“My dear,” he whispered. “If you forget everything else, I beg of you, never forget that day on the beach.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No one ever understands a seer’s prophecy until the time is upon them.”
“You could tell me.”
“One day, I will explain why I can’t.”
“Until that day, there is food on the fire and I saved some berries for you.”
“I’m honored,” he said, kissing the palm of her hand. The touch left her skin tingling and she smiled, pressing her lips to his with a soft moan.
“I said wake him, not kiss the bastard.” Oenghus’ growl from the fire brought her up short. Sweeping ears twitched in irritation, but she ignored the giant, eyes fixed on her Bonded.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.
“I didn’t save you—you rescued us.”
“But not before you ordered Luccub to remove my gag.” She shivered at the memory, fingers straying to her neck, but Marsais caught her hand and held it gently between his.
“Thedus brought the tooth,” he said, tracing her knuckles. “Without that seemingly inconsequential act, the Imp would have never come. And you, my dear, released our fiendish ally.”
“And if you had remembered what was in the flagon to begin with, I would have never opened it. So it was still you and your absentmindedness,” she said with an air of triumph.
He grunted in defeat.
“Regardless, I’m glad you remembered what Tharios wanted.”
Marsais cleared his throat and sat up. “I must confess, I never forgot. I had hoped he was bluffing, or that Isek would redeem himself in the end.” Shame-faced, he pulled his dark green robe over his head. “I’m sorry.”
“What you told Tharios about the tomb, it’s not good, is it?”
“No, it is not good. If it had been anyone else—” A shudder stopped his tongue. He sighed wearily, running a hand over his face. “Not you.”
“Why me?”
Warmth and wonder softened his features. “Because, my dear, I’m a love struck fool.”
“You love me?”
“With all that is left of me, yes.”
To hide the rising heat in her cheeks, she began lacing up his sleeves. When she cinched the last tie, she said, “I love what is left, but will miss this.” She tugged on his scruffy goatee.
Marsais grinned. “Hmm, that reminds me. Would you be so kind as to remove the coins in my trouser pocket and weave them in as they were?”
Without hesitation, she retrieved the coins, and studied them in the palm of her hand. The little round coins with a hole in their center appeared ancient, their etchings obscured by time. They were cool as ice, and yet familiar.
She quickly wove three short braids, threading a coin onto each end. When the coins were attached, they warmed and chimed a single note. Marsais looked a proper scoundrel.
Isiilde tilted her head. “One of these days you will tell me what these do.”
“Far faster to tell you what they don’t do.”
“What don’t they do this time?”
“They don’t stop lunatics from butchering my goatee.”
Isiilde rolled her eyes.
Six
ISIILDE AND MARSAIS joined Oenghus by the fire. The captain was awake, sitting on a log that had been dragged across the entrance, eating and conversing with Lucas as they stared into the shifting mist.
“We’ve scouted the immediate area. Plenty of wildlife, which is always a good sign.” Oenghus handed Marsais a rabbit on a stick, who pressed it awkwardly between his bandaged hands. “I figured we’d rest up a bit until the sky clears. No use hiking to the top in this weather.”
Isiilde squeezed between the two men, laying her head on Marsais’ shoulder as he ate. Words passed over her ears, but she did not hear. She sat and stared numbly at the flames, drifting in a haze. Eventually, she blinked. Sometime during her sightless stare, the paladins, Acacia and Lucas, had joined them at the fire.
“Any idea where we are?” Acacia was asking.
“Somewhere north.” Oenghus shrugged. The captain looked to Marsais, but he was busy staring at a rock.
“There’s enough for you, Nymph.” Acacia offered her a rabbit leg.
She recoiled from the flesh. “I don’t like meat.”
“You can’t be picky out here or you’ll starve.” But Isiilde felt like she was already starving.
“She’s not being fussy,” Oenghus defended. “The flesh of a living thing is like poison to her. I gave her a piece of bacon when she was young and it nearly killed her.”
The paladins looked at the nymph as if she had done something wrong. However, Acacia made no further comment, until Marsais cleared his throat returning to the present.
“Archlord, I’d like a few answers.”
“Hmm, I sincerely doubt I still hold that title. Marsais will do, and by all means, ask.”
“I have orders from Iilenshar to follow you without question.” This, she stated more for Lucas and Rivan’s benefit. The former scowled, and the latter’s eyes went wide. “You said the man who came through the portal was an Unspoken, a Disciple of Karbonek. I assume Tharios is as well?”
Marsais inclined his head.
“Tharios spoke of a tomb, of something unknown beneath the Isle. I would like to know what’s at stake.”
“It’s of a delicate nature, Captain, but rest assured, the entire realm is in danger.”
“I want details, not vagueness,” Acacia replied. Marsais pressed his lips together, clearly reluctant to share. “I have Iilenshar’s full confidence,” she continued. “Lucas has my trust and Rivan is too terrified of me to utter a word. We’re neck deep in this already, Seer, and only the gods know where we’ve ended up.”
Isiilde studied the woman. Why would Iilenshar, the home of the Guardians, order the captain of a Chapterhouse to aid Marsais instead of the High Inquisitor himself? And how would the Guardians know what was happening?
The tales of Iilenshar fascinated Isiilde. Legend claimed that the Keeper constructed the Gates to stem the tide of war and trap the Guardians of Morchaint in the Bastardlands.
She had seen the white cliffs, the long tunnel, endless chasm, and the floating Isle of Iilenshar in Marsais’ gift—the memory orb—but it wasn’t the same as seeing it herself.
The memory of that day was distant; a warm little bubble that was drifting farther from her reach. And that girl in the memory was a stranger—an utter fool.
‘Never forget that day on the beach.’ Marsais’ odd request echoed in her mind. She remembered it, but it belonged to another person.
“I’d like to bloody know what Tharios is after, too.” Oenghus’ voice shook her back to the present. She caught Rivan staring at her, and he quickly looked away, gazing into the forest while keeping an ear cocked towards the conversation.
“You don’t know?” Marsais asked, incredulously.
“Why the Void should I?”
Marsais gave the barbarian a pointed look. Oenghus grunted, tugging on his beard, and promptly changed the subject. “I knew Tharios was trouble, but I didn’t think he’d have the bollocks to do something like that.”
“I underestimated him as well, Oen. And Isek, too. I thought Tharios would wait until after the Nine cast their vote and ousted me. In fact, I was counting on it.”
“You knew Tharios was after something? And yet you didn’t stop him sooner?” Acacia regarded the ancient as if he were a raw recruit.
“I knew he was after something, yes. I did not know precisely what until—the day Isiilde was attacked.” There was pain and regret in his voice. “I had intended to act at the proper time, but I was outmaneuvered.”
A wave of guilt rippled through Isiilde. She had distracted him and left him open for betrayal. She felt his gaze on her, and a bandaged hand covered her own, but the gesture of comfort only caused her more distress—bandaged as they were, he could not even squee
ze her hands.
“Before we go forward with the answer to your question, Captain, we must go back some 3000 years to the widely accepted, but utterly fabricated, tale of the Isle’s origin.”
This statement earned everyone’s attention.
“The founding legend goes that Hengist Heartfang, one of nine, known unimaginatively as the Circle of Nine, claimed a sparsely populated island off the coast of what is now known as the Fell Wastes. It is said that these powerful men and women were seeking solitude so as to keep their knowledge of runes secret. Supposedly, Hengist, in his infinite and near divine wisdom, raised the Spine from the bedrock, thereby becoming the first Archlord of the Isle.”
Isiilde had heard the story many times during her apprenticeship. She was no longer surprised that the tale was false. It seemed everything was more complicated than history claimed. There was no black and white in the realms, only grey, full of blunder and shameful deeds.
“As with most things, there is some truth in the lie,” Marsais muttered. He paused to suck the marrow from a bone and chucked it into the fire. Isiilde could sense his hesitation, and knew he needed time to collect his thoughts.
Reluctantly, he continued. “What is not well known is who inhabited the Isle first. Have you all heard the name Pyrderi Har’Feydd?”
The captain and Lucas sucked in a sharp breath. Oenghus shut his eyes and winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. Isiilde looked at her guardian with concern. The pain, however, seemed to pass, and he leant against a rock, crossing his massive arms.
“For the sake of our younger members, let me explain.” Marsais’ eyes shone knowingly at her and his voice took on a gentle rhythm, as it always did when he told a story. “Pyrderi Har’Feydd was a faerie. Mind you, not as they are now, but as they were before the Shattering—he was one of the Lindale.
“The Lindale bore a connection with all life. As such, they killed only when needed, and took no pleasure in war. Pyrderi, however, was not content with the way things were. He began wondering of things better left unthought, dabbling in darkness and slaughter, opening his spirit to the Void.
“Deeds of torture and cruelty twisted his spirit, working contrary to all that he was. Eventually, a fiend from the Nine Halls began whispering to him in dreams, slicing through the veil between realms. Rather than shun this menace, Pyrderi welcomed every shadowed touch and he became the first Fey—a lifeless heart beat in his cold body.”
The nymph shivered. Every child was threatened with tales of the Fey. The royal nursemaid had been fond of such stories; however, Oenghus never recited them to her. The Fey were said to dwell in Somnial’s Realm, snatching naughty children in the night from beneath the shadows of their beds. Endless torture and terror awaited those who were taken.
“It was Pyrderi who, in his twisted experiments and gleeful tortures, created the Fomorri—a race of every nightmare ever dreamt.”
Isiilde knew of the Fomorri too. Their kingdom could be found in the east, to the south of Kiln, bordering the Great Expanse. More animal than man, legend said they had been formed by the maggots of the slain and cast no shadow. Once, while rifling through restricted books, she had seen a sketching of one. It was a disjointed mutation, twisted and haphazard, with a maw that split its face from ear to ear, bristling with three rows of teeth. Isiilde had wished she had never seen such a thing. But now she had—in the flesh. The Reapers were just as terrifying.
“With that explained—” Marsais paused, stroking his stunted goatee, gazing at some unseen thing on the rocks. “Hmm, try the red one. That ought to do the trick.”
Both paladins turned to look over their shoulders. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing there. Thankfully, his lapse was short.
“Pyrderi and the Isle,” she said, nudging him into the present.
“Yes of course.” He shook the confusion from his mind and continued, “The Sylph was heartbroken. One of her treasured creations had embraced her enemy. It was the beginning of the decline to her favored realm.”
Across the fire, Lucas’ dark eyes blazed, and his tongue lashed with righteous indignation. “Are you privy to the Sylph’s moods, Seer?”
“Hmm, I believe I’m the one relating this tale, so for the remainder of my narration: Yes, I am privy to her moods. Feel free to haul my arse to an Inquiry.”
Lucas seethed from across the fire, but Marsais met his anger with unwavering calm.
The bald paladin unnerved her. Scars covered his dark head, and presumably, the rest of his body. The skin was smooth, but twisted and pale, as if he had been badly burnt. Twin scars curved upwards from his lips, twisting his cheeks into a gruesome smile. Only a purposeful blade could have made those cuts.
With a flicker of irritation sparking through their bond, Marsais continued undaunted. “Chaos spread as Pyrderi gathered followers, and a new threat began to whisper in the lands: Pyrderi’s fiendish mentor, Karbonek, wanted to visit Fyrsta. His growing number of followers searched and found a way. On a certain Isle, off the coast of what is now the Fell Wastes, the veil between realms is thin, as it is on the Isle of Blight.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Acacia said slowly. Her words sounded like a curse.
“At the Sylph’s urging, Ulfhidhin recruited a group of formidable warriors known as the Nine. Hengist Heartfang was their leader. Together, with the god’s elite fighters, they stormed the isle.
“That’s ridiculous,” Lucas interrupted again.
“It’s the truth.”
“The wild god, Ulfhidhin, once abducted the Sylph. They are sworn enemies.”
“Are they?” Marsais glanced at Oenghus, who grumbled.
“By the Sacred Texts, yes.”
“Well then,” Marsais shrugged, “it seems you have your answers already.”
“Let him finish, Lucas,” warned Acacia. “No more interruptions. If you would be so kind, Marsais?”
Marsais inclined his head. “Unfortunately, Ulfhidhin and his warriors were too late. Pyrderi had already completed the ritual; however, the crossing between veils weakened the greater fiend, along with Pyrderi. Seeking to take advantage of their vulnerability, the Nine struck, but they were outnumbered by the Fey, and Karbonek, even weakened, was formidable.
“Ulfhidhin fought the greater fiend, and pushed him back, blow by blow, but the fiend was too powerful. Karbonek impaled the god. With the last of his strength, Ulfhidhin wrapped a chain around the fiend’s neck and dragged him back through the Gateway.
“In that moment, Hengist killed Pyrderi. The Fey’s spirit was tied to the ritual that summoned his god and the Gateway closed, but the chain remained, trapping Karbonek between veils. The Gateway’s abrupt closure resulted in an ill occurrence—when Karbonek began to claw and tear his way back, the earth stirred.
“The tunnels that his followers had hewn from the bedrock were raised. And Hengist, in his wisdom and desperation, bound himself to the rock, sacrificing himself for eternity. In essence, he warded the Spine with his spirit, entombing Karbonek and trapping the Fey. Ulfhidhin, along with his elite warriors, and all save one of the Nine perished.
“You see the Spine is not a stronghold, it is not a monument to knowledge, nor a testament to greatness—it is a prison.”
Seven
SILENCE ANSWERED THE revelation. Gentle rain drummed against the earth and the flames crackled cheerfully in the fire pit.
Oenghus shook off the silence. “That gods’ forsaken room that has no name—let me guess: Pyrderi and his followers?”
“Very insightful for a barbarian.” Marsais’ jab earned him a baleful glare.
Acacia cut to the point. “You handed a madman a map to a trapped fiend who was powerful enough to kill Ulfhidhin?”
“I told him where he could find the map, yes.”
“Can Tharios free Karbonek?”
“Ordinarily, no.” Marsais cleared his throat. “However, I’ve learned that Tharios recently acquired Soisskeli’s Stave.”
“Th
e Soisskeli? The Chaos Lord who bound the dragons and used them to fight Iilenshar? The very same Chaos Lord who was defeated by the Serene One in battle?”
“I believe there is only one Soisskeli.”
Acacia blinked. The implications were daunting. “Legend claims that the Stave has infinite binding capabilities. Is that true?”
“Anything not of this realm, yes.”
“Can Tharios reopen the Gateway?” Acacia asked, slowly.
“Not without aid.”
Isiilde held her breath. She could feel Marsais’ hesitation through their bond. Whatever his internal conflict, he came to a decision—it felt like plunging over a cliff. “Not only can Soisskeli’s Stave bind, but it can also activate a Runic Gateway—a portal between realms.”
Oenghus cursed.
“The Sylph preserve us,” Acacia breathed, touching her lips in supplication.
Lucas surged to his feet. “You knew all of this and yet you spilled your cowardly guts to an Unspoken to save a nymph some discomfort?” Rage rolled off the paladin. His fists flexed, as if gripping a sword, preparing to run the seer through.
“There is far more at stake than you know, Sir Lucas,” Marsais stated, firmly.
“What could possibly be worse than freeing the Fomorrian god from his prison? It will be the Isle of Blight all over again!” Lucas took a threatening step forward.
“Lieutenant.” His captain’s calm order halted his advancement. Lucas stiffened and took a step back, but the smoldering glare he directed at Marsais made Isiilde shrink.
“Marsais, I have to agree with my lieutenant. Any of us would have suffered without question to keep this knowledge out of Tharios’ hands. Except for your attachment to the nymph, I can’t imagine what would take precedence over a threat such as this. You have traded this realm for a single life. How many innocents will find a far worse fate than the one that awaited us in that dungeon?”
The paladins stared at Marsais, even Rivan turned from his post. Isiilde could hardly breathe. Marsais’ words rang in her mind: ‘If it had been anyone else.’ Guilt, she discovered, was a stifling burden.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 5