Untold Tales

by Flynn, Sabrina

  “I don’t have any enemies,” she whimpered.

  “Blackness is your enemy. You look at the sky and you keep it blue.” It was an order, the same he had given to hardened warriors on a battlefield. During a healing, the wounded faired better if they were conscious.

  Oenghus nodded to Soataen, who placed the belt between his daughter’s teeth. As soon as the child bit down, Oenghus uncorked his flask, pinned her leg and poured the Brimgrog into the wound. Sarabian arched, screaming with desperation. While the princess was in the thrall of agony, Oenghus gripped the small leg and forced the bone back beneath the skin, holding it in place like a clamp.

  When the burn dissipated, the girl’s eyes were rolling, but she was awake. He grunted with approval, and placed his free hand over her forehead, summoning the Lore. Oenghus waded into the currents of Life, seeking out Sarabian’s ruined flesh and taking her pain upon himself.

  The Sylph’s bond was always with him in one way or another; the connection was as enduring as their spirits. Yasine held the essence of Life itself, the very source of the Gift, which was why Oenghus, a crazed berserker, found it so easy to heal. In minutes, he could heal wounds that would take the most talented of their Order days, or even weeks. Sharing a bond with the Goddess of All had its advantages.

  When he withdrew his awareness, Sarabian was asleep, her features calm with rest. The emperor looked from his peaceful daughter, to her leg where the flesh was whole.

  “It’s healed!” Aristarchus shouted in disbelief.

  “Only a bruise,” Soataen breathed, looking at the Nuthaaninan.

  “Aye,” Oenghus sat back, tugging his beard. “Helps the mind heal actually. Otherwise, the mind tends to latch onto the last flare of pain. The bruising is sort of a symbolic healing.”

  “You saved her—” Emotion caught Soataen’s throat and he quickly removed his cloak and bundled his daughter up.

  “Just quicker than most.”

  “The horse rolled,” Soataen continued, lifting his daughter in his arms. “She would have been crushed.”

  “I do what I can for anyone who needs it,” Oenghus replied.

  Soataen nodded his gratitude, a slight dip of his chin that held the weight of an empire behind it.

  “You should not have raced in the first place,” Aristarchus argued. The boy was near to tears.

  “All choices have consequences, Aristarchus,” Soataen said. “The choice not to race, the choice to stand aside, the choice to simply watch.”

  Oenghus stood, following the emperor’s gaze to the white horse. Snow held her right foreleg off the ground, standing on three, huffing with pain.

  “It was Sarabian’s decision to enter the race without council, and it was Snow who threw her. It will not happen again.” Soataen nodded to one of his nearby Hounds. The same gesture that assumed everyone within range was keenly aware of the emperor’s slightest thought, so much so that a nod would communicate his will.

  The guard drew a curved blade and stepped forward. It took Oenghus a moment to realize what that nod had meant. He blinked in surprise and stepped forward, planting himself between executioner and horse. “I can heal the horse,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “She’ll just have to limp back, and I’ll have her good as new in the stables.”

  Soataen’s gaze turned hard and cold as granite. “I thank you, Lord Saevaldr, but my order stands.”

  “Snow was just startled is all. Takes a trained warhorse to become accustomed to a berserker in full run.” Oenghus placed a careful hand on the mare, stroking her gently.

  “I understand and respect Nuthaanian customs, but here, in Kambe, my word is Law. Step aside,” the emperor ordered with quiet power.

  “Your daughter loves this horse, your majesty. It’s plain, even to me,” Oenghus pressed.

  “Please, Father, listen to him,” Aristarchus pleaded.

  “Sarabian must learn a hard lesson today—that every action, every choice leads somewhere, good or ill. She entered our contest without consultation, without plan.”

  “As children often do,” Oenghus argued.

  “She is not a child; she is the heir of Kambe,” there was no softness in the emperor’s voice. “Do not press me, Lord Saevaldr. I am a patient man, but when I have decided upon a course of action, I will not hear argument. I am not a man who tolerates disobedience.”

  Oenghus frowned, lowering his hand to the prince’s shoulder. He nudged the boy a step back. The Hound advanced, gripped Snow’s bridle and jerked her neck up, slashing her throat. Bright blood gushed from the jugular, staining her pristine coat. The horse thrashed and slowly weakened, kneeling and finally falling as the life flowed from her body, pooling in the grass around Oenghus’ boots.

  The emperor turned with his daughter in his arms, and then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Thank you again, Lord Saevaldr. As a father, I’m sure you understand.”

  Oenghus looked down at the young prince. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the final death throes of his sister’s beloved horse. Oenghus squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

  No, he did not understand. Not one bit.

  Blight

  TIME SLIPPED LIKE sand through his fingertips when he wanted nothing more than to hold on to every last grain. But Time was fickle. Every night, the Sylph came, slipping through moonlight, falling into his arms.

  During the day, Oenghus occupied himself with his court duties, learning, what was to him a tedious and complicated new dance. He might be an uncivilized barbarian, but that did not mean he could not adapt; however, it did mean he didn’t have to like it.

  Whitemount was not unlike the Wise Ones’ Isle. But even during his apprenticeship with Marsais, Oenghus had spent as little time as possible inside his Order’s castle. When he visited the isle, he preferred to find rooms in the town. And whenever possible, to keep his sanity, that is precisely what he did in Whitemount.

  He left the organization of the infirmaries to Morigan, and lent his healing talents wherever they were needed. Whitemount was not a backwater town. The city boasted many talented healers, but none were as gifted as the Nuthaanian pair. For the first time in twelve years, Oenghus began to brew potions. This was a time consuming process, one unsuited for the battlefields. Oenghus had missed the challenges brewing brought.

  Unfortunately, it gave him time to think, and although the emperor had been nothing but a gentleman with Yasine, Oenghus continued to be ill at ease. As with anyone who wielded power, there were dark facets to the man.

  Weeks turned into months. Winter flowed into spring, and the rains began to interfere with Yasine’s nightly visits. For two nights, the rains kept her away, and on the third, a knock interrupted his mixing.

  “Come.”

  The door opened, and he turned to find a harried page. “Lord Saevaldr—Wise One.” No one seemed to know what title to use for the unconventional healer. “Your presence is urgently required in the south. There has been a fever outbreak.”

  “Spotted fever?”

  The page shook his head. “That is what they first thought, m’lord, but now the healers fear Blight.”

  “Blight in Kambe?” he barked.

  “Yes, m’lord. His Majesty has asked his royal healers to assist.”

  “I take it Morigan has been told?” The page nodded. “Tell her I’ll meet her in the stables.”

  As the page scurried to deliver his message, Oenghus gathered supplies in his rucksack, strapped on his belt, shouldered his targe, and hooked his hammer into place. Blight spread quickly.

  At the doorway, he stopped, took a last look at the wind battered balcony, touched his sacred flask, and went out into the storm.

  “How the Void did you let this get out of hand!” Oenghus bellowed at a healer who was soaked to the bone and shivering in the night. The soldiers who stood guard on the other side of the barricades took their eyes off the sieged district and looked warily at the enraged berserker. Inquisitor Ashe’s presence was not helping
Oenghus’ mood. The district was a day’s fast ride from the palace, a major trading port in Wyrim’s Fist, and home to a large Chapterhouse of the Blessed Order. After handing over the nymph, Ashe had taken up residence there.

  On Ashe’s orders, a barricade had been erected around the entire quarter, trapping the healthy and sick in with the Blighted.

  Well used to Oenghus’ bellow, Morigan ignored her kinsman. Her eyes were on the city and the main road, which was utterly void of lamplight and people.

  “We thought it was the Spotted Fever,” the shivering Kamberian healer defended. “All the symptoms were present.”

  “We quarantined the infected,” an older, bent woman added.

  “But it was Blight,” Oenghus grunted.

  “They came out of the graves on the very night the fever victims died—there were so many of them,” the shivering healer said, wiping water from his eyes. “The district was overrun before sunrise.”

  “We were battling the Blighted, getting the healthy out—” the Captain of the Watch added, looking at Ashe. “The honorable Inquisitor ordered us to erect a barrier. Some of my men are still in there.”

  Oenghus could have guessed that much. He eyed the makeshift barrier: wagons, timber, and some stone on the main roads, but mostly wards. The Wise One who had set the wards had fled immediately after. Wise Ones were not known for their helpfulness, but rather, they were known for the high prices they charged for their valuable skills.

  “I will not risk innocent lives,” Ashe stated. “Anyone who steps foot beyond this barrier is considered infected. As soon as the rain stops, we will put it to the torch.”

  Before Oenghus could bellow his reply, a shadow darted from a doorway at the end of the road. As it neared, it took shape: a cloaked figure who was running towards the barricade. A flash of eyes, a sound, the way the figure hunched over—Oenghus reacted. As the guards drew back their arrows, he vaulted over the barricade, crashing through the wards with a burst of energy. Lightning pounded into his back, grasping at his legs. It tickled.

  The archers hesitated.

  “Shoot!” Ashe ordered.

  Arrows were loosed, Oenghus reached the cloaked figure, put his arm around the woman and her babe, and raised his shield, catching a barrage of arrows. He roared at the soldiers, shaking the surrounding buildings with fury.

  The soldiers, the Inquisitor, and the healers were all staring forward—except Morigan who reacted as quickly as Oenghus. She stepped behind the Inquisitor and shoved the woman through the broken barrier. The surprising strength behind the shove toppled the armored warrior, sending her sprawling into the mud.

  “Oh dear,” Morigan said, planting herself in front of the breach. “It looks like you’ve caught Blight, Inquisitor. By your own orders, these men should kill you.”

  “You pushed me,” the Inquisitor stood, wiping the mud off her golden tunic.

  “The commotion startled me, I tripped,” Morigan smiled, and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Now then, listen up. The first rule of fighting the Blight is not to create more bodies to infect. You can either keep listening to the Inquisitor, in which case you will be obligated to kill her, or you can follow my instructions.” All ears were listening to the confident healer. “I need soldiers to guard the infirmaries, a squad to fight the Blighted, and as many healers as you can muster.”

  “That’s madness,” Ashe said.

  “Then we can do it your way,” Morigan said, putting her hands on her hips.

  The soldiers’ attention was pried from the standoff to the end of the road, where swift shadows emerged out of the darkness. Bows were drawn back, but the berserker met the walking dead with hammer in hand. The first boil ridden, rotting foe fell like wheat beneath a scythe. The second lost its head on the backward swing. And after that, Oenghus found his rhythm. The shadows fell one after another, until the final was pounded into a shapeless mass by his shield.

  But this group of Blighted was immature. The longer the Blight festered, the stronger the mutations.

  The Captain of the Watch did not need anymore convincing. He began issuing orders. Satisfied, Morigan stepped through the barrier, and joined Oenghus. She took the terrified woman and squalling child under her arm.

  “I like it when you get all pushy,” he bared his teeth.

  “And I hate resorting to it,” she sighed, checking over the mother and child for wounds.

  “Hopefully, none of these things have had time to grow.”

  “Aye,” Morigan nodded in agreement. “You start the clearing and I’ll start the tending.”

  Oenghus knocked his hammer against his targe, dislodging a rope of clinging entrails. He looked to the barricade and shouted, “Bring oil! And you healers, get your arses in here, or I’ll drag you in!”

  Moans and fevered rumblings filled the infirmary. Unlike most of the makeshift wards that had sprung up in the district, this one was permanent: a temple of Chaim. Here, the clerics refused to abandon the people when others of their Order had fled the district. If Inquisitor Ashe had carried out her plan, she would have burnt members of her own Order.

  The healers fought a battle on both fronts. The sickness that had been brought on a merchant ship was both Spotted fever and the Blight, all wrapped in a nasty bundle.

  Oenghus lifted a boy’s head, and pressed an elixir to his lips. “Drink up, lad,” he murmured. The dry, cracked lips parted, and the boy took a sip. Oenghus had never seen such an aggressive mix. The spots of the fever turned to Blight boils in a matter of days. If not for Morigan’s talents, they would all be infected. Her elixirs were legendary. Three days had passed, and the worst was over—the plague contained, fizzling out through brute force, quarantine, body disposal, but mostly, Morigan’s supreme organization.

  Oenghus and Morigan made a good pair—they always had. He glanced over the cot at her, to the next, where she bent over a patient. Morigan met his gaze and smiled. Dark circles ringed her eyes, but the lines of worry had left.

  “The emperor won’t want to part with you,” he said.

  “I’ll do what I always do,” she chuckled, “I’ll tell him it was all you.”

  Oenghus glared at her. Praise led to official positions, which inevitably led to court workings, clan maneuverings, and the dreaded mire of politics. But for Morigan, he would shoulder the responsibility, just as she would abandon her homeland to watch his back.

  When the boy had sipped the elixir to the last drop, Oenghus eyed his patient critically. The boy’s fever was gone, the Blight boils mere black marks on the skin, but the lad’s color was worrisome. It was grey, and the boy was weak, hovering so very close to death.

  Without a thought to his own exhaustion, Oenghus slipped one hand over the boy’s stomach and the other over his forehead, binding himself to spirit and body. The Lore was a soft murmur on his lips as he waded into the currents of the Gift, searching the boy with his mind’s eye. The boy’s spirit was as grey as his skin, and Oenghus bolstered his patient with his own strength.

  Healing required sacrifice, and Oenghus had never turned his back on an innocent—no matter how tired he was. When the spirit glowed with dim light, he carefully withdrew, pulling his awareness back along an ethereal tether to his own body. He shook away the disorientation as if ridding himself of a cloak and reached for a rag in a bucket, squeezing out the excess water and mopping the boy’s brow.

  Another spirit stirred within, a ripple of fear. Oenghus froze. His awareness turned inward, searching, reaching towards the bond that he shared with the Sylph. Yasine had been content these last days, touching lightly on his spirit everyday; a caressing greeting that he would return so she knew all was well. But the touch had changed.

  Fear turned to panic, a surge that sped to his heart like a scream. Pain jarred him, made all the worse because it was not his own.

  “Oen?” Morigan’s voice brought him around.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, hoarsely. A pit was opening
in his stomach and he felt himself falling. “I need to go.”

  Morigan grabbed his arm with an iron grip. “What’s wrong?”

  “The nymph,” he stressed the word.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Scrub yourself good and thorough or you’ll bring this plague to the palace.”

  He nodded.

  As usual, Morigan was right, but every moment he spent scrubbing the foul smelling concoction on his body felt like an eternity wasted. Panic and pain traveled through their bond, until all was silent. He rode north like a storm, and on the long road to Whitemount, silence turned to rage—a chill that made him shiver.

  Right of Vengeance

  OENGHUS RODE THROUGH the night, and all through the day; only stopping when his mount was on the verge of collapse. He used his title to demand a messengers’ exchange, and continued the swift ride. When Oenghus rode through the palace gates, a groom stepped forward to take the reins of his laboring horse. As soon as Oenghus’ boots touched the stone, a plump greying man who had all the makings of a finicky cat, hurried across the courtyard. Oenghus recognized him as the Steward.

  “Lord Saevaldr,” there was a hint of relief in the Steward’s imperious tone. “I’ve just dispatched a messenger for you. His majesty requires your immediate presence.”

  Oenghus nearly asked after the nymph, but caught himself. Any questions would raise suspicion; instead, he asked after the emperor.

  “If you will follow me.”

  In the months since Oenghus’ arrival, after healing the princess, he had earned the emperor’s trust, becoming an unofficial advisor of sorts. And gradually, despite the incident involving Sarabian’s horse, Oenghus had come to respect Soataen as a man. Whatever had happened to Yasine, the emperor would inform him.