“Don’t you ever touch me again, you puking, slimy bastard!” Isiilde screamed through a haze of hot tears. It was Stievin and his fevered eyes. The nymph’s skin sizzled, the water on her skin boiled, and the fire pit flared in anticipation, waiting for her call. She opened her mouth, intending to burn them both, but the captain slapped her palms against Isiilde’s ears, stunning the nymph.
Isiilde slid off the shield, gasping, rolling into a tight, painful ball. Marsais started towards the redhead, but Acacia thrust out a hand. “I have another two hours, Seer,” she rasped.
“You’ve done quite enough.”
“If she wants your help, then she can ask. Otherwise, stand back.”
Isiilde bit her lip, swallowing her tears, nostrils flaring with pain. It would be so easy to ask. Marsais was so close, so willing and ready to rush to her rescue, but determination tore at the thought. She would die before she gave the Knight Captain the satisfaction.
Ignoring her shaking limbs, she climbed to her feet, and faced the woman. “You’re still a sheep buggering crone.”
“Since that’s impossible, I’ll let that curse slide until you come up with a better one, Isiilde.”
The nymph blinked in surprise.
“And in the future, next time you start throwing your fire around, I’ll stop going easy on you.”
“Likewise, Captain.” She raised her chin.
“Good. Now pick up your sword.”
Thirty-eight
OENGHUS STROLLED BEHIND his pint-sized guide, savoring the first pipe after a long night. The Nuthaanian didn’t speak the language, but he understood clans. And when the chieftain invited a guest to a feast—you went. The others had feasted with V’elbine on the second night, but Oenghus had been invited back, nearly every day. Last night, however, had been different.
The feast had been interrupted with news that a woman was in bad sorts with her first child. In a clan such as this, every woman and child mattered, and Oenghus had offered his talents.
Childbirth was grueling work, especially delivering twins, but exhaustion aside, there was a jaunt in his step. Mother and children had survived and V’elbine was pleased.
Oenghus passed his pipe to Elam. As far as he could tell, the boy had no other family beside his crazed sister. He was a good lad, and made for refreshing company compared to the tension brewing in their dwelling. Marsais was best tolerated in small doses. Prolonged contact with the skinny bastard would drive anyone to murder.
Elam flashed a gap filled smile at the giant and handed the pipe back. With the elated excitement of a ten-year old, he began conversing. Language was never a barrier with children. The boy’s gestures said everything as he described what could only be a battle.
“Aye, sounds fearsome,” Oenghus grunted, pressing himself against the side of the passage to make way for two women. The natives’ pale faces glowed with tattoos that swirled enticingly around their eyes, dipping beneath their collars and spiraling down strong arms. The women eyed him unabashedly, roving over Oenghus’ arms and chest and down his kilted legs. Oenghus offered a charming smile, watching their hips sway as they passed. He wouldn’t mind fathering a whole clan with these women.
Movement tore his gaze from the women’s hourglass figures. Elam stood to the side, holding up two thumbs and a big smile. The boy was intent on finding Oenghus a good woman who wasn’t Elam’s sister. Kasja always received a thumbs down.
“Aye, you’ve got good taste,” Oenghus ruffled the boy’s black hair. The Nuthaanian had a generous appetite for women, but he never could stomach leaving a child fatherless, so thus far, he had kept himself in check; however, the longer they stayed, the more difficult his self-restraint was proving.
They exited the passage, climbed down the steep winding steps that spilled into the valley, and entered the bustle of the underground city. Oenghus towered over the populace and the Lome greeted the giant with wide smiles. News traveled quickly in a clan. A fighter Oenghus’ size was a prize, but a healer was a treasure. The Lome would not part with him easily.
Oenghus tugged his beard. Blood would be spilt whenever the Scarecrow decided it was time to leave. And he didn’t much care for the idea of bashing their hosts’ heads in—not after they had been so hospitable. Oenghus wondered what would become of Elam and Kasja after Marsais and he and the others had left a bloody trail of death in their wake. Unfortunately, there was nothing for it. He mounted the steps to the cave dwelling two at a time, nodding to their token guards.
“Bastard!” Elam swore. It was the boy’s favorite new word in the trade tongue. Oenghus had to agree as he ducked under the arch and stepped through the short passage into the common room.
The keg had burst in his absence.
Isiilde and Acacia faced each other, practice swords in hand. His daughter looked on the verge of collapse, blood trickled from her nose, and fresh bruises blossomed under a layer of sweat and grime. The captain looked ruffled.
Marsais stood off to the side, tight-lipped and sharp-eyed, while Rivan and Lucas watched from the wall. The common room was in ruins. Scorch marks stained the carvings, the fire pit appeared to have exploded, and the pans were scattered, along with an over turned bucket that had seen better days.
“What the Void is going on?” Oenghus demanded.
Emerald eyes flashed. “We’re sparring, Oen.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” He looked at Acacia.
“Yes,” the paladin confirmed. “And we’re done. Aside from that tongue of yours, you did well today, Isiilde. Don’t make me wake you tomorrow.”
“I was already awake,” she argued.
“Wait, what tongue?” he asked, pushing away the bundle of furs who was sniffing at his legs.
“She has your foul mouth, Oenghus,” Acacia explained.
“Since when?”
“I have something to curse about now.” The nymph set her practice sword aside, snatched up bread and cheese and limped into her room. Tension bled from the cave the moment her shimmering figure vanished behind the curtain.
Elam said something to Marsais. “Hmm, the boy wonders why we are fool enough to travel with an elemental spirit.”
Oenghus was not amused, but then, Elam wasn’t joking. He eyed the captain’s stiff movements and scorched shield as she limped into her quarters. “You know, Marsais, before you got to her, she was a little docile thing.”
“Oh, really, Oenghus?”
“Aye, that’s right, timid as a mouse.”
“With fangs,” Rivan muttered.
Grey eyes slid to the young man. “I better see to her,” Marsais sighed.
“You look scared,” Oenghus bared his teeth.
Marsais ignored the jab, hesitating at the curtain a moment before pushing it aside. Oenghus gestured crudely at his back, and stomped over to Acacia’s chamber. He stopped outside of the fur covering.
“You need healing, Acacia?”
“Lucas is seeing to me.”
“Aye, but I’ll have your sword arm good as new.”
There was silence, and finally, “Come in.”
Oenghus pushed the curtain aside and crouched, ducking into a room that was little more than a hollow. Isiilde and Marsais had taken the largest nook in the stone hovel.
Acacia sat on a bed of furs with Lucas at her side. He had helped her out of her jerkin, and was trying to peel away her scorched shirt, but the wool was stuck to flesh. Acacia grit her teeth, sweat glistening on her brow.
“Not like that, Lucas.” The hollow would have been crowded with just Oenghus, but with all three, it was cramped. “Get out of the way.”
Lucas glanced at Oenghus.
“It’s fine,” Acacia said.
Lucas was hesitant. “Are you sure?”
“Your captain’s honor is safe with me,” Oenghus said with a hand to his heart.
“But not my temper,” she remarked, dismissing her lieutenant with a nod.
“Bring me my kit and water, would you?�
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Lucas squeezed past, and Oenghus settled himself at her side. The paladin returned a moment later with the requested items: mortar, pestle, a waterskin, and herbs. Oenghus grunted his gratitude, withdrew a narrow knife, and waited for the captain’s permission. She nodded and he began slicing the fabric, leaving the bits that were stuck to flesh.
“I didn’t take you for the type to have a watch dog.”
“He’s my lieutenant, I’m his captain.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“You can keep wondering.”
Oenghus grunted. She watched him work in silence, grinding herbs, mixing and sniffing at the contents. “What is that?”
“I can mend your flesh, but I can’t do it until the wool is out of those burns.”
“Won’t water do?”
“Aye, but this is just my excuse to rub a foul smelling poultice all over your lovely skin.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“I’m stubborn, remember?”
“More like pig-headed.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’ll save you the trouble. I have an Oathbound.”
“Paladins make horrible liars—the good ones, anyway.”
“I thought there were no good paladins?”
“Bout as many good paladins as there are berserkers.”
“Rivan told you, didn’t he?”
“I cornered the poor lad.”
“And you wonder why I think you a brute.”
“Aye, but I’m a lovable one.”
“The lies we tell ourselves are the most convincing.”
Oenghus chuckled. “Aye, well, you haven’t run yet.” He brought the mortar to his nose and wrinkled it, turning serious once again. “You ready?”
Acacia nodded.
“In case you’re wondering,” he said, dipping his fingers in the salve, “this is not an excuse to get my hands on you.”
“Is this your idea of charming?”
“How am I doing?”
“What do you think?”
“Making progress.”
Acacia clenched her jaw as he slopped the mess over her burns.
“So what was your Oathbound like?” he asked, trying to distract her. “Another paladin?”
She did not answer straightaway, but slowly, she relaxed, frowning at the yellowish mixture. “My arm is numb.”
“Aye, it won’t hurt as bad when I scrub off the wool.”
“No, he wasn’t a paladin. He was a Wraith Guard on Iilenshar. My daughters still live in Easthaven.”
“What happened to him?”
“The Keening took him while I was in the Fell Wastes. We were bound for fifty years.”
Oenghus frowned. There was tension in her voice, but it wasn’t from the water and cloth he used to scrub her wounds. “Not an easy thing to lose someone to the Keening. Let me guess, he was up to two hundred?”
“No, he thought I had been killed.”
Oenghus might be a brute, but he knew when to let a subject lie. Acacia nudged the conversation onto another path. “Although, you’re right, not many seem to have the will to live past two hundred.”
“During the first hundred, you figure out how to live, and during the second, you figure out there’s not much to live for.”
“Unless you find a purpose,” she finished. “And what about in the ninth hundred year?”
“Life is just getting interesting,” he grinned.
“You mean you’re still looking for the perfect ale?”
“Aye, let me know if you find it.”
“And what about you? I suppose you have four Oathbounds, being a Nuthaanian.”
He shook his head. “That’s our women. They can have as many Oathbounds as they like.”
“I always assumed the men could too.”
“Goes back to the Shattering. One of my daughters, the clans head, has five Oathbounds.”
“Your daughter is the clans head of Nuthaan? Why am I not surprised,” she muttered.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my sweet little girl.”
Acacia’s eyes slid over to the barbarian. “In the Wedamen invasion about thirty years back.”
“You were at the Plains too?” That had been one of the bloodiest battles in near two centuries.
“Yes, I discovered, quite brutally, why it’s never wise to follow a berserker into battle.”
“I hope you weren’t following me.”
“No, I’d remember. Is that why your women take more than one man?”
“Because we’re so keen on dying?” he chuckled. “No, it’s one of the wiser things my people have done, actually. After the Shattering, there was hardly a soul breathing. Women were scarce. So while the other lands took what they wanted and treated their women like cattle for breeding. We barbarians took a more civilized route. Figuring we menfolk would muck up things, we gave them the very best of everything we had and made them our clan chiefs. That’s why a maid can go walking in any part of Nuthaan, during any part of the day, and not be harmed. There isn’t a Nuthaanian alive who’d take advantage of her.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “And your Order considers us brutes.”
“No,” she corrected, “we view you as useful weapons in our fight against the Void.”
“Aye, well I never said we’re the brightest bunch. Point us at a fight and we’ll be first in line.”
Acacia chuckled. “And how did a mindless brute become a Wise One?”
Oenghus frowned, rinsing out his cloth and soaking it with fresh water. “I lost my first Oathbound in childbirth. Terrible way to die, that. Took the both of them three days, and I could only sit there and watch. We were snowed in, far from a healer.”
With large gentle hands, Oenghus scrubbed the wool from her flesh. He was silent, lost in memory for a moment, before he continued, “I wasn’t much good for anything after that—so I took my chances with the grog. Brimgrog kills most men who risk it, but I was already dead.”
Oenghus leaned close, eyeing Acacia’s wounds. When he was satisfied that the burns were free of contamination, he settled a blanket on her shoulders. “I went looking for death with a passion and do you know, Death fled with her bloody tail between her legs. I’m not exactly sure how I got where I did—everything is muddled—but eventually, I woke up in some cage in the Bastardlands. Drunk as piss and fighting in the pits.”
Acacia swallowed her surprise. The Bastardlands were a brutal place. Arena fighters were thrown into pits for money, and few survived.
“I loved it,” he grinned. “All the free ale I could drink, and all the women I could uhm—”
“Plow,” she finished.
“Right,” he nodded. “And plenty of fights. Then one day, some dandy bastard comes and takes my grog away.”
“Marsais,” she surmised.
“Aye, I swear he was looking for me. Once I sobered up, I did what any self-respecting barbarian would do—I tried to kill the smug bastard. Bad mistake.”
“That’s when he turned you into a pi—boar.” Acacia eased herself onto her uninjured side.
“For a whole fortnight. I think he forgot about me.”
Acacia laughed, sharp and abrupt. He hadn’t heard her laugh before, and he liked the sound of it.
Oenghus scratched his beard. “Anyway, the Scarecrow sorted me out eventually, as much as I can be at any rate.”
“And he discovered the why,” she said, softly.
“Aye,” he sniffed. “A man can fight for those he loves, but there’s only so much a hammer can do.”
“You trust Marsais because of this?”
“Let me tell you something about the Scarecrow. When he dragged me out of that pit, I didn’t know his motives. I still don’t half the time, and I don’t bloody well agree with his methods either, but the end results—well you can’t argue with them. If he’s wasting time, it’s for a purpose.”
“But has he had a nymph before?” she asked. “I’ve seen g
ood men turn into layabouts and cowards because of a nymph.”
“Not the Scarecrow,” he said with complete conviction. “He’s been battling the Void for longer than I’d like to think. Have some faith.”
“My faith is with the Guardians.”
“You sure it’s in the Guardians and not the Sylph?”
She narrowed her eyes up at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Just a hunch.” Oenghus slipped his hands over her furrowed forehead and taut stomach. “Now relax.”
His hands were warm and heavy, and his palms rough, but his touch was polite. He waited for her to relax. A healing was intrusive, especially for the distrustful. When the tenseness bled from her body, Oenghus summoned the Lore, as easily as taking a step. After flesh was mended, he stole a peek at Acacia’s spirit; it was a column of light. But it did not radiate warmth. Frost crept up it like a window pane. The Keening.
Oenghus wrapped the Gift around her spirit like a warm blanket, bolstering it with his own, taking the sting from her grief. There wasn’t much else he could do but hope it was enough to ward against the impending chill. The healer withdrew, checked her wounds over once more, and pulled the blanket up to Acacia’s neck.
The tight control with which the captain carried herself was gone, her features relaxed, and her breath evened. He placed a hand on her short hair. “Sleep well, lass.”
Stretched beyond his limits, Oenghus picked himself up, and went to fall into his own bedroll.
Thirty-nine
A CURTAIN OF crystal water flowed over rock. Its echo bounded off the slick stone. The greater pool disappeared into a crack, a deep spring that seeped into the mountain, but not before swirling into a calm eddy, making one lazy circuit around a young girl. She floated in the gentle water, white hair drifting like a cloud around her head.
Voices droned around the girl, but her ears were submerged, dampening the noise. Beneath the water, she was at peace, even bound to the pool as she was, connected to chains on each limb, anchored while the rest of Time shifted and flowed past her.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 31