“Oh, is that all? They never left, lass,” Witman said with a shrug. “But don’t worry, the laddie can watch himself.” He waved a stubby hand to her, and turned. A segment of the spiky wall swung out. The dwarf walked through and Isiilde followed on his heels.
“Not this time, Witman,” she persisted. Her next words died on her tongue. Isiilde gawked at the space. She had walked from filth into an elegant sitting room. The gleam of rich woods, Xaionian rugs, and plush leather sitting chairs shone in the light of a cheerful fire.
Witman walked over to a decanter and poured himself an ample glass of some golden liquid. The dwarf squinted from the glass to the nymph. “I’m not sure the laddie would want you to ‘ave this, but I won’t tell.”
Isiilde’s ears twitched. “Witman,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I need your help. Marsais could very well be dead already.”
“I can’t blood—” The dwarf cleared the curse from his throat. “Bring the lad back from the dead.”
“No, but you can bloody well tell me where his treasure is.” She advanced on the dwarf, and he backpedaled, retreating from the enraged nymph.
“It’s mine,” he defended. “As payment for services rendered.”
“Payment for what?”
“I was hired to open his vault.”
“You mean you stole his treasure,” she corrected.
The dwarf smoothed his tattered waistcoat, and drew himself up. “I did not.”
“That’s what it’s called when you open a vault that doesn’t belong to you, and empty it into your hole.”
“This is my workshop.”
“You’ve been hiding here while people have been dying.”
“I’ve been working, lass,” he grunted. “People die, that’s what they do. None of my concern.”
“I’ll tell the Others,” she threatened.
Witman gasped, clutching his heart. “You cruel creature,” he spluttered. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” she said with relish.
The color drained from the dwarf, leaving his nose a bright red. “I’ll need payment.”
Isiilde wanted to strangle the enchanter. “You can have his treasure.”
“I already have it.”
“Because you stole it,” she pointed out. Before he could argue, she loosened the string of her pouch and pulled out the jagged sun. It crawled over her flesh, and she dropped it on the carpet. The dwarf’s eyes widened. Witman set down his glass, not caring that the table was ten feet away, and stepped forward. He adjusted his spectacles and bent close.
“I haven’t seen this beauty in ages. Where did you find it?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the artifact. “I need to use it to bind the elemental in the throne room.”
Witman scratched his head. “Why don’t you just stick it on the stave and call it good?”
“I don’t know where the stave is. Can I use it without the other pieces?”
Witman frowned at her. “Can you use a wagon without its wheels, lass?”
“If it’s on snow and it has runners, then yes.”
Witman chortled. “I like how you think. But that makes it a sleigh and that’s no good without snow. Using that without the stave is like turning summer to winter.”
“Can’t we just stick it on another stave?”
Witman huffed. “Now you’re asking for pigs to pull an ale wagon.”
She sighed. “Can you make another stave?”
“Oh, now ye want me to put wings on the pigs.”
“You are Witman the Wondrous.”
“And I always require payment.”
“If you help me help my friends then you can keep the artifact.”
The dwarf rubbed his beard. After a moment of consideration, he spit on his palm, and thrust it out towards the nymph. Isiilde frowned at the spittle. With a sigh, she spat on her own, and sealed the agreement.
“I’ll need a bit o’ your hair.”
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“Why?”
He squinted at her. “We have an agreement. Doesn’t give you the right to question my methods.”
She yanked out a few strands of her hair, and handed the fiery wisps over to the dwarf. He stuffed them in his waistcoat pocket. Witman held the artifact up to the light, studying it from all angles. Isiilde waited, but all he did was carry on a long mumbling conversation with himself.
The nymph grew impatient. “Witman, we have to go. Now. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to help your friends, lass.” He made a shooing gesture towards the door. “Get on with you. Even as lovely as you are, I can’t work with you staring down my neck.”
“I need the stave; I need it to work.”
“Per our agreement,” he agreed.
“How long will it take?”
“Soon.” Witman flashed his teeth.
One moment the nymph stood in his workshop, and the next she was lying on the stone floor in Marsais’ vault. She hopped to her feet in the center of the circle. “Witman is Wondrous,” she spit out. When nothing happened, she tried again. “Witman is a lying bastard!” Nothing.
Clenching her fists, she raced from the vault, hesitated in the hallway, then shot towards Marsais’ old study. She didn’t even have Rivan’s sword. There had to be something in there that she could use. The nymph began rifling through objects and books. Finally remembering his cabinet of potions, she sped into his bedchambers.
The bed was gone, and so were all his potions, books, and clothes. The room looked empty, and it made her sad. Her gaze settled on the massive armoire in the corner, and then slid right off to the floor. A small wine flask and a rune-etched flagon sat strangely on the stone. It was as if someone had set them down in exchange for a greater treasure.
Isiilde cocked her head. She knew that flagon. Had held it after breaking into Marsais’ vault. At the time there had been two, and although she had opened one during a later burglary, she had never opened the other. Marsais had known the imp’s name and been able to command it. Perhaps he would be able to control whatever was in this second flagon.
She grabbed the flagon and stuffed it into her pouch. Feeling optimistic, she dumped the flask of Primrose wine in too. At the very least, her curiosity would finally be sated.
Chapter Sixty-One
A single thread in a weave held together the weft, the very fabric of an enchantment. A Barrier was no different. Marsais plucked a thread from the weave, and his Barrier unraveled like a slingshot. Light flared, blinding the Fey, and a split second after, a thunderous explosion rocked the throne room. The surrounding warriors were blown off their feet. But Pyrderi remained standing, his hand outstretched, deflecting the chaos of runes.
Marsais’ fingers flashed. With deft strokes, he sent a beam of white hot energy at the Fey. It blasted through Pyrderi’s defenses, but the Fey dropped, rolling under the charge. He came up with a slash. The blade tore through fabric, whispering against Marsais’ flesh.
Blue flame lashed from the Fey’s other hand. A frigid fire roared towards Marsais. He threw out a hand, scattering the flames. Sparks flew, raining over heads.
Marsais thrust out his left hand, throwing a bind at the sword that lay beside Zianna. It leapt to his hand and he brought it up, catching Pyrderi’s attack. Steel rang, energy burst, and the two otherworldly combatants were flung apart.
Marsais landed on marble. The air around Pyrderi rippled like a mirage, his edges became indistinct. With swift silence, the Fey wavered, and then reappeared—right behind him.
Marsais raised his sword, catching the descending blade and diverting its course. The blade bit into a Voiceless, slicing through the mutilated stone face. Marsais drove his foot into Pyrderi’s knee. The Fey staggered and skipped back, and his warriors closed in.
Marsais slapped his hand against the stone. Time stopped, but only for a breath. It was enough. He
rolled through the charging Fey, and came up on his feet, sword biting into the back of the first, and another, a third, and finally a fourth. Time rushed back through the siphon, and Marsais slashed his own arm, drawing blood. A drop touched the floor, and another. Into that forming puddle, he directed harsh, Abyssal words. Darkness rose from the blood, sweeping over the throne room. To his blood, he bound light. The Fey warriors were now blind; Marsais was not.
Pyrderi called to the ice elemental in the ancient tongue. The old one stirred and shifted, and its creaking rocked the throne room. It passed through the shields and crashed through the twining gate.
Blue flame burst from Pyrderi’s flesh. He was haloed in its glow. With a shout, the Fey charged, and Marsais met Pyrderi’s swiftness with an uncanny sense of his own. The men moved across the dark throne room—one bathed in cool flame and the other possessed of unholy sight.
Blades and power clashed. Steel bit again and again, and blood flowed freely from both men. Pyrderi gripped his blade, and drove the hilt into Marsais’ face, quick and brutal. Marsais staggered from the blow, tracing a final rune, unleashing his weave. White, hot light burst from his palm. It shattered the darkness.
Pyrderi brought his sword up, catching the pure energy, channeling it through his sword and sending it ricocheting back. The weave hit Marsais with a force that flung him from his feet. He landed with a grunt. The sword flew from his hand and he stared at the ceiling, so far away. Blood filled his mouth.
A man stood over him, pale and angular, raising his sword. The man moved sluggishly, as if through sand, and then the world sped. Marsais flung out his arm. His fingers curled around a dagger, and he threw. The spirit blade sunk into Pyrderi’s gut, but the Fey’s sword still moved. It plunged through Marsais’ armor weave, breaking the last of the threads, piercing flesh.
Marsais did not scream, he did not feel a thing, only a vague awareness of a blade protruding from his own chest.
Pyrderi abandoned his sword, and grabbed the dagger in his gut, wrenching it free. It fell from limp fingers. And Pyrderi followed. A mist rose from his body, and then stilled, only to fall back in and meld with the flesh.
The air was cold, the creak and rasp of an approaching titan filled his ears. Calmly, Marsais wrapped his fingers around the blade, and yanked the sword from his own body. He felt faint. And so very far away. Something heavy and solid pressed down on his chest. He found it hard to breathe.
Beside him, Pyrderi stirred. One breath, and then another. The Fey crawled forward, grabbing the spirit blade on his way. Pyrderi’s face danced in his vision.
The Fey caressed Marsais’ scar with the dagger. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” With precision, Pyrderi sliced open Marsais’ shirt, and positioned the blade over his heart, poised to slip between ribs.
Marsais grabbed weakly at the Fey’s forearm. “Are you sure you want to kill me?” He choked on the blood bubbling from his lips.
The Fey stopped, his eyes narrowed, and he looked at the scar slashing across the seer’s chest In the intimacy of murderous intent, Pyrderi finally had an answer to the question of Who. The Fey sucked in a breath. “You are mad.”
Marsais started laughing, blood spraying with every wheeze. “So they say.” And then he screamed a word of power; a lost word. Pure, silver light flared across his scar and burst from his hands. The spirit blade turned to ash, and the Sylph’s power slammed into Pyrderi, flinging him across the throne room.
When the light faded, and the power of the Orb had dimmed, Marsais tried to rise, but failed. He fell back on the stone. Helpless in front of an approaching glacier, he could only laugh.
The world swayed, and the throne room tilted. A streak of red caught his eye in the tumbling realm. A lithe woman, with hair like fire and an entirely too impish face came into view. “This is probably very unwise,” Isiilde said. With a flourish, she uncorked the flagon in her hand.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Can you heal it?” Zoshi asked. There was hope in that question.
Acacia looked into the torn socket of the boy. Considering what he had been through, she was amazed he was alive. “I’m sorry, Zoshi. I can’t put your eye back.”
The boy nodded, resigned. She gently packed a clean, herb-soaked cloth from her kit into the socket. When it was secure, she tied a bandage around his head. “We’ll have to clean it better when we get out of here.”
She glanced over her shoulder, at the woman who lay on the floor. Morigan’s breath was shallow and shaky, and she willed the healer to keep fighting. Acacia had found a cloak in the rubble and laid it over the woman, but there was nothing more she could do. Stirring, she rose, and began sifting through the debris, searching for other survivors.
The body of a spiky-haired gnome caught her eye. The same gnome who had stood with Tharios and poisoned Oenghus. That was months ago. Acacia nudged the gnome with her boot. The gnome’s throat had been slashed, and the body was already stiffening.
Bodies of human and Fey lay in the stone and timbers, and she looked at each of the pale, angular Fey faces. Mist clung to their bodies like a spider’s web.
Acacia had fought Blighted and Voidspawn, and countless other creatures. She knew from harsh experience that things did not always stay dead in Fyrsta.
Acacia drew her sword, and prepared to cleave a Fey’s neck in two. But another body caught her eye. A female Rahuatl. The woman’s skin was more tarnished than copper, and she was deathly still—only no immediate wounds were apparent. Acacia had had some experience with the race. When injured, the warriors entered a trance-like state to heal wounds.
Recalling that Isiilde had spoken of a Rahuatl friend, she hurried over, crouching beside the body. Acacia put a hand over the woman’s breast, and bent close, listening for a breath. A faint heartbeat pulsed against her palm. Surprise shook her to action. She laid her hands on the Rahuatl and closed her eyes, silently praying to the Sylph. Silver light flared and seeped into the woman’s bones. Poison.
Acacia withdrew, and the Rahuatl took a deep breath. She did not wake, but slept, deep and peaceful. As the paladin dragged the Rahuatl towards Morigan, the earth began to tremble, and a panicked voice called to her.
Acacia abandoned her load, and drew her sword, looking towards the adjoining hallway. It was empty, save for a swirl of mist, but the boy was not looking at the sickly, reaching tendrils; he pointed at a far wall. A white line appeared, steadily growing, drawing what looked to be a circle. Chalk, crude and sloppy, appeared unevenly on the stone.
Acacia unslung her shield. “Stay with Morigan,” she ordered. Zoshi clutched a dagger, ready to defend the unconscious healer. Slowly, the chalk curved in a wide circle, the end reaching towards the beginning. The two tips touched. The stone rippled, and a dwarf stepped lightly out. A sleek, arrow-like object hovered over his open palm. It turned like a compass’ needle, pointing directly at her. The dwarf looked from his hand to the paladin, and gave a start of surprise.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered.
The dwarf threw up his free hand. “Now, now, don’t be hasty.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m passing through—that’s all.”
“Your name, Dwarf.”
“If you say so.”
Acacia pointed the tip of her sword at the man. “Are you a resident of the castle?”
“I’m out for a walk.” The dwarf pushed his spectacles farther up his nose and squinted at a dead Fey by his feet. “This place has really gone downhill since I was last here. Never liked the last Archlord. Didn’t have the laddie’s flair.”
“The laddie?”
His eyes strayed to the Sacred Sun around her neck, and he cleared his throat. “Not that I was close to him mind you.” He tucked the slim arrow into his waistcoat pocket.
Acacia looked to the chalk circle and back to the disheveled man. “Are you a Wise One?”
He started chortling. A wheezing laugh that brought tears to his eyes. �
�Oh, aye, real wise I am. Don’t need a fancy robe for that.” He rubbed his hands together, and his eyes settled on the remains of Soisskeli’s Stave. The dwarf edged two small steps in that direction.
Acacia quickly stepped in front of the artifact. “What do you want with the stave?”
He feigned surprise. “What do you want with it?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
“That’s not a question; that’s a statement,” the dwarf said.
“Are you a friend of Marsais?”
“That depends,” he said slowly. “Are you with Them?”
“Them?”
“The Others,” he whispered.
“I...no. Who are the others?”
“Exactly!”
Acacia’s head hurt. Beyond a doubt, the man knew Marsais. She lowered her sword.
The dwarf whistled his way towards the stave, scooted around her, and picked it up, studying it carefully. His eyes darted to her. The stave was splintered and cracked, and the Gateway enchantment had been rendered to ash. But still, she watched him carefully. When he pulled out an intact end piece, the very same that they had taken from Finnow’s Spire, Acacia raised her sword to his neck “Where did you get that?” she demanded.
“The lass gave it to me,” he spluttered.
Acacia hesitated.
“The laddie’s in danger.”
“Who’s the laddie?”
“Marsais.”
She blinked. Acacia would certainly not use the term ‘laddie’ in regards to the ancient. Suspicion rose. “Who are you?” she asked again.
The dwarf cleared his throat. “Witman the Wondrous. I’ve been hired for a bit o’ work. So if you don’t mind...” He put a finger to the tip of her sword, and nudged it aside.
“You’re Witman the Wondrous? The Enchanter?”
“Unless the Others switched me when I was soused. I might not know. Now there’s a thought. Would They do that to me?” He cleared his throat, and touched his nose. At first tentatively, and then with more force, squashing the bulbous appendage. “No, no, I am me.” He looked relieved.
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 39
