“The choice was mine. Their blood will stain my hands.”
“Then you will bathe in it,” Lucas spat. “All for a nymph!”
Oenghus surged to his feet with a growl. “Watch your tongue, lad.”
“Gentlemen,” warned Acacia. The two warriors stopped short of blows, but their eyes remained locked. The aggression was palpable, and so very cold. Isiilde began to shiver.
Oenghus glanced at her. “It’s not because of you, Sprite. Don’t dare think that for one moment. I’d wager Tharios could find the cursed tomb anyway. At least this way, we’re alive and we know his plans. This isn’t the first time the realms have been threatened. We’ll take care of it, so don’t you dare put this on her head, paladin.”
“Take care of it—how are we to do that? We don’t even know where we are.” Lucas took a step back, but he continued to scowl at the Nuthaanian.
“Aye, we’ll bloody take care of it.” Oenghus bared his teeth. “We’ll go kill the bastard, then I’ll gut the traitorous little weasel.”
“Brilliant plan. Direct and simple,” Acacia said dryly.
Oenghus shrugged. “I’m sure the Scarecrow has a plan. He always does.”
All eyes focused on Marsais. A sudden flutter of panic seized Isiilde. The cave narrowed, the rock pressed on her head, squeezing every last bit of air from her lungs.
Marsais abruptly stood. “I need to stretch my legs. Walk with me, my dear?”
❧
Rain dripped lazily through a protective canopy. The redwoods swayed, sighing with contentment in what was nature’s equivalent to a hot bath.
Isiilde leant against a tree, resting her forehead on the red bark. The earth was soft beneath her feet, and warm. Moss tickled her toes and silence filled her ears. Peace soothed her fear, and slowly, her heart calmed.
Marsais stood attentively at her side, resting a hand on the small of her back. He was alert and wary, scanning the forest for threat even though they weren’t far from the cave.
“Is it safe here?” she asked.
“Presently, but who knows what the night will bring.” Marsais regretted the words the instant his nymph paled.
Numbly, she followed him as he walked, watching as he picked mushrooms and plants, handing each to her, so she could eat. The strange mushrooms were gold, and they smelled like apricots, but tasted like pepper. By the time they came across a gurgling stream, she had eaten her fill.
Fifty paces downstream, the flow plunged over a boulder, forming a crystal curtain of water. The pool was red, stained by the redwood’s fibrous bark. It reminded her of blood.
Isiilde stood on the bank, gazing at her reflection. Her hair was matted and tangled, her face smudged with mud and blood, and her clothing tattered. She did not care; however, an immediate urgency proved impossible to ignore. She left Marsais, who was scanning the ground, to relieve herself behind a tree.
When she emerged, he was perched on a boulder, legs crossed. A flat rock sat in the palm of his bandaged hand and his face was creased with concentration as he tried, and failed, to trace a single rune onto its surface.
A mournful howl rose in the forest. Isiilde hurried over to Marsais.
“Just a wolf, my dear.” He looked at her with knowing eyes. “If I’m not mistaken, you desire a bath. I can feel—” his voice caught, “Zander’s hands on you.”
Her ears wilted. “I think I’ll freeze in that water.”
“The seer has a plan—hopefully.” Marsais frowned at the rock, and threw it aside. He reached for another stone, attempting the fire rune again, but his fingers were stiff and clumsy and the weave complex. A wave of frustration traveled through their bond.
Isiilde stood patiently by his side, watching him with concern. Rage churned in her stomach. She wanted to burn Tharios to a crisp for what he had done. Marsais’ long, elegant hands were his life—his only link to the Gift. He traced runes with the same passion with which he had caressed her body. Without his hands, he could not practice his art.
Another rock was discarded. Before he could snatch a third, she touched his arm. “It’s all right, Marsais. You need to let them heal.” He closed his eyes, and sighed.
Isiilde glanced at the pool. Slowly, she unwrapped his bandages. The flesh beneath was bruised and horribly swollen and his fingers trembled with pain.
“The cold water will help,” she said softly. Her suggestion nudged him off the rock. He unfolded his legs, and knelt on the bank.
Isiilde gathered up the loose bandages, set them aside, and helped Marsais roll up his sleeves. When he placed his hands in the water, he sucked in a breath, and slowly, bit by bit, relaxed. She did not need their bond to feel his agony.
Isiilde dipped a toe in the water, and winced. She briefly considered attempting her own heating stone, but quickly discarded the idea. It was a complex weave, requiring a deft touch. Too powerful a rune would combust the stone and everything around, or at the very least, cause the water to boil. Presently, she did not trust herself to weave a thing.
Resigned, Isiilde shed her meagre clothes, laid them on a rock, and moved to the gentle waterfall to scrub off unwanted hands. Grey eyes followed her, and she glanced back, considerably warmed by their touch. The heat, however, melted the moment she entered the mountain stream. Her teeth clacked together and her body shook, but she scrubbed and doused her skin, until it was raw and cleansed.
“What are we going to do, Marsais?”
“Take one day at a time.”
“But we have to stop Tharios.”
“First, we must get you dry and warm.” He removed his hands from the water and carefully tested their limits. The water had helped their range of motion, or at the very least, numbed the pain. He walked over to a flat boulder and traced a crude rune onto its surface. The rock began to glow, the moss blackened and withered with a wisp of smoke.
Isiilde brightened. She snatched her clothes and hurried over, curling on top the heated surface. “You’re wonderful,” she purred. But Marsais was far away, staring into the forest in thought. When her teeth stopped chattering, she uncurled, draping her clothes across the rock to dry, and then herself, stretching on the sizzling surface.
After a time, when she sensed Marsais’ return to the present, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell the others where we are?”
“Hmm?” He glanced at her, and there his eyes remained, roving over her body in a most satisfying manner.
“You know where we are,” she repeated, shaking him from his appreciation.
“Do I?” He sounded amused.
“I doubt you’d pick mushrooms for me without knowing if they’re poisonous.”
Marsais chuckled. “Have I ever told you what an amazing mind you have, my dear?” A surge of desire traveled through their bond. “Among other things.”
“That would definitely warm me up.”
“Yes, and burn down the forest,” Marsais quipped.
“I think you’re trying to distract me.”
“Oh, it’s quite involuntary. But unfortunately this is hardly the place.”
“The place being?” The rock was beginning to cool. She pulled on her sparse clothing, dreaming wistfully of a warm cloak and boots.
“Vaylin, although I’m not precisely sure where. We could be in the far north, or more towards the border of Kiln. The whole region is mountainous, and the valleys often stay warm, even through winter—a few at any rate. These little mushrooms are native to the forests. Regardless of where—we have a very long way to travel to stop Tharios.”
Isiilde thought of the large map sitting on Marsais’ desk back on the Isle. She had always loved studying the roads, the names, all that empty space and the unknown in between. Vaylin was on the opposite side of Fyrsta, as far east as one could go without falling into the ocean. It was, she supposed, better than another realm entirely. This thought cheered the nymph considerably.
“Well, that’s good.” At her optimistic remark, Marsais arched a brow in question.
“That gives you plenty of time to think of a plan.”
His grey eyes twinkled with amusement.
❧
A cool grey mist ghosted between primordial trees. Isiilde curled her toes in the earth. It was cold. Something had changed in the forest. She gazed down slope, ears alert, watching the mist writhe and grasp through the leaves.
Marsais’ coins chimed softly. His hand clamped over her mouth and he propelled her against a tree trunk. His body was tense against hers, and the bark dug into her back. Long moments ticked by, and yet his hand did not leave. The mist crept, and into the unnatural silence, a rasping and a creak touched her ears. She itched to flee.
Marsais summoned the Lore, and with his free hand, slowly produced a sloppy weave. He sent a message fluttering towards the cave. His eyes met hers, and he loosened his grip with a warning look.
Do not move, do not speak, do not run.
Bleakness surrounded them, and the rasping and clicking noise neared. Ever so slowly, Marsais began edging her around a massive tree trunk. Decay assaulted her nostrils.
A wheeze, like a dying thing, panted in the air. Isiilde’s eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for the unknown threat as Marsais slowly inched them farther from the stream.
A branch creaked, wood on wood, moving with a crawling rhythm that ended with a snap. A swift shadow stirred the mist, and the tree at her back quivered. Marsais craned his neck. Unwillingly, her gaze was pulled upwards to where a long-limbed creature clung to the bark over their heads.
It was not a Reaper, but a woman. Her branch-like claws dug into the trees. Red spores bled from skin that was charred and cracked like burnt wood. Her hair was a tangle, her breath noxious, and the mist gathered around her like a cloak. Eyes, as black and beady as night, roved over the forest.
Silently, Marsais pressed Isiilde against the redwood. Stay. He took a step back, walking slowly around the trunk, drawing the hag’s attention.
“I am not the sweet morsel you hoped for.”
The creature’s head snapped towards him, and his calm words provoked fury. She opened her mouth, impossibly wide, lashing out a snake like tongue that rattled with threat. Isiilde jerked and terror squeaked past her lips.
The hag’s head whipped around with a disjointed crackle of movement, pinning the nymph with hungry eyes.
“Leave!” Marsais’ hands were near to useless, but there was power in his voice. It was the Gift without runes, without direction, a crack of threat that lashed at the hag. With a disjointed clack of limbs, she leapt. Isiilde’s fingers flew. The Lore erupted from her lips in a scream. She threw a weave in front of Marsais. The hag hit the enchantment and slipped to the side—just as Marsais was twisting in the same direction. The two collided, both stunned. His coins chimed, the hag’s tongue whipped towards his face, and he rolled to the side, shaking off clinging mist.
Isiilde wove another grease enchantment and hurled it at the hag. The creature slipped with a rasping creak. A rock flew through the air from farther up the mountain, hitting the creature square. The blow knocked the hag to the ground. She twisted, arm hanging useless at her side, glowering at the charging barbarian who burst from the tress. The hag’s mouth split, her jaw unhinged, unleashing a screech that dropped Isiilde to her knees. When the paralyzing sound released her body, the hag was gone.
Marsais coughed and retched into the earth, as a clamor of armor and steel crashed down the slope, heralding the arrival of the paladins.
Isiilde scrambled over to her Bonded. “Are you all right?” But he was too sick to answer.
“What’d you go and try and kiss that thing for, ya daft bastard?” asked Oenghus.
“It was my fault, Oen. I was trying to help.”
The giant beamed proudly. “Better to do something than nothing at all.”
“I should have known he’d move.”
“It’ll pass,” Oenghus said, slapping Marsais on the back. And indeed it did. Marsais wiped his sleeve across his mouth and straightened, gathering his dignity.
“What was that thing?” Rivan clutched his sword as if he feared it would disappear.
“A nasty blighted hag. But according to Marsais’ whisper, it was a drunken mammoth.” Oenghus snatched the bandages from a rock. “I told you not to weave, Scarecrow. Don’t blame me if your fingers are crooked.” He began rewrapping Marsais’ swollen hands.
“You certainly took your time.”
“I figured the drunken mammoth would stumble off a cliff.”
The fog began to thicken, turning a sickly yellow instead of grey. It crawled up the slope, gathering by the second. Acacia gazed downslope, shield held ready.
“I don’t like this—it feels unnatural.” A baleful howl cut through the thickening mist in answer to her words. When its mournful echo died, the single, urgent call was taken up by a dozen more.
“That sounds a lot like Blight Hounds,” said Lucas.
“I’m afraid I angered the hag.”
“You’ve always had a way with women, Scarecrow.”
Lucas ignored the banter. “They’ll come with the fog.” He looked to his captain. “And who knows what else.”
“Then let’s stay ahead of it.”
Eight
OENGHUS SAEVALDR SET a grueling pace, and Isiilde was thankful for it. She wanted to run as far as she could from the hag and the creeping mist. Running gave her something to do. The howls followed them up the mountain. However, after an hour, her terror transformed into exhaustion. Her guardian did not stop.
Despite the exertion, she was shivering, and two hours into the journey, she stumbled. Marsais caught her before she collapsed. Without pause, Oenghus hoisted her onto his back, secured her with the long ends of his kilt, and continued the march. Sometime during the long night, she fell asleep bumping against his back. Nymphs were not known for their stamina.
The sun rose with their steps, greeting the weary group when they reached the ridge. Sensing the warmth, Isiilde stirred, blinking groggily at the transformation. An endless wilderness, of mountains and valleys and tangled forests, blanketed the land.
They hiked along a ridge. Far below, ruins poked through the distant canopy, marking the start of their journey; or was it another valley with another ruined kingdom? She did not know.
Isiilde tapped her guardian, and he stopped, helping her down.
“Will your feet be all right, Sprite?” Oenghus eyed her critically.
She shrugged. “You spent the first half of my life trying to put boots on me. I don’t see why they wouldn’t be—unless it snows.”
Oenghus grinned, and ruffled her hair. Marsais fell in beside her with an offering of berries, mushrooms, and a twisted root that he peeled pale slivers from with a knife.
“How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” she said between mouthfuls. “You walked through the night?”
“Hmm, we thought it wise.”
“Nothing followed us, I hope?”
“One can certainly hope.” Marsais stopped and pointed north. “That is where we began. You can see the top of a ruin poking through the trees. And then we went through the caves into the other valley with the hag. Presently, we’re heading south towards those smoke trails.”
Isiilde scanned the wilderness to the south. A river snaked through the valley, and thin, trails of smoke reached beyond the tree tops.
It looked a long way to walk.
Her body ached, the morning was cold and the wind bitter. She wanted to go back to sleep. Instead, she rallied and put one foot in front of the other, enjoying the sun and the man at her side. Marsais was alive and well, and that was all that mattered.
A sudden thought sprang to mind. “Did you tell them yet?”
Marsais pursed his lips in puzzlement. “Tell who what?”
“The paladins,” she whispered. “Did you tell them where we are?”
Her Bonded blinked. “I’m not precisely sure. We could be in the far north or the far south—”
>
“Why are you so reluctant?”
“Because they will get angry.”
“They’re already angry, Marsais.”
“Yes, but it’s a vague sort of anger.”
Isiilde gave him a look worthy of Thira.
“More or less,” he muttered. While Marsais scratched at the rough stubble on his cheek, Isiilde chewed on a sliver of root. She was discovering that their bond worked both ways, to an extent. If she concentrated, she could feel Marsais, sense his mood and emotions. Currently, he was weighing options.
It was, she mused, much like considering a strategy in her favorite game of runes: King’s Folly. She studied his sharp profile in the sunlight. To all outward appearance he was as aloof and confident as a bird of prey surveying his domain. However, she now knew better. The glimpse that their bond offered was enlightening, and disturbing: Marsais was not as confident as he appeared.
“Captain,” he called.
Acacia stopped, and turned. Her pale gaze flickered to the shivering nymph, and then to the seer.
“Vaylin. We’re in Vaylin, somewhere north, I think.”
“I know.”
Surprise rippled through their bond. “You do?”
“The mushrooms,” Acacia explained. “I’ve had them in Nefir. I wanted to see how long you would wait before telling us.”
Marsais tapped his head. “My mind is not what it used to be.”
“I think your mind is in perfectly good order.”
Oenghus barked a laugh.
Acacia ignored the barbarian. She stepped up to Marsais and met his gaze. “I don’t like games. It sows nothing but distrust.”
“Did you tell your men where we are, Captain?” he asked, for her ears alone.
“I am here to aid you, not take orders from you. Do not play games with me.”
“I do not play games. I do what I must for this realm.”
Acacia searched his eyes, long enough for the rest of the group to take note. Isiilde shifted nervously from foot to foot. At last, when the captain spoke, her voice was low and calm. “Your judgement thus far does not inspire confidence.”
King's Folly (Book 2) Page 6
