A Thread in the Tangle (72 page)

T
HE
ENTIRE
CASTLE
had come to witness the duel, and the guards who were stuck at their posts would have given nearly anything to attend.
 
The Hound’s arrival had caused enough stir, but when word spread like wildfire that the Hound would be fighting the Archlord to the death, every Wise One, save Thedus, dropped what they were doing and raced to the arena.
 
The Hound’s fight with an apprentice cook was more akin to an execution, however, a duel with a reclusive Archlord who wasn’t given to public displays of skill, was quite another matter.

The arena was mainly used for experiments involving dangerous runes, or explosive side effects.
 
The circular basin in the center was filled with sand.
 
Its smooth stone walls were etched with protective wards, creating a barrier of shimmering greenish light that extended forty feet overhead.
 
Once in a great while, a disagreement would arise that couldn’t be resolved with words, and a Wise One would challenge another to a duel, where they settled their differences in blood.

Such duels generally attracted a crowd, but never one as significant as this.
 
People stood on their seats, shoulder to shoulder, stable boys climbed pillars and walls, and a few Wise One’s floated above the audience, while a good majority crowded along the battlements for a bird’s eye view of the fight.
 
A chorus of voices rose with excitement, shouting their wagers, and jostling each other in the press of the crowd.

The festive atmosphere sickened Isiilde as she watched the bustle from a private balcony reserved for the Archlord.
 
The spacious seats were only ten feet from the meticulously groomed sand.
 
Across the arena, on the edge of the ring, Stievin readied himself for battle.
 
She looked forlornly past the banners and streamers, the waving arms and sea of faces, to the sky overhead.
 
If only she had wings, she thought, she could fly far away from the horrors to come.

The sun had succeeded in burning away the morning fog, leaving a crisp, blue sky and autumn breeze.
 
The cold tickled her nose, causing her to sneeze, which was accompanied by a burst of flame from her ears.
 
The two paladins who were guarding her, one heavily scarred and the other too young to grow a proper beard, shifted uneasily at the burst of flame, hands straying to their weapons.
 
Knight Captain Mael gestured for them to be at ease, while her own pale gaze focused thoughtfully on the nymph.

“Piss and wind,” Isek cursed.
 
“They’re not even accepting bets for this fight.
 
O, and Marsais, thought I should let you know—the odds are against you for your duel.”
 
Isek was rocking back and forth on his heels with merry good cheer.

“Hmm, and who have you wagered on?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Isek said, flashing Isiilde a grin.
 
She gave a squeak of fear and stared at her trembling hands.
 
Marsais reached over his armrest, encompassing her hands in one of his with a flood of reassurance that traveled through their Bond.

An energized hush fell over the crowd as Inquisitor Multist walked into the arena, striking a commanding pose in the center.

“Stievin Maxwell of Coven has issued challenge to Marsais—”
 
There was a slight pause as the Inquisitor realized that he didn’t know the Archlord’s surname.
 
Isek shook with silent laughter.
 
“—of the Isle, for ownership of the nymph.
 
The winner will follow the Right of Ascent, until ownership is established.
 
Oenghus Saevaldr of Nuthaan will stand for the Archlord.”

Isiilde frowned at the Inquisitor, and all the other attentive faces—she didn’t even have a name; even a dog had a name.

Amidst thunderous cheering, the two combatants stepped onto the sands.
 
Stievin wore the chain mail of the Isle Guard.
 
He was crouched and ready, shield and sword in hand, but his eyes, dancing with madness, were drawn to her and she gripped Marsais tightly.

“Oen has forgotten his weapons,” she breathed.

“O, I wouldn’t worry about Oenghus, my dear.”

Oenghus stopped in front of Stievin, planted his feet in the sand, and cracked his knuckles.
 
The Inquisitor shuffled out of the circle and the runes were activated with a rush of energy that instantly created a greenish bubble of protection.

The moment the shield sprang to life, Stievin charged the giant with a frenzied howl, sword raised to strike.
 
Isiilde jerked with terror as the sword swept through the air.
 
Oenghus stepped into the blow, catching Stievin’s wrist and driving his head into the shorter man’s face.

The crowd cheered, bellowing their excitement.

Stievin reeled, bringing his shield around, but Oenghus paid the impact of metal no more heed than an annoying bug, absorbing the blow with a chuckle and twisting Stievin’s sword arm.
 
A second later, Oenghus brought his elbow down, splitting Stievin’s arm at the elbow with a snapping crack and a protrusion of jagged bone.

Stievin howled in pain and his sword fell to the ground with a dull thud.
 
Still, the cook continued to fight, pounding his shield against the Nuthaanian as he tried to break free of the crushing grip.
 
However, Oenghus could not be dislodged.
 
The giant heaved upwards with a roaring growl, ripping the arm clean from Stievin’s shoulder with a sickening pop.

The crowd gasped with shock and Isiilde buried her face against Marsais.
 
Stievin’s panicked screams became worse.
 
The cheers from the audience died, fading into a near silence as the Berserker continued his gruesome, yet methodical work.
 
Stievin was pleading for mercy now, whimpering like an animal with unnatural, impossible sounds tearing from his throat.
 
Another bone breaking pop echoed in the stillness, followed by fist meeting flesh in a savage flurry of hammering blows.

Marsais covered Isiilde’s ears with his hands, but she could still hear the howling pleas of Stievin.
 
Finally, a single crack echoed in the arena, and a lifeless body crumpled to the sand.

Isiilde risked a peek.
 
The bloody mess polluting the sand was barely recognizable.
 
In the hush that followed, Oenghus spat on the corpse before stalking out of the arena.

“And he wasn’t even berserking,” Isek breathed.
 
A weeping woman ran out with the litter bearers, sobbing over the mutilated corpse.

“Who is that, Marsais?”
 
Isiilde swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat when they tossed the stray pieces of Stievin onto the stretcher.
 
Marsais didn’t answer until the body was carried out of the arena and the woman disappeared from view.

“That was Stievin’s Oathbound.”

The nymph studied her hands with revulsion, remembering Marsais’ warning:
a nymph’s touch will drive a man insane.
 
But she had never touched Stievin, it was he who reached for her.
 
The thought brought little comfort.
 
And a small part of her thought that perhaps her kind were better off locked away in a dungeon, separate from the rest of the lands.

Forty-nine

S
OLDIERS
RAN
OUT
to smooth the sand, erasing the bloody slate to begin anew.
 
It was apparent from the spectator’s attentiveness that this next battle was not so clear cut as to who the victor would be.

Oenghus stomped into the private balcony, sitting down in the vacant seat beside her.
 
Thankfully, he had washed Stievin’s blood from his hands and armor.

“You never have to think about that bastard again, Isiilde,” he growled, keeping his gaze on the arena.
 
She was glad for it, because she feared what she might see smoldering in the depths of his sapphire eyes.
 
It was difficult to connect this man with the same who used to sing her to sleep at night.

“I must leave you now, my dear,” Marsais said, squeezing her hands.
 
“Don’t worry, I have a weapon!”
 
With a grin and a twinkle in his eyes, he brandished his little hunting knife.

The nymph gave an anxious moan, feeling her stomach twist, but before he could rise, she reached over, grabbed his goatee and yanked him closer.
 
She pressed her lips to his.
 
The single, aching kiss conveyed everything that words could not.
 
All the while, Oenghus grumbled sourly at their side.
 
When Marsais finally recovered from the kiss, he stood, steeled his shoulders, and left.

“Could you refrain from kissing that bastard while I’m here?”

“No,” she stated, wrapping her cloak firmly around her.

When Marsais had said that he had to leave, he meant it in a complete sense.
 
The warm presence that filled her since they bonded, left.
 
Isiilde could feel her Bonded, knew the direction she could walk to find him, but compared to the blaze of his presence before, it was a flickering candle that left her cold, as if he held her at arm’s length.
 
Alone with her confusion and fear, silent tears came unbidden, trailing down her cheeks.

“Sprite,” Oenghus whispered, leaning close.
 
“When you’re bonded—your feelings, including
fear
, affect him.
 
For his sake, have courage and he will fare better for it.”

“How do you know?”
 
She had not considered that their Bond might go both ways.
 
What did she feel like to Marsais?

“Common sense,” Oenghus shrugged.
 
“Isek, go put the whole pouch on the Scarecrow.
 
I might as well make some coin off this.”
 
He tossed a heavy pouch at the wiry man and settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable.
 
Knight Captain Mael looked over at the Berserker with obvious disapproval, to which he smiled charmingly back.

The wager bolstered Isiilde’s spirit.
 
The odds couldn’t be all that bad if Oenghus put coin on Marsais.
 
Unfortunately, her spirits plummeted when the Hound and his gryphon came soaring into the arena from the sky.

The monstrous beast pounded into the sand with a galloping gait of clawed talons.
 
Its wings were lined with razor sharp feathers, and the beast folded them inwards, shielding its body.
 
It snapped its powerful beak, tasting the air with a forked tongue.
 
Large slitted eyes scanned the cheering crowd with frightful intelligence.
 
The gryphon inhaled, its mighty chest expanding, a moment before it let loose an earth shattering screech.

The Hound straddled the saddle on its back.
 
He was no less impressive than he had been in the throne room.
 
Only he wore a fearsome helm of scales, which completed his transformation into some nightmare combination of half dragon and half man.
 
Isiilde grabbed Oenghus’ arm and hugged it to her.
 
How could Marsais ever hope to face both of them?