King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  World Map

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Sabrina Flynn

  Acknowledgements

  Featured Author

  Appendix

  KING’S FOLLY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are chimerical delusions of a tired mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely due to the reader’s wild imagination (that’s you).

  Copyright © 2014 by Sabrina Flynn

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art and design by Nele Diel © 2014

  nelediel.artstation.com

  Fyrsta World Map by Sabrina Flynn © 2014

  Acknowledgements for map brushes and images:

  silverbeam.deviantart.com

  birgitengelhardt.de

  lileya.deviantart.com

  i-a-grafix.deviantart.com

  bohemianresources.deviantart.com

  calthyechild.deviantart.com

  starraven.deviantart.com

  to the survivors with scars unseen

  “Often times, one must start at the end to find a beginning.”

  —Galvier Longstride

  One

  KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. The hoarding of rumor was an addicting sort of habit that made Isek Beirnuckle hum with ecstasy. Tiny morsels of information kept him alive, barely surviving, until the blissful moment when all the pieces fell into place, clicking together with a rush of glorious revelation.

  Occasionally, he happened upon a rarity of illumination that was simply too tempting to resist, one where a more active role was required.

  Isek had acquired precisely such a treasure, when earlier this morning, he had pressed his ear to a door and listened to two ancients speaking of matters never before spoken. The reward was limitless; the risk disastrous. But life had always been a game to one such as Isek, and he played it with a ruthless flourish.

  In one indistinguishable corridor from the next, Isek led his four fellow Wise Ones behind a dusty tapestry that mirrored a thousand others.

  A dark-skinned Kilnish Lord, a slant-eyed Rahuatl, a leather-garbed gnome, and a young power hungry Xaionian crowded behind the tattered tapestry with Isek.

  Eiji growled, jostling for a better position as the four men threatened to squeeze the gnome from the cramped alcove. Isek suppressed a chuckle, imagining the tapestry from without, bulging and moving as five Wise Ones stuffed themselves into the space.

  “Grant me access to the Archlord’s Runic Eye,” Tharios ordered, and although he wore a smooth, imperious mask of control, his eyes shone with hunger.

  “I can’t—” Isek stammered. “Not until the Circle of Nine names you as Archlord. Until that’s done, Marsais is the only one who can grant you access to the rune.” Isek shuffled from foot to foot. But his uneasiness was insincere.

  The Spine defied logic, it resisted reason, and anyone daring to ponder its design would be left with a truly puzzling conclusion. However, Isek knew the tower like the back of his teeth, and he recognized that he had the advantage over the power hungry fool. He intended to keep it that way.

  Tharios’ cool eyes pierced Isek. For a moment Tharios’ mask slipped, revealing the depth of lunacy beneath, but before Isek could take a step back, the mask returned, leaving him good and truly unsettled. He ran a nervous hand over his smooth head.

  “You’re right of course.” Tharios dipped his chin. “Uphold your end of our bargain, and I’ll uphold mine.”

  “As agreed.” Isek pressed his palm over a bare spot of stone. The invisible rune activated with a faint tremor. He motioned the four into the teleportation weave. When they had all disappeared, he stepped through, feeling the familiar tug of stone. He emerged in an alcove that was perpetually plagued by cobwebs. The four Wise Ones stood staring at the long corridor that was void of decoration save a row of doors on either side.

  Their footsteps echoed in the emptiness.

  “What’s behind these doors?” The gnome peered curiously at each in turn.

  “Libraries, storage rooms, and the vault,” explained Isek, pointing to one of the rune-etched doors that looked no different from the rest.

  “Would you look at that Ward.” Eiji gave a low whistle, but he strode past without pause, leading them into the Archlord’s circular study. The room was exactly how Marsais had left it this morning before the duel—utterly chaotic.

  “The bed and bathing chambers are through there.” Isek pointed down the short hallway to the connecting doors.

  “Impressive,” Shimei said, admiring the massive crystal window. “Although as disorderly as it is, I feel as if I’ve walked into the lunatic’s mind.”

  The only uncluttered surface in the study was a table top covered with a swirling cycle of rune stones. Isek eyed the abandoned game of King’s Folly. Marsais and his nymph were fond of the lord’s game, and so was Isek; only he liked to play with lives.

  While Shimei and Eiji poked curiously around the study, N’Jalss searched for the purported flask that Marsais had reluctantly told them about in the dungeon. Isek followed Tharios and the Rahuatl into the bedchambers. When the two spotted the charred bedclothes, they drew up short.

  “Marsais has odd tastes,” Isek explained, vaguely.

  “Have you ever seen the flask Marsais claimed was here?” Tharios folded his hands behind his back, scanning the room while N’Jalss began a systematic search of the area, flicking things aside with his clawed finger caps.

  “Not in his bedchamber, aside from the Primrose wine I gave him. However, there were two flagons in his vault,” Isek said. “Isiilde opened one of them, and accidentally released the Imp that has been plaguing the castle. The second flagon is still in his vault.”

  “Keep searching his bedchamber, N’Jalss,” Tharios ordered, before sweeping out of the room with a rustle of fabric. He gestured to the gnome a
nd Kiln. “Eiji, Shimei, with me.”

  Isek followed, threading a gold crown over his knuckles; back and forth, up and over, in a steady, uninterrupted motion. The coin was his only bad habit—his only physical tell to an otherwise flawless act.

  Three of the most talented Wise Ones in the Order stood in front of the vault. Each wore an identical frown. Marsais’ wards were as legendary as his madness.

  “Open it, Isek.” Shimei gestured at the vault.

  “I think not,” Isek smiled blandly. “I’d sooner ride an Auroch than touch one of Marsais’ wards. The man may be mad, but he has a cruel sense of humor when it comes to runes. In the past, when he’s needed something from his vault, he always opens the door himself.”

  “You’re not in a place to negotiate,” Shimei sneered.

  “Actually, he is,” Tharios interjected with the smoothness of a diplomat. “Isek, as I’m sure he knows, is the only one who can safely transport us out of the Archlord’s inner sanctum. In short, Shimei, if something were to happen to our guide, we would be trapped here.” The Kiln bristled and, raising his chin, turned his back on Isek to study the warded vault.

  “How did the nymph unravel this ward?”

  “Isiilde has a talent for them. She thinks it’s a game. After she unraveled this one, she rifled through his vault.”

  Tharios pursed his lips in thought. And Isek kept his breath even. It was apparent, even then, that there was more to the nymph than met the eye—talent was an understatement.

  Eiji gave a dispassionate shrug. “We can use Marsais as leverage and have the nymph open it.”

  “And risk her dying in the process?” Isek snapped. It wouldn’t do for Tharios to take an interest in the nymph. If the man Stievin, who had raped the nymph, had had any sense beyond his cock, he would have realized just what he possessed. The power hungry Xaionian would not be nearly so foolish.

  Tharios held up a hand. “I honor my arrangements. I swore to Isek that he would have her. Besides, I wouldn’t trust the nymph to open this any further than I’d trust Marsais—who knows what those two might purposefully unleash.” Tharios turned to Shimei and smiled. “It’s time our Kilnish friend proved his dedication.”

  Shimei spat. “What do you call my participation in this usurpation thus far?”

  “You were the one who approached me. After all, if a nymph can unravel this ward, then surely it’s not too difficult for a Kiln.”

  Tharios had pricked Shimei’s pride. The lord could hardly back down now; however, he was rescued by a soft murmuring breeze. An urgent chorus of whispers settled on Tharios’ ears—all vying for attention. The messages were the same: The prisoners have escaped.

  “Curse Zander’s incompetence!” Tharios hissed, twisting his features into a mask of rage. For the first time since Isek undertook this dangerous game of betrayal, he felt a knot form in his stomach—the game had just taken an unexpected turn.

  Tharios turned to Isek. “Get us down there, now!”

  As the five Wise Ones sped back down the hallway whence they came, each of them asked the same silent question: How did the bound prisoners manage to escape their guards?

  Round two to you, Marsais. Isek slapped his palm on the teleportation rune with more force than necessary, and as Tharios disappeared into the stone, Isek knew he was going to have to find some new leverage for himself, and fast.

  The seer had had a trick up his sleeve after all. This left Isek in a very precarious position, but more importantly, the most powerful being to walk Fyrsta in over two thousand years—a sixteen year-old nymph—had slipped through his fingers.

  Two

  COOL AIR SLAPPED the nymph’s face. Isiilde Jaal’Yasine dangled over a broad shoulder, staring at moving boots and the ground far below. The ferns and earth were bathed in blue. She craned her neck, gazing at the Runic Gateway. One step from crushing stone to open air, but where had they stepped into?

  The twin pillars of the Gateway swirled with chaotic runes. She blinked against the light, twisting her body to take in the view. A forest of ancient sequoia stretched towards the sky. Silver moonlight pierced the distant canopy, caressing a maze of ruin and a toppled tower. Wherever they were, the tangle of stone and vine mixed with shadow did not look hospitable.

  As if sensing her thoughts, the portal snapped out of existence, plunging her into darkness. The nymph dropped her head. She did not care if the darkness swallowed her, but she did care for another.

  She struggled on her perch, shifting weakly. Oenghus helped her down, lowering her some seven feet to the earth. Her guardian’s sapphire eyes glinted in the night, and his hand steadied her until her legs stopped wobbling.

  A shadow fought with a fern on the ground. Moonlight touched a cascade of luminous white hair, and Isiilde rushed to her Bonded. His hands were crushed, bound in hasty bandages, and utterly useless. She could feel his pain as if it were a dim memory, lurking beyond the veil that he had forged between their intertwined spirits.

  Weak with exhaustion, she stumbled on a root, and fell to her knees. Something stirred in the shadows, but her eyes were fixed on the rangy seer. Her heart was numb, it had been frozen and shattered, then stitched back together with his light. The battered organ gave a frantic lurch.

  “Marsais,” she breathed. He wheezed her name in return, climbing to his knees. Isiilde looked to her giant guardian, who stood on a fallen pillar. “Heal him, Oen.”

  The towering Nuthaanian quieted her with a gesture. And then she heard it—a soft scrape and a click, followed by another in the pattern of a predatory gait.

  The Runic Gateway pulsed, the runes flared to life, and the air between pillars rippled. With a squeal of delight, a flapping fiend flew out of the portal, fleeing into the night. Luccub the Imp was free.

  The Gateway pulsed once, and died. Shadows shifted in the ruins. A flash of ice blinked and disappeared. Marsais’ head snapped towards the flash. His long, lean body tensed.

  “I can’t heal him here,” Oenghus growled, backing off the pillar. “It’s too dangerous.” He summoned the Lore, weaving a rune of light around his shield. White light replaced the fading blue, pushing at the shadows, but it failed to pierce their depths.

  The Gateway activated, the air between the standing stones distorted again, and Knight Captain Acacia Mael stepped out of the portal. She took in the forest, the ruins, and the night, and moved beside the nymph, shield and sword held at the ready.

  “We’re not alone,” Oenghus warned the new arrival. He shifted hammer to shield arm, and yanked the seer to his feet. Isiilde put a shoulder under Marsais’ arm, but he was heavy and she was weak, and she was not sure who supported whom.

  Power gathered again, and the world exhaled, spewing two more paladins into the land: one young and smooth and the other seasoned and scarred.

  A hiss rose with the wind. The shadows beyond the light writhed like a pit of snakes. Clicks and scrapes and a sibilant chorus whispered between trees.

  Isiilde froze. “What is that?”

  “Reapers,” the seasoned warrior spat. Lucas Cutter and Rivan moved into a defensive position, forming up around their captain. The single word clutched Isiilde’s throat. Fear trickled down her spine. Voidspawn. Creatures of nightmare with a thirst for fresh blood.

  Isiilde wanted to stop time, to halt the moment and run back through the portal, but Marsais’ arm circled her neck protectively, pressing her back against his chest, rooting her in place.

  The Runic Gateway flared to life, signaling another arrival—an unwanted one. Oenghus twisted, and swung as an Isle Guard stepped through the portal. The startled guard caught the steel fist with his face. Blood and bone and brain misted the night. The guard fell at the Gateway’s threshold.

  A hundred eyes snapped open, burning with icy hunger. Blood was in the air. And the darkness exploded. The shadows converged like a pack of dogs after a hare.

  “Shields on the nymph!” Acacia ordered, catching a dark shape on her own heater. A
barrier of steel and flesh surrounded Isiilde and Marsais as darkness gave birth to terror. A roar shook the forest, lightning crackled, blinding and bright, illuminating the Reapers in a bluish light.

  Something moved overhead, and Isiilde jerked her head up. A humanoid shadow leapt from a branch—all fang and claw and sleek scale. It landed in the middle of the circle, in front of Isiilde. The Reaper lashed, quick as an adder, but Marsais’ boot was quicker. His foot slammed into a fanged mouth.

  The captain twisted, slicing her sword at the creature, felling it with one sweep, before returning to the wave of Reapers. Claw scraped against steel with ear-piercing shrieks.

  Acacia chanted in a clear, ringing voice. Her shield burst with light, glowing as brightly as the silver moon. It cut through the murk, slamming into a knot of wiry Reapers. The Voidspawn spat in pain, shrinking from the blinding brilliance. A path opened through the tangle.

  “Move to the tower,” Acacia ordered. As one, the fighting unit moved forward in a tight formation, all save Oenghus. The Nuthaanian waded into the fray, harvesting Reapers with broad, pounding strokes.

  Behind the wall of shields, Isiilde struggled to maintain her footing, slipping over the mangled corpses of Reapers. But Marsais steadied her, providing a buffer against the paladins’ movements.

  Air gathered, as if the earth held its breath, and then it burst with a wave of power. Isiilde peeked between the paladins’ shields. The Runic Gateway spit a cloaked figure from its portal. Above the clamor, she could hear the Lore, could see the runes the stranger traced, and the urgency in his weave.

  Marsais shouted an alarm. And quick as a viper, he broke through the circle, racing heedlessly through the ruin, back the way they had come, towards the traitorous Wise One at the Gateway.

  Isiilde moved to follow, but Acacia shoved her against Lucas, and shot after the seer. Isiilde watched her Bonded slam into the Wise One. Both men fell with a bone jarring force.

  The Wise One came out on top, raising a wicked dagger. Acacia was too far to help. Isiilde screamed. The dagger plunged downwards, piercing flesh and heart, but not Marsais’. The traitor drove the blade into his own chest. His fingers spasmed, he twitched, and fell to the side.