“Can we turn into birds and fly there? Just the two of us?”
“We could.” There was always a catch. “But I think that would be very unwise. As birds, even vultures, Fomorri grafters might recognize a weave. And we would be at the mercy of every predator in the Great Expanse, to say nothing of our arrival. I think we’d need Oenghus.”
“Can you turn him into a bird?”
“I doubt he’d leave the ground as a bird. Unless he’s attached to a rock, he’s terrified of heights.”
“I suppose a pig wouldn’t do in this case,” she mused.
“No,” he agreed.
“You turned me into a bloody boar; not a pig,” Oenghus growled. He shot the two a scathing glare, and began moving forward in a crouch. Nimlesh signaled to the others, and as the group moved over the rock, Isiilde a heard a soft chuckle from Acacia.
“The rock has run out,” Coen called back.
Isiilde looked over the edge. It was a long way down—on both sides.
“Which side should we climb down on?” Nimlesh looked to Marsais, who glanced at Oenghus.
The berserker placed his palm flat against the sweltering stone. He closed his eyes. A long minute passed before he stirred. When Oenghus opened his eyes, he pointed north. “That leads to another dead end.” He rose, moving to the southern edge. Oenghus gauged the distance, and unslung the rope from his shoulders, letting one end fall over the edge. It unraveled and stopped short of the steep scree that led up to the base.
Oenghus wrapped the rope around a protrusion of rock and braced himself, nodding to the scouts. Supported by the Nuthaanian, the scouts slithered down the rope, dropping the remaining distance. Their landing sparked a cascade of shifting scree, but the men kept their footing.
“Another weave?” Marsais asked the nymph.
Isiilde grimaced. Floating upwards was one thing; stepping off a cliff was quite another. She answered his question with one of her own. “Where are your coins?”
“They were annoying me, so I put them somewhere else.”
Isiilde eyed his loose clothing. “Your scar looked different.”
Marsais inclined his head, and waited. She frowned at his chin. When he offered no other explanation, she tugged on the remaining scruff. “It appears that madmen like to butcher your hair.”
“Hmm.”
“You need a shave, Marsais.”
“Are you offering?”
“In a hot bath, yes.”
His eyes twinkled. “Shall I?”
“Please.”
With a deft touch, and a sure weave, Marsais gently plucked her off the rock and levitated her to the ground. She slipped down the steep slope. When the earth flattened, she darted towards the others, joining them in the shadows. The Elite were alert. The wide wadi was full of nooks and crannies, and towering pillars of rocks.
When Acacia touched ground, she hurried down the slope and put her back against the red rock.
Isiilde looked at the woman. “I’m no tactician, but this looks like the perfect place for an ambush.”
The Knight Captain’s lips were a grim line, and there was fear behind that stony mask. The worst, Isiilde was sure, would come soon enough.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The boy stumbled over a rusty battle axe. Metal scraped against stone, and the sound grated on his senses. Zoshi hurried away from the noise.
How long had he been in darkness? There were so many passages, so many dark holes that he could not remember what the sun looked like. He began to wonder if there ever had been a sun. But mostly, he wondered where was here?
Zoshi crumpled against a stalagmite. Why did it matter if he found a way out? No one would remember him except his mother. And he couldn’t bear to face her without his brothers.
Crumpet rattled in annoyance. When Zoshi didn’t immediately move, the crow nipped his hand.
“Ow.” He snatched his hand away and glared at the beast. “You’re as lost as I am.”
The crow turned his beak up and to the side, looking at the boy with an imperious eye. Of course I’m not. Don’t be stupid.
Zoshi could no longer tell if the whispering words were his own imaginings or the bird’s rasp. He sighed, and gathered a fistful of moss from the stone. He frowned at the stuff, and before his stomach completed its roll, he shoved it into his mouth. The moss was slimy with moisture. It reminded him of a slug.
The crow flapped off, leaving him to his meal. When his belly had quieted its grumble, Zoshi closed his eyes and let sleep take him. But his dreams were far from restful. He dreamed of a shadow. It sprouted wings, and he chased it endlessly. Always a step ahead; always a corner away. And eventually, he tripped and fell and broke his head. That last bit didn’t scare him as much as it should.
Zoshi blinked. Blue light filled his vision. Something was poking his head. He waved off the offending crow and sat up. Crumpet nudged his makeshift lantern. It had gone dull, but the moss glowed brightly from the surrounding walls. Zoshi reached inside the tin lantern to empty it, but instead of dried moss, his fingers touched slippery movement. He jerked his hand away. That was not moss. He tilted the can and peeked inside. Thick white worms wiggled at the bottom.
Crumpet hissed, and waited.
“No.” Zoshi shook his head. “I won’t eat that.” Even street rats had standards.
The crow dipped his beak in the tin, and emerged with a wiggling fat worm. He gulped it down whole, then gave a rattling caw.
Zoshi’s stomach grumbled. He looked at the moss; slimy and slick and not very filling. The boy supposed that he had eaten worse in his lifetime. Closing his eyes, he reached into the tin and chose a worm at random. Before he thought better of it, he popped it between his lips. It burst, and filled his mouth. Zoshi gulped and gagged it down, and as he reached for a second, he told himself that it wasn’t half bad.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Through the shimmering shield, she watched the Fog. It was like gazing into fear. Morigan took a step closer, and stopped at arm’s length. The phantoms gathered to watch her. Those eyes saw her and she saw them. Anger burned from the Fey spirits.
A Shadow moved closer—just on the other side of the ward. It wavered and shifted, and for a moment, that same angular face that she had seen in the hallway appeared. It smiled like a cat with a secret. When she blinked, it was gone.
Instead of drifting in the ol’River after death, the Fey had been trapped in the Spine—in the Nameless chamber and its cursed stone. What cold silence had those spirits endured? It seemed fitting that the spirits would end up in the arena pit, a place of so much bloodshed.
Morigan Freyr had lived through nightmares—she had faced them and stood up time and again to take another of life’s beatings. Save one. Her thoughts went on to Oenghus. She’d say her heart went too, but he was more like her arm: good and solid and reliable.
Morigan stepped away from the pit, and let exhaustion plant her on a bench. She gazed at the clear winter sky, wondering what new trouble Oenghus and Isiilde had found. She hoped he was enjoying himself, because he’d sorely miss this bash. The Flesh Puppets and Forsaken Furies had been defeated, but not before taking a mighty chunk from their ranks.
“You sent a Whisper.” Thira stated from behind.
Morigan glanced over her shoulder at the woman, and nodded to the bench. Thira did not scoff at the invitation. She sat. Claw-like fingers stroked the fabric of her longcoat, as if she were petting that dog of hers—the dog who was missing and more than likely dead. As far as Morigan knew, Crumpet had been the woman’s only friend.
“Quick thinking.” Morigan nodded towards the shield.
“I require answers, not compliments,” Thira snapped. And Morigan was reminded why the woman did not have friends. “Why did you summon me here? Rashk’s battering ram is nearly finished.”
“That’s exactly why I summoned you here,” Morigan said. She nodded towards the Archlord’s covered balcony. The curtain opened, and Thira hopped
to her feet with a weave on her fingertips. A gnome lounged in the Archlord’s chair, his hat over his eyes. He lifted the hat, and flashed a grin.
“You remember my friends,” Morigan said. A second figure stepped from the shadows with a panther’s slink. “Well, they have friends too.”
Twelve shadows detached themselves from various spots in the arena, each showing itself before fading back into darkness. Bram hopped to his feet, and skipped from bench to bench until he stood before the women. “We are, Mistress of Novices, sent from Iilenshar,” the gnome explained. “Though we were sent to infiltrate an open castle, not a closed one.”
“More than ‘imself thought was needed,” added Evie.
Thira looked from the gnome and Kamberian to the cloaked figures above. “Wraith Guards,” she realized.
“I’m a Valkyrie,” Evie corrected, sitting beside Morigan with a tired sigh.
“Marsais sent a message to Chaim,” said Morigan. “Oenghus, Isiilde, and Marsais are alive. The last these two heard, they were in Vaylin.”
“I’m still going to strangle that absent-minded fool,” Thira huffed.
“All in good time.” Bram paused as if he expected laughter. When all he got was a smirk from Evie, he cleared his throat and went on. “We asked Morigan to keep our identity under her hat. With the state of things as they are, we’ve a mind to keep our plans to ourselves.”
Thira looked at her. “Something you should have done to begin with.”
“Isek fooled us all, but yes, if I were looking to waste my energy on regrets, I’d have plenty lined up before that one,” Morigan said.
Her open honesty subdued the woman.
“We aim to fix that,” Bram said with a wink. “According to the seer, we have until the Shadowed Dawn. That’s when the portal can be opened.”
“According to the seer,” Thira repeated with distaste. “Seers are notoriously mistaken.”
Evie narrowed dark eyes at the woman. “We don’t plan on standin’ around twiddling our thumbs until then.”
“So what we’d like to know,” interjected Bram, “is if there’s a back way into that beast?”
“Preferably not the sewers,” Evie said, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s always the sewers,” Bram agreed.
“Even if we break through the bailey gate with the ram, Tharios can seal the King’s Walk,” explained Morigan. “If the gates in the Walk are sealed, our only option is to go through the elemental, and honestly I think we’d have better luck chipping through stone. At any rate, we’re looking at a long siege if we don’t take them by surprise.”
Thira considered her words. “Ielequithe and I have discussed options.”
“Without me?” Morigan asked.
“And without Rashk and Eldred. It’s not as if there has been an ample amount of time,” Thira defended. “The last thing we wanted was to draw Multist’s attention. He’s been demanding that I deactivate this shield so he can banish the Fey spirits with Zahra’s grace.”
Morigan snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“It did spark an idea,” Thira said, looking to the shimmering Barrier. “We could use the mist as a weapon. Channel it into the Spine and confuse Tharios’ own troops.”
It was an option that Morigan did not like. “The dead do not rest easy in this realm. Given enough time, there’s no telling what will happen. I think the Fey spirits have grown stronger since their release.”
“I thought the same,” Thira said with a tip of her chin. “But it’s an option nonetheless.”
“There is the sewers,” Morigan mused. “But we’d have to scale the sea cliffs to even get to the grates. And those are treacherous.”
“I’m deathly afraid of heights,” Evie quickly said.
Bram chuckled. “Bad place to live, being on Iilenshar, love.”
“That’s why I’m hardly there,” the Valkyrie defended. “Now what of that shimmering net of runes over the big ol’ tower? Can we pass through it safely?”
Thira shook her head. “I don’t know. The castle wards have never been activated. And even if we had not left Thedus in Rashk’s tower, I’m not sure he could have told us.”
“Thedus?” Bram asked.
“A madman who has wandered these halls longer than any of us can remember,” Morigan explained.
“He activated the wards when Tharios closed the Titan Gates in front of the Throne room,” said Thira.
Evie sighed. “Right, there’s that.” It was looking more and more like the sewers.
“There are gaps in the ward. The one we passed through in King’s Walk, and on the outside of the Spine.” Thira pointed to the Spine’s pinnacle and its open garden. “The Storm Gates aren’t fully closed either, but I’m not sure how wide a gap it is—not with the ice coating the gates. I fear that the elemental disrupted the wards and frayed their edges. That, or the wards have deteriorated with time.”
Bram drummed his fingers on his belt. “I’d say it was the ol’ Iiisikle Spirit.”
Evie nodded her agreement. “The Gift affects Outsiders in different ways, and it goes the other way, too. Outsiders affect the Gift. Could be a bit of both.”
“Not a thing one wants in a home.” Bram clucked his tongue.
“We had no choice,” Thira stated.
“I’m not saying it wasn’t brilliant, but unleashing an elemental as old as he sounds isn’t inconsiderable. We’ll have a time dealing with that,” said Bram.
“Can you bind the elemental again?” Morigan asked.
Thira shook her head. “It was already bound. I simply nudged the bind that was in place—as filthy as it was. Tharios mixed the bind with Bloodmagic. The gods only know how he managed.”
“Or who stuffed a glacier in a bottle to begin with,” said Evie.
“Marsais could manage it,” admitted Thira with grudging respect. “His skill with the Gift far surpasses my own.”
“We can’t stand around and wait for him to show up,” Morigan said. “Do we know how to deactivate the wards?”
Silence answered her question.
After a minute, Thira sighed. “I fear too much power was given to the Archlord—too many secrets. Tharios wanted that throne for a reason, and he had patience enough to grasp it.”
“Well, we can be sure Thedus knows something,” Morigan said.
“Yes,” Thira agreed. “But of the two, I think we have a better chance of asking our current Archlord to open the gates than getting a word out of Thedus.”
Morigan had to agree. “You said you left him in Rashk’s tower?”
“I did,” Thira said. “But who knows where he is now.”
“With the wards in place, there’s a chance he’s still in there,” Morigan mused, wondering if she could coax a word from the madman. Of them all, aside from Marsais and Isiilde, he responded best to her.
Thira crossed her arms. “An option that does not solve the issue of the King’s Walk or the elemental.”
“So do you have something in mind?” Morigan asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Thira said, looking to the Spine, “I do.”
Chapter Forty
Arrows lit the sky. For a second, each flaming tip was caught in time, seared her eyes, and then they screamed, crashing into an armored thing. The boots beneath the shields trampled the snow, and charged the gates. Runes flared, the ram’s serpent-shaped figurehead boomed, and the gates rocked the men back.
Morigan watched, grim-faced, as burning oil poured from the rampart spouts, splattering over the covered ram. A few warriors fell, but most were saved by their stoneskin weave. The ram struck again, and this time, the gates groaned.
Standing out of arrow range, Rashk watched her creation with obvious pride. “It will break the gates,” she announced.
Most battering rams did, eventually. It was the cost of life that always got to Morigan. She looked to Thira, who nodded with satisfaction, and together the two women left Rashk, keeping to the shadow of the ra
mpart wall. They walked towards a waiting group.
“I still think you should stay,” Thira said, pressing a worn issue. “They need healers here.”
Morigan shook her head. “Most of my healers are inside the Spine. Besides, you’ll need help with Tharios,” she said, settling a helm on her head.
“He may come out of his hole to fight,” Thira pointed out.
“That’s for Rashk and the paladins then.” Morigan looked to Evie and Bram, and twelve Wraith Guards who stood solid and grim-faced. Formidable warriors, each and every one. Except, of course, the carrot-haired gnome.
“This may not work,” Tulipin reminded them all for the dozenth time.
“And I may trip over a rock and die,” Morigan retorted. “We’ve been through this, Tulipin.”
The gnome paled to a sheet, while his hair remained a blazing red.
In the drum and crackle of energy and wood, the group made their way around the outer bailey, keeping to the rampart wall, circling the keep and moving to the back of the Spine’s base. The castle ward pulsed with runes, but the net was incomplete. There were tears and tattered threads in the weave that fluttered in the air. A thought occurred to Morigan, one that none had voiced. When weaves unraveled, or were incomplete, bad things tended to happen. Explosions of force that ripped the fabric of the realm. What, she wondered, would happen if this ward unraveled?
Morigan pushed worry aside. There was a task at hand. She craned back her neck, seeking the top of the Spine. The pinnacle was lost in the grey winter sky.
“So there’s an open garden all the way up there?” Evie asked.
“The rookery is a few floors below,” answered Morigan.
“You could always go by way of the sewers, love,” Bram offered.
The woman shot her mate a withering glare. “I’d rather fall from the sky than drown in filth.”
“Ah, the choices we make.”
Thira dropped a neatly packed bundle onto the ground. She removed a slim vial, and unhooked her cloak. It slid from her naked shoulders. The woman was all skin and bone, but she did not shiver. She tipped the vial to her lips. The vial fell from her fingertips, runes swirled, bones cracked, and a beady-eyed raven stood in the fading light. With a lift of powerful wings, the raven took flight, grabbing the bundle from the snow.
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 26