King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “I knew that was coming,” she said, dryly.

  “Women can’t resist a barbarian.”

  “Although you pass as an Ardmoor, the look doesn’t much suit you.”

  “I’ll put on a kilt as quick as can be if you stay the night with me, Acacia.”

  “I doubt you could find a kilt in Vaylin.”

  “I’ll sew one if I have to.”

  She leaned in close. “We have a seer and a nymph to find.”

  Oenghus sobered. “I’ve been mulling over the Scarecrow’s Whisper.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “Sometimes he’s a bit too cryptic—for my mind anyway.”

  “Is there a possibility that the Whisper was tampered with?”

  Oenghus shrugged. “I’ve heard it done, but I have no talent with Whispers myself.”

  “Too heavy a hand?”

  “Too loud a voice,” he purred like a rumbling storm.

  “Are you sure Marsais said The Crooked Man?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Could it have been something along the lines of the Hooked Hand?”

  “I think I would have noticed the difference,” he growled.

  But her eyes were focused elsewhere. Jerking into action, she pushed back her chair and stood, racing out of the tavern. Oenghus was slower than usual, but his long stride and bullying size made up for his lapse.

  Cool air slapped his body as he stepped out into the night on the captain’s heels. She stood alert, gazing at a spot across the way, as falling snow gathered on her head and shoulders. Drunken patrons jostled her, stumbling down the steps, and Oenghus stepped behind, forcing them to go around his formidable presence.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I saw something.”

  “Something?”

  “A winged-something.”

  Oenghus frowned, and stepped down the stairs into the street, turning around in time for a rock to pelt him in the face. A greasy monkey with a misshapen mouth and leathery wings flapped and danced on the tavern’s top, and Oenghus threw a knife with more irritation than skill.

  The weapon hit the roof.

  Luccub shot into the air with a cackle as the blade rolled off.

  “Cursed imp,” an old man spat from the shadows.

  “Has he been here long?” Acacia asked in Vaylinish.

  The old man peeled back his lips, displaying numerous gaps. “Long enough. The Crimson don’t dispatch pests. Not until the beast snatches a lord’s tooth.”

  Acacia dropped a copper in the man’s hands. “Have you heard of the Crooked Man?”

  “I’m straight as a stick,” he slurred.

  Oenghus swore under his breath, and Acacia stilled, tilting her head at the old man. With a jerk of her chin, she motioned him to the side, under the eaves and a curtain of icicles.

  “The message,” she said when he joined her. “Was it in the trade tongue?”

  “Aye. What of it?”

  “I should have realized sooner.” The barbarian standing before her bristled with alertness, ready to charge off in a direction at a moment’s notice. “In the trade tongue, crooked usually refers to a street, or a shady deal, but in Vaylinish, it means bent.”

  “And?”

  “The bent man—an old man.”

  A dim light shone in the barbarian’s eyes. “We’ve been assuming it’s a tavern, or a street.”

  “We’ve spent the entire afternoon asking after an old man.”

  “I’ll strangle the Scarecrow.” Oenghus’ chest rose, muscles flexed, and Acacia placed a hand on his bulging pectorals.

  “Not yet, Oenghus. Think this through.”

  He looked at her hand. “You are not helping me think.”

  Acacia started to pull away, but he caught her hand, pressing it to his muscles. “Might help a little.”

  “I’m sure a few pints would too.”

  The closeness, her hand on his skin, and the meeting of their eyes brought to mind their conversation in the Lome city. About the past, their losses, and the Keening. Realization brightened Acacia’s pale gaze. “Of course,” she breathed. “If you were traveling with a nymph, would you risk staying in a tavern or an inn?”

  Oenghus’ beard drooped and his brows drew together in thought. “An inn would be best, but Isiilde draws attention where ever she goes.”

  “But old men, dying men consumed by the Keening, would be less likely to notice.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “The Vaylinish don’t tolerate infirmities, or weakness. They send their old off to die, out of sight, out of mind.”

  “And there is a place where they go to die in Vlarthane, in the shadow of the walls by the catacombs.”

  “Takes a nimble mind to unravel the Scarecrow’s ways.”

  “You sound as if that’s a bad thing.”

  “Not at all, you just have me wondering if the rest of you is as nimble.”

  “You’re not wearing a kilt, Oenghus.” She patted his chest, and trotted across the street to update her lieutenant.

  Fifty-one

  FLURRIES FELL, SOFT and silent, muffling the city and footsteps. Shapes moved in the whiteness, drifting through the streets, detached from one another, hurrying towards shelter in the early morning snowfall.

  Virgin snow gathered on Oenghus’ fur mantle, and he glanced at his only companion in the bleakness. Acacia huddled beneath hood and cloak, tense with expectation. It felt like the whole of the city held its breath. The feeling was palpable, thick as the snow, and a mystery to the foreigners. Oenghus hoped it was nothing more than an approaching storm, or the reality that followed a night of revelries.

  Their boots crunched underfoot, approaching the first tier gate and the Crimson guards. The gates stood open, the Crimson watchful on their walls, slashes of color in the blinding white.

  They passed under the portcullis and swinging gibbets without challenge. As soon as they moved beyond the walls, a gust from the Bitter Coast slammed into the barbarian, bringing snow and ice, and a churning world. Trudging down the hill, Oenghus and Acacia braced themselves. They found refuge in the flatlands, amid creaking rookeries and narrow streets—empty streets.

  “Why do I feel someone is about to plunge a dagger into my back?” Acacia mused.

  Oenghus unslung his shield, and adjusted his mantle, tucking it behind the axe in his belt. “It’s likely the cold.” He sounded unconvinced by his own words.

  “The whores aren’t even out.”

  “Bit early yet.”

  “Not for the hungry and desperate.”

  Oenghus had nothing to say to that. They walked through the white, until it opened to a square, to thousands of bowed forms collecting snow in the shadow of a titan’s heel. The Crimsons’ eyes fell upon the new arrivals, and Oenghus pulled Acacia down into the line of devout—both willful and forced.

  “Zahra protect us,” Acacia murmured. Oenghus could feel the tension in the Knight Captain’s body, the muscles flexing, preparing to fight, and the unease rippling beneath her skin.

  “Just don’t burst into divine light and we should be all right.”

  The titan Dark One rose over their heads, towering over city and sea. Oenghus and the others had caught glimpses of the monolithic statue all throughout the day before, had moved around its shadow, but never within range. The titan’s face was lost in the swirl, save for the burning fires of the Dark One’s eyes, far above, guiding ships into the harbor and fear into sailors’ hearts.

  Oenghus glanced around, noting the position of the Crimson and the buildings lining the square. He plucked Acacia’s sleeve, motioning with his chin. Slowly, they began moving out of the line, towards a lane.

  Out of the falling snow, shadows emerged, marching through the swirl with a thunderous chant. The sound pounded between Oenghus’ ears, drove at his heart, and the berserker steeled his mind against fear. He gripped the captain’s arm, but her forehead was pressed to the snow, murmuring a fervent prayer
.

  The Crimson sunk to their knees.

  A horde marched through the square, winding down the road on its way to the bay. Eight feet of sinew and muscle, as crimson as the guards’ armor, the flesh of the marchers was hard as steel, and claws filled the space between their fingers. These monsters were Grawl, spawned from the Void, with no mouth or nose, only depthless eyes that brought madness to anyone who dared meet their gaze. The horde was joined by slaves, driven by masters with whips and jagged chains.

  The Grawl’s chant beat at the inside of Oenghus’ skull, clutching his heart and sowing fear. He swallowed the reaction, and raised his eyes from the snow, watching the line. The Nuthaanian’s eyes widened. A Herdsman marched with the Grawl, driving them with a barbed, black whip that moved unnaturally, as if it lived. White as snow and hairless as a worm, the general of the Dark One wore shadow as a mantle, trailing shadow and tendrils of nothingness.

  “Blood and ashes,” he said between his teeth. The Chant thundered, the listeners’ hearts spasmed, and breath came in shallow gasps.

  Acacia reached for Oenghus’ hand, gripping it tightly as the two fought against the wave of horror that the chant invoked. The Nuthaanian wanted to rage, to charge, to roar at the Voidspawn in challenge. Some of those present did, but not in challenge—in terror. Overcome, a handful in the assembled crowd darted, screaming with madness, only to be hunted down and impaled by a Grawl’s claws. Some were snatched from the snow by the Crimson, and thrown into line, chained with the rest of the miserable slaves.

  In the flurry of madness, Acacia pulled Oenghus back, slowly, and together they finished their journey into the lane. In the shadow of buildings, they retreated, through twisting lanes and alleys until the Chant died to a distant drone.

  Oenghus clenched his fist, searching for something to drive it against. He had stood against Grawl, but never run.

  “Focus on our task, Oenghus.” Acacia’s voice broke through his building rage. “We’re two against a horde, and your death won’t help your nymph.”

  “You’re with the bloody Blessed Order,” he growled. “Aren’t you keen to smite a courtyard of Voidspawn?”

  “If I could,” she admitted, “but I’m a Knight Captain. You have me confused with an Inquisitor—they’re the ones that send soldiers to the slaughter.”

  He grunted. They turned, moving father into the lane, following twisting alleyways, working their way around the square. But their progress was soon halted by a winged visitor. Luccub landed on a roof, dislodging a small avalanche of snow on their heads.

  Oenghus glared at the imp. He grabbed an icicle and pulled, breaking it from its perch. Before he could throw the icy missile at the imp, it chucked a rock at his head.

  This time the Nuthaanian ducked.

  The winged imp flew into the sky, disappearing into the whiteness. Acacia bent to retrieve the rock. When her fingers touched the stone, they activated a rune. Light flared, runes swirled, forming a scrawl of words in the air. Acacia squinted at the jagged lines and severe slants interspersed by chaotic loops.

  “Can you read this?”

  “Oh, aye, it’s the Scarecrow’s hand all right.” He tilted it sideways, and squinted. “Says Maiden’s Court, I think.”

  Acacia rubbed her head. “Is Marsais always so cryptic?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  ❧

  Maiden’s Court was far from maidenly, and not easy to find. Its brick had long been buried under filth and the drains were clogged with rot, both animal and human. The snow that managed to flutter between building tops was instantly defiled by the air, and touched ground as black as the muck surrounding it.

  Oenghus frowned at the enclosed court, gazing at vacant windows and scorched stone walls. His hackles rose, he gripped his shield, and Acacia put her back against his.

  A large crash behind turned them around. A hidden gate tucked into the arch dropped, sealing them in, and the windows bristled with barbed bolts, all aimed at the paladin and barbarian.

  A voice echoed off the stones. “If you come quietly, we’ll spare your three friends.”

  “I don’t suppose this is a scheme of Marsais’?” Acacia murmured, counting barbed bolts and the eyes gleaming from windows and sewer grates.

  “Not a scheme, but I’m fairly sure he’s to blame.” Oenghus gripped his axe.

  “The scarred fellow put up a fight,” the voice continued calmly. “The young man pissed his pants, and the boy—well you can see for yourselves.”

  A figure appeared high overhead, hoisting a bound boy over the side. Elam screamed and fought and raged against the ropes, kicking the dingy brick with his boots.

  Oenghus growled, and dropped his axe and shield with a clatter. Acacia followed, raising her hands in surrender.

  Fifty-two

  ISIILDE STRETCHED ON the mattress. It wasn’t plush and it wasn’t filled with feathers, but it was clean and the blanket covering her body was warm. She rolled to the side, searching for her bed mate, but found his spot empty and cold. A steady rhythm of footsteps told her where he was.

  She cracked an eye open, and lowered the covers. In nothing but his trousers, Marsais paced by the window, turning the already threadbare rug into tatters. The window was frosted, and the world beyond was grey with early morning light. She did not want to leave her cocoon just yet.

  “No sign of them?” she yawned, feeling a twinge in her wrist. A faded bruise marred her freckled skin, but she could not recall what it was from. Then again, there were bruises most everywhere on her body.

  “None.”

  He was worried, she could tell. Waiting was taking its own toll on the nymph. Her stomach could only twist into so many knots. She rubbed the sore spot on her wrist, and rose from bed, dragging the blanket with her to squint through the frosted window.

  Snow covered the filth of the street, and a few brave travelers trudged through the thick snowfall. Isiilde shivered, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders, wishing Oenghus would appear. His death had hit her hard, but his sudden rebirth—sudden as far as she was concerned—was joyous.

  When Marsais had confided his vision of Oenghus to her, he had been apologetic, but it had not mattered, Isiilde’s world had brightened, and her memories of fire and death had paled in comparison.

  “Should we risk another Whisper?”

  Marsais sighed, stopping beside his nymph. “I fear the first might have been intercepted.”

  “But how could one Whisper be snatched from the air unless someone was expecting it?”

  Marsais whistled, and she looked at him, cocking her head. He whistled again, a different tune, like that of a blue bird, and then a creaking chirp like a swallow. She laughed when he produced the mocking call of a seagull.

  “Shall I imitate a rooster in the hen house next?”

  His arms snaked around her, lifting her off the planks, pulling her body against his. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and smiled into his twinkling eyes. “Only if you explain why you are mimicking birds.”

  “Whispers, my dear,” he said, carrying her back to the bed, “have their own signature. “Like a scent, or a voice, or a whisper in a lover’s ear.” This last was said against her own ear, and his purr made her shiver.

  “But only if one recognizes it,” she ventured.

  Marsais’ lips ceased nibbling her neck, and he lay back on the pillow, staring up at the creaking rafters. “Indeed,” he sighed.

  “So who might recognize you in Vlarthane?” she asked, planting her elbows on his chest. He looked uncomfortable, not owing to her elbows or her weight pressing on his body, but from her question.

  “Do you remember when Oenghus made mention of the notches in my belt?”

  The nymph narrowed her eyes, but her questions were interrupted by a persistent tapping. As one, they looked towards the window, where a familiar set of eyes framed by filth and fur peered in. Marsais rushed to the window, throwing ope
n the pane and exposing the room to the elements. Kasja entered with a gust of wind and a flurry of snow, hopping to the floor. She shook herself like a wet dog, and smiled up at Marsais.

  Words passed between the two in the musical language of the Lome, quick and flitting as a bird on snow. Isiilde sat up, the blanket drawn around her shoulders, and waited.

  “Blast it,” Marsais barked, rushing over to his clothes. “The giant, block-headed imbecile!” he pulled his shirt over his head.

  “What is it?”

  “I told him the Hooked Hand,” he growled. “The Hooked Hand, not the bloody Crooked Man.”

  Isiilde sighed, closing her eyes. Her guardian did not have the best hearing—she knew that from long years of patient testing and sneaking past his snoring hide.

  “But he’s alive?”

  “Yes—for now.”

  “How did Kasja find us?” Isiilde looked at the shuffling bundle of furs sniffing her feet. The woman did not smell good at all, and the nymph vaguely wondered when Kasja had last bathed.

  “From your hair.”

  Resigned to answers that were both direct and vague, Isiilde pressed the subject. “My hair?”

  Marsais gestured at his own with a waving, sporadic gesture. “Kasja pulled out a strand of your hair in the Lome city.”

  “Oh. I thought it was for a love potion or something.” Isiilde stood, pulling on her own warm clothes, while the woman sniffed her leg. Isiilde patted her on the head, and the woman looked up with bright eyes.

  “Kasja is an augur, a tracker of sorts, who uses physical components to divine things about her surroundings, and sometimes the future as well.”

  At the sound of her name, Kasja dug deep in her fur tunic, drawing out a little doll made of twigs, and wrapped with red hair. Isiilde paused, unsure how to respond, so she continued dressing. It appeared they were going for a walk.

  “She’ll lead us to the others.” Marsais cinched his boots, and stood. “Now, my dear, do you want to try your illusion weave?”