Eiji shot the dwarf a scathing look. “Kneel before the Archlord.”
Witman did not kneel, but continued to gape at the monolithic surroundings.
From his lofty perch, the dark-haired Archlord eyed the disheveled dwarf. Tharios sat on the obsidian throne with a casualness that his disposed predecessor had lacked. The younger Archlord relished the unyielding throne, and its power sat comfortably on his shoulders.
“May I present Witman the Wondrous,” Isek bowed.
Witman lifted up his spectacles and squinted at the pale oval hovering in shadow. “What happened to the laddie?”
“You hadn’t heard?” Isek feigned surprise. Witman would not have come willingly if Isek had told him that Marsais was no longer Archlord.
“They took him!” the dwarf shouted, wringing his hands, and backing up, step by step. A knife’s tip drew him up short, digging into his back. Witman hopped forward, swiveling to find Eiji with blade in hand.
“There’s no need for such measures, Eiji. Put your toys away.” Tharios rose, gliding off his dais with a graceful swish of silk. “I am Tharios, the newly appointed Archlord. I assumed that everyone would have heard by now.”
“Aye, well,” Witman dug into his ear with a stubby finger. “They put a bug in my ear. It steals words.”
Tharios pursed his lips. “You are Witman, the enchanter, correct?”
“I might enchant a bit here and there, mostly there. So which took him?” Witman pulled a glob from his ear, flicked it on the marble floor, and leaned forward, licking his lips. “The others, or those—Other ones?”
“Others?” Tharios asked, folding his hands inside his wide sleeves.
“Marsais was not taken,” Isek explained. “The Blessed Order has laid charges against him: conspiring with fiends and using Bloodmagic. He fled with Oenghus and the nymph.”
Witman leaned back and opened his mouth, releasing a bellowing laugh that echoed through the hall. His belly heaved, and it seemed his laughter had no end.
“It’s hardly a laughing matter,” Tharios cut through his amusement. “Bloodmagic is forbidden.”
Witman wiped the tears from his eyes. “I was wondering when they’d find out about all that!” The dwarf continued to chortle, spittle misting his beard. “The laddie always did have odd tastes.”
“What are you talking about?” Eiji asked.
Isek cleared his throat. “Witman—”
“Are you sure this is the enchanter?” Tharios demanded.
“Always being watched, we are. They’re always waiting.” Witman’s mood shifted like mercury. He took a step forward, pinning Tharios with one bright eye. “If you find the laddie, he owes me coin.”
“If it’s coin you want, then I have it—in exchange for your services.”
“I’m on a holiday.” Witman grunted, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat.
“You would be well compensated.”
“For what? Shining those fancy boots of yours?”
Tharios took a deep, calming breath. “A ward. We need you to unravel a ward.”
“A ward that the laddie left behind?” Witman whistled. “For that, I best be compensated very well indeed.”
“I have coin.”
“I don’t want coin, Mr Archlord.”
“Then what?”
“A peek into the laddie’s vault in that there Spine. And whatever I can carry out of it.”
Tharios smiled. “Save one item—a flask.”
Witman shrugged, and patted a squarish bulge under his coat. “I’ve got my own, won’t be needing one.”
“The sooner the better.”
Witman extended his stubby hand and Tharios hesitated for the briefest of moments—a mere flutter of an eyelash. Rumors surrounded the enchanter, some wild, some fanciful, but all of them dangerous. No one double-crossed Witman the Wondrous without grave consequences.
Tharios shook his hand, sealing their gentleman’s agreement.
❧
The blood had been scrubbed from the stone beneath his feet. Witman stood in front of a door, squinting at a web of runes. The current Archlord stood at his side, hands clasped serenely behind his back.
“So you want me to get in this vault, or do you want me to unravel the ward?”
“We need to get in the vault, yes,” Tharios answered the question for the third time.
“So,” Witman tugged at his waistcoat. “You want me to get into the vault?”
A muscle twitched along Tharios’ jaw, but he answered again, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “We. Need. To. Get. Inside.”
“Right then, leave it to me.” Witman clapped his hands and stepped towards the door. With wild ceremony and grand gestures, the dwarf waved his hands in the air like a man trying to move a stubborn donkey. Three sets of eyes were glued to his movements, and then he paused, freezing like a statue. Abruptly, he reached out and grabbed the knob, turning it. The door swung inward, leaving the ward intact.
Realization dawned on the three Wise Ones with varying degrees of teeth grinding.
“And that is why they call me Witman the Wondrous. The laddie always forgets to lock his doors.” Witman chortled, and stepped inside the vault.
The flagon sat in a maze of priceless artifacts, on the same shelf that Isiilde had stood on a chest of gems to reach. Its companion was missing, stolen by curious fingers, and opened by a foolish nymph.
Tharios said nothing. The oversight was humiliating—no one had thought to try the knob. Most lords would rage and shout, proclaiming the stupidity of their underlings, but not Tharios. He was more concerned with the end result. He plucked the flagon off its shelf, and cradled it like a man holding his firstborn.
“So that’s it, aye? That’s all you wanted?” Witman squinted at the flagon. “I’ll just take what I can carry, then?”
“Yes, of course,” Tharios murmured. “Thank you for your service.”
“Archlord,” the voice was followed by a face: Gabin Archer, a Wise One who had hidden beneath a cowl when they ambushed Marsais. Isek had to hand it to Tharios. The man had built an enclave of Unspoken right under the noses of the Order—his own included.
Tharios, Eiji, and Isek stepped outside, leaving Witman to his noisy rummaging.
“We’ve cleared Marsais’ private chambers, but there is something—strange. An armoire. We can’t move it,” Gabin explained. Tharios digested the failure without comment, trusting to his underling’s instincts.
“Show me.”
Gabin led the way to Marsais’ former chambers. The rooms were naked and gleaming with cleanliness. The group’s footsteps echoed in the large chamber. The charred bed was gone, and an aching memory clutched Isek’s loins—of the shimmering nymph sprawled on the bed.
Isek tore his gaze from the vacant spot and scanned the polished room. He approved of the order. Disposing of his old friend was nearly worth the price of seeing the room uncluttered. Yet, one piece remained: an elegant armoire sat defiantly in the corner.
Odd. That was an apt description. Isek could not recall ever seeing it before. As cluttered as the room was, he might have missed it, but it was large, too large to miss. His eyes slid from the armoire’s dusty surface, and he refocused his gaze on the doors, only to slide right off again, landing on the wall. It was slippery—enchanted.
Tharios passed the flagon to Eiji, and took a cautious step towards the armoire. His lacquered nails flashed, weaving a complicated weave, and a series of runes that Isek could not follow. Slowly, a runic pattern took shape, swirling around the armoire, creeping between the stone wall and wood. With a firm inflection, Tharios clapped his hands, and the illusion broke, shattering with a thunderclap. A solid slab of obsidian dominated the corner, pulsing with wards. Tharios sucked in sharp surprise, his eyes hungry.
“Marsais did say it was a flask, in his bedchambers—not his vault,” Isek reminded the three Unspoken.
The ward was as complicated as the Storm Gate and the vault that
had vexed them for days. Tharios placed a hand on the imposing stone. The Runic Eye of the Archlord flared to life on his palm. The sun blazed blue from the stone, searing and bright, and white hot. Isek averted his gaze, shielding his eyes with his forearm. When the heat subsided, he slowly lowered his arm, blinking past black spots.
The stone wavered like a pool, rippling with undercurrents. Its front swirled like liquid, parting, thinning. A hazy scene took shape: two thick tomes and a long-necked flask sat in the stone’s center.
Tharios reached through the obsidian, and snatched the three items from their nest. Stone returned with a grinding snap that extinguished the runes.
“I will never understand Wise Ones and their fascination with flasks,” Eiji remarked, standing on the tips of her toes to study the items in Tharios’ hand.
“Get Witman.”
Eiji shot off like a dart, and was back before Isek had time to form a question. “Witman’s gone, and the vault is completely empty.”
“Find him,” Tharios hissed.
Every guard and Wise One lingering in the upper chambers fanned out to search for the enchanter, roaming through the storage rooms, libraries, and suite, but no one had seen the dwarf leave.
Isek stood in the vault’s entrance, gazing at the emptiness. There wasn’t a copper left. Instead, a crudely drawn circle of chalk sat in the very center of the vault, mocking them all.
Twenty-seven
IT BEGAN WITH a few innocent flurries that never quite touched ground. A single snowflake landed on Isiilde’s cheek. She sneezed. Marsais jerked awake in the early morning, rolling out from under the nymph before another burst graced his robe.
In an instant, the skies spit down their fury, snuffing out the small campfire. Wind howled through the trees, dark and bitter, snatching branches and pummeling the proud redwoods. The group scrambled to gather supplies.
“The longhouse,” Acacia shouted over the storm, but Oenghus shook his head.
“We can’t stay there all winter.” His bellow drowned the storm, and his words left no room for argument. Without asking, Oenghus snatched up Isiilde, flung her onto his back, and pulled his kilt over her head in winter fashion. She did not argue. The blanket of white gathering on the ground made her feet ache.
As the sun rose, somewhere distant and unseen, the world transformed from emerald to white, bringing a chilling wind that sliced to the bone. Isiilde huddled against her guardian’s back, arms locked around his neck, hands tucked close to his skin for warmth. Marsais trudged beside Oenghus, bracing against sharp gusts that snaked below the canopy.
“Can you find the village in this weather?” Acacia shouted into the wind.
Oenghus harrumphed, and turned. “There’s nothing like a wee storm to stir yer kilt. Trust me, Captain.”
“One moment, Oen.” Marsais wove a quick ward, and tapped Isiilde’s head. Warmth spread through her body, tingling down to her bare toes. She stopped shivering.
Cold wards were best used sparingly. As with a healing, the body became dependent on the weave.
Marsais repeated the cold ward for himself, sighing as the familiar sting took hold. Satisfied that Isiilde was safe, he tucked in his chin, wrapped his arms around his body, and trudged after Oenghus, trusting to the barbarian’s instincts.
Sometime later, Marsais bumped into an unyielding surface. Isiilde twisted around, checking on him. They had stopped. Marsais blinked, squinting into the whiteness. It was impossible to tell the time of day, but it was dark and cold, and Oenghus squeezed through a cluster of boulders, perched on the edge of a ravine.
The wind abated behind the solid rock, muffled but angry. Marsais’ ears rang in the relative silence. He stepped forward, helping Isiilde to the ground, as Oenghus summoned the Lore. The berserker’s voice boomed, and he focused his heavy hand on a small recess beneath a boulder. At his sharp request the earth shifted, creating a hollow beneath the rock and an overhang.
Marsais guided Isiilde into the crude shelter. A soft murmur sprang to his lips as he traced a fire rune into the rock. The boulder glowed with warmth, pulsed, and held steady. Isiilde crawled onto the heated surface, curling in a ball beneath her cloak.
“The village isn’t far,” Oenghus yelled over the wind. The paladins blinked in surprise, but Marsais was unmoved. Oenghus possessed an uncanny sense of direction. Drop him blindfolded in the middle of the Great Expanse and he would unerringly lead the way to the nearest tavern. “Lucas and me will scout it out. The Scarecrow isn’t too good in close combat, Captain. Keep them safe.”
“Drop the title, and stay out of trouble.”
Oenghus’ eyes crinkled in a smile. “Acacia it is. At least I’m making progress.”
The captain ignored the comment and nodded to her lieutenant. The two men trudged into the bleakness, and the remaining group took shelter against the rock. Isiilde climbed onto Marsais, straddling his lap, and chest to chest, she wrapped her cloak around them both, burying her nose against his neck. His body warmed considerably.
“I don’t suppose we could start a fire?” Rivan chattered, hugging his wolf pelt tightly around his shoulders.
“Be my guest.”
Rivan gazed at the whiteout, rubbed his snow scorched eyes, and blinked. It took him an inordinate amount of time to realize that there was no dry wood. “I think my armor is frozen.”
“You’ll warm up, Rivan. We have heat, Lucas and Oenghus don’t.” Acacia settled against the enchanted rock, gazing into the sheet of white.
“You’re not upset that he ordered you to stay behind, sir?”
“To guard what he holds most dear? No.”
Rivan shifted, leaning forward to peer at the nymph huddled in the ancient’s arms. “Maybe so, but I don’t like it, sir.”
“Part of leading, Rivan, is knowing when to listen—no matter who speaks. Now quiet and keep your eyes open.”
Marsais glanced at the woman pressed against the boulder. Her pale gaze met his, and he inclined his head with respect. One sensible person was worth ten brutish warriors in any situation. The Knight Captain gave him hope.
❧
The temperature plummeted with the hidden sun, and Rivan’s stamina wavered. His Mearcentian blood was not used to such extremes. After the captain elbowed him awake a third time, Marsais traced a delicate fire rune, reached across Acacia, and carefully brushed his armor. The steel heated, but only slightly. If any other Wise One had attempted such a weave, the young man would have been cooked alive.
“Thank you, sir,” Rivan sighed, soaking up the warm cocoon with closed eyes.
“And you, Captain?” His hand was poised, waiting for permission.
“Please.”
Marsais tapped her shoulder. Acacia sat cross-legged, sword laid across her knees. She remained alert, although the set of her jaw relaxed a fraction.
“Most Wise Ones become fatigued after using the Gift, but you seem unaffected.”
“Long practice.” Marsais raised a shoulder.
“You don’t get tired? Can’t you draw too much? What does your Order call it—a Backlash?”
Isiilde’s ears perked up at the question, and she lowered her cloak long enough to peek up at Marsais with a single eye.
“Hmm, I haven’t had any issues yet.” Marsais waved a dismissive hand, but the nymph continued to study him. He winked, and the eye narrowed before she pulled the cloak back over her head.
The seer sat silently, lost in shifting paths of time. Visions danced before his eyes, looming from the swirling drifts, flashing to life, then carried away by the winds: death, carnage, darkness. Marsais had seen it all. With cool detachment, he stored each behind a locked door, some hideous, some pristine, some so covered in plate and defenses that it would take an army to unlock their secrets.
Marsais strolled through the fragments of Time, opening doors, examining pieces, rearranging them in their proper places. Thousands upon thousands of puzzles all mixed together in one giant heap, some of which we
re missing pieces. It was an exhausting process, and jumping to conclusions always proved disastrous. Time had taught him that.
A silken hand brushed his cheek, ripping Marsais from his mental maze. He looked down, finding a pair of fear-filled eyes. The paladins stirred with a clink of mail, and the captain stood.
“Listen,” Acacia hissed. “Something is stirring on the wind.”
“Wolves?” Rivan joined her, easing his sword from its scabbard.
The wind sucked in a breath, gathering flurries to its embrace. In the lull, a deep-throated moan drifted into the void, grating against their ears with misery and pain. Rivan gulped, gripping his hilt until his knuckles mirrored the snow. Another moan overlapped the first, riding on its heels, ripped from some dark recess of an inhuman throat.
Isiilde whimpered against Marsais’ neck, and he quickly nudged her aside, rising to his feet. His coins chimed a quiet warning that was lost on the wind. Snow drifts swirled, and the world was white, save for four blots on the horizon, moving slowly through the trees. Marsais moved in front of his nymph, as if he could spare her the sight of the nearing horrors.
“Marsais?”
His fingers flashed, weaving an orb of light in the dark. The blue orb crackled to life and drifted forward, casting a haunting glow over the storm. Four looming shadows broke through the trees, monstrous and macabre with stitched flesh and iron lashings. Taller than Oenghus, their eyes gleamed with a ghastly light. A gust of wind carried the stench of decay.
“Golems,” Acacia breathed in realization. She took a step back, bracing herself.
Wrought from flesh and iron and willing spirits, the golems were resistant to the Gift, to Time itself, making them tireless hunters.
Marsais’ fingers twitched. “Guard Isiilde, Rivan!” His bark pierced the wind.
The paladin moved to the side, standing between nymph and seer. Marsais hurried down the ravine, wading through the drifts, coming up the other side, closing the distance. Acacia matched him stride for stride, shifting her stance to meet the charging behemoths.
The four bellowed, inhuman and deafening. Marsais acted quickly, weaving a runic hand. He thrust out his own, and the ethereal form raced towards a boulder. Gritting his teeth, he plucked the unwieldy boulder off the ground hurling it at the nearest attacker. The rock tore into the first golem, ripping its arm from its shoulder.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 20