Isiilde frowned at the Inquisitor, and all the other attentive faces—she didn’t even have a name; even a dog had a name.
Amidst thunderous cheering, the two combatants stepped onto the sands. Stievin wore the chain mail of the Isle Guard. He was crouched and ready, shield and sword in hand, but his eyes, dancing with madness, were drawn to her and she gripped Marsais tightly.
“Oen has forgotten his weapons,” she breathed.
“O, I wouldn’t worry about Oenghus, my dear.”
Oenghus stopped in front of Stievin, planted his feet in the sand, and cracked his knuckles. The Inquisitor shuffled out of the circle and the runes were activated with a rush of energy that instantly created a greenish bubble of protection.
The moment the shield sprang to life, Stievin charged the giant with a frenzied howl, sword raised to strike. Isiilde jerked with terror as the sword swept through the air. Oenghus stepped into the blow, catching Stievin’s wrist and driving his head into the shorter man’s face.
The crowd cheered, bellowing their excitement.
Stievin reeled, bringing his shield around, but Oenghus paid the impact of metal no more heed than an annoying bug, absorbing the blow with a chuckle and twisting Stievin’s sword arm. A second later, Oenghus brought his elbow down, splitting Stievin’s arm at the elbow with a snapping crack and a protrusion of jagged bone.
Stievin howled in pain and his sword fell to the ground with a dull thud. Still, the cook continued to fight, pounding his shield against the Nuthaanian as he tried to break free of the crushing grip. However, Oenghus could not be dislodged. The giant heaved upwards with a roaring growl, ripping the arm clean from Stievin’s shoulder with a sickening pop.
The crowd gasped with shock and Isiilde buried her face against Marsais. Stievin’s panicked screams became worse. The cheers from the audience died, fading into a near silence as the Berserker continued his gruesome, yet methodical work. Stievin was pleading for mercy now, whimpering like an animal with unnatural, impossible sounds tearing from his throat. Another bone breaking pop echoed in the stillness, followed by fist meeting flesh in a savage flurry of hammering blows.
Marsais covered Isiilde’s ears with his hands, but she could still hear the howling pleas of Stievin. Finally, a single crack echoed in the arena, and a lifeless body crumpled to the sand.
Isiilde risked a peek. The bloody mess polluting the sand was barely recognizable. In the hush that followed, Oenghus spat on the corpse before stalking out of the arena.
“And he wasn’t even berserking,” Isek breathed. A weeping woman ran out with the litter bearers, sobbing over the mutilated corpse.
“Who is that, Marsais?” Isiilde swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat when they tossed the stray pieces of Stievin onto the stretcher. Marsais didn’t answer until the body was carried out of the arena and the woman disappeared from view.
“That was Stievin’s Oathbound.”
The nymph studied her hands with revulsion, remembering Marsais’ warning: a nymph’s touch will drive a man insane. But she had never touched Stievin, it was he who reached for her. The thought brought little comfort. And a small part of her thought that perhaps her kind were better off locked away in a dungeon, separate from the rest of the lands.
Forty-nine
SOLDIERS RAN OUT to smooth the sand, erasing the bloody slate to begin anew. It was apparent from the spectator’s attentiveness that this next battle was not so clear cut as to who the victor would be.
Oenghus stomped into the private balcony, sitting down in the vacant seat beside her. Thankfully, he had washed Stievin’s blood from his hands and armor.
“You never have to think about that bastard again, Isiilde,” he growled, keeping his gaze on the arena. She was glad for it, because she feared what she might see smoldering in the depths of his sapphire eyes. It was difficult to connect this man with the same who used to sing her to sleep at night.
“I must leave you now, my dear,” Marsais said, squeezing her hands. “Don’t worry, I have a weapon!” With a grin and a twinkle in his eyes, he brandished his little hunting knife.
The nymph gave an anxious moan, feeling her stomach twist, but before he could rise, she reached over, grabbed his goatee and yanked him closer. She pressed her lips to his. The single, aching kiss conveyed everything that words could not. All the while, Oenghus grumbled sourly at their side. When Marsais finally recovered from the kiss, he stood, steeled his shoulders, and left.
“Could you refrain from kissing that bastard while I’m here?”
“No,” she stated, wrapping her cloak firmly around her.
When Marsais had said that he had to leave, he meant it in a complete sense. The warm presence that filled her since they bonded, left. Isiilde could feel her Bonded, knew the direction she could walk to find him, but compared to the blaze of his presence before, it was a flickering candle that left her cold, as if he held her at arm’s length. Alone with her confusion and fear, silent tears came unbidden, trailing down her cheeks.
“Sprite,” Oenghus whispered, leaning close. “When you’re bonded—your feelings, including fear, affect him. For his sake, have courage and he will fare better for it.”
“How do you know?” She had not considered that their Bond might go both ways. What did she feel like to Marsais?
“Common sense,” Oenghus shrugged. “Isek, go put the whole pouch on the Scarecrow. I might as well make some coin off this.” He tossed a heavy pouch at the wiry man and settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable. Knight Captain Mael looked over at the Berserker with obvious disapproval, to which he smiled charmingly back.
The wager bolstered Isiilde’s spirit. The odds couldn’t be all that bad if Oenghus put coin on Marsais. Unfortunately, her spirits plummeted when the Hound and his gryphon came soaring into the arena from the sky.
The monstrous beast pounded into the sand with a galloping gait of clawed talons. Its wings were lined with razor sharp feathers, and the beast folded them inwards, shielding its body. It snapped its powerful beak, tasting the air with a forked tongue. Large slitted eyes scanned the cheering crowd with frightful intelligence. The gryphon inhaled, its mighty chest expanding, a moment before it let loose an earth shattering screech.
The Hound straddled the saddle on its back. He was no less impressive than he had been in the throne room. Only he wore a fearsome helm of scales, which completed his transformation into some nightmare combination of half dragon and half man. Isiilde grabbed Oenghus’ arm and hugged it to her. How could Marsais ever hope to face both of them?
In the fading echo of the gryphon’s battle cry, the nymph’s champion strolled calmly onto the sands. She noted that he was still limping from this morning and favored Oenghus with a seething glare. Marsais hadn’t told her what had happened, but it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to figure it out.
The crowd quieted. A thrill of anticipation pulsed in the air—a silence that was louder than the deafening cheers from a moment before. The Inquisitor lumbered into the center, while the combatants took up positions on opposite sides of the ring.
“Lord Champion Guthre Dragonbane of Kambe issues challenge to Marsais—Archlord of the Isle for right of ownership of his nymph. May the Law stand and preserve us all.”
Multist marched out of the ring. Marsais bowed to the Hound, who returned the gesture of respect with a salute of his gleaming spear.
In contrast to his challenger, Marsais wore no armor or weapons. He looked naked, standing on the sands, wearing only tunic and trousers. He plucked a pebble from the sand and balanced it on the tips of his elegant fingers.
One heartbeat passed into two. The long seconds before the shield sprang to life was agony for all those who watched, but most of all, for Isiilde. The gryphon stomped, digging its talons restlessly into the sands with a shift of armor. And all the while, Marsais stood with calm poise, dwelling in the moment and not beyond.
Fyrsta held its breath with anti
cipation.
The runes around the arena flared, the shield shimmered to life, and the gryphon charged. Simultaneously, Marsais tossed the pebble towards the center, weaving a bind to the minuscule stone in midair.
Guthre’s long spear pulsed with crackling blue energy. He heaved the weapon at his thin opponent, but the sands had already begun to stir around the pebble. A whirlwind of force seized the spear, halting its momentum. The tip stopped inches from Marsais’ chest. As one, the crowd gasped, and then the weapon was sucked backwards into the gathering whirlwind.
Ignoring the charging gryphon, Marsais snaked through a complicated weave, so swiftly that she couldn’t follow a single rune in the pattern. Guthre’s voice boomed, and the spear answered its owner’s command, returning to his outstretched hand.
The Hound caught the haft easily, turning his attention to his opponent, who stood on the edge of the barrier. But Marsais had already completed his weave. With a final sweep of his hand, he shimmered, coins chiming above the biting sands. Ten mirror images of Marsais sprang from the one of flesh and blood.
The gryphon ignored the sand blasting into its large eyes, and barreled into its identical enemies. The images of Marsais wavered. The beast charged straight through, slamming into the barrier that surrounded the arena. Energy crackled, lashing at the gryphon until its feathers smoldered. In fury and pain, the creature spun, raking the mirror images with bristling talons.
The real Marsais reappeared on the opposite side of the arena, tracing a series of runes into the sand. With a shout, Guthre tugged at the reins, spinning his mount around to hurl a blackish bolt of raw energy at the tricky Wise One.
Marsais didn’t quite manage to dodge the attack. The bolt slammed into his shoulder, his coins chimed, and he absorbed the blow with a grunt, eyes intent on his work.
Guthre bellowed, raising his spear. A blue aura sprang to life, surrounding him like a shield. The sands bounced off the barrier and the air cleared in front of his eyes.
Marsais’ hair flapped wildly in the wind as the intensity increased. With a sharp clap of his hands and commanding word, the tracings in the sands flashed and a creature appeared in front of him.
It was another gryphon.
The Hound’s mount reared with excitement, while Marsais’ gryphon paced back and forth in agitation.
“Smart bastard,” Oenghus chuckled, “he summoned a female.”
Guthre’s gryphon caught the female’s scent, charging blindly after her despite its rider’s contrary commands. The vortex of sand intensified, drowning out all else in the last, urgent moments before a sudden, deafening boom shook the entire arena. The binding rune backfired, and the air exploded.
Marsais threw up an arm, deflecting the stinging sand, and his gryphon, who was now blinded, reared with panic and took flight. Guthre’s mount pursued the female, and the Hound was forced to abandon his saddle. Despite his armor, the Hound landed and rolled, regaining his feet.
“Charge!” Guthre bellowed, thrusting his shield towards the Wise One.
Before Marsais could react, a spectral bull materialized from thin air, slamming into him with the muffled thud of fragile flesh meeting an impenetrable wall of power. The impact hurled Marsais against the shimmering shield and he bounced off in a crackling daze.
Guthre took two quick steps forward, hurling his charged spear across the arena. Isiilde gave a cry, but Marsais rolled beneath the blade. The deadly tip sped harmlessly past his head.
With a sharp command, Guthre ordered the spear to return. The spear spun in midair, reversing directions, leaping to its master’s hand as he charged across the sands towards the Seer.
Marsais sprang to his feet, thrusting his long arms toward the knight. A stream of crackling lightning shot from his splayed fingertips. The blast of energy slammed into Guthre, but failed to stop the knight’s charge. Coins chimed, echoing in the arena. Guthre jabbed, and Marsais blurred, becoming indistinct, like a wavering mirage on the horizon. He twisted to the side, as the tip of the spear jabbed into the blurry edges of his snaking form—again and again, until steel came back with blood.
Marsais faltered, but only for a heartbeat, rallying his concentration with an intricate weave. When it was complete, he bent and tapped the ground. The sands began to ripple, and the ground beneath Guthre shifted, sinking and opening to swallow the knight whole. Guthre threw himself towards the edge of the newly formed pit, fighting against a waterfall of sand.
Dazed, Marsais stumbled away, clutching his side. Despite Guthre’s sinking predicament, the knight raised his spear heavenward, shouting, “In the name of the Sylph, I smite this foe!”
A column of silver fire roared from the sky, washing over Marsais in a mercurial deluge. Isiilde screamed as her Bonded vanished beneath terrifying forces. The onslaught continued long enough for Guthre to pull himself from the pit of sand. It was apparent by the knight’s stance that he fully expected Marsais to perish beneath the divine fire.
When the column of silver dissipated, there was a universal gasp of shock. Marsais stood unharmed, moving with serpent like quickness, fingers flashing.
“Looks like the Sylph doesn’t favor this fight,” Oenghus muttered.
Isiilde tried to follow the complex weave of nimble fingers, but Marsais’ hands were a blur. As quick as he had begun, Marsais thrust his arms out, wrists crossed, fingers curled inwards. Raw energy burst from his palms, glowing brighter than the sun. Guthre threw his shield up, bracing against the attack.
The Hound chanted a thundering prayer, fighting against the power battering at his shield. He thrust his spear point towards Marsais. A bolt of lightning slammed into the Seer’s chest. Coins chimed discordantly. Marsais grunted, but stood his ground, arms straining, brows furrowed in concentration.
Time slowed, and then stopped, gathering like water behind a dam. The arena pulsed, pressure built, and the air snapped. Time surged forward with a rush of violent energy. Guthre’s shield shattered with an explosion that knocked the two combatants clean off their feet.
The Hound climbed to his feet, dazed, his arm hanging limply at his side. Blood ran rivulets down his scaled armor, dripping onto the sands.
Marsais stayed on his back, fingers flying, lips moving. Guthre lurched forward, hurling his spear as Marsais scuttled backwards. The steely spike sunk into the sand between his legs, and the audience groaned in collective sympathy. But before Guthre could summon his spear, Marsais touched the haft. He jerked in pain, crying out, as a surge of energy traveled up his arm.
The spear was up and returning to its master when Marsais hissed out a command, thrusting his hand towards the Hound. At the very last moment, the spear spun in midair. The haft never reached Guthre’s outstretched hand. Two feet of crackling steel plunged through the jade scales, impaling the Hound through the heart.
The Lord Champion staggered backwards. He ripped off his helmet, let it slip from his fingers, and gazed at the haft protruding from his chest. He took one step, and fell forward into the sand with a dull clunk.
Fifty
ISIILDE SAT IN stunned disbelief with the rest of the crowd, until realization settled. An eternity later, the arena erupted with a wild chorus of cheers.
Marsais lay on his back, breathing harshly. He rolled onto his knees, attempting to stand, but he fell forward, catching himself with one hand while clutching his side with the other. Blood seeped through his fingers.
“Oen, he’s hurt!” Isiilde said, rushing to the balustrade.
“Stay here, Sprite.” Oenghus vaulted over the low wall, landing with a thud in the arena pit.
Isiilde started towards the stairs, intending to follow, but an iron hand clamped down on her shoulder, bringing her up short. Fear fluttered in her chest.
“You should stay here, nymph. There’s too many people.” The hand and voice belonged to Captain Mael. Concern rather than malice shone from her eyes.
Remembering that Oenghus had asked the same of her, Isiilde remained. The
Captain kept one hand on the nymph and the other on her sword hilt, pale eyes scanning the overcrowded arena.
Oenghus knelt beside Marsais, a supporting hand on his shoulder as he leaned forward and spoke in his ear. Isiilde could not hear what he said, but Marsais shook his head in answer. Oenghus pressed a handkerchief to his side, and helped him to his feet. The two strode back to the balcony, surrounded by the thunderous applause of an audience who knew they had just witnessed something legendary.
Isle Guards cleared the way, keeping the crowds at bay as Marsais returned to his private balcony. The moment he walked through the curtain—his knees buckled. Oenghus caught him, hoisting an arm over his own shoulder to keep him upright.
“Heal him, Oen,” Isiilde urged, scanning Marsais with concern. He was coated head to toe with a layer of sand that masked his wounds from the audience, but up close, the extent of his injuries were more than apparent. His clothes were saturated with blood, and the skin beneath was raw from multiple burns.
“Not here. There are dangers lurking.” Marsais’ voice was brittle and cracked with pain.
“The Isle Guards have their hands full with the crowd, we will escort you to the Keep if you wish,” Captain Mael offered, sending a group of her paladins to clear a path through the throng. She turned to the two paladins who had guarded Isiilde during the fight. “Lucas and Rivan, stay with me.”
Oenghus spared a moment to wrap a tight bandage around Marsais’ torso. The clean linen instantly soaked through with blood. Isiilde moved under his arm to offer additional support. With some effort, Marsais straightened, gritting his teeth, however, he kept his arm across her shoulders, and for that matter, much of his weight.
“It’s unwise to show weakness when predators are hunting,” he explained to her questioning eyes.
A Thread in the Tangle Page 43