The weave worked its way past her lips and crawled down her throat, paralyzing her tongue. Before Isiilde could react, an arm caught her up, carrying her swiftly through the trees. She struggled against the Ardmoor’s strength. Marsais raced in her wake. An ethereal hand appeared in front of N’Jalss, knocking him off his feet with a bone crunching blow. But the Rahuatl had a shield of his own, and he recovered, sending a weave spiraling at Marsais’ feet. Ice erupted from the earth, as sharp and lethal as spears.
The Ardmoor ran towards a near naked woman covered in scars. She raised a curved dagger, finished her ritual with a twisting word and slashed the neck of a captive. Blood spilled into the snow. An inky window opened over the body.
“No!” Marsais’ shout was the last she heard. He thrust out his hand, a moment before the Ardmoor dove into the Blood Portal. A tingling sensation sped down Isiilde’s throat.
The world went silent, and still. But the hands on her were real. The Ardmoor dropped her onto solid stone. A figure stepped into view, and the last thing she saw was the snarling mask of N’Jalss, followed by a fist.
Forty-three
THE PORTAL SNAPPED shut. Marsais blinked at the empty space. Chaos reigned, and its winged manifestation thrashed, trying to dislodge Oenghus, who had its jaws locked shut with bulging arms. He could not risk letting go.
Marsais sent another bolt ricocheting into the Ardmoor, dropping eight men, leaving a trail of seared flesh, before the energy slammed into the scaled monstrosity. The wyvern’s tail slashed, felling trees and ice with a thunderous smack. It reared, ripping the Nuthaanian off the ground. Oenghus held fast. The wyvern rammed its unwanted rider into the rocks. And Oenghus’ grip loosened. He fell to the snow, utterly exposed. As the wyvern tensed for the kill, Oenghus twisted, driving his fist into the stone cliff with a word.
The mountain shifted, snow slid, and Nature descended on their heads.
With rumbling irritation, the world cracked, and Oenghus threw himself to the side, as an avalanche tumbled down the mountain, burying the beast. But he continued to slide, clawing at the ice.
The Nuthaanian disappeared over the edge.
Silence throbbed in Marsais’ ears. He rushed to the edge, weaving with trembling fingers. He slid to a stop on his stomach, hanging over the edge of nothingness. And breathed with relief when he caught sight of the battered Nuthaanian dangling from a ledge over mist and air.
The ice cracked, Oenghus looked up at his old friend. “Find her.” A heartbeat later the cliff side gave way. The giant plummeted, and then stopped, as the seer plucked him from the air with a levitation weave.
The ancients grinned at each other. And the rock exploded.
A bloodied, burnt, and angry wyvern rose from the rubble, shaking loose the churned earth with a warning roar. A wave of stone pelted the seer, his concentration wavered, his hold slipped. The Nuthaanian disappeared beneath the mists.
Forty-four
A WINGED MONSTROSITY hatched from the snow. Acacia Mael plunged her sword through her surprised opponent’s gut, and spun him around, putting the giant between her and the wyvern. Bloodied, burnt, and enraged, the wyvern snatched the Ardmoor off her blade like meat from the bone. Wings beat, stirring a blizzard to life, as it leapt into the air with its prize.
Acacia exhaled, scanning the remains of the battlefield.
A knot of Lome continued to fight, battling the last of the Ardmoor who had not taken flight. Lucas was in the thick of pushing them down the trail. Her eyes fell on Rivan who rushed to the edge of the cliff with Elam on his heels. They began digging in the snow and stone.
Acacia staggered over, in time to see a slash of darkness on white. The seer. A gash marred his noble brow. Grey eyes rolled with confusion and pain. Together they dug him out. Marsais was broken and bleeding and Acacia gripped his shoulders.
“Where is your nymph?”
“Who?” he rasped, fighting to rise.
“Isiilde. Where is Isiilde?”
“Gone. All gone.”
“And Oenghus?”
At this he laughed, a maniacal, spine-crawling sound. “I won,” he wheezed. “I won the wager.” Laughter turned to silent tears as he gazed at the falls.
The three pulled him to his feet, and the rangy seer swayed like wheat in the wind.
She gripped his head in her gauntleted hands and caught his darting eyes with her own. “Where is Isiilde, Marsais?”
“Who are you?”
Acacia grit her teeth. “Where is your nymph?”
“Nymph?”
The paladin shook the seer, but instead of shaking loose memory, she shook out the last of his strength. Marsais’ knees buckled.
With a curse, Acacia ripped off her gauntlet, unlaced his jerkin, and slipped her dagger from its sheath. “Light, Rivan.”
The paladin chanted a prayer, bathing the seer in warmth. Rivan turned him onto his side, and she probed the arrow wound on his shoulder, around the broken shaft. Moving with skill, she slipped her knife into the muscle and freed the arrowhead from its nest. Marsais groaned.
Acacia placed her hand on his chest, over his scar, bowed her head and prayed to the Sylph. Warmth spread from her heart, to her palm, and into the unconscious ancient. She inhaled sharply, sensing the vastness of Marsais’ spirit and the maze that was his mind. She lurched forward, dizzy and reeling in confusion, before scrambling back to her own body for safety. The Knight Captain tore her hand away from the ancient’s flesh, and fell back into the snow, staring at the madman in shock.
The blood gushing from Marsais’ brow dried, and his breathing evened.
When she raised her eyes, Elam was gesturing towards the wreckage of fallen trees. The boy rattled on in a language she could not comprehend, but the Knight Captain of the Blessed Order had children, and she had played this game before.
The boy drew a knife from Rivan’s belt, held it aloft, poised grandly over his head, and plunged it into a nonexistent form. He gestured at the blood staining the snow. And then drew a circle, mimed two big ears, and pretended to dive into the circle.
“A Blood Portal,” Rivan guessed with a snap of fingers. It had been on the tip of Acacia’s tongue. Rivan beamed with triumph, and then his own words sunk in. “Oh.”
“And Oenghus?” she asked.
Elam’s lip quivered. He pointed down.
“Are you fit, Rivan?”
The young man nodded. “Thanks to Marsais’ armor weave.”
Acacia glanced at the white-haired man at her feet. Another wave of dizziness rushed over her, and she shoved the memory of Marsais’ spirit aside.
“You’re hurt, Captain.”
She shook her head, slung her shield over a shoulder, and bent to hoist the lanky seer to his feet. Rivan hurried to help.
“They’ll be back, Captain!” Lucas shouted as the last invader’s head dropped at his feet. She nodded, and between the two of them, they dragged the seer down the treacherous path with a knot of surviving Lome carrying their own wounded.
Lucas limped and bled from more gashes than she cared to count. When they joined him, he said, “The Ardmoor scattered when the wyvern came, but there’s plenty left, and as long as the Ethervenom is running through their veins, they’ll be back.”
“Did you see a Bloodmagus?”
Lucas shook his head, and they joined the remaining Lome.
“Where is the nymph and Oenghus?” Lucas’ voice was quiet, as he scanned the path ahead.
“I lost sight of them in the battle. According to Elam, she was taken through a Blood Portal, and as for Oenghus—I fear he fell.”
“Oenghus said the seer knew of the attack. Why the Void did he wait?”
“Would you have preferred meeting this army on open ground—after escaping from the Lome?”
Scarred lips twisted downwards. “You have a point, but he could have warned us.”
“Remember his explanation. If he prepared us for the attack, then everything would have changed.”
<
br /> “That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Rivan pointed out.
“That’s because he’s a fool.”
Acacia stopped, fixing a severe eye on her lieutenant. “Marsais may be mad and broken, but he’s no fool—trust me.”
The tone of her voice silenced his retort.
“But how did the Ardmoor track us?” Rivan asked. “We don’t even know where we are.”
“A traitor,” Lucas growled.
Acacia frowned, turning over possibilities. A traitor in the tribe was certainly a possibility. What of Kasja? Strangely absent on the day of the attack. Marsais’ words swirled in her head, shifting like the pile of stone runes. He had clarified nothing, only sowed confusion, and headaches.
“A traitor, or a scryer,” she realized aloud.
“What is that?” Rivan asked.
“Seers, soothsayers, and oracles,” Acacia explained.
“Nothing more than raving madmen,” Lucas spat.
“Not all of them, Lucas. Wars have been lost because of a scryer’s sight.”
“With respect, Captain, I disagree. In my soldiering days, we had another name for them—scapegoats.”
The shadows shifted ahead, and Lucas hefted his sword.
“But why did the Ardmoor come after us? Was this all for Isiilde?” asked Rivan.
“Tharios knows we’re alive,” Acacia reasoned, shrugging her side of the load off on Rivan. She unslung her shield. “If we make it to a Chapterhouse alive, then word will reach the Isle—Tharios’ scheming will be over. There’s likely a bounty on our heads in Vaylin. I just didn’t expect a whole army to come collecting.”
“How are we going to find Isiilde?”
“First things first, Rivan. Stay with the seer, protect the women and children. We’ll make for the river.”
Without a word, Acacia and Lucas moved into a trot, speeding ahead of the knot of Lome warriors. Acacia summoned light to her shield, and illuminated a waiting line of Ardmoor and collared Reapers at the end of the path. A battle cry rose into the night, and the paladins charged, followed by a ragged group of Lome.
❧
Somewhere in the night, in the blood and carnage, their little band of refugees touched the valley floor, hounded and ambushed, skirmishing as they limped away with women and infants and wounded men in tow. A scout hissed, and the group took cover in trees.
Acacia scanned the shadows, tense with exhaustion and listening. A warbling call pierced the din of the river. It was answered by another. The fur-clad scout at her side relaxed, and so did she. A shadow detached itself from a tree and was joined by an opposing one. The two men embraced. And the Lome emerged from their concealment, flocking around their massive, one-eyed leader.
Lucas looked at Acacia. She gripped Rivan’s shoulder, keeping him in place before he could rise, but the scout pointed back towards the paladins.
“This can’t end well,” Lucas adjusted his shield.
“Steady,” she warned, and stood.
V’elbine greeted them with a growl and three long steps that took him within striking distance. Elam shot in front of the grizzled warrior, holding up his hands, but the chieftain swatted him to the side like a fly.
Acacia stepped up to meet the one-eyed warrior. And Elam yelled from the snow, words pouring from his raw throat. Women and wounded stepped from the crowd, adding their voices with the boy’s, and finally the warriors, who nodded and gestured—all the Lome who they had fought with through the night.
The chieftain continued to glower, casting his eye from the unconscious seer to Acacia. With a sharp, dismissing word, he thrust his spear towards the river.
“Supplies will get us farther,” she ventured. She mimed food and hugged her cloak. V’elbine snarled, and Acacia slowly backed away, inclining her head.
Silently, the Lome vanished into the darkness, leaving three paladins and a seer in the middle of nowhere.
“It was worth a shot, Captain,” Lucas sighed.
Movement caught Acacia’s eye. They had a follower. Elam stood nearby, watching and gesturing. “We may have something better.” She pointed at the boy. “A guide.”
Lucas hoisted Marsais over his broad shoulders, and the group limped after Elam’s hurried steps, trudging through the snowdrifts. The walk was exhausting, and they had to stop more than once to recover their breath.
“Where did that crazy sister of his get off to?” Rivan puffed in the chill.
“I didn’t see her during the attack, did you?”
“No,” Lucas grunted. “She left after the nymph nearly killed you.”
“It was barely a scratch, Lucas. I needed the exercise,” she said dryly. An answering harrumph shattered her boast.
Acacia stopped, scanning the trees. “Where did the boy go?” she whispered.
Trees and flurries and the distant river’s drone greeted them. A short shadow waved wildly and the paladins approached warily. Elam stood at the base of a towering sequoia. A mound of fresh powder hugged its broad base, and when they were within sight, he scrambled up the mound, digging in the snow.
“Help him, Rivan.”
Rivan exhaled, dropped his shield where he stood, and trudged up the hill with dragging steps.
“If I had any energy left,” Lucas winced, setting down the seer. “I would chew him out for that.”
Acacia looked at her soldiers’ discarded shield. “I’ll remind you to yell at him later.”
Together, with Elam digging like a dog, and Rivan using his sword like a shovel, the two uncovered a hole. Elam beamed, lifting and shaking a covering of fur to reveal a round door. He opened it, and climbed in. Rivan looked at his captain.
Acacia rolled Marsais onto Rivan’s shield, gripped the seer’s arm, and dragged Marsais up the mound on the makeshift sled.
The snow covered dwelling was cozy and bare, but the real surprise lay in the back, at the base of the tree. Elam shot through another Winter Wolf fur covering, and the paladins followed. The sequoia was hollowed on the inside. Herbs hung from racks, furs covered the floor, and a fire pit sat in its center.
“Thank the Sylph,” Acacia breathed, ruffling the boy’s filthy hair.
❧
Marsais regained consciousness at sunrise. He sat up with a start, throwing off his furs. Confusion clouded his eyes. Acacia stirred from sleep.
“There was an attack on the Lome city,” she explained from the other side of the coals. She rose and handed him a mug and a chunk of jerky. “We’re in a scout’s hut, or something of the sort.”
“Oenghus,” he breathed, staring at the meat.
“He fell.”
“I dropped him.” Pain cracked his voice.
“Do you remember Isiilde?”
“Of course I do, Captain,” he snapped, tossing the jerky aside and springing to his feet. He downed the water in one long gulp. At his harsh tone, the others woke, reaching for their swords. Marsais launched himself at the supplies, rifling through stores and sacks.
“Do you know where Isiilde is?”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” he barked. Marsais upended a large sack, spilling its contents onto the floor. He snatched a furred pouch from the crude table, upended that too, and brushed aside a pile of skulls and clay bowls, knocking them onto the floor.
Elam jumped to his feet, chattering madly at the seer. He ignored the boy, working quickly, but stiffly. His white hair was stained with blood, one eye was nearly swollen shut, and creases lined his face.
“You’re not fully healed, Marsais,” Acacia pressed, worried for his sanity. “You need to rest before you go after her.” But the ancient ignored the captain too.
The Lore leapt to his cracked lips. Nimble fingers traced the larger sack, over and over, weaving a swirling net of glowing runes. His fingers shook, but whether it was pain, exhaustion, or desperation, she could not tell. Slowly, he teased a thread from the ethereal weft and coaxed it into the smaller po
uch. Inch by inch, he pulled, as if sewing a piece of delicate lace.
The paladins watched in wonder as the larger sack disappeared into the smaller. When the two merged, Marsais snatched up the pouch, and reached for a water skin. Elam’s mouth fell open as the large skin disappeared into the small pouch. A cloak, flint, knife, vials, rations, and a spare set of furs disappeared inside too.
“We’ll help you get her back, Marsais.”
The seer shot out the opening, into the mound, and out the other side appearing above ground. The paladins followed, emerging to a white world, glittering beneath a rising sun. It was blinding.
Marsais tugged off his tunic, and then his shirt in the chill. He rolled them into a bundle and stuffed them in the pouch.
“Where are you going?”
“Where I go, you cannot follow.” Marsais tugged off his boots, and then his trousers, stripping down to the flesh. Bruises and half healed wounds marred his wiry frame. It was cold, his body shook, paled and shriveled. He stuffed the last of his clothes into the pouch, cinching it tightly, and looked at Acacia.
“Vlarthane,” he chattered.
And then he did not look at them again. With trembling fingers, he unwound the coins from his goatee, attached them to a leather cord, and slipped it over his neck.
The coins chimed in the early morning light, and his fingers flashed, voice rising with power. A chant stirred the snow. Runes swirled to life with the flurries. Marsais jerked, his muscles spasmed, and his neck arched towards the sky like a bow about to snap.
The pouch fell to the ground, and the seer followed. Bones cracked, and feathers as white as snow emerged. In a blinding flash all went still. A tall owl stood on the ground, blending with the whiteness. A cord dangled around its neck, and its noble head swiveled. Two large, luminous, grey eyes locked on the paladins. With a beat of wings, the owl took flight, snatching the pouch with its talons.
“By the gods,” Rivan breathed. Elam appeared to agree. He was crouched in the snow, head buried, murmuring a frantic prayer to whatever gods he served.
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 35