“There are Gnomish markings on some of these pillars too,” Acacia added.
“What are we looking for, exactly?”
“There was a city here once, Sir Lucas,” Marsais replied. “We might be able to salvage something.”
“It’s a two thousand year old ruin. What are you expecting to find aside from a Reaper’s lair?”
Marsais stopped, and turned, smiling at Lucas. “I’ll know when I find it.”
A short laugh escaped Rivan’s throat. Lucas glared at the younger solider, who quickly swallowed his amusement.
The group wandered inside a ring of standing stones. The dome top had cracked and shattered, and was strewn across the cracked floor. Veins of gold and silver shot through the rock, and a shallow basin sat in its center—a fountain, long barren and worn. Isiilde looked up, and a sky of glowing lichen greeted her, shining like greenish stars. Given the subterranean lake in the center—the fountains, precious metals, and intricate carvings—the cavern must have been beautiful once.
“Look at this.” Acacia crouched in front of a crumbling wall, pulling away vines to reveal a relatively intact bas-relief. Three circles intertwined with three wolves, each holding the other’s tail in a continuous, never ending cycle.
“What is it?” Rivan and Isiilde asked as one. Rivan peered over the nymph’s shoulder, and she glanced at him, conscious of his close proximity. He cleared his throat and took a step back.
“I think this was a temple to the ol’Father.” Acacia pointed to each of the circles.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Rivan said, and Isiilde nodded in agreement.
“I doubt you would,” Acacia admitted. “He was an Eldar god who was worshipped long before the Shattering. There are few surviving texts that mention the god. And those that do are forbidden by the Blessed Order.”
“Hah!” Oenghus barked from the far edge of the pillars. “I knew you weren’t as straight-laced as you give off.”
“I’m a Knight Captain, Oenghus. At my rank, the Order assumes that one is immune to sacrilegious teachings.”
“And are you immune, Captain?” Marsais inquired.
She looked up at the ancient. “If a mere myth turned me towards the Void, then I wouldn’t be much of a Knight Captain, now would I?”
“Did the ol’Father serve the Void?” Isiilde asked, tracing the carving with her fingertips.
“No.” Two pairs of expectant eyes burrowed into the captain. She pressed her lips together, weighing the mandates of her Order versus knowledge. The latter won out. “These three rings represent the moons: the Silver Crescent of the Sylph, the Red Moon of the Keeper, and the Dark One’s moon.”
“The moons have had many names,” Marsais mused.
“The ol’Father was the Weaver of Fates and Time. The wolves in the symbol represent the endlessness of time, and his control of it. Myth claims that the cycle of moons held no sway over the Eldar god—that he alone knew the Fate of the Sylph and Void. He was a god who stood apart from all others.”
“Oh, Fate is just a word made up by those afraid of the future,” Marsais grumbled, scratching his chest. “May I make one correction to your tale, Captain?”
“Of course.”
“I believe your Order may have changed the meaning of this symbol from truly blasphemous to only slightly blasphemous. So brace yourselves, my good paladins.”
Marsais waited until each and every pair of eyes settled on him, save Oenghus, who was rooting around the ruins like a disgruntled badger.
“Those rings do not represent the moons, but the Sylphs.”
“There is only one Sylph,” Lucas objected.
“Those who worshipped the ol’ Father thought differently, Sir Lucas.” Marsais frowned at the symbols. “They believed that there were originally three Sylphs—three sisters.”
“You’re right, that is blasphemous.”
“Maybe so, but not to the people who carved this symbol into the stone, or built this temple. There is an old legend, long buried, regarding the birth of Life and the Void.”
“It’s best left lost, then.”
“Ignorance is viler than knowledge,” stated Marsais.
“It’s only a story, Lucas,” Acacia said.
“Ah, eons condensed into a few words,” Marsais whispered hoarsely. “How quaint.”
“What did the old ones say about the Sylphs?” asked Rivan.
“This first circle is the Sylph that we know, the Goddess of All—she who holds the essence of Life itself. And here, the second is her sister Chaos.” Marsais traced the last circle with care: a brush and caress, and a far away stare. A wave of disorientation swept through their bond. He closed his eyes and swayed, but no one seemed to notice save Isiilde. As fast as it happened, he had recovered, and he met her worried eyes with reassurance—and a shadow of sadness. “This circle is the third sister: Death.”
Abruptly, Marsais rose, dusting off his knees. He turned his back on the three, gazing at the cavern.
“What happened to the Sylphs, sir?” Rivan pressed. “Why aren’t all three still worshipped?” The young man glanced at Lucas, and cleared his throat, “I mean if they lived at all that is, how does the story go?”
“It’s a story for the fireside, not down here, young man. But you bring up an interesting question—one for you to ponder. When people stop worshipping a god and the god drifts into obscurity—is he still a god?”
Isiilde tilted her head, and Rivan opened his mouth with an answer, but quickly shut it, frowning in thought instead.
“Scarecrow.” They all turned at Oenghus’ call. “I think there might be a door here.” The group climbed over fallen stone and earth to where the Nuthaanian stood—in front of the rock face.
Marsais traced a runic eye over a spirit rune and nudged it towards the cavern wall. Green runes flared to life on the rock, intertwined as tightly as a knot. It was a ward—a very old one.
“I would have never seen that,” Acacia said, nodding to Oenghus, who flashed his teeth in what Isiilde supposed was charming for her guardian—as charming as he could be at any rate.
“What do you think is in there?” Rivan leaned towards the ward, squinting at the swirling runes. Marsais quickly grabbed the paladin’s shoulder and pulled him back with an irritated glare.
“The last thing you want to do is activate it.”
“Can I unravel it, Marsais?” Isiilde’s ears quivered with anticipation.
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“No, she can’t bloody unravel it,” Oenghus growled. “What if she sets it off?”
“Oh, come now, Isiilde can unravel my best ward with barely a strain on her brilliant mind. Hmm, she did lead us into the cavern after all.”
“But I found the door,” Oenghus argued.
“Did you want to unravel it, Oen?”
Oenghus crossed his massive arms. Isiilde stared up at him, waiting for his reply. Her guardian would have better luck using his head than the Lore. Wards were not his strong point. Isiilde, however, loved wards. The enchanted traps were a lot like unraveling a puzzle knot, only she happened to be dangling from the same rope she was unraveling. If she pulled the wrong strand, the rope would unravel completely, setting off whatever fiendish trap the weaver had concocted.
“Absolutely not, Sprite.” But before the words had completely formed on his tongue, she shot forward, pressing her hands to the rock and summoning the Lore. Her mind surged into the complicated weave, leaving her body with careless abandon, following a pulsing interconnecting web of deadly triggers. She tugged and snipped and teased the runes free, until the entire knot unwound, revealing its secrets.
Isiilde’s eyes snapped open. She smiled at the wall, and muttered the Lore of Opening, sweeping her hand over the stone. The rock cracked open and noxious, deadly gas seeped from the dark opening.
She stepped back quickly, and Marsais’ fingers flashed, weaving a breeze to carry away the poisonous air.
; “But I didn’t set it off,” she coughed.
“Just bad air from being sealed so long, Sprite. Somehow I don’t think this will lead us to the surface.”
Acacia’s shield flared with light and she thrust it into the darkness. “The stairs lead down.”
“Might as well take a look,” Oenghus grunted, as he hoisted his hammer and ducked, moving into the narrow staircase.
“We’re going down there?” asked Rivan.
“You can stay,” the giant called over his shoulder.
Rivan glanced at Isiilde and Marsais, straightened his shoulders, and drew his sword, moving confidently into the dark.
Lucas looked to his captain. “He’s eager to impress.”
“Aren’t all men?” Acacia asked, and sensing her lieutenant’s line of thought, she added dryly, “He’ll be fine, Lucas.” Her gaze flickered to Marsais. “Trust me.”
“If you’re sure, Captain. I hope he doesn’t accidentally stab the Nuthaanian.”
“I doubt Oenghus will notice,” Marsais quipped. “After you, Captain?”
Acacia ducked inside, and Isiilde made to follow, but Marsais brought her up short. “Hmm, doors do not always remain open, my dear.”
She shuddered at the thought. “Being buried alive is not one of my preferred ways of dying.”
“I thought as much.”
“I’ll stand guard,” Lucas offered.
“Appreciated,” Marsais nodded, placing a hand on the stone door. He spread his fingers and muttered the Lore. Runes flashed and subsided, and he ducked into the tunnel. Isiilde followed him down the stairwell, aware of the pressing stone. It reminded her of their capture, and subsequent events in the dungeon. Panic fluttered down her spine. A hand encompassed her own, gripping it with reassuring strength, and she moved closer to her Bonded.
The passage was long, interspersed with intersections and alcoves storing the dead and their brittle bones in all their untouched splendor—until now. In a chamber of alcoves, Oenghus tugged at a skeleton, stripping it of a jeweled necklace.
“You can’t take that!” Rivan gasped. “Don’t you have any honor?”
“He doesn’t bloody need it, now does he?”
Every frazzled nerve in Isiilde’s body screamed at her to leave. She tugged on Marsais’ sleeve as he examined a cobweb covered sword.
The moment Isiilde found her voice, a frigid wind swept through the room, stirring her hair and sending needles of ice through her bones. The room erupted with a piercing wail as a hazy form shot from an alcove.
A tattered funeral robe swirled around the swift apparition. It darted towards the nymph, eyes seething with fire. Oenghus threw his hammer, but it passed through the howling spirit. Marsais stepped in front of Isiilde, coins chiming as he snatched up the sword, and brought its point to bear.
“I think not,” he said simply. The fluttering rags drew up short, opening a shapeless mouth and unleashing fury. The wail pierced their ears, Acacia’s voice rose in a chant, and Rivan swung his sword at the creature as it retreated. His blade passed through the Forsaken, and he screamed, stunned by the chill that swept up his arm. His sword clattered to the ground, and the kilted barbarian threw himself to the side, narrowly missing the incorporeal form’s attack.
An instant later, Captain Mael raised her sword. “Leave us!” The blade flared, and the Forsaken was caught in a whirlwind of searing light. Rags dissipated, the form shimmered and churned, and tore a great shrieking rent in the air. Reddened eyes blazed with hatred.
Anguish beat at Isiilde’s heart—hunger, pain, torture and madness. She clutched her ears as agony pounded at her sanity.
“Silence!” Marsais’ voice cut through the shriek, and Acacia’s blade ripped through the spirit. A flurry of ash drifted slowly to the floor.
All was quiet, all was still, and Isiilde stood on trembling legs.
“Stubborn bugger,” Oenghus spat, retrieving his hammer with a long string of inventive oaths.
“A Forsaken, my dear,” Marsais explained, wrapping his arm around Isiilde’s shoulders. She pressed her face into his chest, willing the world away. “Just a Forsaken—a very old and faded spirit.”
“Aye, Sprite, they’re a miserable bunch.” A heavy hand patted her back, knocking the air from her lungs before moving on.
“That’s an understatement,” Acacia muttered, inspecting Rivan’s arm. It was limp and his fingers refused to bend.
“It feels like ice, Captain,” Rivan chattered.
“It will pass,” Acacia assured.
“I can’t do this, Marsais,” Isiilde breathed into the front of his robe.
He leaned down, speaking softly, “But you already are.”
“Is everything so terrible in this realm?”
She felt him shrug. “It could always be worse.”
Isiilde frowned, and arched her neck, seeking his calm, grey eyes. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“You seem a talented liar, Marsais. I doubt I’d know.”
“You wouldn’t,” he agreed. “All the same, upon my honor, I swear that there is joy to be had.”
“We didn’t find a feathery bed.”
“Not yet.” Marsais’ eyes glittered. “But we do have a tomb to loot, and grave robbing has always been one of my guilty pleasures.”
Isiilde nearly laughed, because she knew, beyond a doubt, he was not lying.
“You approve of this, Marsais?” Acacia asked, gesturing at Oenghus.
“The dead have little need of such things in the Spirit River. Just think, one of these slumbering mounds of dust could have held Rivan’s spirit in a past life.”
The paladin blinked, and took a step back.
“That sounds like a thief’s reasoning to me,” Acacia noted.
“I have been many things in my lifetime, Captain. And I freely admit to being a rogue at heart.” Marsais held his pillaged sword up, inspecting the blade with a critical eye. Its cross-guard was short, the blade double-edged.
“This blade would have connected with the Forsaken. I’m surprised the Blessed Order doesn’t issue better weapons for their soldiers.”
Marsais presented the hilt to Acacia. Without hesitation, she accepted the offering, inspected it, and blew on the blade. An intricate pattern materialized on the metal. Isiilde edged forward, as did Rivan, and her guardian peered over their heads at the sword. A row of wolves chased each other along the blade. Acacia handed Rivan the arming sword, and Marsais plucked a smooth stone from the crypt.
“This is the blade’s Heartstone,” Marsais explained, pressing the plunder into Rivan’s hand. “Do not lose it.”
“What does it do?”
“Smites the good-hearted,” Oenghus snorted. “What do you think it does, lad?”
Rivan held the sword up, studying the design. “It’s the ol’ Father’s symbol, isn’t it?”
“Aye, and he’s been fighting the Void longer than your blasted Order.”
“Have a care, Oenghus.” Acacia said.
“Never been my strong point,” the Nuthaanian grunted, sweeping a pile of bones off their eternal resting place with a careless hand.
Acacia dismissed the barbarian with coolness and tapped the stone in Rivan’s hand. “Use this to sharpen the blade. Such stones are usually attached to the scabbard, though I’m sure that is long rotted.”
Isiilde turned, searching for Marsais, but he was gone. She found him standing in front of an alcove, gently shifting the brittle occupant. It had been a woman once, or a man with very long hair. The hair was whisper thin, as white and brittle as ash, still clinging stubbornly to a preserved skull. She wrinkled her nose and backed away as he tugged a garment free and shook it out. A cloud of grave dust flew into the air. She sneezed and a burst of flame puffed from her ears. The nymph felt the touch of eyes—Rivan was staring at her. The paladin tilted his head, as if she were a puzzle that needed another perspective, and Isiilde’s ears turned red.
“Hmm, sorry,” Marsais said, giving the garment another firm shake. It was a cloak, and he started to place it on her shoulders, but Isiilde flinched, taking a step back.
“That was on a dead person,” she squeaked.
“Better dead than half dead. I’d wager this smells better than Rivan’s leggings.”
She glanced at Rivan, who quickly began fiddling with his plundered sword.
“Yes, it probably does,” Isiilde conceded. With a sigh, she accepted the cloak and allowed it to embrace her body. Despite its age and dust, it was lightweight and warm, and she said as much.
“It’s a traveler’s cloak. The Lindale were excellent tailors, which is why it has survived all these years. Unfortunately, I don’t see any boots for you.”
A curved knife appeared in front of her eyes. “Here, Sprite.” And then it was pressed in her hand. The feel of the hilt against her palm unleashed a torrent of flashing sensations, of pain, leering eyes and stone digging into her cheek. The smell of blood, muck, and lust. Her vision narrowed, her heart raced, and a hand reached through the veil of death, squeezing her throat.
“Oenghus,” Marsais hissed, snatching the knife from her fingers. The weapon disappeared behind his back. “It’s all right, my dear,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep it until you’re ready.”
Oenghus frowned at his daughter. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists, wishing he could kill the bastard who had raped her all over again, but there was no enemy within range, and nothing to say—no comfort to give nor reassurances that would chase the past away.
“Come on, Sprite, let’s find you some sunlight.”
Isiilde wrapped the cloak tightly around her, ignoring the smell of musty decay and worn time to stare longingly at its previous owner. The Dead, she decided, looked very peaceful.
A familiar hand rested on her shoulder, steering her away from the funeral bed and out of the tomb.
Twenty-two
AS MARSAIS SUSPECTED, there was a stairway leading up, a long winding climb that was strewn with rubble. When the path was blocked, Oenghus made easy work of the obstacle, reducing rock to dust. It was little wonder that such a large man was unaffected by confined spaces—Oenghus Saevaldr simply forced the stone to suit his size.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 15