Farin clenched his jaw, and nodded. And then they spoke no more, the earth roared, and both men were jarred from their feet. Farin fell onto the waxy earth and nearly lost his stomach as the Swarm responded to the touch of his unwarded skin. He scrambled upright as if he had been burnt, and staggered to a grouping of rocks that sat like an island in a sea of bleakness.
A slab cracked from the mountain and a great avalanche of ice and rock tumbled into the gorge. Farin could only watch, praying to the Guardians that the ground did not open up under his feet and swallow him whole. He feared the worst, when the surrounding earth ruptured like a bloated corpse, exposing the innards to daylight. Farin lost his stomach to the stench. But it did not last long, the Spawn shriveled and dried beneath the sun.
When silence settled on the valley, Farin opened his eyes. He found himself clinging to a boulder like a cat on a log in the middle of a river. Ice and earth swirled in the air. He coughed, squinting through the hazy afternoon.
The ground was no longer writhing. It was still dead, but not like before. It looked more like dry earth in a water starved land. Farin let out a slow, controlled breath, relieved that he was still able to breathe, but more so, that they would not have to kill the Nuthaanian. Surely, the giant had been buried under the mountain?
Keeling and Farin waited nearly an hour for the ground to stop its restless shuddering. When it finally stilled for a good long while, Knight Captain Keeling stepped from the rocks and moved cautiously towards the Scar. Reluctantly, Farin followed, wondering if anyone had ever advised against following a Knight Captain of the Blessed Order.
The chasm was still black, but its shape had changed. Its edges were wider than before. As Keeling scanned its innards, Farin walked back to where this nightmare had begun—to the now toppled pine. Its roots had been ripped from the ground, and he could just make out the fallen tree’s outline, wedged down in the gorge, spanning its width. It looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of the chasm’s edge; only a sink hole remained where the majestic pine had once stood.
The earth was churned and the Spawn had already turned to ash beneath the sun. Color caught the sergeant’s eye. A sliver of green in the center of the crater—a tiny bud of life in desolation. Farin’s eyes widened. Another sprig emerged from the earth, and a third, uncurling, reaching towards the cold light. The buds unfolded and pale winter blossoms quivered with new life.
The sergeant gaped. But a distant grunt distracted him from wonder. The noise came from the gorge, between Keeling and himself. Farin notched an arrow, and peered cautiously into the blackness. A shadow moved. He could hear its labored breath, panting like a wounded bear. Small rocks were knocked loose and a muttered oath named the shadow. A moment later, the berserker climbed into the light, moving swiftly up the wall.
A bloodied hand slapped the top. With a growl, the berserker pulled himself over the edge, rolling onto solid ground. Oenghus lay on his back, panting. He was battered and broken and covered in ichor. Dazed and utterly unaware, the giant’s chest heaved, he groaned, and rolled onto all fours hacking up blood.
Farin drew back his string at the same moment that the Knight Captain moved forward with drawn sword. In one practiced motion, Keeling brought his sword up like an executioner’s axe.
Time is a strange thing. For Farin Thatcher—time slowed. He was aware of every breath, every flurry dancing with a smote of ash; he heard the shift of armor and the slice of air. The soldier could see the Nuthaanian reacting with what seemed like glacier speed. But most of all, Farin saw the trio of blossoms that had unfurled their white petals like sails after a storm. Without thought, Farin loosed his arrow.
Time surged. The arrow zipped, and the blade came down. Thatcher’s arrow pierced Keeling through the eye and ended in his brain. The force of the shot knocked Keeling off kilter, his blade went wide, slicing a trail down the barbarian’s prone back instead of through his neck.
The Knight Captain fell down dead. And Farin Thatcher froze, shocked at his own split second choice. The kilted berserker turned his head and looked at Farin with an eye that chilled his blood. Oenghus grabbed the paladin’s sword and staggered to his feet. He let the tip of the sword rest on the earth where he stood swaying and panting, gathering his strength.
Berserkers were notorious for cutting down friend and foe alike. But Farin was no longer frightened, he was petrified as realization slammed fully into his muddled mind—he had disobeyed orders and murdered a Knight Captain of the Blessed Order. By the gods, he’d be better off throwing himself over the edge and have a quick clean death. Let the gorge take him. The Blessed Order was notorious for its drawn out executions.
Farin did not know what to do. He wanted to run, but feared the berserker would charge if he moved. Blazing sapphire eyes held Farin rooted in place, and the giant raised his sword, looking like a fiendish guardian standing at the Gates of the Nine Halls.
“Keeling said you were bewitched,” Farin said, dropping his bow and raising his hands.
“What do you think?” the berserker rasped like Death herself.
“The flowers,” he blurted unintelligibly. He turned and pointed at the dainty, impossible trio that had now blossomed into a dozen. Nothing evil would give birth to life.
The berserker bared his teeth, stark white against the black of his beard. “So there are lad, so there are.” He tossed the sword away from him as if it were Blighted, giving it to the chasm. Oenghus nudged the Knight Captain with his boot. “Did this bastard have orders?”
Farin nodded.
“Thought so,” he grunted, and gave the corpse a good kick, sending it sprawling into the gorge. The paladin disappeared. “Too bad you didn’t get those orders before the honorable Knight Captain’s unfortunate accident, aye?”
The visions of torture faded away. The soldier nodded, and he finally remembered to breathe.
Reunion
“WHERE IS MY Knight Captain?” the Inquisitor asked at the gates without preamble. For the first time in weeks, the castle’s survivors stood on the walls savoring the moonlight. Their torches burned brightly in the night, illuminating the towering, blood covered Nuthaanian and his makeshift bandages.
“He fell,” Oenghus grunted, and leaned in close. “Here is a thought, Inquisitor: who else are you going to trust to get the nymph safely to Whitemount? Are you and your twitchy acolyte and mindless blade going to escort her alone, or worse, surrounded by an army of battle weary Kamberian men?”
He waited.
“You gave your word,” she said at length.
“I did. And a Nuthaanian never has to give his word twice. I’m your best chance of getting the finder’s reward for the nymph. Are we clear?”
The Inquisitor inclined her head.
“You’re welcome,” he growled. Without another word, he brushed by Ashe, spitting on the ground to rid himself of her presence. As the Nuthaanian strode through the courtyard, the occupants who were burying the bones paused to cheer the hero.
Gaborn Oakstone smiled at Oenghus and clapped him on the shoulder. “You look like a dead man walking.”
“Don’t I always?” he grunted.
“What happened?” the captain asked.
“Nasty, is what. Watch my back, Gaborn. The bloody Knight Captain tried to separate my head from its neck. I like it where it is.”
Gaborn’s eyes slid towards the frowning Inquisitor. “Orders?”
Oenghus nodded, and Gaborn muttered something rude under his breath. After twelve years of fighting, there was little love between the Blessed Order and the soldiers of Kambe. Their Knight Captains had no qualms about sending men to their deaths for an inch of ground gained.
“But why would she want you dead?”
“Fear,” Oenghus rumbled. “She’s worried I’ll take the nymph.”
Gaborn’s eyes widened. “The witch is a nymph?”
“Aye, keep it under your helm, understand?”
“I’ll have to inform the Field Mars
hal when the army arrives.”
“As long as he is prepared to organize all the women soldiers—quiet like. We have a long march back to Whitemount.”
“Are you planning on coming with us?”
Oenghus did not answer, instead he sighed, “Where’s Morigan?”
“In the garden with the—nymph.”
A guard stood in front of the archway that led into a walled garden, the same helmeted paladin who had guarded the temple. The woman was tall and she blocked the pathway with her bulk. Oenghus stopped in front of the paladin, turned back to the Inquisitor and jerked his head. At a gesture, the guard stepped aside.
The walled garden was already overgrown. Yasine’s mere presence renewed life. But before he could find the Sylph, Morigan found him first.
“By the gods—” she caught herself, steadied her voice, and said instead, “You’re a mess, Oen.”
“I’m fine, Mori.”
“Well, you’re walking, aren’t you?” she sighed, eyeing his wounds. “You do like to make me work, don’t you?”
He bared his teeth—the only clean bit on him.
“Thank you,” a voice said from the shadows. Oenghus was not surprised. Even before she spoke, he could sense Yasine, knew she was content and pleased with his deed. A moment later, the Sylph emerged from darkness into moonlight, and for a heartbeat, bathed in the silver light of her own moon, she appeared in her true silver-eyed form. Morigan’s breath caught. But the vision was fleeting—easily dismissed as a trick of the eye.
Yasine glided closer.
“Step away from him,” Ashe snapped as she marched into the garden. “Take the nymph inside the temple,” she ordered the large paladin at her side.
A low growl rumbled from Oenghus’ throat, but a flash of green eyes stilled his intent. Yasine looked meekly at the earth and followed the Inquisitor willingly. When they were alone, Morigan gripped his arm. He winced, and she loosened her hand, glaring at the offending wound.
“You can tell me what the Void is going on while I put you back together.”
Oenghus grunted and gave himself over to Morigan’s will, feeling like a helpless coward. The Sylph’s plea rang in his ears: stand still and do not react.
With efficiency, Morigan commandeered a private room, ordered fresh linens, hot water, and handed off his kilt to be laundered and mended—as if the castle had nothing better to do. But in one day, Morigan had restored the chain of command and brought order to the survivors. There was no disheartened, disordered, leaderless army that stood a chance against the healer’s calming presence.
Oenghus, like so many others, surrendered to her competent hands. This worried Morigan to no end. She stood by the bed, frowning at the blood soaked bandages on his back and shield arm and the cuts that were not bandaged. He shifted on his stomach to eye her. The lines of exhaustion had not left.
“Just get the back and arm. The rest will heal with your salve.” It was a testament to her state that she did not argue. But Morigan did not immediately set to work, she planted her backside on the bed.
“Before I start—what’s going on? Rotting Void fiends don’t turn up every day.” While she waited for water and linens, he had sketched over the details of the battle and the subsequent betrayal of the Knight Captain.
“I figure the carcass was probably frozen in the mountains, slain during the Era of Blight and left to rot,” he murmured. “I think the earthquakes knocked it loose and the air warmed enough to thaw it out in the chasm.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she interrupted, firmly. “You know what I’m getting at. The nymph, Oen. Who is she to you?”
“I’ve said all I can, Mori.” There was a plea in his voice that alarmed her, but long companions as they were, she pressed the issue as she usually did.
“I’ve healed two nymphs, and I’ve never seen one make trees grow like she did in that garden, and those eyes of hers, in the moonlight—”
“There’s always a first time,” he pointed out.
Morigan snorted. “And I’ve been with, on, and under you enough to know more than I should about you.”
He chuckled at her words.
“Is she who I think she is?”
“I’ve never been able to change your bull-headed mind once you get an idea settled in there.”
“At least you’ve learned one thing in all these years,” she retorted. When Oenghus did not rise to the bait of an argument, Morigan placed a comforting hand on his muscled shoulder. It gave him the strength to make a choice.
“I won’t be going home, Mori. I’ll travel on to Whitemount.”
To his surprise, she nodded as if she suspected it already. “Then I’ll be going, too.”
Oenghus turned slightly. Dark, familiar eyes stared down at him with more love than he deserved. “Why?” he asked.
“In all these years—through our three Oaths,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen you look so trapped, Oen.”
“You should also know by now not to worry about my hairy hide.”
“Someone has to, you big oaf,” she smiled, and bent forward to place a kiss on his temple.
“What would I do without you, Mori?” he murmured.
“Probably bleed to death.”
A solid wall of snow blocked his path. Oenghus was trapped. Howling filled his ears, making his prison unbearable. The screams were feral and pleading and all consuming. It came from his Oathbound, his very first. She was ripe with child—their child who could not find its way out. She was dying, and with snow all around there was nothing he could do. Her cries pushed at the walls of their cabin and beat at his ears. There was no help, nowhere to go. He was as trapped and helpless as she; alone, watching his Oathbound and child die.
Consciousness saved him this time. Oenghus Saevaldr sat bolt upright in the night. He threw off the covers and leapt to his feet, ready to fight. There he stood, panting like a caged lion. However, he was alone.
A warm hearth mingled with the moonlight, a silver stream that slipped through the narrow window. There was no danger, no other there save the howling of a dream and the memory of a helpless twenty-year-old fool who had never done anything useful but bash heads. Still, over nine hundred years later, he felt like that fool again—trapped and helpless, unable to aid those he loved.
That did not set well with Oenghus. He snatched his belt from a pile of belongings and uncorked his grog, taking a long swig. The Brimgrog burned away his memories, centered him in the now, and filled his veins with fire. A growl rumbled from deep inside his chest and he drove his fist into the mantel, cracking the stone.
His hand hurt, but he welcomed the simplicity of pain. The heart was never so straightforward.
“I didn’t gift you with a bottomless supply of Brimgrog so you could guzzle it like a drunkard.”
Oenghus spun, muscles tensing for battle a moment before his mind recognized the voice. The Sylph—Yasine as he alone called her—stood in the center of moonlight. Green eyes roved appreciatively over his body; muscle and power draped in firelight and shadow. He could feel her need, her desire, amplified by his own.
Yasine moved like water, flowing across the floor to stand within reach. “Swear to me,” she said.
Her voice made him hard, her presence filled him, and he seized her. The Sylph went willingly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her lips met his with equal hunger. It had been so long. The lovers trembled, aching, fumbling in their desperation. Coarse, strong hands tugged her robe free, and flung it to the far side of the room. He slid his hands down her back, relishing her curves, her warmth, and the press of her body against his. He gripped her backside and lifted. Strong thighs wrapped around his waist.
Frantic moments passed as Oenghus found the bed. The realm tilted. And the Sylph spread her thighs, welcoming what she could not control—the only man she had ever loved. He was everything opposite; hard and coarse and impatient.
Oenghus gripped her flank and filled her with unyielding power. His gr
owl mingled with her gasp, and she nipped his ear with her teeth. She was all softness and heat and he sank into her with a shuddering sigh, and for a moment, they simply lay intertwined. Oenghus raised himself on his elbows, sparing her his weight, pulling back to meet her eyes. She smiled, relishing the heat of him, the thickness pulsing inside until she could stand it no longer.
“Swear to me,” she breathed, clenching her muscles around his shaft. Oenghus grunted, and thrust, rendering her speechless. He tasted her neck and she arched her back. When his lips locked over a hard nipple, she gasped, and pushed, rolling him to the side so she came out on top. Precisely where she liked to be. A primal chorus of moans entered the room as the united lovers reacquainted themselves, until they moved as one, in a timeless rhythm.
It did not last long.
He could feel her muscles tensing, the slight trembling that turned into a quaking, until her body stiffened and her lips parted with a cry. He grabbed her neck, and brought her lips to his, silencing her ecstasy. She moaned into his mouth. She was utter bliss and happiness and the violence of her release drove him over the precipice. His shaft throbbed and he groaned as she met his hips with her own.
Through the hazy aftermath, he watched her shapely, swaying form, riding him until she had had her fill twice over. When her desire stilled, she slipped off and slid to the side, as limp and satiated as her lover.
They lay for a long time, half intertwined, her head over his heart, her fingers idly drifting through the hair on his chest as she traced the muscles of his body, learning his lines anew.
Oenghus ran one hand over the thigh draped across his own, and with the other, brushed Yasine’s back, letting his touch drift downwards to rest on her backside.
“I thought you couldn’t use your power?” he murmured in the quiet. His breath stirred her hair and he inhaled her scent, the calm after the storm.
“I see your mind is working again.” He felt her lips curve.
“Not for very long.” To emphasize his words, he gripped a handful of sumptuous flesh and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Her head dropped to his bicep and she stared into his eyes. Green met blue; like the sea and the land watching each other, breathing the same air.
Untold Tales Page 6
