Oenghus ducked his head as they filed down the passage, turning as the tunnel demanded to fit his bulk through the stone. The Lome stared at him in awe. He pointed to a depiction of a bear on the stone, and then gestured at himself, showing the smaller men his teeth through his braided black beard. The guards’ eyes widened, and they nodded to each other, conversing in their musical tongue.
An iron gate sealed the end of the tunnel. It opened at Wolf-pelt’s swaggering call, and shut after they passed the threshold. The gate echoed hollowly like a prison door, sealing the group in. Another long passage twined through the rock, widening with every step. A constant theme ran throughout the art on the walls—the Lome’s fight against Voidspawn and barbaric tribes.
At least this tribe didn’t revere the Void.
Kasja half crawled, half walked, moving swiftly with the group. Oenghus leaned close to Marsais’ ear. “Where does Kasja stand in the tribe?”
“She is touched in the head.”
“A woman after your own heart.”
“In more ways than one.”
“Foresight?”
“Hmm, I’m not entirely sure.”
“Madness, then?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you stop being so vague,” Oenghus growled in his ear.
“Madness, foresight, or a brilliant deception—take your pick.” The edge of Marsais’ long lips twisted ruefully. “Madness, Oen, is feared, but foresight in a madman is revered, and if she has sense enough to feign such a gift, then that makes her brilliant.”
“Well you’d know, being an expert in matters of madness.”
“So says the berserker.”
A sharp, poking spear silenced the two ancients. Oenghus tried to twist around to glare at the offender, but the stone prevented the movement. Instead, he glared at the back of Marsais’ head, trying to ignore the itch of threat along his neck.
They turned a corner, the passage opened, and Oenghus blinked. Stone steps spilled down the side of a cavernous valley. A sprawling city was nestled in its underground embrace, bustling with activity and light. Luminous vines, carefully cultivated in neat rows, climbed up stone structures and the valley’s sides, glowing as bright and blue as a full moon.
“Amazing,” Marsais breathed with wonder.
Oenghus couldn’t be bothered with the view, not with a squad of armed men poking blades at his back. They were led down the long winding stairs into a sea of Lome, who parted for the prisoners. The natives watched the prisoners pass with curious eyes. Underground, in their cavernous city warmed by natural springs, the Lome shed their furs for simple black garments. The natives were a dark-haired people with pale skin that was tattooed with spiraling art. The complex designs glowed like the vines.
A chant rose among the watchers, rising in tempo with every passing step. Lips moved as one while their dark eyes and glowing faces followed the prisoners in unity.
“What’s going on?” Acacia asked, turning back towards Marsais.
“Hmm, I believe they are purging the evil we bring. You’re not the first armored warriors they’ve encountered.”
A ring of stalagmites rose in the center of the city like columns striving to join their twins high overhead. Each column bore the visage of a predator: eagle, bear, wolf, and cougar. The prisoners were ushered between the pillars. In the clearing beyond, a grizzled, one-eyed warrior whose skin glowed with tattoos sat on a throne of bones. The chieftain was a large man who dominated the bone chair. He wore a frost bear pelt with pride, and his gnarled hand rested on a sharp axe.
A single bright eye looked from the prisoners to Kasja and her brother, Elam, then found a resting place on Wolf-pelt. The warrior stepped forward, talking animatedly, gesturing from Kasja to the prisoners.
Kasja scuttled out into the open, moving towards the throne, interrupting the exchange with a hiss. The chieftain said little, appraising the group and listening to the growing argument between Wolf-pelt and Kasja.
During the exchange, Oenghus studied the chieftain, and the images on his bare scalp took shape: eyes. Hundreds of tattooed eyes covered his scarred scalp.
The chieftain gestured sharply, and the arguing Lome fell silent. For the first time, their leader spoke, his voice low and grating in the echoing ring. There was, Oenghus noted, a jagged slice across the chieftain’s throat.
Marsais turned towards the group to translate. “This is a sacred city to the Lome. As outsiders, we cannot leave, but V’elbine, the chieftain, has granted us sanctuary. Our strength will be added to the clans.”
V’elbine gestured towards the bundle in Marsais’ arms. Wolf-pelt stepped forward, reaching out a hand, and Oenghus clamped down on the warrior’s wrist before he could touch the nymph. With a growl, he shoved the warrior back.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. V’elbine said a sharp word. Silence descended and Wolf-pelt froze, quivering like a dog on a leash. The chieftain nodded to Marsais, who peeled back the cloak covering Isiilde’s pale face.
V’elbine’s eyes widened, the Lome leaned in for a look with varying degrees of surprise and a ripple of excitement. The chieftain gestured at the nymph in a grandiose manner as he spoke. Oenghus did not like his manner at all.
“V’elbine,” Marsais translated, “will take Isiilde as his own and the captain will be given to another worthy warrior. Since Kasja owes you a Blood Debt, Oenghus, you are now her master, and the boy’s.”
“Bollocks.” Oenghus silently vowed to never rescue another group of captives as long as he lived.
Marsais turned back to the chieftain. Whatever he said, it elicited a roar of laughter from the natives.
“I have informed them that Isiilde is my Oathbound and the captain is yours. He has graciously allowed you to keep your woman.”
The fate of Isiilde stole the humor out of the statement.
“And you?” Acacia asked, raising her voice to pierce the din of noise.
“I have informed our hosts,” Marsais began, placing Isiilde in Oenghus’ arms, “that I will not give her to another, and if anyone attempts to take her from me, I will kill every last one of them without mercy.”
The paladins had witnessed Marsais’ powers—they did not laugh, and neither did Oenghus.
Marsais addressed V’elbine again, and translated the exchange. “He says that their tribe is honorable. They respect the Oaths between man and woman—until one is dead. I must fight for my claim to her, to the death. The chieftain will honor the outcome, much like the Blessed Order’s Law concerning nymphs.”
“Well don’t bloody play around this time, Scarecrow.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Marsais stepped into the center of a hastily formed circle of Lome. A number of warriors stepped before their chieftain, all seasoned and eager and strong. Wolf-pelt slapped his chest and bellowed a boast, strutting into the circle with threat that did not need translation. The chieftain nodded to the puffed up rooster, and the warriors fell back in line, while another stepped forward offering Marsais a spear and sword. He shook his head, and pointed to the Lome who held their weapons.
When he selected his eating knife, the crowd laughed again, but their amusement was cut short by a sharp gesture from V’elbine. Silence settled on those assembled.
Marsais stood at the opposite end of the circle and pointed his little knife at his opponent, folding his other arm behind his back. Wolf-pelt hefted a spear, and the two combatants waited for the chieftain’s signal—whatever that might be. While eyes were focused on Marsais’ knife-hand, Oenghus looked at his other. He was weaving one-handed—without the Lore.
V’elbine raised his fist, and brought it down in a breath. Wolf-pelt lunged, Marsais thrust out his hand, clenched his fist, and the spear point faltered. The warrior gasped, stumbling back, dropping his weapon in shock. While minds were catching up to eyes, Marsais jerked back his arm, ripping Wolf-pelt’s heart from his chest.
Screams shrieked through the crowd, ec
hoing and fearful, full of horror. As the warrior crumpled, Marsais caught the bloody organ and turned towards the chieftain. Blood rolled over his outstretched hand, dripped down his sleeve and pattered on the stone. Still poised, Marsais addressed V’elbine.
Oenghus did not know what he said, but the seer’s tone sent a shiver down his spine. V’elbine did not reply. The grizzled chieftain only nodded, one curt gesture that held fear.
Marsais dropped the heart at the chieftain’s feet, turned, withdrew a dingy handkerchief and methodically wiped his hands clean. “We will concern ourselves with leaving at another time,” he said. “For now we have sanctuary.”
Thirty
A BROODING OCEAN stretched beyond the horizon, and an uneasy foothold clung to its coast, battered by harsh winds and endless waves. The town of Drivel huddled behind its walls. For all the observing that Isek Beirnuckle had done over the centuries, he would never understand humans. They walled themselves up, living like rats in their nests fighting over morsels of food, when a vast wilderness would give them room to breathe and stretch. Safety did not come with numbers, as they so often hoped. Numbers brought betrayal, murder, and grief.
A lashing wind whipped at his cloak, and he reached out a hand, steadying his nervous mount with a promise of shelter. His destination was within sight, nestled between the Viscount’s reserve and a cliffside that plunged into the ocean’s surf. Tharios’ residence was one manor among many. The lords did not like to be near the stench of the city. They liked to look down from their lofty perches, but Isek had always preferred to be hidden.
Without urging, his horse stopped in front of a heavy gate. White washed walls guarded the property, topped by artful renditions of twining iron vines. The outside wall was warded. Only a truly foolish thief, or a very skilled one, risked robbing the manors on the hill. Wise Ones were always in high demand for their wards.
The gatekeeper emerged from his house, peering through the iron and sleet from beneath a wind-blown hood.
“Isek Beirnuckle for the Archlord,” he shouted over the winds. “I have urgent news.”
“The Archlord is not to be disturbed.”
“This cannot wait. Tell him as much.”
The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes and dipped his bushy chin, leaving Isek to wait and shiver in the restless wind. Tharios did not surround himself with fools.
A Whisper would have been sufficient, but over the years, Isek had learned to deliver important information in person. It reminded the recipient of the informer’s loyalty, and if Isek were to continue in the realm of the living, Tharios needed many such reminders.
A smaller gate opened within the larger, inviting horse and rider inside. The moment Isek passed the threshold, the wind died, and the sleet lessened its constant battering to a nipping annoyance. Beirnuckle handed the reins to a stableboy, and turned to greet a Wise One. Victer, a former merchant guard of the Golden Road, was a large, broad-shouldered man. His militant training had stayed with him, and his spine was as erect as ever.
“You’re too smart a man to disturb the Archlord unless it’s important. I’d not make this exception for another,” Victer said in his deep, rumbling tones.
“Your confidence is not misplaced.” Isek nodded to the pale-haired Wise One, swallowing his surprise over Victer’s presence. Tharios certainly inspired loyalty in the unlikeliest of people. But then, how much had Tharios told Victer, or the others for that matter? The Archlord’s smooth tongue was very persuasive.
Victer led the way around the manor to the back of the estate. A neat row of trees, interspersed with garden squares and fountains, remained untouched by the weather. An enchantment, Isek surmised; a very skilled one. Tharios liked order and things in their places, defying nature and leaving nothing to chance.
The cultured grounds were misleading, considering what dwelled beneath. Isek walked into a stone outhouse, and down a gaping staircase that led to the heart of decay. There must be, he thought, a way to mask the small building. Or the Inquisitors, ever pompous with lofty ideals, never bothered to look inside something that appeared to be a lowly gardener’s storage shed.
Undefiled air became a thing of memory as his boot hit the bottom step. Incense assailed his senses with a sharp odor of lye that failed to mask the sickly sweetness of death. The stench clawed down his throat and permeated his mind.
An immense ritual chamber lay beyond, typical of any Bloodmagi, save for its size. The corrals were empty of victims, but the memory of their slaughter lingered. A ritual chamber was never fully cleansed; no matter how many times the walls were scrubbed.
Guards stood stationed around the walkways, alert, attentive, and professional. Isek’s eye was drawn to the very center of the ritual circle, to the crimson clad man tracing in the sand. Tharios drew one’s eye like a light in the darkness. He wore a half-robe of silk in the Xaionian style that displayed a sleek chest and a maze of tattoos flowing over alabaster skin.
Isek and Victer skirted the ritual pit, and then stopped, waiting in silence for the Archlord to acknowledge them. Tharios did not look up, but remained focused on his work. The pattern of runes was familiar in that vague way that shadows in darkness take shape, more imagination than reality.
“I suspect you have a good reason for coming here, Isek.” Tharios never took his eyes from the sand. “So I suggest you get right to the point. Let us hope I agree with your assessment.”
“Morigan recently received a message from a priestess in Drivel. The priestess needed assistance with a boy who showed up at her orphanage, near death: blow to the head, gouges on his wrists, and a Weave of Silence on his throat.”
One symptom without the other would not have been alarming, but all three together had perked Isek’s ears. Suggestive, to say the least. Marsais would have agreed, and by Tharios’ reaction, he did too.
The current Archlord looked up from his work with a thoughtful gaze that settled on Victer. “The boy who ran.”
“He was killed.”
“One was killed, yes, but it appears another may have slipped through the cracks in the chaos.”
“Impossible. He could have escaped from another situation.”
“I have never liked coincidence.” The Xaionian straightened, folding his hands behind his back in thought. Victer did not argue, though it was clear from his stance that he placed little value on the information. “Take care of this, Victer,” Tharios glanced at Isek, “and you as well—if you have the stomach for it. Your attention to detail is remarkable.”
“What if the boy has already talked?” Victer inquired dutifully.
“If, the boy has informed the priestess and Morigan of the ceremony, then remove the women, quietly.” Tharios paused and tilted his head, as if listening to someone whispering in his ear. “On second thought, I don’t want Morigan killed. She’s far too valuable as a healer, and she’ll give us little trouble. Put her in the dungeon and make her comfortable.”
Both men bowed, and turned to leave.
“And Isek,” the voice was thoughtful. “Would you like to be present when we open the flask?”
“Of course,” Isek said, lightly. Truth be told, he wanted to be as far from this ritual chamber as possible when the flask was opened, but it was another test of loyalty.
Tharios dismissed him with a wave.
❧
The wind tore at invisible cloaks. Six shapes rippled in the night, shimmering like a disturbed pond. Isek was not worried. There was no one to see them in the slums of Drivel, and if any eyes did, they’d look away. He slid his hand along a stone on the back of the orphanage, searching for the hidden rune.
Marsais loathed the obvious, he had always avoided front doors like the Blight. Isek, however, knew all his secret entrances—and exits. The teleportation rune was faded, but still functioning. The ward recognized his hand, and unraveled, revealing its secrets. Stone rippled like the invisibility weave that encased his body, and Isek ushered the five hidden men inside, sealing the g
ate on their heels before walking to the front.
There were too many men, too many voices and boots and opinions. Isek would have preferred to carry out this assignment alone, but Victer was a strategist who liked to issue orders to a group of underlings. So the plan was complex, where Isek’s had been simple and direct.
Now was not the time to argue with one of the Unspoken—not until Isek’s position was firmly established.
Isek dropped his weave and pounded on the heavy front door until the slat slid to the side and a pair of green eyes searched the night.
“What do you bloody want?”
Isek pushed back his cowl, revealing his bald pate and a wide smile. “You might remember me, Priestess. I handed you the key to this place some years back. I am Isek Beirnuckle.”
The priestess glared at him, and for a moment Isek feared his betrayal had been uncovered. But it was simply her memory.
“And I’ve been thankful ever since.” The door opened, revealing a tall, busty Nuthaanian. Brinehilde had not changed. Isek let his eyes linger briefly on the bosom that was eye level with his gaze, because men noticed such things. Details were imperative.
“What brings you here, sir? Not gonna take it back, I hope?” Her voice was loud. She was nervous, Isek surmised. He withdrew a crown from the folds of his cloak before handing the garment over, and began weaving the coin casually over his knuckles, surveying the sparse foyer. It was cold, but quiet compared to the wind and sleet.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I have other news.”
“Well what is it, then?”
“With Marsais on the run, his properties and holdings have been seized by the Blessed Order.”
“It’s a shame, that,” Brinehilde frowned, tugging on her thick braid—another nervous habit.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 23