A pale hand reached from beneath the furs, touching his shin. Oenghus fell to his knees on the ice, breathing hard. He tugged his flask free, bit out the cork, and took a long draught of Brimgrog. Its bite seared his veins and his body warmed.
The woman in furs edged closer, two eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She gripped his arm, covered with ice, and pulled.
“In a minute lass.” Oenghus closed his eyes. But it was more than a minute.
He opened them to darkness, and coldness on his cheek. Kasja was cinching a cloth around his abdomen, speaking gibberish urgently in his ear. The barbarian stirred, ice creaked and cracked on his kilt, and he pushed himself up, staggering forward, barreling over a lurking Reaper before catching himself on a tree. Snowflakes fell on his head, joining a bandage on his forehead and the layer of ice on his beard.
Oenghus gripped the tree, leaning heavily against its strength for support. His head lulled forward, chin resting on his chest, shoulders shuddering. The warrior was wavering between life and death.
Kasja pulled on his hand. This time he followed. Twice he staggered and fell, and his guide urged him forward, along the bank. A canoe appeared, and he fell inside, nearly tipping it over. Kasja wrestled the giant’s legs into the canoe, threw a fur over his bulk, and pushed out into the lake, hopping inside.
As they drifted over still waters, Oenghus watched the silver moon and the wild, red guardian trailing in its wake. His heart ached, and he shook off his longing with a growl.
“Isiilde, where is Isiilde?”
The woman said a single word in her tongue, one he knew. Gone.
“Did the Scarecrow tell you I’d be here?”
She tilted her head.
He exhaled, closing his eyes.
When he opened his eyes, the moon was in a different position. The canoe was caught in a current, drifting towards the mouth of a river. Oenghus swallowed, silently assessing his wounds, but his body was numb and very distant. He fumbled for his flask, fingers trembling over the cork, until it opened, and he took another swig. His head cleared.
“Kasja.”
The furred woman leaned forward. He pointed to his eyes, and then to his chest. “The Scarecrow?”
The wild woman shook her head, pointed to her own eyes, and then to his chest, smiling proudly. Teeth gleamed white and feral in the dark.
“You had a vision,” he muttered. Oenghus did not much care where he was going, but the river was gentle, and the moon bright. Its silver light caressed his cheek, and he closed his eyes, dreaming of the Sylph’s luscious body in his arms.
Forty-nine
ACACIA MAEL FROWNED at Elam. The boy was wedged in the narrow exit, and refused to budge. He rattled on and on in a language none of them understood. She caught one word out of the jumble: Kasja.
Lucas grunted, losing patience with his usual alacrity. He stepped up to the boy, grabbed his collar, and wrenched him out of the hole. The paladin tossed his pack through the exit, and climbed outside. Elam scrambled to Acacia’s feet, getting on his knees.
“Kasja,” he said over and over, pointing to the ground.
“We can’t wait for her, Elam. You can if you like.” Acacia pushed her pack through, and climbed out to a white and green world. The snow sparkled and danced in the icicles, and the sun was distant but bright. She inhaled sharp air and evergreen and scanned the quiet.
“Do we even know where Vlarthane is?”
“We’ll head east. Sooner or later we’ll come to the coast.”
Lucas turned towards the rising sun as Rivan emerged, puffing and shivering from the snow, as he slipped back a number of times before clawing his way to open air.
The three hoisted their packs and started their long march. Elam ran ahead, flying over snow drifts like a sparrow, waving his arms, and pushing on Lucas, trying to force him to turn around. When the paladin plowed over the boy, he turned to Acacia, throwing himself on her leg. This was not the first time a child had attached himself to her leg.
Acacia stopped, looked down at a pair of dark eyes framed in a filthy face, and sighed. “Hold up, Lucas.”
The scarred man stopped, and turned with a frown. “You want me to toss the little imp?”
“No.” She thrust a finger at the tree. “You want us to wait?”
Elam nodded, and tugged on her hand. “Kasja, Kasja,” he repeated.
“She could be dead, boy,” Lucas said.
But Elam shook his head.
“What do you think, Rivan?”
Rivan started in surprise. The captain had never asked his opinion before.
“You’ve spent a good deal of time with the boy.”
“He doesn’t scare easy, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rivan replied, thoughtfully. “Seems like he knows something we don’t.”
“Maybe his sister was the traitor, and now she’s leading the Ardmoor back to us.”
“A possibility.” Acacia scanned the forest. She was not one to wait. There were Ardmoor in the forest, she had men for whom she was responsible, a task ahead, and a seer to meet. And yet, the boy was so adamant. Against logic, against sense, the Knight Captain listened to her heart. “I don’t much like the idea of waiting inside the tree. There’s only one exit. We’ll wait in that copse.”
“For another day?”
“Does it matter at this point?”
In answer, Lucas stomped towards the trees, and planted himself beside a fallen log, settling in for a long wait.
“Can I wait inside, Captain?”
Acacia looked at Rivan. “No.”
❧
The paladins did not have to wait long. Something pelted Rivan on the back of his dented helm. The paladin glanced up, around, and behind, looking for birds or a mischievous squirrel. A furred figure slipped from behind the trees on silent feet, and Acacia and Lucas turned in surprise.
Elam hopped to his feet and rushed the stealthy arrival, throwing his arms around the fur. Sister and brother were reunited. In the torrent of words that followed, Acacia caught mention of Oenghus in the jumble. Elam slipped free, pointing and motioning with urgency at his sister, who moved back through the woods.
Without hesitation, Acacia sprinted after the wild woman, straight to a wide river and a canoe, half bobbing in the water and half stuck on the bank. The boat carried a heavy load—one Kasja could not drag to shore.
Acacia pulled back the fur. “Chaim give him strength,” she breathed.
Over seven feet of Nuthaanian muscle lay in the canoe, seven feet of wounds, of jagged gash and bruise. She put her ear to his ice burned lips and a hand over his heart. Oenghus was alive.
He had lost his shield and hammer in the falls, and his broad chest was bare. Kasja had removed his breastplate and bandaged his wounds. The bandages were soaked through with blood.
“Thank Zahra,” Rivan said, touching fingers to lips.
“If he can make it, I’d advise against healing him here. We won’t ever get him to the tree otherwise.”
Lucas had a point. The Nuthaanian was not a man who was simply carried. She shook him, calling his name. “Oenghus, can you walk?” Sapphire eyes opened, and then closed. His hand rested on his chest, gripping his sacred flask. She pried his fingers back, uncorked the flask, and put the Brimgrog to his lips.
The berserker sat up straight with a growl, knocking her to the side. The canoe tipped, spilling out its load onto shore, and the Nuthaanian stumbled to his feet, eyes burning. His hand dropped, grasping at his unraveling kilt in search of the flask.
“Oenghus,” she held his flask out. “We need you to walk.”
Blood gushed anew from the bandage around his abdomen. He swayed on his feet, snatched the flask, and thrust it into his belt. “Where is Isiilde?”
“Marsais went after her.” Acacia climbed to her feet, touching his massive arm. He looked at the hand, and the wildness left his eyes. “Can you walk?”
“Course I can walk,” he rasped. To prove it, he took three steps, an
d promptly dropped to his knees, falling face first into the snow.
“Void,” Lucas spat.
“Indeed.”
❧
Between the five of them, using two shields strapped together as a sled and a lot of effort, they managed to wrestle the giant inside the tree. Lying beside the fire, Oenghus began to thaw.
Acacia unwound Oenghus’ filthy bandage and grimaced. His side was torn open. He opened his eyes at her touch.
“Looks like you collided with a rock or two on your way down the river, Oenghus.”
“Or three, and a hungry wyvern,” he grunted in reply. She pressed a water skin to his cracked lips, and he swallowed. “Long as I ‘ave me bollocks I’ll be fine.”
Acacia frowned, looking down at him severely. “I’m sorry, Oenghus, but you were in the snow a long time.”
As sure as a shot of Brimgrog, the Nuthaanian reached for his crotch, groping for familiarity. When he was reassured that everything was where it should be, he looked at the Knight Captain, whose face betrayed none of the amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You’re a cruel woman,” he huffed.
“I know.” She placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back to the ground. “I’ll get you right, Oenghus.”
“Those hands of yours can do anything they like.”
“I’m of a mind to shove you back in the river,” she warned. Before he could answer, she bowed her head, silently thanked the Sylph, and placed her hands over his wound, praying for the skill to mend his ruined flesh.
Fifty
ALL RIVERS LEAD to Vlarthane. Its walls rose from a massive lake and its towers climbed up the island mountain, until the city crested and flowed down into the sea.
A steady stream of travelers trickled in and out of the city, walking over a long bridge that dipped its arches in the current, one over the other, striving towards the formidable gates.
A painted barbarian pushed stragglers aside, clearing the way for his line of slaves. His chalk covered hair was pulled behind his head in a topknot, the sides of his scalp shaved, and his beard was twisted into three thick braids. Bones and trinkets hung from his belt, weighting the loincloth between his powerful thighs. The barbarian was sorely missing his kilt.
Oenghus Saevaldr adjusted the shield bumping against his back, and eyed the tiered battlements that wound up the mountain. Sailboats and rowboats flittered over the water, traveling between lake towns, avoiding the oared monstrosities and their lethal ship-breakers.
“It’s huge,” Rivan gawked from the slave line. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“If you wanted sure, boy, you should have been an acolyte,” Lucas growled from the back of the line.
Oenghus glanced over his shoulder, studying the group in their stolen costumes. Convincing the paladins to ambush a group of slavers had not been difficult. However, convincing those same paladins to trade their arms and armor for a rougher sort of clothing, had not been easy. He had had to sacrifice his own kilt—the Saevaldr tartan cloth was too recognizable, even in Vaylin.
In the end, Acacia had compromised, scratching out holy symbols, commanding her men to discard their golden tunics and tarnishing the armor’s sheen with grease and dirt before putting the bundle on a horse. Oenghus’ line of slaves; Rivan, Kasja, and Elam, all collared and chained, were easily freed if needed.
Acacia and Lucas wore a jumble of furs and armor, and carried spears and targes instead of their own heaters. Their travel worn furs and smudged faces weren’t affected, but real.
“This had better work,” Oenghus grumbled, grabbing Rivan by the neck for show. “My fist has a bone to pick with that manipulating bastard.”
“At least wait until we’re out of Vlarthane,” Acacia murmured.
“You just want to hit him first.”
“I’m sure you would let me.”
Oenghus bared his teeth at the paladin, and turned his attention towards the gate, to the crimson guards with their scaled armor, crossbows, and bristling spears. Vlarthane’s banners billowed in the winds; a black circle on crimson.
Three days ago, Marsais had sent a single message via Whisper: Vlarthane, the Crooked Man. No word about Isiilde.
One would assume the Crooked Man was a tavern, but one never knew with Marsais—his mind worked in mysterious ways, and he was always suspicious of people standing around all day snatching Whispers from the air. But just because Marsais found the pastime amusing, didn’t mean everyone else did.
A trio of guards stopped them at the gates. A line of crossbowmen on the battlements lowered weapons, their deadly missiles aimed at the towering barbarian who looked like a volatile Ardmoor.
“Slave tax,” the guard’s voice was muffled by his closed helm.
Oenghus grunted, reached into a pouch, and dropped three dented coins into the guard’s hand, one for each slave. The helm tilted down as the man hefted the little coins. He held out his hand for more.
“They’re runts, we won’t get much for them,” Acacia said in flawless Vaylinish. The guard persisted, and Oenghus dropped three more coins into his hand. Finally, Oenghus and his group were waved through, shoulders tense as they passed the formidable portcullis, following the flow of travelers and traders down a spacious road.
The snow was trampled and black beneath Oenghus’ boots, pushed to the sides of the cobblestones, where muck covered drains unleashed nauseous smells. Vlarthane was vast and varied, and traders from the Bastardlands flocked to its markets. Long lines of slaves, driven by men with whips and cudgels, marched down the street towards the market district.
The Vaylinish were not particular when it came to slaves. Anyone brought to Vaylin’s markets was sold to the highest bidder, no questions, scruples, or regulations involved. Lords or ladies could find themselves on the chopping block as easily as a street urchin.
Oenghus turned down a side street where sprawling rookeries clouded out the sky, then down an alley. His slaves shed their collars and chains, and he stuffed the discarded items under a refuse pile. “Remember, stay within sight of each other, and unless you speak Vaylinish, don’t talk.” He put his hand on Elam’s shoulder and steered the boy back onto the street.
Lucas followed with Kasja, and Acacia and Rivan trailed far behind, keeping the giant within sight. Two travelers didn’t warrant much notice, but a group of six attracted attention.
Oenghus stepped aside for a squad of soldiers escorting a gilded litter that whip-scarred men carried on their shoulders. He followed the twisting streets, making his way steadily up the mountain, passing a guarded gate at each tier. The buildings, built from stone blocks that were as thick as the battlements carved into the hill, rose in quality with the tiers.
On the third tier, Oenghus kept to the winding path around the mountain, moving towards the Bitter Coast, while keeping a discreet eye on his group. Oenghus had been to Vlarthane before, long ago, and the city had not changed. It was as formidable and as well defended as he remembered. And although the Knight Captain would not say why, or when, she had also visited Vlarthane. She stopped to question the occasional grocer, or urchin, but every time he caught her eyes, she gave a slight shake of her head.
“To the Pits with Marsais,” Oenghus muttered. Searching for The Crooked Man in a city of brothels, taverns, and boarding houses could take a fortnight, and earn them attention. With an oath, he stomped into the nearest tavern, and had his first ale in a week.
❧
When the sea stretched under the falling horizon, Oenghus began to climb down tiers, moving into rougher districts where they were less likely to attract notice. They took rooms on separate sides of the street, in the shadow of the great walls that lined the bay. Oenghus left Elam in their shared room and went down to the tavern to nurse another ale.
Acacia walked into the common room. Firm-jawed, armored, and armed, she earned glances, but none lingered for long. Oenghus pushed out a chair, grunted at her, and signaled the barkeep for another ale. She sat, leaning
close to ward off prying ears.
“Kasja ran off,” she said into her mug.
“Bloody Void.”
“Lucas would agree. Elam?”
“He was sleeping when I left him,” Oenghus shrugged. “They can do whatever they like. I’m not responsible for those two.”
Acacia hid a smile in her mug. “Of course you’re not,” she murmured. “She might have had a vision of Marsais.”
“If I never hear the word ‘vision’ again, I will die a happy man.”
“In a city like Vlarthane, there’s a rather good chance of dying before that happens.”
As if her words had sparked the fight, two men erupted from a nearby table. One drew a sword, and the other threw a knife. The knifer won. Blood pooled on the stained planks. The corpse was stripped in a matter of moments, and dragged out back into the alley.
“The city does have a certain charm to it,” Oenghus agreed. “Hardened warriors too.”
“And Grawl.”
Oenghus turned in surprise. “What?”
“Rumor has it that they’ve come for their monthly tributes.”
The berserker spat in disgust, hitting a man’s boot. The squat man snarled, reaching for his cudgel, but Oenghus beat him to it, rising from his chair and grabbing the man’s wrist. Oenghus spoke Vaylinish well enough, but in all taverns there was a common language in which the hulking Nuthaanian was fluent. He lifted the man off his feet, and tossed him towards a newly cleared spot on the floor.
The man did not return.
Oenghus resumed his seat, feeling the eyes of the captain on him, neither disapproving nor amused. “I am trying to behave,” he explained.
Acacia shook her head. “You’re favoring your left side.”
“Your healing was fine.”
“But not good enough.”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” The chair creaked in protest as Oenghus leaned back against the wall. “If you like, you can try again. I’ll submit to your healing hands any time.”
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 39