Dim torches dotted the village, moving between huts, hunting for their escaped herd as Oenghus and the others were caught in the current, moving swiftly away from shore until the sounds of horns and flickering torches fell behind a veil of snow. The canoe reached the opposite shore and hugged its contours until a flash of steel signaled Lucas’ presence.
Oenghus dragged his paddle in the water, steering them towards the bank. The bow of the canoe bumped snow as Lucas grabbed the boat. The bundle of furs in the front hissed at the paladin.
“What are these?”
“The only smart ones in the bunch.” Oenghus was surprised the freed captives hadn’t bolted the moment the canoe touched ground. But there was caution. The bundle of furs watched the two men as they hid the third canoe. Keeping his movements slow, Oenghus reached into a sack and brought out a plundered dagger, presenting it hilt first. A hand snaked from beneath the furs, grabbing it from his fingers.
“Go if you like, I have to—” Oenghus trailed off, gazing towards the sky, past swirling snowflakes and a shifting night, to a glow hovering over the treetops. Fire.
A panicked Whisper slammed into his ears, confirming his fears. “Isiilde is dying!”
Oenghus cursed and ran, leaving Lucas and the freed captives in confusion. He charged through the forest like a bull, ignoring snow drifts and wind, barreling through bramble with unerring instinct.
The glow grew, the snow swirled, parting for a thin shadow. Oenghus charged the Scarecrow, as pale as his hair in the dark, cradling Isiilde’s limp form in his arms. The two men did not waste time with words. Oenghus pressed his palms against the nymph’s forehead and stomach, summoning the Gift and plunging his awareness into her body.
The thin, wavering line of flame that was her spirit nearly shattered his focus. With careful skill, Oenghus fed his spirit into the nymph, bolstering, nurturing, sacrificing his own strength for the sake of hers. When he withdrew, he was weak, and shivering with cold.
“Four golems,” Marsais rasped, holding the nymph tightly. “She tried to help, and lost control.”
“And what?”
“I took her fire.”
Oenghus’ eyes smoldered, but now was not the time to pummel Marsais. “We have canoes. Where are the others?”
“Rivan is injured badly. The captain, too.”
Oenghus staggered to his feet, pointed the way he had come, and ran on, searching for the others. He found them on their feet, fire licking their backs. Acacia supported the majority of Rivan’s weight as they fought the snow drifts. Most of Rivan’s armor was missing, blood matted his hair, and his leg dragged uselessly through the snow.
“He’s bad,” Acacia said in greeting. “Crushed.”
Rivan struggled to breathe, his features strained with pain. Oenghus gripped the young man’s shoulders, lowered him to the snow, and slapped hands to forehead and stomach. Bones mended, flesh closed, and the paladin’s breathing evened. The healer hoisted Rivan over a shoulder, and forged a path through the snow, noting Acacia’s dangling shield arm and staggering gait.
They found Marsais at the river’s edge, bundling Isiilde into a canoe, and padding her with pillaged goods. “This is Kasja and her brother Elam. They are Lome, and they are in your debt, Oenghus,” Marsais offered without looking up. “Kasja has invited us to her home.”
Oenghus looked at the feral creature balanced on the prow of the boat—a woman. He grunted, lowered Rivan into a canoe, and checked on Isiilde. Her pulse was thready, but holding.
“Tell them we’d be honored.”
Marsais spoke a few, flowing words to the woman, and she returned with a long string of fluttering replies. They sounded like twittering birds. Before Marsais could translate, Oenghus looked up. The forest fire had moved to the center of the river, or so it seemed at first glance.
“Scarecrow!” he warned, throwing himself between an approaching longboat and his daughter.
Marsais spun, fingers flashing, tapping his human shield, as a storm of flaming arrows pierced the sky. Acacia dove over Rivan with her shield raised. Lucas grabbed the boy’s head, and pushed him to the ground, raising his own shield as cover while Kasja dove off the canoe.
Arrows rained on the group, sharp and biting, bouncing off steel while others found flesh. Oenghus cursed, and grabbed his hammer from the canoe, but was too slow to attack. Marsais snatched the ravenous fire from the treetops and threw a bind at the longboat. A wave of flame rose over their heads, crashing like a wave over the Suevi’s longboat, igniting it. The Suevi screamed, diving into icy waters, and Marsais shook out his hands.
“There may be more.”
“Hmm.” Haloed by a back drop of fiery death, Marsais stepped into the canoe, settling himself behind Isiilde. Amid screams of the dying, the rest of the group followed suit, reaching for paddles. A lone survivor swam ashore, shivering and staggering from the river. The Suevi looked from the giant to the white-haired seer, and ran, yelling a warning to his kin.
❧
The Suevi had been caught by surprise, thinking they were safe in the ferocity of the storm. Scattered and drunk, their attacks had been clumsy. But the morning might bring a more concentrated effort. Wanting to put as much distance from the village as possible, Marsais and the ragged band paddled through the night, using Orbs of Light, bobbing like Will o’ Wisps, to illuminate obstacles in the sluggish river.
“How is she?” Oenghus asked after the second hour.
“No worse, no better,” Marsais whispered back.
“Ask Kasja how far, and tell them there is food in the sacks.”
Marsais translated, speaking to the woman rowing beside them with her brother. She replied with a string of chirping words.
“The Lome hold the lands along the left fork. The river becomes rough, but she’ll navigate. We should be there by midday.”
“So soon?”
“The current is quick.”
Oenghus grimaced. He did not like boats, and since there was no other outlet for his frustrations, he focused his ire on the Scarecrow.
“What did you do to Isiilde?”
“I told you, I took her fire.”
“You nearly killed her.”
“She would have burned herself out,” Marsais argued, holding the unconscious nymph to his chest. “I had to do something, Oenghus. She’s like a spark in a dry field. Fierce, but as soon as the fuel is gone—I fear it may control her, and nothing she can do can stop it.”
“Aye, that’s what they say about berserkers.”
Marsais twisted around to stare at his old friend. Oenghus was proof that anything was possible, and Marsais had had a heavy hand in channeling the barbarian’s rage into something constructive. But Oenghus, for all his rage and strength, was human—or thereabouts. How could Marsais teach control to a creature of pure passion and instinct? That was the trick, and he had to do it fast—before Isiilde either killed herself or everyone within striking distance.
“You’ve taken her fire before, Scarecrow. What went wrong?”
“She fought me.”
“And you fought back?”
“Of course I did,” Marsais replied, sharply. “It was all I could do to stand against her. Only—I miscalculated. I did not realize how much of her was in the fire. Her spirit was snuffed out in the process.”
Oenghus surged forward, grabbing him by the neck, heedless of the rocking boat. “What do you mean you snuffed her out?”
Marsais did not struggle, but surrendered to the enraged barbarian’s vice-like grip. “Her spirit vanished. I sent a wave of the Gift into her, enough to produce a spark.”
“You bloody bastard!” The roar slammed into the water, and bounced into the bleak sky.
“Oenghus!” The captain’s harsh whisper snapped him from his fury. “Sit down before you tip the boat and drown the nymph.”
Oenghus’ jaw worked, his eyes smoldered, but he clicked his teeth together and sat, brooding like a grumpy bear.
“If
you want to strangle the seer, hand over the nymph first.”
“Your concern is touching, Captain,” Marsais coughed.
“Think nothing of it,” she said in clipped tones. “And you should know, Oenghus, you have an arrow sticking out of your back.”
The Nuthaanian twisted, trying to glimpse the offending splinter. He reached an arm around, winced, fought past the pain, and ripped the arrow from his flesh. It was probably poisoned. He tossed it in the water.
“You have one in your leg too,” Marsais pointed out.
With a snarl, Oenghus wrenched the broken arrow from his calf, and threw it at the back of the seer’s head.
Marsais turned, narrowing his eyes. “Think,” he urged, keeping his voice low. “How much Brimgrog was flowing through your veins when you fathered her?”
Oenghus frowned, tilting the paddle so their canoe drifted to the side, away from the others. “Don’t blame this on me.”
“She’s your daughter, Oenghus.”
“None of my other children burst into flames.”
“No, but most of them are, or were berserkers. Isiilde is faerie—not human. I am willing to wager a great deal that the Brimgrog affected her blood differently than the rest of your crazed brood.”
Oenghus’ mouth worked. He wanted to deny it, to slap his paddle across the seer’s face and swat the man into the water, but his good sense triumphed. Marsais had a point. And he hated it when the Scarecrow was right.
“What does it matter. You killed her.”
“Only briefly.” Marsais faced front, and ignored the ill-tempered giant in the back of the boat.
Twenty-nine
AS KASJA HAD predicted, the river turned rough. The group ran aground on the shore, waiting for the sun to lighten the world. They redistributed goods and passengers in each canoe according to weight, experience, and injuries. Kasja climbed in the back of Marsais’ canoe, handing the seer a paddle; he looked at the wooden tool with disdain. Acacia, her arm broken and useless, joined Oenghus and the boy, while a recovered Rivan, shaky with fatigue, shared the remaining boat with Lucas.
Snow and ice made the river treacherous, a churning snake of white cutting through the land, carrying them on its deafening roar. Kasja shouted directions to the others. She knew what currents to avoid, what forks to take in the river’s course, and on which side of the boulders to pass. The woman could have navigated the river blindfolded.
The canoes, one after the other, carried by surging waters, plunged into a canyon with high cliffs and no shore. In the roaring white water of the river’s current, the storm lost its fury, the wind died, and the water surged, cutting a path through the granite cliffs.
Oenghus gripped his paddle, dragging it off the side, switching course with Kasja’s expert hand. The torrent spit them into silence, eerie and foreign after a night and day of endless wind. Silence rang in his ears. The gentle lap of water greeted the boats; it pierced the landscape, echoing strangely between walls.
The travelers’ warm breath swirled with the icy air as they exhaled with relief, but the river stretched on, curving out of sight. The water way could easily turn rough again. If it did, those in the canoe would have nowhere to disembark.
In a calm eddy, Oenghus called Kasja over, directing his boat alongside hers. Marsais and Kasja held the canoes close, as Oenghus reached into the cocoon of thick blankets, checking his daughter’s pulse. He pressed his lips together, connected himself to spirit and body, and bolstered her with his own strength. The nymph wobbled on a precarious perch, one that she could fall from at any moment, landing on either side of the fence between life and death. There was nothing more Oenghus could do, except find shelter and warmth and a bed that was not rocking.
A roar broke the silence, turning to a deafening drone. The river propelled them around the corner into a wall of mist and thunder that stole Oenghus’ breath—a waterfall, and something more. Docks floated at the river’s edge, tethered to the cliffs. A maze of ladders and walkways climbed up the rock face. Nimble, fur-clad forms clambered up ropes, traversed dizzying walkways, and shot down ladders with a rush of cries and warning. The Lome.
Oenghus prodded Marsais with his paddle.
“Hmm?” Marsais tore his gaze from the sky that he had been staring at for the past hour. He blinked at the masked men on the docks.
“We’re here, Scarecrow.”
“Where?”
“The Lome village—more like a city, I think.”
Marsais still looked confused.
“You nearly killed Isiilde.”
The statement nudged his memory. He looked abashed, checked on the nymph, and scanned the cliffs. The Lome reached towards the canoes with hooked poles, drawing the boats towards the dock. Resisting would mean a plunge over the waterfall. Oenghus did not object, but he glowered at the fur-clad natives who wore animal like masks—from bears, to wolves, and eagles—all predators who lowered their spears and pointed the tips at their chests.
A man garbed in stitched wolf pelts stepped forward. Unlike the others, he wore a human skull mask, painted with bold, crimson slashes. Weapons threatened, harsh words were spoken, and Oenghus batted away the closest spear.
The group tensed as guards bristled. High on the walkways bows were drawn, all pointed at Oenghus’ head. Kasja hissed at Wolf-pelt. The two exchanged a flurry of harsh words, rising in volume until their voices bounced off the granite.
Marsais leaned slightly back, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “They believe that Kasja is dead—that she is an evil spirit disguised as one of their own.”
The feral woman spat into the river and rolled up her sleeve, exposing a filthy forearm. A dagger slipped from layers of fur, falling into her right hand, crossing, and slicing skin. The blade disappeared with equal speed. Kasja stood in the canoe, balancing against the rocking boat, raising her arm, letting the blood run free for all to see.
Wolf-pelt reached out, swiping the cut with his fingertips. He tasted her blood cautiously, and spat. More words were spoken, spears bristled, the argument heated, and finally Marsais interrupted, low and musing. All eyes narrowed.
Oenghus and the paladins shifted uneasily. Only the gods knew what Marsais had said—and the Lome. Surrounded by spears and bows, and sitting in a canoe with a waterfall rushing downriver, Oenghus felt like a fish in a barrel. If a fight broke out, there would be blood.
A voice echoed from the mouth of a cave above—a sharp, commanding voice. Wolf-pelt snarled, slapped a fist to his chest, and gestured at them with his spear.
“Hmm, they’re taking us to their chieftain who will decide our fate.”
“I don’t like this, Scarecrow.”
“Neither do I,” Marsais admitted. “This is no mere village. They do not like outsiders, most especially ones in armor.” Marsais spared a pointed look at what was left of the paladins’ armor.
“I’d rather be on solid ground,” Acacia said.
“Agreed.” Marsais turned to Wolf-pelt and inclined his head. Oenghus climbed out first; his size elicited a ripple of gasps as he bent to take Isiilde from Marsais’ arms. Moving carefully, Marsais followed, stepping from the canoe. His sharp features were strained with fatigue. Isiilde's wavering spirit was taking its toll on his own.
“I was hoping Kasja was the chieftain’s daughter,” Oenghus grumbled.
“That didn’t work out so well for you on the Isle of Winds.”
Wolf-pelt stepped forward, reaching towards the bundle in Oenghus’ arms. The giant moved away, throwing the bobbing dock off balance with his weight. Spears bristled, muscles tensed, and Oenghus growled low in warning. Marsais thrust a long arm between the two men. Words flew quickly from his lips. Wolf-pelt gestured towards the bundle. Marsais hesitated, but slowly obeyed, peeling back the cloak covering the nymph, revealing her pale face and fiery hair.
A murmur rippled up the cliffs. The Lome pressed against walkways and stretched on ropes, straining to catch a glimpse of the unconscious fa
erie.
Marsais spoke again, his voice low and dangerous and full of warning. The warriors eyed the seer, and as one, they began to laugh. It was not a cheerful sound, but the braying of wild dogs.
The paladins shifted, fingers twitching towards weapons. The voice from above cut through the warriors’ laughter, and Wolf-pelt gave a sharp command.
“We’re to surrender our weapons,” Marsais translated, handing over his eating knife with great ceremony. More laughter rippled through the watching warriors. Oenghus fixed a baleful eye on the lot of them, deciding that Wolf-pelt would die first. At Marsais’ arched brow, he grunted, and hefted Gurthang, passing the rune-etched war-hammer over. With spears at their back, the paladins followed suit, and the group was ushered towards the ladders.
“Can you manage with your arm, Captain?” Marsais asked.
“I’m more worried about Oenghus and his size,” she replied, eyeing the flimsy ladders.
“Not the first woman to be worried,” the giant bared his teeth. Acacia did not comment, but put her one good arm to the ladder and began to climb. Marsais took Isiilde from Oenghus, shifting the limp nymph to his shoulder. Time was of the essence, and he feared they had already delayed too long. Isiilde needed a warm bed to recover, not a bundle of furs in a rocking canoe surrounded by icy winds.
Kasja gestured towards the ladder. When Marsais began to climb with Isiilde balanced on his shoulder, the furred woman shot up a rope with squirrel like ease, followed by her agile little brother. Oenghus waited until they stood at the cave’s entrance before following. The ladder creaked and swayed in protest as he began to climb, and the rungs groaned under his weight.
The Lome watched, breath held, waiting to see if their craftsmanship would survive. A collective exhale swept past the natives’ lips when Oenghus joined Marsais and Acacia on the landing. Solid stone supported them, a ledge that had been carved into the cliff face. A deep cave led into the unknown, guarded by eagle-headed, bull-legged stone statues.
“The Lome worship the beasts of the land,” Marsais explained as the group moved inside. Carvings covered the walls, from the smallest sparrow to massive bears. “They value a creature’s strength and agility, and here—the eagle is a sign of watchfulness. If an animal can survive in the wilderness, then so can the Lome, but only if they mimic the animal’s behavior.”
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 22