning cold, and swung again. The hammer connected with the fiend’s spine and it shattered into chunks of ice.

  One down. A hundred to go.

  Ulfhidhin faced the next, and the one after. His arms burned, lungs heaved with effort as he fought exhaustion in the furious haze of battle.

  When the dim sun retreated, Ulfhidhin still stood, surrounded by the frozen remains of his enemies. His shield dangled from his hand, dragging on the red snow. He could not find the strength to lift his hammer. The steel head rested in the shattered skull of its final victim.

  Blood streaked the barbarian’s body, pooling around his boots. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for his prisoner. She was gone.

  “Bollocks,” he grunted. With effort, he lifted his hammer an inch, and hooked it on his belt. His shield slipped from his numb fingers, and he staggered forward. He found her in the darkest corner, digging at the snow, clearing away the ice to expose the rock and hard earth underneath. The Sylph’s skin glowed with luminous moonlight. But she was still flesh and blood; her entire body trembled and her fingers were raw. Despite the bite of cold, she splayed both hands on the frozen patch of earth, concentrating or perhaps, praying.

  He snorted. To whom did a Goddess pray?

  The sound snapped her out of the trance and she turned, eyes widening. A nasty bruise marred her forehead where he had hit her over the head the day before—or was it the day before that? He could not recall.

  The Goddess of All, with hair of night and eyes like stars, drew herself up, clutching the heavy fur blanket to her body. “What do you want with me?”

  “Want?” he asked. His voice was like gravel.

  “You brought me here because you knew I was powerless, did you not?” Her silver eyes blazed. “At the very least, have the decency to introduce yourself before you plow me like a filthy beast.”

  The barbarian laughed, a sound that rumbled from his gut. “If you like,” he shook the frost from his black beard and stepped closer—moving nearer with every word. “I am the lightning, I am the crag and the rocks and the raging storms. I am the sea and its roar.”

  The barbarian was close enough to touch her. And he did. He dared to grab the Sylph’s hand and press her palm to his heart. She arched her neck, meeting his wild gaze, her breath quickened, and the air between them swirled with heat.

  “I am passion and fire, and everything you cannot control.” He let go of her hand, but her touch remained. Ulfhidhin pressed his palm against the cave wall, letting the ice burn into his calloused skin. “I want you safe,” he said simply.

  With his last morsel of strength, the wild god closed his eyes and willed the stone to obey. It heated at his command. When the rock glowed red, he slumped, and then slid, finally falling at the Sylph’s feet.

  Awakening

  SHARED MEMORIES DWELLED in two sets of eyes—a silent conversation between souls long intertwined. For a moment, Oenghus was that other man, and he wanted to reach out to touch her hand. But her eyes said wait.

  Oenghus shook himself and stood, turning his back on beauty, facing the Inquisitor. “She’s a nymph. They need sunlight, earth—life.”

  “Sunlight?” Ashe frowned. “I can’t allow her outside, not with those soldiers, and as for life—that’s precisely why we’re stuck in here.”

  “What about potted plants?” Morigan ventured. “Surely, someone in the temple or inside the keep grows herbs during the long winters.”

  The nervous acolyte shifted. “I do.”

  “Good,” Oenghus nodded, and turned, crouching in front of the nymph. He touched the shackle around her ankle and muttered the Lore of Unlocking. It popped off and he tossed it away as if it were a serpent. The nymph sighed with relief as she rubbed her ankle.

  “You can’t do that.” The paladins tensed, the crossbow came back up, and steel was drawn.

  Moving very slowly, Oenghus turned his head to look at the three women over his shoulder. “And why not?”

  “The nymph belongs to the Emperor. She cannot leave our custody.”

  “Your hospitality is lacking.”

  “Small wonder she did not want to speak with you,” Morigan added. “Locking someone in irons is not conducive to aid. Let’s worry about the taint on the land first, shall we?”

  “Aye, you can worry about your finder’s fee from the Emperor after,” Oenghus said. Gently, he gripped the nymph’s arm and helped her to her feet, but the brief touch was nearly too much. Another wave of disorientation hit the ancient. He swallowed it down, both wanting never to let her go and never to know anything of past lives lived. Frustrated, he left her to Morigan’s care, and grunted at the acolyte to lead the way.

  The hallway swayed, he walked in and out of memory, in the same body, the same eyes and skin—but different. Like an ancient mountain that had been slowly shaped and worn by time, he had changed.

  Oenghus tugged on a braid and glanced back. The nymph leaned heavily on Morigan. Had she bewitched him—planted these ‘memories’ in his mind? He shook unease loose. He needed to focus on the now. Not his past, or any other’s, for that is how he thought of the dimness beyond the veils, those lives as other men.

  The acolyte, Katerina as she was called, kept a small greenhouse tucked in the top most floor. Ritual stones heated and mirrors reflected the sunlight from the two large Auroch statue eyes that decorated the edge of the temple. As soon as they entered, the nymph—he did not like to think of her by that other name—fell on the plants, sinking her hands into the soil under a small potted lemon tree. She sighed. The leaves of the lemon tree grew and stretched as if it was being stroked by the sun itself.

  Inquisitor Ashe and her guard watched, and slowly, Katerina lowered her crossbow.

  “There’s your proof,” Oenghus grunted.

  “Then she was helping the tree by the gorge?” Katerina asked.

  “Trying to,” Morigan replied. “Until she was interrupted.”

  “You said an old wound has festered, Nymph. How do we stop it?” Ashe pressed, but the nymph ignored the woman. Her eyes were closed—content. The Inquisitor stepped forward and grabbed the nymph’s shoulder. “I asked a question.”

  Morigan placed a hand on Oenghus’ arm, halting his rage before he intervened with lethal efficiency. “Inquisitor Ashe,” she smiled, “nymphs are very much like deer. Startling them does not accomplish anything.” With motherly briskness, Morigan brushed the paladin’s hand off her charge and put her bulk between the two. “Your way has not been working very well so far, now has it?”

  No one replied.

  “Give the nymph some space.” She shooed the Inquisitor back like a pesky hen. Oenghus was not surprised. He had watched Morigan do the same with the Field Marshal of Kambe.

  “I will speak with the man,” the nymph’s soft voice entered the room.

  All eyes turned to the source. When the Inquisitor grabbed the nymph’s shoulder, the robe had shifted, revealing the nape of her neck and the top of an intricate mark—the leaves of an oak. Oenghus’ eyes lingered on that mark. He did not need to see the rest to know what it was, to know its shape, its leaves, the way its roots hugged her hips—he could feel the mark like a whispered touch on his own spine.

  “Then speak to him, Nymph,” Ashe gestured.

  “Alone.” The word hung heavily in the attic space. It felt as if the word had punched a hole in the floor and Oenghus would start falling at any moment.

  “You won’t leave my sight, Nymph.”

  The robe slipped a fraction, and the nymph shrugged a bare shoulder, returning to her tree.

  Morigan glanced at Oenghus. He darted his eyes pointedly towards the Inq
uisitor and found a place to sit. The floor creaked in protest as the giant settled himself into the silence.

  “Well,” Morigan said, smoothing her skirts. “It appears we are at a standstill.” Her tone left no doubt as to who she blamed for this development.

  “I cannot leave the nymph alone with a man,” Ashe defended.

  “I have known Oenghus for—far too long. And there is one thing I have learned about the berserker,” she emphasized the feared title. “He can be trusted to do what is right, and presently, Inquisitor, we need to get rid of this taint.”

  Ashe frowned in consideration. At length she warned, “Do not touch the nymph. Your word.”

  “Upon my honor, I will not lay a hand on the nymph.” He touched his sacred Brimgrog, sealing his oath.

  With a jerk of her head, Ashe ordered her women out and followed on their heels. Morigan directed a stern look at her kinsman before following.

  The door shut.

  “It’s a good thing I’m a Sylph,” the Goddess purred. Her eyes slid towards the Nuthaanian. He did not move. Memories were trying to find a comfortable place to settle in his mind. But the visions and sensations were a strange fit. “You look conflicted,” she observed.

  “Something like that.”

  “My poor love,” she sighed. “You were always more comfortable with your manhood than your godhood.” A mischievous spark in her eye reminded him of laughter. The memories settled. Oenghus stood and walked over to the Sylph. She rose with the grace of water and arched her neck to meet his gaze.

  “Your eyes never change,” she whispered.

  “And you change like the seasons.” With an unsteady hand, he touched her hair, brushing beauty.

  “Do you like it?”

  In answer, he grabbed her and brought her hard against his body. She was silk and power—it was like holding a waterfall. Oenghus wanted to merge with her and let her consume him. Her body responded to his, and warmth spread down his back, awakening the spirit that was forever intertwined with his. He cupped her face, staring into her eyes. “My heart.”

  “My earth,” she breathed, savoring his heat.

  “Why the Void are you here?” he growled.

  “I need you.”

  “For this taint?”

  The Sylph shook her head. “An unfortunate occurrence. I needed an ancient womb for this body. A younger tree could not support me. The old one was the closest to you, but the Void sensed my arrival.”

  “Does that mean every Reaper, Grawl, and Void cursed madness will come sniffing after you now?”

  “As long as I don’t use my powers, Ul—Oenghus,” she corrected. He was grateful that she did not use the ancient name of their first meeting. The Sylph could feel him, and she knew it might topple his sanity. “Not in a direct way at least,” she continued. His hands fell to her shoulders. So warm and sumptuous, and so familiar. “If I used my power to clear this taint, then it would only make matters worse. As long as I am in this realm, I cannot raise a hand.”

  “Then why risk yourself?”

  “I missed you.”

  “Bollocks,” he snorted. “You could have come to me at night, as you sometimes do—in the disguise of dreams.”

  Full lips curved with delight. “I wondered if you knew.”

  “Knowing and admitting are two different things.” Even now, the dormant bond was awakening on his back, his awareness of her growing by the moment.

  She ran a hand up his chest, over his breastplate, toying with a braid in his black beard. “Your poor mind. Simplicity is what you crave. That’s what I love about you.”

  “I thought it was my cock.”

  “The superior mind to be sure,” she purred. All at once, the playfulness fled, and was replaced with a burden—a great weight that he felt pressing keenly on his own shoulders. With a sigh, she rested her forehead against his chest. Oenghus felt her weariness and despair as if it were his own.

  “What do you need, Yasine?” he whispered her true name.

  “Swear to me.”

  “You have my love.”

  “I need your obedience.”

  In reply, Oenghus brought his lips down hard and fierce over hers until the breath left her lungs. When the couple emerged for air, Oenghus growled, “I bow to no one—not even you.”

  “You’ve gotten on your knees frequently enough.”

  His mind went blank. And she hid a laugh against his neck. Somewhere during the kiss, her feet had left the ground, and he had no intention of putting her back.

  “The Fate of countless realms depends on your obedience.”

  “I make my own Fate,” he boasted.

  “I need your seed.”

  Oenghus blinked. “Now?” His voice had gone very suddenly hoarse.

  “So easily distracted.”

  “By you,” he agreed.

  “Any female. Frequently. Isn’t that one of your Oathbounds out there?”

  “That was centuries ago—we have children,” he added, feeling as if he were climbing a slope of very small pebbles. He set her back down. “It’s not as if I see much of you.”

  “You never stay long.”

  Oenghus’ head throbbed. “Don’t bloody mention—” he cut off when he saw her smile. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve never tired of seeing you flustered, my love.”

  “That, and you’re stalling for time.”

  “Time is the one thing we don’t have,” she sighed, glancing at the door, and then to his eyes. “I know you well. You are not a man who stands aside—no matter the name you bear.”

  “Never,” he agreed.

  “I need your courage, your will, your faithfulness.” There was a haunted look in her eye, one that stilled his flippant reply about her growing list of demands. “This realm is lost, Oenghus. It is broken. What was done cannot be changed; what was broken cannot be mended—the fracture is too deep.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “Trust me, my rock, please,” she whispered like a brush of wings over his heart. “Support me, anchor me, be my strength—for once, I beg of you in the coming days, to stand still and do not react. Let them take me to the Emperor.”

  “I don’t understand, Yasine. You sound like the Scarecrow.”

  “By the Light, I hope not, he is as broken and fractured as this realm.” Mist clouded her eyes. “There must be a child, between you and me, and then let this body go. Let me die.”

  The door flew open, slamming against the stone, nearly jarring the oak from its hinges. Oenghus Saevaldr ducked beneath the frame and glowered at the waiting women. The twitchy acolyte fingered her trigger and the other paladins rested a hand on their weapons.

  Morigan frowned.

  Without a word, Oenghus stomped down the hall to the winding stairway, leaving the Sylph kneeling beside her thriving lemon tree. The swish of Morigan’s skirts caught up with his long strides half way down the stairwell.

  “Oenghus?”

  He did not stop.

  Let me die. There had been something in her words—not the cycle of the Spirit River and the chance of rebirth—but something permanent.

  An iron hand drew him up short with authority. “Oen,” Morigan snapped, “if you do not tell me what is going on I am going to drop you to the floor.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Oenghus blinked down at the healer, who looked about to make good on her word. “I’m beginning to worry that the nymph managed to put an enchantment on you. What is wrong?” Morigan whispered for his ears alone.

  Footsteps were traveling down, towards them. There was not much time to explain.

  Oenghus gripped her shoulder. “I know her, Mori.”

  “How?”

  “It’s ill luck to speak of such things.” His hand tightened. “You know of my dreams.”

  Understanding sparked in her eye. “I see.” And she did. One did not spend sixty years, on and off, as Oathbounds without knowing something of the other’s nocturn
al disturbances. “What now?”

  “I am going to take care of the taint.”

  “She told you how to stop it?”

  He ignored the question. “I need your best ward.”

  “Oenghus,” she warned. “You’re not going out there alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You need me to replenish the ward,” she argued. The footsteps were nearing, and he turned, walking towards the exit with Morigan matching him stride for stride.

  “You’ve been on your feet for a day and a night.”

  “So have you,” she countered.

  “I’m a berserker.”

  “And I’m a mother,” she reminded. “Besides, you always make the worst decisions when you’re angry, Oen.”

  He didn’t have an argument for that. Morigan knew his bull-headed blunders well. He searched for a counter reply and snagged on the first he could find. “You’ll slow me down.”

  Morigan scoffed.

  Oenghus seized a better reason and bared his teeth when she turned to wait. “I need you to guard the—nymph from these bloody zealots. Make sure they don’t leave without me.”

  “The nymph belongs to the Emperor,” she reminded.

  “We’ll see about that,” he growled.

  “Are you planning on running off with her?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you thought it,” she surmised. “Think, Oen, please. If you go home with a stolen nymph, the Blessed Order will follow. Despite our daughter’s current disapproval of you, I doubt she’ll turn on you outright, but as the Clans Head of Nuthaan, siding with you could be worse. The clans might not agree with her decision to support you. Either way, we’ll have another war on our hands—be it an internal clans war or one with Kambe and the Blessed Order. Nuthaan will be defending three borders.”

  The kinsmen locked eyes. There was twelve years of recent war between them, of blood and slaughter and screams of the dying. The paladins reached the Nuthaanians in the corridor, entering a tense silence.

  “Think on that with the brain in your skull and not the one under your kilt,” Morigan whispered, placing a hand on his arm. Oenghus nodded, squeezed her hand, and stepped away, turning to face the Inquisitor.