A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  “So you see, Marsais zar’Vaylin, you can either save your nymph some agony, or not. It doesn’t really matter because I will eventually find what I seek.”

  “I swear I don’t know where it is, you fool,” Marsais reaffirmed with a quivering voice.

  “Well, then,” Tharios said, clapping his hands. “It looks like we’ll have a show after all. I think N’Jalss wished to get things started and since I am a man of my word—you can get in line last, Isek. She’ll be nice and ready for you.” Isek stood frozen in place, staring at the pale Wise One with revulsion. “Do it!”

  “Don’t touch her!” Oenghus roared, straining against his chains, however, his feet dangled and there was nothing for him to brace against. “Marsais, blast you, tell him!”

  “I’m told a Rahuatl’s barbs are particularly—painful,” Tharios said, ignoring the Nuthaanian. He strolled back to his chair and sat with bemused attentiveness.

  The copper skinned Rahuatl moved in front of the nymph, running his tongue over his fangs. Isiilde squeezed her eyes shut, pulling at the shackles with all her strength.

  “O, look, even Thedus wants to watch.” Hope entered her bleak thoughts for the first time, and she opened her eyes. Everyone watched the sun-scorched Wise One wander aimlessly over to the grim tableau. N’Jalss hissed at him and tensed to strike, but Eiji shouted in warning.

  “Don’t provoke him!” N’Jalss halted. “I’ve heard—rumors about him.”

  “More cowardly Wise Ones, and their aimless talk,” N’Jalss spat, flexing his claws, but he withheld his strike, warily watching the half naked man approach.

  “Maybe he wants a turn,” one of the soldier’s snickered.

  Thedus, who was as much a permanent fixture to the Isle as the stones, placed a small tooth on the table beside her head. He turned, and shuffled out of the chamber as silently as he had arrived.

  Isiilde’s spark of hope died. Tharios applauded with slow amusement, and N’Jalss sneered, ripping the top of her dress with a swipe of his claws.

  “Wait, stop it—I’ll tell you!” Marsais pleaded. “I’ve just remembered.” The truly frightening thing of it was—he probably had forgotten.

  Isiilde trembled from the tips of her fingers to her toes. It didn’t mean a thing, Marsais would still be killed and so would Oenghus. She no longer cared what happened to her.

  “Yes?” Tharios raised a halting hand, and N’Jalss pulled back, growling impatiently.

  “In my bedchamber—there’s a warded flask,” Marsais rasped, struggling to form words through the haze of pain. “Inside you will find what you seek.”

  “Where is the tomb, Seer, I want direction!”

  “The flask has been handed down from Archlord to Archlord. There is a map inside the flask, of which I have never seen. The knowledge is passed orally, and written nowhere.”

  “You’ve never opened it?” Eiji asked, suspiciously.

  “I may be a lunatic, but I’m no fool. It’s warded with a binding. Who knows what guards the map.” Tharios stepped up to Marsais, searching for a hint of deception.

  “I swear that is all I know. Please, I beg you, let her go, Tharios.” During the unbearable silence that followed, Marsais met her gaze. His eyes shimmered like mist.

  “N’Jalss, Eiji, come with me—you too Isek. You can show me how to reach my new quarters.”

  Isek started for the nymph. “Leave her,” Tharios snapped. “She’ll draw attention.”

  “I am no guard, Tharios,” Shimei said, stepping proudly forward.

  “Very well. Zander will remain with the guards. Do not touch the nymph, or I will make sure you never plow another whore as long as you draw breath.”

  N’Jalss lunged towards her, stealing a bite. Isiilde thrashed in pain as his teeth sliced into her neck. When he withdrew, his filed teeth dripped red with blood, and he licked his lips with a forked tongue and an appreciative sound.

  “Crazed fool,” one of the guards muttered when Tharios and company had departed. “He should have kept his mouth shut.”

  The guards leered at the prone nymph, who was proving a distraction from which they could not tear their eyes. Zander moved beside her, drinking up the sight of her pale, heaving breasts.

  “Do you know what he is planning, Zander? Hmm, what has he promised you?” Marsais said, trying to divert the man’s attention.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  Oenghus was huffing like a wounded bear, eyes burning into the leering men. His arms strained against the chains, flexing and testing their make.

  “Stop that, you.” A guard hurried over, driving the blunt end of his spear into Oenghus’ gut, who took the blow with a growl that seemed to aid him rather than hinder.

  “I doubt life will be what you imagined when Tharios awakens Karbonek.” Marsais tried again, forcing some strength into his voice.

  “Put their gags back on,” Zander ordered, running a hand over his slick hair, trying and failing to take his eyes off the helpless nymph. The guards rushed forward to obey. Oenghus heaved against his chains, lifting his legs. He caught the guard by surprise and wrapped his legs around the guard’s neck, twisting violently. The soldier dropped to the floor in a motionless heap.

  “Curse your incompetence!” Zander spat. The five remaining guards rushed forward, pummeling the barbarian with a barrage of blunted blows that was meant to beat him into submission.

  Amidst Oenghus’ pained grunts, Zander’s resistance shattered, and he moved on top of Isiilde, eyes alight with feverish hunger. Cold hands moved up her thighs as she squirmed uselessly beneath him. Consumed with desire, Zander struggled to loosen his belt, fumbling impatiently with the buckle.

  Marsais was speaking, Oenghus was roaring, and Zander was groaning against Isiilde’s breasts when a grinning Imp with misshaped teeth appeared above her. The Imp was standing on the table by her head, studying her upside down. Zander bunched up her skirts and was on the verge of claiming her when the Imp reached out a clawed hand, ripping the gag from her mouth.

  The nymph screamed with rage.

  Fire surged from the brazier with sweltering life and hot light. Zander howled, as a spray of flame hit him, igniting his robes like dry grass. He reeled backwards with flailing arms that only fanned the heat. Marsais was speaking Abyssal, directing the Imp, who hopped off the table. Flames devoured the chamber, racing along the wooden devices and licking unnaturally up the chains to consume the rafters overhead.

  Isiilde continued to scream; blind with fury, seeking to erase Zander’s lingering touch. She wanted every last one of them to burn.

  The chamber glowed with flickering brilliance. Mold curled from the stone and the dampness retreated with popping sizzles. Zander’s throes of death were music to her ears. Flame burst from her flesh, consuming her tattered clothes with sweltering intensity. The flames stirred her hair as no wind could and she moaned at its touch. However, her pleasure was short lived. The manacles around her wrists and ankles began to glow and she realized her mistake too late. The heated metal seared her flesh, blistering skin. Her rage quickly turned to panic.

  Marsais’ spirit surged within her, bringing all his injuries to her body as if they were her own. The shock of pain stunned her to silence. Faced with his agony, her fire sputtered, lessening in intensity. And as fast as he had entered her, Marsais withdrew, taking his injuries with him.

  Loosed from his chains by the Imp, Oenghus waded into the middle of the soldiers. The newly liberated paladins rushed to assist. Marsais addressed Luccub in a harsh tongue and the Imp skittered up his body, unlocking his shackles with a curved claw. The shackles popped open, and the wounded seer fell to the ground.

  As Marsais struggled to rise, the Imp flapped over to Isiilde, digging its claw into her own shackles with chittering excitement. Marsais staggered over, collapsing part way on top of her with a wheezing breath.

  “We have to get out of here,” he said, eyeing the rolling flames that were licking at the rafters. “Can you
walk?”

  Isiilde barely heard Marsais. The charred body of Zander consumed her attention. She stared at the man whom she had killed with horror.

  “Isiilde, move, now!” Marsais’ command spurred her to action, but her limbs were uncooperative. Quivering with weakness, she rolled off the table, collapsing onto her knees.

  Despite his crushed hands, Marsais crouched beside Isiilde, hoisting her over his shoulder, rising through dint of sheer will. She felt like a pathetic burden, but try as she might, her body refused to respond to her commands, so she hung uselessly from Marsais’ shoulder, too exhausted to move.

  Oenghus snapped the last guard’s neck, moving to recover his discarded shield and hammer. The flames sniffed out a store of flammable potions. Glass shattered, an explosion rocked the stone, and a fireball roared outwards, filling the chamber. Timbers creaked, shifting with a groan. Marsais ran for the nearest passage. The others were close on his heels. Stone and timber caved in as an inferno of heat roared after them, licking hungrily at their backs.

  The flames warmed her empty bones, and for a moment, she could feel her fingers. Then the heat was sucked back in a vortex of air, and she was left with the mind numbing ache of cold before a wave of blackness washed over her.

  Fifty-one

  THE BATTERED GROUP of escapees hurried down a rough passage of natural rock. Smoke swirled at their backs and darkness beckoned them into a honeycomb of tunnels that burrowed under the Wise Ones’ stronghold.

  “Tell me you have my grog,” Oenghus growled at the Captain when they stopped to catch their breath. Captain Mael produced his tattered flask. He yanked it from her hand, pulled out the cork, and put flask to lips, taking a life saving swig.

  The divine liquid of the Nuthaanian Berserkers burned through his veins, consuming the poison in his body with a thrill that tightened his muscles and sent his heart racing. Fury consumed his pain.

  Oenghus Saevaldr drove his fist into the stone with a roar. He bared his teeth at the uneasy paladins, shook himself clean of the effects, and tucked his Brimgrog away, patting it affectionately.

  “You weren’t joking when you said she’s flammable,” Oenghus said, taking his daughter’s limp body from Marsais, who was leaning heavily against the wall. He set Isiilde on her feet and supported her with one arm while he unbuckled his breastplate and tugged off his shirt. Pale and glowing in the near dark, her eyes fluttered open as he slipped the large shirt over her head.

  The fire hadn’t harmed her, but the shackles had left her skin raw and blistered around ankles and wrists. With a haunted, vacant look in her eyes, she stared down the passage, gazing at the thick smoke that was inching towards the group. Oenghus was relieved to see her mark still safely coiled around her spine, but it had been close—too bloody close and they weren’t out of danger yet.

  “How many support Tharios?” Captain Mael asked, calmly, scanning the sweltering furnace that they had escaped.

  “I don’t know,” Marsais admitted, folding his mangled hands across his chest. “But surely more than enough to stand against us in our current state.”

  “Rivan, bandage those for him,” Captain Mael ordered.

  Eager to have something to do, anything to take his mind off his first battle, Rivan snapped to obey, apologizing for the discomfort he caused the Archlord.

  “I don’t think we’ll be able to go back that way,” Lucas remarked. “Where does this passage lead?”

  “I don’t bloody know. Down?” Oenghus shrugged, looking to Marsais in question as he rubbed Isiilde vigorously, trying to restore some warmth to her bones.

  “Give me a moment,” Marsais answered, hoarsely. The Seer took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, retreating into the complicated web of memories that twisted through his mind.

  After some minutes, a jingling scrape echoed in the corridor, and Captain Mael tensed, moving forward with sword raised towards the smoke. A form emerged from the blackness, flapping unsteadily into view. The other half of Marsais’ severed goatee dangled limply in the Imp’s clawed feet.

  “Hold!” Marsais ordered. “Ah, thank you, Luccub.” The Imp dropped the braid in his bandaged hands before chattering angrily at the paladins.

  “You command this fiend?” the veteran paladin asked with righteous indignation.

  “I didn’t hear you complaining when he freed you.” Marsais pushed himself off the wall with some effort. “I know where we are.” The Seer caught Oenghus’ eye and the giant nodded with understanding. The old Scarecrow knew, but it wasn’t exactly encouraging. “I’ll take Isiilde. I won’t be any use in a fight and you’ll need your hands free.”

  Oenghus eyed Marsais skeptically, but in the end he relented, draping Isiilde over the wounded man’s shoulder. He had learned long ago that the rangy Seer was a lot sturdier than he appeared. He cinched his breastplate on, and slapped his hammer against his shield—warning his enemies of his approach.

  The group continued with Oenghus at the lead, crouching low in the tunnels, and more often than not, forced to turn his massive shoulders sideways to navigate passages that were not shaped with a man of his stature in mind. Marsais walked behind the giant, giving him directions through the twisting maze of tunnels. Next came the younger paladin, Rivan, followed by the Captain with Lucas bringing up the rear. The Imp occupied itself by chucking pebbles at the paladins’ heads.

  “Left,” Marsais said when they reached a crossroad that looked identical to the last.

  “This will be our fourth left, Scarecrow,” Oenghus growled.

  “I know where we are,” Marsais defended.

  “You always go left when you’re lost.”

  “Obviously, I don’t remain lost for long, or I’d still be wandering the Great Expanse.”

  “Because I rescued your bony arse.”

  “I would have been perfectly fine,” Marsais muttered. Oenghus grunted his displeasure, however, he took the passage to the left.

  They filed down the tunnel, and after some time, heard the first signs of pursuit, or rather, an attempt to cut them off farther ahead.

  “Hurry or you’ll have no room to fight!” Marsais hissed at his back.

  Without question, Oenghus surged blindly forward. The narrow tunnel opened into a bloated crossroad, and Oenghus barreled into the wider passage before the soldiers could claim the strategic ground.

  A cacophony of sound echoed in his ears—of charging feet and grating armor along with the labored breath of fear. Oenghus turned towards the echoes, hefting his war hammer with glee.

  An ill Fate awaited the first soldier to emerge. With nowhere to go but forward, the first was forced to charge the formidable warrior, swinging his sword in the narrow space. Oenghus easily diverted the chopping swing with his shield, and then slammed his war hammer into the wide-eyed man. The guard flew against the uneven wall with a splintering of ribs.

  Next, came the second who had no more choice than the first. Oenghus caught his spear jab between hip and shield, snapping the haft as he brought his war hammer up, and then down, driving it into the soldier’s head. He stepped forward, ignoring the sludge oozing from the cracked skull at his feet, and roared a challenge.

  The six soldiers, who remained trapped in the narrow passage, appeared on the verge of fleeing, but the pounding footsteps that echoed from another intersecting tunnel bolstered their resolve. They held their ground, pushing their comrade-in-arms forward, directly into the range of Oenghus’ war hammer. The third fell like a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Hold the side passages, and follow after!” Marsais ordered.

  The paladins spilled into the crossroad, moving to defend the second tunnel that was about to disgorge a group of guards. Oenghus picked at his own line of attackers, but soon became impatient and bellowed the Lore as he swung—his war hammer crackled to life with raw energy. The air gathered, charged, and he hurled a bolt of lightning into the line of five soldiers. The bolt blasted through all save the last and as the remaining s
oldier's comrades dropped like charred flies, Oenghus gave him a predatory grin. The lone soldier dropped his weapons, and fled.

  “Lucas will bring up the rear—go!” Captain Mael shouted at Oenghus and Rivan. Oenghus saw the wisdom in her words, and left the rear defense to Lucas whose size allowed more maneuverability in the narrow space. His own tunnel cleared of all save the dead, Oenghus turned and charged after Marsais’ limping shadow, leaving Rivan and Captain Mael to follow.

  Lucas Cutter sliced one of the soldiers open from shoulder to hip, shoving the man back into his fellows who were trying to push their way into the wider space. The dead man's weight threw them off balance. Blood made the rock beneath their boots slick and hazardous. Lucas took full advantage of their momentary unsteadiness to turn and run, racing after the gleam of his Captain's mail with a knot of soldiers on his heels.

  The press of uneven rock soon widened like a stream joining a greater body of flowing water. Captain Mael paused to hold off a third group of soldiers, damming the attempted breach to give the wounded Seer and his nymph a head start. A frustrated line of soldiers, trapped like fish in a barrel, could only wait their turn to engage the gleaming killer at the mouth of their grave.

  “I'll bring up the rear, Lucas,” Captain Mael shouted to her Lieutenant as he emerged from the dark. He obeyed her without question, and continued.

  The Captain's smaller physique was best suited for the task of rear guard in these snaking passages of rock and earth. Still, it wasn't until the veteran heard her lighter footsteps following in his wake that he fully applied himself to an all out retreat, running for all that he was worth.

  As they moved deeper into the featureless maze, Oenghus lost track of the twisting turns. Soldiers continued to nip at their heels, but no one challenged them at the intersections ahead. He risked a backwards glance, looking past the pale face of the young paladin and the grim visage of the older, to spot the quick, efficient blade of Captain Mael flashing in the dark. A soldier fell beneath her blade, and another took his place. With the sure-footedness of a veteran, the Captain kept pace, shuffling backwards as she fought.