“Pick a bloody direction. I don’t want to be caught in here when our friend has had his fill of Reapers.”
They shuffled forward, stooping beneath the low ceiling, and, in Oenghus’ case, crouching. Slowly, the sounds of carnage fell behind. Only the hollow echo of shifting armor and weary footsteps filled Isiilde’s ears.
“Why did the Reapers wait so long to attack?” Rivan’s hushed voice bounced in the tunnel. Isiilde glanced back, startled, but Marsais was there, stooped and attentive, followed by the rest of the party. He reached out to her through their bond, soothing and strong, like a blazing sun on a winter’s day. His wounds had been healed, but the ache of bruises lingered. She did not mind. The nymph gladly shared his pain.
“Didn’t you see the scars on the bear?” Oenghus rumbled.
“It was covered in them.”
“Aye, Reapers can’t tolerate sunlight; they need shelter during the day. This cave is a perfect spot. I’d wager it’s a nightly battle.”
“Which means dawn is approaching.” Acacia paused, directing her shield down a smaller side passage. She smelled the air and frowned, then continued, following fresher air.
Rivan gazed into a narrow diversion that smelled of rot. “The Reapers must get past him at some point. More could be down here, couldn’t they?”
“Unless there is something worse down here.”
“Worse than Reapers,” Rivan swallowed, “like Fomorri?”
Oenghus looked at the pale young man. “Remind me to tell you some stories, lad. As the Scarecrow is fond of saying, there’s terrors in these realms that would make a god weep with fear.”
Sharp rock dug into Isiilde’s bare feet, but she did not react. She was numb, shivering beneath her guardian’s voluminous shirt—too frightened to feel pain’s sting. She glanced back at Marsais to reassure herself. His robe hung loosely, sleeves undone, as if he had hastily donned the garment.
“Eyes ahead, my dear,” he reminded, softly. But his voice came from far away, and she stared, as if trying to make sense of a simple command. He urged her forward with a gentle nudge. “One foot in front of the other. That’s all it ever takes.”
Isiilde closed her mouth and swallowed. She nodded slightly, and focused on her feet, wading through shadow and shifting light.
One foot in front of the other. That was a simple task. Far better to dwell on the present than what was ahead, or worse, what she had left behind. Isiilde drifted, and time hovered, somewhere distant and forgotten.
❧
Water trickled over the rock. The ground was slick and the air cold. A steady howl droned in Isiilde’s ears. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Air stung her nostrils, sharp and fresh. It gave her hope that there was an end to the darkness.
Acacia followed the streaming water, searching for the source. The uneven tunnel turned, and the paladin stepped into a swift stream. Isiilde followed her into the icy water, taking care not to slip on the rock. In another life, she might have flinched from the cold. Presently, she was simply thankful, because the water soothed her aching feet.
The ground climbed and the passage narrowed. Acacia shuffled sideways between two jutting boulders and a tangle of roots. Isiilde walked through, and looked up. A narrow waterfall came down and pooled around her ankles.
Marsais slipped through the passage, gazing at the slice of grey. Acacia looked at the lanky seer. “Can Oenghus fit through that?”
He shrugged. “He’ll find a way, but it’s always best if no one else is present when he does.”
Acacia nodded in understanding, and turned to Isiilde, handing over her helm and shield. “Hold this, Nymph.”
Isiilde nearly dropped the heavy armor. The paladin braced one foot on either side of the rock. Fighting a stream of water, she climbed, using roots to pull herself upwards. When she reached the top, Acacia crawled through the opening. Her legs disappeared, and finally her boots.
Oenghus stood at the narrow passage, eyeing it with distaste. He removed his breastplate, tossed his round shield into the pool, and exhaled, wedging himself between the rocks. Marsais pulled Isiilde against the cave wall, giving the giant more space.
Rivan and Lucas pushed from the other side. Their struggle knocked dirt and rock loose. For a moment, Isiilde feared that her guardian would be stuck. But Oenghus slapped a large hand against the wall, grabbed a handhold, and pulled. With the combined effort, the giant broke free with a barrage of tumbling rocks that splashed into the underground stream.
A pale head appeared above. “It’s a dark day, but it’s morning. All appears clear.”
Isiilde itched to climb out, to be free from the earth. Oenghus took the helm and shield from Isiilde and passed them up to Acacia. When they disappeared through the hole, he hoisted Isiilde through the opening. She scrambled out, dodging Acacia’s attempt to help.
The sky was bleak and grey with cold rain and thunderclouds and the forest was bursting with greenery. Moss, lush as a carpet, covered towering redwoods. Isiilde moved beneath a canopy of branches, resting her forehead against the soft bark. The ground was slick but warm—life filled her senses and she breathed in deeply, feeling as if it was her first breath in weeks.
How long had it been since the duel? Only yesterday, she thought. Marsais moved beside her, and rested a hand on her shoulder, gazing at the forest, alert and watchful.
“Blessed be Zahra,” Rivan breathed when he emerged from the ground. He frowned, attempting to wipe the mud off his golden tunic, but it was hopeless.
The scrape of armor brought her around. Lucas was not having an easy time squeezing through the opening. The keg-shaped man had to push his mail through first, and like a mangled worm, he shimmied through on his belly.
“You may want to give the hole a wide berth,” Oenghus called from the cave.
Marsais led her around the tree trunk. The rest of the party followed. When they were clear, a dull boom rose with the wind—a hammer against rock. A tremor ran beneath her toes. The nearby stone cracked and the ground split. Rubble fell inwards, creating a wide pit. The paladins rushed forward, preparing to dig the giant out of the wreckage. Marsais, however, simply waited. A muddied hand appeared, and then the rest of the Nuthaanian emerged from the sinkhole, covered in mud and blood.
Oenghus turned his face towards the storm and let the rain wash him clean. He shook himself like a dog, spraying mud in all directions. When the mud settled, he bared his teeth at the paladins and hoisted his hammer and shield.
They stood on a mountainside. The peak rose over the treetops, far in the distance, obscured by black clouds and angry wind. Isiilde gazed down the slope and her feet followed her eyes, walking over a carpet of moss that blanketed the forest.
“Is that where we came from?” Rivan asked, nodding towards the valley floor.
“I don’t think so,” answered Marsais, hastening after his nymph.
Oenghus eyed the mountain peak. “We need to find our bearings.”
“We need fortification, shelter, and food first,” Acacia corrected. “Then we can find our bearings. It’s sure to be another long night.”
A voice spoke in the nymph’s ear. “What is it, my dear?”
“The ground is warm,” she murmured. Isiilde hopped over a fallen log and ducked between ferns, quickening her pace.
“Oen,” Marsais called. He did not wait to see if the rest followed, but remained with her. Rain drummed on the canopy, slipping through grasping pine needles to patter softly on the red tinted earth.
Marsais kept pace as she hopped on top of another slick log, but at the last moment he thrust out his arm, blocking her path. When she stopped, he braced himself on a nearby tree and leant forward, peering over a tangle of fallen branches and moss covered rock. They stood on a ledge. Fifteen feet separated them from the sharply sloping ground.
Isiilde blinked and stared, teeth clacking together, leaning precariously forward, held back by her Bonded’s arm.
“Perhaps a less direct route
would be best.”
As she stepped backwards, Oenghus stomped beside her, taking her place on the log. He looked down, grunted, and circled around and down. Moving at a slower pace, they followed.
The ledge that they had stood on was a massive slab of stone that jutted out from the slope, creating a natural overhang. A curtain of water dripped over the ledge, but beneath the rock, deep into the earth, the ground was dry. And nestled in the tangle of deadfall, of soft bark and roots, was a patch of strawberries.
Oenghus scratched his beard. “What are the odds?”
“Rather good, I should say.” Marsais glanced at his nymph, who stood in a daze. He walked over to the strawberry patch, selected an enticing berry, and placed it in her hand.
A barrage of memory assaulted her—of flashing eyes and greedy hands. She stared at the perfect strawberry. Such a little, innocent thing to evoke such pain and shame.
“Eat,” he urged.
But it seemed too much effort.
“Well, if you’re not going to eat it, Sprite,” Oenghus said with forced casualness, “I don’t mind if I do.” The giant reached for the berry, and long habit leapt to her rescue—Isiilde stuffed the berry in her mouth. The burst of sweetness unraveled something inside her breast, it penetrated the fog, reminding her that she was alive.
Marsais looked to Oenghus with gratitude, and the two ancients exhaled as Isiilde fell on the strawberry patch with trembling fingers.
“Strawberries,” said Rivan in surprise. “Can I have one?” He moved towards the nymph and she stuffed the last in her mouth, glaring dangerously at the dark-haired man. Marsais cleared his throat, stepping between nymph and paladin.
“We appear to be in Fyrsta at the very least,” Acacia noted.
“Strawberries are universal, my dear Captain.” No one questioned the ancient’s assertion.
Lucas frowned at the small cave. “This doesn’t make for a very defensible point, not with the Reaper’s hole only fifty paces away.”
“No, but we could—”
Isiilde closed her mind to their conversation. Exhausted, she staggered to the very back of the cave, climbed in a cradle of roots, softened by feather-like leaves, and curled in a tight ball. The moss was warm and she slipped away, but not before an authoritative voice cut through the drone of the others, “This will do.”
Five
TEETH PIERCED HER flesh. She cried out, but no sound emerged. The nymph was gagged and bound and struggling, futilely. Her fire would not come, it had betrayed her, melting the flesh around wrists and ankles.
Isiilde wanted to leave her skin and never return.
Her eyes snapped open, and she reached for comfort. Marsais was there. Isiilde buried her face in the curve of his neck, blocking out the world, inhaling his scent. It soothed her—he smelled of the sun, of the salt and sea, and he stirred at her breath, shifting his arm to place a bandaged hand over her ear.
Memory crashed over her. It had not been a nightmare. She touched her neck, searching for the Rahuatl’s bite. The skin was smooth; however, a tender bruise remained. The shadows with icy eyes seemed unreal and the long flight and terror of the night was distant, as if something remembered but not experienced.
Isiilde lifted her head, gazing at Marsais, who was stretched out beside her. He was asleep. She lifted the robe that was draped over their bodies and ran her eyes over his bare chest. Bruises mottled the wiry flesh, but nothing more, save an ever present scar slashing across his chest. She placed a hand over the jagged mark and the tension left his face. He was filthy, but so was she.
The shift of wood and spark of flame drew her attention away. A fire burned brightly in the shallow cave. Flame mingled with roasting meat and she nearly gagged over the carnivorous stench.
Oenghus sat by the fire, poking at its embers, while Lucas turned a makeshift spit. Acacia slept nearby and Rivan was perched on a fallen log beneath the overhanging rock, watching the forest. It seemed the rain had tired, ghosting through trees and brushing leaves with a shimmer of dew in the calm aftermath of a passing storm.
Isiilde was sore and shivering, and her shirt was damp and caked with dried mud. She snuggled against Marsais’ lean body, but the fire called to her with a promise of greater warmth.
Despite her hope, Marsais did not stir. She did not want to endure the paladins’ eyes alone. Unfortunately, with injuries as extensive as his, the healing had taken its toll from his body—a harrowing night had not helped matters. He needed rest. As if to ward off the long night, she brushed her lips against his bony shoulder, reminding herself of everything wonderful. Reluctantly, she rose, draping the robe over his body.
As if taking a plunge, she held her breath and moved quickly across the cave to the fire. Heat welcomed her as she sat beside her guardian. The scarred paladin, Lucas Cutter, gazed at her across the fire pit. And even though Oenghus’ shirt came past her knees, she felt exposed under the paladin’s scrutiny.
“Afternoon, Sprite.” Oenghus wrapped the long folds of his kilt around her and drew her close. She leaned against his strength and heat. He was always as warm as a furnace. “You’ll never guess what I found.”
“Clothes?”
“Even better.” Worry dimmed his eyes. He produced a handkerchief and unwrapped it, revealing a large pile of strawberries, pine nuts, and a motley assortment of green leaves and roots. Eagerly, she accepted the offering. Her stomach growled its gratitude and her guardian smiled. He appeared relieved, though she couldn’t account for it.
For the next few minutes she occupied herself with eating. The sparse meal didn’t quench her hunger, but it lessened the sting. Still, she saved some berries for Marsais.
Lucas removed four roasting rabbits from the spit and set them aside to cool. She tried not to look at the cooked carcasses, but it was impossible. They sparked memory, and she stiffened, feeling the terror and press of stone as if she were there. In her mind’s eye, Zander’s charred corpse flashed around and around like a child’s gruesome top. As much as she wished, she could not stop the vision.
Isiilde gazed into the fire. With a single frantic call, the coals in the dungeon had leapt to her defense, burning everything in its path—not unlike her flesh and blood guardian. She rested her head on Oenghus. What if she had accidentally set Marsais on fire? She had nearly killed everyone in that dungeon. There was no control, no focus—only rage and fear. And when those beasts lay quiet, there was emptiness.
Isiilde stared until her eyes burned. When a figure approached, she blinked, heart jumping in her throat.
Rivan stopped short. “I didn’t see you there,” he smiled.
Oenghus glared, and the blood drained from the younger man’s face. Rivan turned, reached for a pair of leggings drying on a nearby root, and thrust them at Oenghus. “I thought she could use these, sir. I’m from Mearcentia. I’m not used to the cold, so I always wear layers. I tried to clean them, but there was nothing to do for the blood and tears.” Caught under the Nuthaanian’s glare, Rivan looked as though he’d rather face another Reaper swarm.
“Thank you,” Isiilde replied softly.
Oenghus took the offering. Rivan bowed, and Lucas handed him a stick with an impaled rabbit. He retreated to his post.
Isiilde sniffed at the leggings. They were, she supposed, better than nothing. With a sigh, she untangled herself from Oenghus’ side.
“Wake that old bastard up while you’re at it.”
“He’s not old.” She narrowed her eyes, snatched her strawberries, and moved to the back of the cave.
“He’s still a bastard,” her guardian called.
The leggings were coarse, scratchy, and smelled like Oenghus after he’d been chopping wood all day, but they were warm and dry and far too long. She reached under Marsais’ robe, slid his knife from its sheath, and sat down to trim the legs. There was enough fabric left over to use for a belt and wrap her hands and feet.
Marsais muttered restlessly, and she glanced over her shoulder. He
jerked his head sharply as if avoiding a blow, and then his eyes snapped open, white and sightless as snow. A murmur rasped between his lips, neck arched and his muscles twitched.
The first time she had seen him thus, in a pleasure house, she had not understood what was happening, but now she knew. The seer was in the clutch of a vision. And there was nothing she could do as his mouth opened in a soundless scream.
Isiilde moved in front and shielded him from the paladins’ eyes. She did not want the paladins to see him like this. Feeling helpless, she placed a hand over his heart. When her fingers touched his scar, the tension bled from his body. He sucked in a sharp breath as if he had been underwater for an eternity. Slowly, his muscles released their hold and grey eyes blinked in confusion and fear.
“Marsais?”
“Isiilde,” he whispered. “A moment, my dear.”
She lay her head on his chest listening to a pounding heart, as he regained his senses. When his breathing evened, he rested a bandaged hand on her head, but whether it was to comfort himself or her, she did not know.
“A vision,” he explained.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She raised her head. “What else could frighten you?”
“A great many things.”
“I won’t ask what you saw.”
“It’s best not to know.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes.” He closed his eyes. “By the gods, yes.”
“Maybe.” Isiilde frowned. “But our eyes change when we know.”
Marsais looked into her own. “That they do.” There was sorrow in his voice. He pulled her close through their bond and a warming calm like a lazy summer day, filled her, chasing back the shadows.
“Is it bad?”
“When is it not?”
“Presently.”
A chuckle rose in his chest and he clutched her close. She returned to her pillow, listening to the rhythm of his heart. After a time, when thought had turned to decision, he stirred, turning his lips towards her ear.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 4