King's Folly (Book 2)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Zoshi fell in beside his younger brother. They exchanged silent glances and each renewed his efforts, battling crushing feet as they dug their fingers raw.

  Pip was only five and he was little, even for his age. Just a bit more, and the smaller boy could squeeze through. For the first time since Zoshi came to, hope entered his heart.

  One of his brothers would escape.

  Escape—the stairs and hallway and all the guards. Even if Pip wiggled out of this cage, they’d spot him running.

  A desperate plan struck Zoshi. He gestured with his hands until understanding shone in Pip’s wide eyes. The younger boy shook his head violently, but was stopped by his older brother’s hands. Zoshi grabbed the small face awkwardly and nodded again, firmer: Do as I say.

  The corral was rapidly thinning. There wasn’t time to argue. Zoshi rose to his feet, giving Pip little choice in the matter. If the little boy refused, then his brother’s sacrifice would be for nothing.

  Zoshi thought about all the stories he had ever heard about brave knights and warriors. Sacrifice was supposed to be a grand, heroic thing full of glory. He wanted to save his brother’s life, but he didn’t feel heroic—he was terrified and piss ran down his leg.

  A gap opened in the press of bodies. His muscles tensed, and before he could lose his nerve, he scrambled between legs and sprang up, charging the guards. His bare feet slapped on the iron walkway.

  The boy skidded under the first guard’s legs, and a collared captive with some fight in him drove his shoulder into the second guard. Zoshi skidded right off the walkway, grabbed the lip with his tied hands and swung down and under with agile ease. Boots pounded overhead as guards rushed forward to subdue the chained line of captives. Heavy cudgels pounded flesh, quelling the fight within moments.

  The distraction had been enough.

  Hidden in the shadows, Zoshi turned in time to catch a glimpse of Pip’s fleeing form dart down a passage. Guards rushed after the boy. Zoshi tried to shout, tried to scream, aching to draw their attention, but his throat was constricted by the unseen enchantment. He braced to charge from his concealment, but the sudden, dreadful twang of a bow string filled his ears and drew him up short. In his mind, he screamed.

  “We got the quick little brat,” a guard announced coming into view. The man casually drug Pip by the hair. An arrow protruded from his neck.

  Realization nearly struck Zoshi dead. The guards thought Pip was the boy who ran out of the corral. The boy crouched beneath the walkway, frozen with grief. This wasn’t at all how the grand stories went. Zoshi was supposed to have an arrow through his skin, not Pip.

  “He’s still fresh,” said the guard dragging Pip.

  “Get him up on the slab and we’ll begin.”

  A cart sat nearby, waiting on the other side of the raised walkway. Zoshi scrambled from his cover, and slid under its bed, hiding behind a wheel.

  The Rahuatl’s eyes gleamed in the shadow. He scanned the chamber slowly, and then walked from the center of the pit, stepping over the careful tracings. The slick, dark-haired man remained in the center of his maze.

  A dull chopping sound drew Zoshi’s attention. He looked across the sand pit and saw the other prisoners in identical corrals. Their eyes were wide with revulsion. Against his will, Zoshi’s gaze was drawn to the space between walkway and pit, where the tip of a statue’s tongue lolled.

  It began as a slow drip. Bright blood leaked from the spigot, staining the pristine sand. The next chop made Zoshi flinch. The blood pooled in the deep grooves and began to seep through the maze of tracings.

  “Bleed the rest,”the Rahuatl hissed. At his calm command the guards yanked more prisoners from the corrals, slamming a captive on each stone slab. There was no ceremony, no elaborate ritual or showy chanting from black-hooded priests. The guards were quick, efficient and heedless of their victims’ flopping. Men, women, and children were gutted and chopped like fish for market.

  The cart shuddered overhead as something fell into its bed. With a sickening twist, Zoshi realized that there were similar carts waiting by each slab. Knives flashed and the bound captives thrashed unnaturally as they were bled dry. Neck, wrists, thighs. The butchers didn’t bother killing them first. Just let them bleed while the life was drained and their bodies dumped in the waiting cart. Not all of the sacrifices were dead when they were tossed away.

  It was fortunate that the boy couldn’t feel his throat—he would have been screaming. All he could do was cower beneath the cart and brace himself for every thud that rocked his hiding place.

  Zoshi squeezed his eyes shut. He could not remember what the clerics said over the dead, but he did his best, praying to the Guardian of Life to see the spirits of the sacrificed safely to the ol’River.

  At least Pip and Tuck would be together.

  The grooves in the sand ran red with streams of converging sacrifice. Strange powers stirred over the pit while the silk-robed man stood in the center of the storm. His smooth chant rose on invisible wings, beating at Zoshi’s mind.

  When the last pathways of blood converged in the center, crimson threads of light stirred around the man. With a final incantation, he gripped the stave with both hands and plunged it into the sand. The air was torn from Zoshi’s lungs, drawn towards the focal point of blood. A shadow flickered to life, an inky portal that rapaciously lapped the blood offering.

  As the last drop was drunk, the portal buckled outwards, snapping into focus. A mirage rippled through the dark lens. Zoshi looked into the Portal. It was like gazing at a pebble in a pool, only a cavern swam murkily at the bottom and there were people waiting on the other side.

  The sleek man did not move, he was frozen in place, gripping the stave. His fine features were strained with pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead—no it was blood. Crimson droplets rolled down his face.

  The Rahuatl gave a sharp order. Four massive litters were shoved into the Portal, the shapes beneath hidden by heavy black tarps. Four lines of collared prisoners, ten in each, were driven through the Portal against their will. When the last disappeared, the Rahuatl stepped through, and the silk-robed man uttered a word. The Portal snapped shut and the man dropped to his knees.

  An eerie stillness settled over the chamber. It smelled of slaughter.

  It was broken by a woman’s voice. “Get the bodies into the pit,” she ordered, before hurrying across the sand to kneel at her master’s side. She was tall and graceful and Zoshi had never been so revolted by beauty in his life.

  As boots hurried towards his cart, he tore his eyes from the grim tableau. All around the walkways, guards hoisted the carts and hauled them away. His own hiding place joined the procession. Zoshi’s nostrils flared as he fought down the urge to bolt, concentrating instead on keeping pace with the cart. And yet, all his instincts told him not to go any deeper in this Void cursed place.

  There was one cart behind him and one guard pulling it. Zoshi spotted an opportunity. He snatched up a rock as they circled the chamber. When a side passage came into view, Zoshi jammed the rock between wheel and cart and it lurched to a stop. The guard dragging it stumbled forward.

  The fellow behind abandoned his own cart to help steady the load and Zoshi slipped from beneath, darting up the nearest passage. Luck was with him, or as much as he was going to get. It was the tunnel leading to the shed. As he ran past the discarded pile of clothing, he snatched a pair of breeches without pausing, and darted up the stairwell, praying that no one was going be waiting at the top.

  Part of his prayer was answered. There was no guard on the inside of the shed, but the heavy iron door was shut and he wasn’t about to risk a guard being on the other side. He felt his way through the dark until he came to a corner. With his back against the wall, he twisted and worked his wrists against the rope until they were slick with his own blood. Ignoring the pain, he managed to free his hands. He slipped the oversized breeches on and rolled up the cuffs, cinching the rope around his waist to hold them up.

&nb
sp; The boy probed the dark corner with trembling hands. His whole body shook, but fear wouldn’t do. He sucked air through his snotty nose, trying to steady his nerves. Bracing himself against each wall, he inched his way up the corner. Calloused feet and hands barely felt the rough stone as he clambered towards the ceiling. He caught a rafter and hoisted himself up.

  The shed didn’t have windows but the gap between roof and stone was enough for the boy. After a tense minute and careful maneuvering, he slipped beneath the eaves into the chill night air and dropped to the soil. The soft scuffle of his landing rang loudly in his ears and he quickly pressed himself against the shed’s wall. Zoshi did not move, he only listened.

  Guards patrolled the night, but they kept to the large manor house, moving silently beneath the glow of everlights.

  If there was a guard nearby he’d likely be in front of the shed. Zoshi wasn’t about to go and peek. Instead, he spied a grouping of bushes that offered cover next to the outer wall. Keeping low, he darted to the bushes like a frightened rabbit and slithered under their protection.

  The wall was high, but he was desperate. Some inner voice of survival screamed at him to keep going. Zoshi didn’t stop to think. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the wall; he only knew he couldn’t linger.

  A section of wall caught his dilated pupils, and before he lost his nerve, the boy crawled swiftly towards the spot in the courtyard. He tested the corner. It wouldn’t be the trickiest thing he had climbed.

  Placing one hand on either wall, he braced himself as before, and scuttled up the corner. Iron spikes decorated the top. They made convenient handholds for the nimble boy. Zoshi pulled himself up, squeezing between the rods to dangle on the other side.

  The outer wall was completely smooth, and there was no convenient corner, not that he had expected any different. The drop would surely break a leg if not his neck. Farther down, a shadow rose from the darkness of the ground. He hoped it was a tree.

  Swallowing his fear, he swung side-ways, using the spikes until the shadow was directly behind him. It was a tree, but the branches were a good five feet away from his perch. Zoshi tensed, braced his feet on the stone, bent his knees and sprang with all his meager power. He twisted in midair, trying to turn all around, but hit the tree with his side instead. Branches snapped as he whipped past raking needles.

  He was falling.

  His leg caught something hard and he was slapped to the side, slamming against a branch. The wind was knocked from his body, and he dangled, draped over the bough like a limp rag, over blackness.

  There wasn’t any time to recover. Before his breath had returned, he let himself slide off the branch, hoping the earth would catch him. It did.

  Shouts erupted from the courtyard as he hit the ground and rolled. Dazed and reeling with pain, instinct urged his legs to move. The boy staggered to his feet, stumbling beneath the undergrowth as torches pierced the night, bobbing between trees.

  Nostrils flaring, vision blurred, the boy’s feet kept moving of their own accord—one in front of the other. He ran blindly, away from the limp body of Tuck, away from the twang of an arrow and Pip’s bloody flesh. Anywhere but where he had been. The mist embraced the boy, and eventually his legs failed.

  Ten

  “I WAS WALKING along the Mearcentian coast when I stumbled upon a young lady who had washed ashore.” Marsais’ grey eyes sparkled in memory.

  “You’d think the scales would have warned him away,” Oenghus interjected.

  “I did not immediately notice the scales because she was covered in seaweed. Naturally I hurried to help. When I neared, I noticed she wasn’t human. Pearlescent scales covered her body from head to toe. Her eyes were large and black and she had webbed fingers and toes.”

  “Eyes like a Grawl?” Rivan asked in shock.

  “No, nothing of the sort. Voidspawn, like Grawl are—” Marsais frowned, searching for words. “Their eyes are nonexistent, a hollow pit of nothingness that feeds on your life force. This young lady had eyes like black pearls. And she was injured.

  “I carried her back to my cottage where I was living at the time and treated her wounds. She was awkward in her movements, clumsy, grabbing things faster than needed, as if they were an inch away.” He demonstrated the odd movements. “It was clear she wasn’t used to being on land.”

  “Again. You’d think he would have gotten the hint.”

  Marsais ignored the Nuthaanian’s comment. “She stayed with me a few days, eating only fish and clams from the ocean. She never said a word, but listened to me intently. I could only assume she understood what I was saying.” Marsais cleared his throat. “I swear I was a perfect gentleman, but for whatever reason, which to this day leaves me baffled, she climbed into my bed one night.” Rivan’s low whistle did nothing to cover up his slight blush and Lucas edged closer to listen.

  “You probably got her drunk,” Oenghus grinned.

  “Oh, you’re just smarting because it wasn’t your bed. She would have mistaken you for a walrus,” Marsais shot back.

  “I know why she climbed into his bed, Oen.” The nymph gave a secretive smile and her guardian bristled.

  “Why thank you, my dear.” Marsais moved on the other side of her, away from the scowling giant. “You had your one shot,” he warned Oenghus before continuing. “About a week later, I woke up one morning and the girl was gone. Thinking some ill fate had befallen her, I searched for days—”

  “Hold up, what’s that?” Acacia pointed towards the snow-capped mountains.

  The group stopped, gazes pinned on the horizon. Two large, bird-like shapes were approaching, but they were far away and another, smaller creature, flapped in front. Isiilde narrowed her eyes. It was Luccub the Imp. Unfortunately, the two larger shapes were not birds.

  “Off the ridge!” Oenghus shouted.

  The group plunged over the side, down the steep slope. In the rush to take cover, Isiilde glanced over her shoulder and stopped dead in her tracks. Marsais had not moved. He stood in the open, utterly exposed, and altogether lost.

  “Oen,” she squeaked, scrambling back up the mountainside. The winged monsters were approaching.

  Isiilde reached Marsais first. She grabbed his wrist and tugged, hissing his name, but the rangy seer was all muscle and bone and height, and therefore heavier than he appeared. She could not budge him as the flying trio neared.

  Desperate, Isiilde summoned the Lore, fingers flashing. In quick succession, she wove a feather rune around his ankles, and a layer of air and spirit overtop. When he drifted an inch off the ground, she pushed him towards a boulder, toppling his height. As he hit the ground, his coins chimed in warning.

  Luccub zipped from the sky, flapping wildly towards Oenghus. The giant smacked the Imp out of the way, and paused, catching sight of the nearing monstrosities. His gaze flickered to Isiilde, who had shoved Marsais behind cover. Gripping his hammer, Oenghus hesitated, and then ducked, pressing himself to the mountainside. He motioned for the paladins to follow suit.

  Two monstrous, leather-winged reptiles landed on the ridge with a roar. Isiilde clamped her hand over her mouth and pressed herself against the rock. Marsais blinked. Tails lashed over their heads with a scorpion’s speed. She locked eyes with her Bonded, who kept himself as still as stone. She could feel the beasts on the other side of the boulder, pounding and huffing—something cracked, and a clawed foot, larger than Oenghus, stomped on the dirt beside her. Marsais scrambled forward on all fours, pressing himself against the rock, nudging her to the side.

  As the beasts battled like bulls over the ridge, Marsais and Isiilde skirted the boulder. A stinger thundered from the sky, impaling the earth. The tail was thick as a tree trunk.

  Fear engulfed Isiilde, muscles tensed to run, but Marsais grabbed her arm, anchoring her in place. A shadow blotted out the sun, and she breathed in noxious air as a presence hovered above.

  Marsais’ eyes rolled upwards. Against her will, Isiilde’s gaze was pulled in t
he same direction. A head the size of a boulder sniffed the air overhead, nostrils flaring, tongue tasting. The scales along its throat were like armor, thick and scarred.

  Something moved off to the side, drawing the monster’s attention. Its head snapped towards the edge of the ridge. Luccub rolled through the air, end over end. The beast bellowed in triumph, lunging towards the Imp, catching him in its maw, crunching and gnawing in satisfaction—until it began to gag.

  The beast’s jaws worked and its tongue extended, stiff and rigid, choking on its meal. A moment later, a slimy Imp emerged. Luccub flapped into the air with a cackle and a prize. He clutched a dagger-sized fang in his feet.

  Both monsters roared, one in pain, and the other in pursuit. A whirlwind of dust and wind beat at the nymph. Marsais hunched over her, shielding her from the force as the monsters took flight.

  No one dared move for a time. When the monsters finally vanished on the horizon, Marsais blew out a breath.

  “I am going to chop that Imp into a thousand pieces and send each to the four corners of the realm!” Oenghus growled. He stomped into view and looked down at the two. “Right after I kick your bony arse down this mountain, Scarecrow.”

  “I’ll let the Imp have its turn first,” Marsais nobly offered, climbing to his feet. “Besides, you’d need to send the pieces to a thousand corners—not four.”

  “Were those dragons?” Isiilde’s voice trembled. She found she could not move.

  Oenghus hoisted her to her feet. “Wyverns. One’s bad enough; two will give you trouble.” Anything that gave the berserker trouble was best avoided.

  “Can we get off this ridge?” Acacia hissed from the slope.

  “A grand idea.”

  “Next time move your feet sooner, Scarecrow.”

  “He was lost, Oen.”

  “Well he would have been dead if it wasn’t for you, Sprite.” Oenghus grabbed Marsais’ arm and propelled him towards the waiting paladins.