“If you had arrived sooner, instead of hiding like cowards, we could have defeated him,” Rashk hissed.
“My duty is to Drivel,” Multist defended. “I sent scouts. It’s not as if we could have penetrated that Void-cursed Fog.”
Thira looked to the new arrivals. “Morigan.” There was very nearly relief in that clipped tone.
Morigan nodded, and introduced her two companions.
Thira pursed her lips.
“Friends of mine,” Morigan explained.
The High Inquisitor drew himself up and put a gloved hand on his gilded armor. “I did not invite her to this meeting, and most definitely not her friends. You kept company with that berserker—the Bloodmagi.”
The days had been long, and full of pain. Morigan Freyr snapped. She rushed forward, pushed the man against the closest wall, and pinned him there. “Oenghus is no Bloodmagi, and if you say that word connected with his name again, you’ll discover why berserkers fear Nuthaanian women.”
Everyone in the room froze. Including the Inquisitor. For the past decade and more, she had been known as a kindly healer. Few had seen her make threats, and even fewer knew that Morigan Freyr had been with Oenghus the day he had been dubbed the Bloody Berserker of Nuthaan.
A timid sound entered the tension. “Inquisitor,” Tulipin spoke up. “I was sorely mistaken. Marsais and Oenghus are not Bloodmagi. Tharios is the threat, and he alone.”
Morigan gave the man a final shove, and took a step back.
Thira cleared her throat, and set down her tea. “Tharios fooled us all,” she said. Pulling a mite from an ear would have gone smoother than those words. They seemed to leave a foul taste on the Wise One’s lips.
“While he was lining the pockets of others,” Morigan added, smiling sweetly at the man whom she had only just threatened. There was no need to accuse him outright of graft; the twitch in his eye said it all. Let the past lie there. “Now, let’s figure out how to get at the bastard.”
Lord General Ielequithe nodded in approval and unfurled a large map on the table. The corners were weighted, and those assembled drew near, bending over to study the maze-like map. “Even before Tharios was named Archlord, he was bringing in recruits,” the Lord General admitted. “And after his Confirmation, we saw an influx of new faces. We now know that the Quartermaster was loyal to him, and as such he positioned those loyal to Tharios in key places. Most of those men were placed in the Spine. Presently, Tharios holds everything beyond the Bailey Gates. Thanks to your Whisper, Morigan, a good many commoners escaped during the battle in the bailey.”
“What about Leiman and the other healers?” she asked.
Ielequithe shook her head. “I’ve not seen them.”
Morigan frowned. A myriad of choices; a fountain of regret. It was useless to ponder what might have been if she had remained to help Leiman. She eyed the map, searching for the tunnel barracks. “Tharios has been emptying the dock districts and using others from the castle to dig in the Underneath.”
“Digging for what?” Thira asked.
“Brinehilde and I captured an Unspoken by the name of Fallon Able. He was sent to kill the sick and wounded in my infirmary. He said that Tharios plans on bringing Karbonek to this realm.”
Silence was tangible for a full minute.
“His true prey,” Rashk hissed.
Multist stirred. “What are you talking about?”
Thira explained. “Thedus said that the Fog was the Fey. Rashk and I think that Tharios used it as a mere distraction to buy him time for something more. If what Fallon said is true, then I’d say we’ve discovered his goal.”
The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that you have the God of the Fomorri trapped under this castle?”
“We do not know, but Tharios has an artifact that can open portals. We think it is Soisskeli’s Stave,” explained Rashk.
“The Sacred Texts say that the stave binds creatures; it doesn’t open portals,” Multist insisted.
“The boy, Zoshi, saw Tharios open a Gateway with a stave.”
“Why would he be digging in tunnels if he has an artifact that can open a portal?” Multist’s question was a good one.
“As many of you know, there are places where the veil is thinner between realms, such as the Isle of Blight.” Morigan placed her palms flat on the map. “It’s not the first time a portal has been opened on this Isle.”
All eyes went to the healer.
“Long before the Shattering, a portal was opened. Ulfhidhin and Hengist Heartfang battled the fiendish god, and closed it.”
Multist clutched his Sacred Sun emblem. “I’ve sensed evil on this Isle since the day I first graced its shores,” he announced with an overly righteous air.
Thira ignored the man, and looked at Morigan as if she were a frog on a novice’s dissection block. “That knowledge is in no book that I have seen.”
“Nuthaanian legend,” she lied. For she would never betray the man who talked far too much in his sleep. Oenghus had never slept easy, and the more years he lived, the worse his night terrors became.
“Are these maps complete?” Evie asked.
Morigan shook her head. “There’s a maze under the castle.”
“I suspect that the Archlord has a complete map,” Thira said with unrestrained contempt.
“The map may very well be why Tharios wanted the throne so badly,” Morigan agreed.
Thira straightened, and took her tea to the tower window, gazing at the looming Spine. “The Order’s scouts keep petitioning to explore the Drakenwood, but no one has any interest in what’s under our feet.”
“Ah, well,” sighed Bram. “Wanderlust never takes me to the cellar either.”
“Do you remember where the tunnels were, Morigan?” the Lord General asked.
Morigan surveyed the maps, following corridors, halls, and twisting passages in her mind’s eye. Starting at the infirmary, she traced a finger over the path, exchanging maps as needed. Down and farther down, and when she reached the end she took up a blank parchment and dipped a quill in ink. The end result was a rough sketch, but a map nonetheless. She marked Tharios’ makeshift barracks with an X.
“One hardship down,” Bram beamed. “Now, how do we get inside?”
“The time-honored way,” Morigan said. “We knock, good and bloody hard.”
Chapter Thirty
A line of soldiers marched under a merciless sun. Their heads were bowed and their faces covered, leaving a narrow slit for scorched eyes. The horizon wavered with a mirage that teased the humans’ tongues.
Although the sun had not yet reached its peak, it consumed the world, and every human sweltered, save one cheerful nymph.
Isiilde tilted her uncovered face to the sky. She had shed every piece of clothing possible, stopping just shy of indecent, and now, hair curling down her back, she basked in the heat, soaking it up. Her hair was fire, and her skin wavered like a dream. It was utter bliss.
Overcome, she stopped, and spread her arms. Joy filled her heart, and she twirled with a laugh.
“Keep walking, Sprite,” Oenghus rasped, taking out a pillaged waterskin. He squeezed it to his lips, and the pebble that he kept in his mouth clicked on his teeth. When he wasn’t drinking, he sucked on it, as did every other man and woman. The group was well-versed in desert survival, but humans, she discovered, had a low tolerance for heat.
“I can always run and catch up.”
A camel stopped to lick her ear. It was Spot, named for the mark on his tongue. He tried to lick everything. She reached up to rub his velvety nose and he leaned into her touch. Most animals were wary of the combustible nymph, but these two were comfortable with her. Camels were, she thought, accustomed to heat.
Elam was draped over the bags and blankets on Spot. The boy looked like he was melting. Marsais rode the second camel, Red. Although Oenghus had healed his wounds, Marsais’ mind had not recovered. It had been easier to stick the seer on a camel than lead him around
. Oenghus had not even mocked him for riding the camel, and that worried her to no end.
Acacia and Rivan stopped beside the nymph, each taking a draught of water. “At least someone is enjoying the heat.”
“It’s wonderful here,” Isiilde sighed.
“Except at night,” Acacia pointed out. The nymph had to agree; she had spent the night shivering as she walked.
“Aye, that, and the Fomorri roaming the desert.”
Oenghus’ remark sobered her. She gave Spot a gentle nudge, and fell in step with her friends.
“I didn’t mean to put a cloud over you, Sprite,” Oenghus rumbled.
“You’re right. It’s not a wonderful place.” She glanced at Rivan, who had barely spoken since his fight with the Fomorri, and then to Elam, who had lost his sister.
“I, for one, would rather rejoice at a mug half-full than despair over one half-empty,” a voice mused from above. Isiilde looked up to find Marsais focused and clear-eyed. He slipped off the camel with his usual nimbleness, and took cover in Oenghus’ shadow. “The darker the place, the more joy should be treasured.”
“Are you bloody done making up proverbs? Gods, you sound like a walking prayer book.”
“You quote me often enough,” Marsais quipped. Isiilde smiled, and brushed his fingers, welcoming him back from wherever his mind had thrown him.
“Void,” Oenghus spat. His entire body tensed, and then exploded into action, moving with a swiftness that was terrifying in one so large. He descended on a scorpion that blended with the sand. With confident ease, he plucked the barbed creature from the ground, and held it up, triumphant.
“Flat tail. Very poisonous,” her father explained for her benefit and Rivan’s. So far, Oenghus had declared every single critter that crawled through the desert as poisonous. He then ate every last one. The flat tail was no exception. With quick efficiency, he drew his knife, pressed the scorpion to the ground, and neatly cut off its stinger. And as always he shoved the insect in his mouth.
At the first crunch, Isiilde turned her head.
“You really should try one,” he munched. “It’s more like crab than meat. You’d be fine.”
“I have my strawberries.”
“Good to save rations,” he argued. The Fomorri supplies had supplemented the ones that were lost in the landing, but it wasn’t going to be enough.
“I’ll pass.”
“I suppose I’ll try one,” Rivan said. But from the color of his cheeks, his stomach was not thrilled with the idea.
Oenghus gave the paladin an approving slap on the back. A chattering voice joined the fray. Elam had stirred from his nap.
“He would like the next one,” Marsais translated. “He thinks you grew so big because of the scorpions.”
“That’s right.” Oenghus thumped his chest. “Grows hair on your chest.”
“The last thing you want in this land,” Acacia said.
“Not when the sun goes down.” Oenghus waggled his brows at the woman. “Feel free to curl up to me.”
“I have a camel.” A hint of mirth entered the captain’s eyes.
Isiilde was reminded of their trek through Vaylin. The memory brought another smile to her lips. Marsais was right, she decided, joy should be treasured, no matter when it was thrown her way.
A cluster of date palms stood out starkly on the horizon. Isiilde blinked at the distant trees, wondering when they had appeared. She looked back the way they had come. More wavering light, and endless red rock and sand. The distant mountains to the east looked no closer.
Elam tipped back a waterskin, careful not to spill a drop. Marsais spoke to the boy in Lome, puffing out his cheeks. The boy corked the skin and held the water in his mouth.
“Water lasts longer that way,” Oenghus explained, sucking on the pebble in his mouth. He gestured the boy closer, and reached under Red, gently gripping her teat. A skilled squeeze squirted out milk. He licked it from his fingers. “Good and filling.”
“You’ve been here before,” Acacia noted.
“Aye, the Scarecrow and me got stranded in the Great Expanse. Things got rough.”
Marsais snorted. “Just a tad.”
“How’d you find your way out?” Rivan asked the seer.
“We walked.”
“No,” Oenghus corrected, “I carried your bony carcass.”
“That you did,” Marsais agreed. “You make for an excellent pack animal, and your shoulder is far more comfortable than a camel’s back.”
“You can bloody walk next time, you ol’bastard.”
There seemed to be a lot of that in Fomorri. The group had walked through the night, and now, at the peak of the next day, Nimlesh called a halt under the trees.
Without a word, the Elite fell into practiced routine, setting up camp. An agile woman named Nalani scurried up the palms, tossing down clusters of small round dates from the crown, while the other soldiers dug deep bowl-shaped holes in the sand. Palm leaves and shrubs were tossed inside, and then, each soldier pissed into the hole. The paladins did the same.
Isiilde watched, puzzled. When bladders were emptied, a cup or pan was placed on top of the piss and leaves in the center of the hole. After that, each hole was covered with a thin oilskin, and a rock was placed on top of it.
Humans, she decided, were odd.
Curiosity got the better of the nymph. She stepped beside Marsais who was lacing up his own trousers. “Why is everyone pissing into a hole?”
“The sun heats the oilskin, drawing water from the leaves and urine. The water rises like mist, and then it gathers on the oilskin, and because of the rock—”
“It drips into the cup,” she realized.
“Precisely. Every drop of water is precious here.”
“I brought water runes,” she said. “There was an entire cabinet of the runes in my chambers on Mearcentia.” Worth a fortune, she added silently. She was not sure how she felt about Finn Syre II, but she felt bad about looting his palace for supplies.
“Thoughtful,” he said, bending to pick up a rock. “But you’ll find that the runes won’t produce as much water here. Water runes aren’t much different than the holes. They simply pull water from the air.”
“Oh.” Her ears wilted. There was not much water left in her waterskin.
“Use the rune stones at night,” Marsais suggested. “Dew still gathers in the desert.”
She looked at the hole, and then around at the other humans. Sensing her thoughts, Marsais obliged, tracing a quick mirror weave. If anyone looked her way, they’d see desert. She added her own piss into the hole, and helped Marsais lay the oilskin and rock over the pit, pushing sand over the edges of skin to hold it in place.
A triumphant grunt drew her gaze. Oenghus, Elam, and Lucas were gathered around a shrub, poking it with sticks and swords. A long, tan snake slithered out of the underbrush. It had horns on its head.
Lucas pinned it with his shield and hacked off the head.
“One drop and you’re dead, but the meat is worth the risk,” Oenghus explained, picking up the still twitching serpent. He shook the body at Elam, and the boy grinned. As they buried the head, and rolled the skin down its pink body, the soldiers dug narrow trenches beneath the palm trees in the shade. Each soldier lay in the cool sand, breaking out rations to wait out the hottest part of the day. A small fire had already been started with camel dung to cook the snake.
It was, she reflected, much easier to set up a camp with trained soldiers. The nymph turned away from the smell, the humans, and the piss pits, and walked out onto the sand, in the full light of day. Heat rippled off the rocks.
The temptation was too great. Without a care, Isiilde tugged off the last of her clothes, and lay down, stretching beneath the fiery bliss. In less than a minute, the nymph was asleep.
When the sun began its slow descent, the soldiers started another long march. They walked through the evening until nightfall and beyond, keeping the distant mountains in sight. The temperature
plummeted with the sun. Despite the layers of clothing she wore, Isiilde shivered. The sun seemed a faraway dream, and while the others stretched their legs, her steps began to lag.
Oenghus slowed his own gait to walk beside her. He led a camel. When a long tongue flicked out to lick her ear, she recognized the beast as Spot. Isiilde scratched the animal’s nose, and buried her fingers in his warm neck.
“You sure you don’t want to ride, Sprite?”
“If I stop moving, I’ll freeze,” she chattered.
The moon and stars illuminated the desolation, but still she kept her eyes on the shadows. Scorpions and beetles roamed the night, and other, larger things. Somewhere, far off, a jackal howled to its pack.
“Marsais could weave a heat rune...once he comes to.”
If, more like. “I don’t think he’s up to that at all,” she said with a shake of her head. Marsais had his own problems. He had been staring at the moon for most of the night, murmuring in a strange tongue. Rivan walked beside the seer, steadying him whenever he stumbled. They had tried to coax him back onto a camel, but he kept walking, growing agitated if anyone tried to lead him, Isiilde included.
“Besides, I do not need help. I can manage on my own.”
“Look here, Isiilde. You don’t need to prove anything out here. Everyone needs a bit of help. That’s what friends are for.”
She looked up at him. “I’m here to help, not to be a burden.”
Oenghus snorted. “You don’t think the ol’bastard there is a burden half the time?”
At that moment, Marsais tripped over a rock, and Rivan grabbed his arm, nudging him around the next boulder. Marsais shook off the paladin’s hand, and returned to his restless mutterings. It might have been humorous, if it had not twisted her heart into a knot.
She frowned. “What is he saying?”
“Void if I know.” Oenghus scratched at his beard. “Probably garbling all his languages together again. He does that sometimes.”
“Not when we were bonded.”
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 19