King's Folly (Book 2) (19 page)

Oenghus, one of the most intimidating berserkers Acacia had ever met, charged across the cavern floor and swept the blossom up in a crushing embrace.

“I’m fine, Oen,” the nymph reassured.

The giant set her down and looked her over with a critical eye. Thorns were embedded in her arms. The nymph grimaced as her guardian plucked out the barbs, but to her credit, stood her ground—she was heartier than she appeared, like the brilliant little blossoms on a battlefield. Acacia had never met another nymph like her, and she had encountered far more of the faerie than most people.

“We shouldn’t linger.”

“Agreed, Captain,” Marsais said. “There are always plenty of Reapers in the deep dark, but I think the burning Blighted will keep them at bay for now.”

When Oenghus had reassured himself that Isiilde was in one piece, he scanned the grotto. “You made quick work of that—thing, Captain.”

“Killing should always be quick.” Acacia nodded to the half-eaten Reapers. “Did they attack you, Isiilde?”

“Yes.” She shivered, turning away from the corpses.

“You killed them, Sprite?” the Nuthaanian asked in surprise.

“I used a bolt to knock them back.”

Oenghus beamed down at the redhead with, Acacia noted, what could only be fatherly pride. No man was immune to a nymph’s allure, save her kin. But if Oenghus was indeed Isiilde’s father, as she suspected, then the implications were serious, both from the Blessed Order’s viewpoint and Kambe.

Acacia pushed the matter aside, cleared her throat, and turned her back on the two, searching for an exit. A nymph’s illegitimate bloodlines were the least of her worries. Considering her throbbing shoulder, Acacia did not much like the idea of climbing back up the way they had come.

When Lucas and Rivan arrived, Acacia moved farther into the ruins, shining her shield over the ancient stone.

“That’s ugly,” Rivan panted. He was out of breath, and doubled over, resting his hands on his knees.

“So are those,” Oenghus jerked his chin towards the stagnant pool. “I bloody hate Stone Lickers. You fall in that pit, Sprite, and there’s no warrior alive who could survive.”

“Can we leave?” the nymph’s voice drifted eerily in the empty expanse.

Marsais reached up to stroke his goatee, but found it absent and scowled at the empty air between chin and chest. The strange coins chimed in response. “Without exploring? Where has your curiosity gone, my dear?”

“I left it above ground.”

“That is not a bad thing, especially here,” remarked Acacia.

Marsais sighed. “One can always count on the Blessed Order to smother the excitement out of an adventure.”

“I’d prefer a more comfortable adventure,” Isiilde admitted.

“But who knows what we’ll find,” Marsais mused. “There might be a plush, feathery bed buried down here.”

“Good,” Oenghus grunted, “you can use it to float us all top side.”

CURIOSITY
WON
OUT
, or at the very least, their injuries did. They patched their wounds with Brimgrog and bandages and moved on, loathe to spend any more time than necessary in the underground ruin.

Isiilde clutched Marsais’ arm as they picked their way through the rubble. Her gaze kept straying to the captain, who limped and held her own arm close to her body. Everyone looked terrible. Blood
 
seeped from beneath Oenghus’ bandages and lacerations crisscrossed Rivan’s face.

It was, Isiilde had thought, nearly impossible for Lucas to look any worse than his scarred head and face already made him appear, but he did. The scars around his mouth were stretched taut with pain as he walked stiffly through the ruins.

The dead naga only added to their discomfort. The great burning corpse of rotted flesh permeated the air with a vile stench. Isiilde avoided looking at the twisted creature, and tried to focus on the cavern instead.

Every facet was illuminated. Marsais’ weaves were nothing less than spectacular, and he had outdone himself with this one. His light rune shone like the moon, hanging bright and blue overhead.

Underneath the fallen remains of the temple, lay another ruin—layers upon layers, all toppled during the Shattering. Something caught Isiilde’s eye, and she bent to retrieve it, dusting off the small stone. It was a piece of marble, etched with whorls. She showed it to Marsais.

“Ah,” he said, plucking it from her fingertips to study. “This style of art was favored by the Lindale.”

“I thought they favored the forests. Why would they build underground?”

“The Lindale revered the Sylph, and cherished her realm, including what lies underneath.” Marsais gestured at their surroundings. “In other words, everything beautiful.”

“There are Gnomish markings on some of these pillars too,” Acacia added.

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

“There was a city here once, Sir Lucas,” Marsais replied. “We might be able to salvage something.”

“It’s a two thousand year old ruin. What are you expecting to find aside from a Reaper’s lair?”

Marsais stopped, and turned, smiling at Lucas. “I’ll know when I find it.”

A short laugh escaped Rivan’s throat. Lucas glared at the younger solider, who quickly swallowed his amusement.

The group wandered inside a ring of standing stones. The dome top had cracked and shattered, and was strewn across the cracked floor. Veins of gold and silver shot through the rock, and a shallow basin sat in its center—a fountain, long barren and worn. Isiilde looked up, and a sky of glowing lichen greeted her, shining like greenish stars. Given the subterranean lake in the center—the fountains, precious metals, and intricate carvings—the cavern must have been beautiful once.

“Look at this.” Acacia crouched in front of a crumbling wall, pulling away vines to reveal a relatively intact bas-relief. Three circles intertwined with three wolves, each holding the other’s tail in a continuous, never ending cycle.

“What is it?” Rivan and Isiilde asked as one. Rivan peered over the nymph’s shoulder, and she glanced at him, conscious of his close proximity. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

“I think this was a temple to the ol’Father.” Acacia pointed to each of the circles.

“I’ve never heard of him,” Rivan said, and Isiilde nodded in agreement.

“I doubt you would,” Acacia admitted. “He was an Eldar god who was worshipped long before the Shattering. There are few surviving texts that mention the god. And those that do are forbidden by the Blessed Order.”

“Hah!” Oenghus barked from the far edge of the pillars. “I knew you weren’t as straight-laced as you give off.”

“I’m a Knight Captain, Oenghus. At my rank, the Order assumes that one is immune to sacrilegious teachings.”

“And are you immune, Captain?” Marsais inquired.

She looked up at the ancient. “If a mere myth turned me towards the Void, then I wouldn’t be much of a Knight Captain, now would I?”

“Did the ol’Father serve the Void?” Isiilde asked, tracing the carving with her fingertips.

“No.” Two pairs of expectant eyes burrowed into the captain. She pressed her lips together, weighing the mandates of her Order versus knowledge. The latter won out. “These three rings represent the moons: the Silver Crescent of the Sylph, the Red Moon of the Keeper, and the Dark One’s moon.”

“The moons have had many names,” Marsais mused.

“The ol’Father was the Weaver of Fates and Time. The wolves in the symbol represent the endlessness of time, and his control of it. Myth claims that the cycle of moons held no sway over the Eldar god—that he alone knew the Fate of the Sylph and Void. He was a god who stood apart from all others.”

“Oh, Fate is just a word made up by those afraid of the future,” Marsais grumbled, scratching his chest. “May I make one correction to your tale, Captain?”

“Of course.”

“I believe your Order may have changed the meaning of this symbol from truly blasphemous to only slightly blasphemous. So brace yourselves, my good paladins.”

Marsais waited until each and every pair of eyes settled on him, save Oenghus, who was rooting around the ruins like a disgruntled badger.

“Those rings do not represent the moons, but the Sylphs.”

“There is only one Sylph,” Lucas objected.

“Those who worshipped the ol’ Father thought differently, Sir Lucas.” Marsais frowned at the symbols. “They believed that there were originally three Sylphs—three sisters.”

“You’re right, that is blasphemous.”

“Maybe so, but not to the people who carved this symbol into the stone, or built this temple. There is an old legend, long buried, regarding the birth of Life and the Void.”

“It’s best left lost, then.”

“Ignorance is viler than knowledge,” stated Marsais.

“It’s only a story, Lucas,” Acacia said.

“Ah, eons condensed into a few words,” Marsais whispered hoarsely. “How quaint.”

“What did the old ones say about the Sylphs?” asked Rivan.

“This first circle is the Sylph that we know, the Goddess of All—she who holds the essence of Life itself. And here, the second is her sister Chaos.” Marsais traced the last circle with care: a brush and caress, and a far away stare. A wave of disorientation swept through their bond. He closed his eyes and swayed, but no one seemed to notice save Isiilde. As fast as it happened, he had recovered, and he met her worried eyes with reassurance—and a shadow of sadness. “This circle is the third sister: Death.”

Abruptly, Marsais rose, dusting off his knees. He turned his back on the three, gazing at the cavern.

“What happened to the Sylphs, sir?” Rivan pressed. “Why aren’t all three still worshipped?” The young man glanced at Lucas, and cleared his throat, “I mean if they lived at all that is, how does the story go?”

“It’s a story for the fireside, not down here, young man. But you bring up an interesting question—one for you to ponder. When people stop worshipping a god and the god drifts into obscurity—is he still a god?”

Isiilde tilted her head, and Rivan opened his mouth with an answer, but quickly shut it, frowning in thought instead.

“Scarecrow.” They all turned at Oenghus’ call. “I think there might be a door here.” The group climbed over fallen stone and earth to where the Nuthaanian stood—in front of the rock face.

Marsais traced a runic eye over a spirit rune and nudged it towards the cavern wall. Green runes flared to life on the rock, intertwined as tightly as a knot. It was a ward—a very old one.

“I would have never seen that,” Acacia said, nodding to Oenghus, who flashed his teeth in what Isiilde supposed was charming for her guardian—as charming as he could be at any rate.

“What do you think is in there?” Rivan leaned towards the ward, squinting at the swirling runes. Marsais quickly grabbed the paladin’s shoulder and pulled him back with an irritated glare.

“The last thing you want to do is activate it.”

“Can I unravel it, Marsais?” Isiilde’s ears quivered with anticipation.

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“No, she can’t bloody unravel it,” Oenghus growled. “What if
she
sets it off?”

“Oh, come now, Isiilde can unravel my best ward with barely a strain on her brilliant mind. Hmm, she did lead us into the cavern after all.”

“But I found the door,” Oenghus argued.

“Did you want to unravel it, Oen?”

Oenghus crossed his massive arms. Isiilde stared up at him, waiting for his reply. Her guardian would have better luck using his head than the Lore. Wards were not his strong point. Isiilde, however, loved wards. The enchanted traps were a lot like unraveling a puzzle knot, only she happened to be dangling from the same rope she was unraveling. If she pulled the wrong strand, the rope would unravel completely, setting off whatever fiendish trap the weaver had concocted.

“Absolutely not, Sprite.” But before the words had completely formed on his tongue, she shot forward, pressing her hands to the rock and summoning the Lore. Her mind surged into the complicated weave, leaving her body with careless abandon, following a pulsing interconnecting web of deadly triggers. She tugged and snipped and teased the runes free, until the entire knot unwound, revealing its secrets.

Isiilde’s eyes snapped open. She smiled at the wall, and muttered the Lore of Opening, sweeping her hand over the stone. The rock cracked open and noxious, deadly gas seeped from the dark opening.

She stepped back quickly, and Marsais’ fingers flashed, weaving a breeze to carry away the poisonous air.

“But I didn’t set it off,” she coughed.

“Just bad air from being sealed so long, Sprite. Somehow I don’t think this will lead us to the surface.”

Acacia’s shield flared with light and she thrust it into the darkness. “The stairs lead down.”

“Might as well take a look,” Oenghus grunted, as he hoisted his hammer and ducked, moving into the narrow staircase.

“We’re going down there?” asked Rivan.

“You can stay,” the giant called over his shoulder.

Rivan glanced at Isiilde and Marsais, straightened his shoulders, and drew his sword, moving confidently into the dark.

Lucas looked to his captain. “He’s eager to impress.”

“Aren’t all men?” Acacia asked, and sensing her lieutenant’s line of thought, she added dryly, “He’ll be fine, Lucas.” Her gaze flickered to Marsais. “Trust me.”

“If you’re sure, Captain. I hope he doesn’t accidentally stab the Nuthaanian.”

“I doubt Oenghus will notice,” Marsais quipped. “After you, Captain?”

Acacia ducked inside, and Isiilde made to follow, but Marsais brought her up short. “Hmm, doors do not always remain open, my dear.”

She shuddered at the thought. “Being buried alive is not one of my preferred ways of dying.”

“I thought as much.”

“I’ll stand guard,” Lucas offered.

“Appreciated,” Marsais nodded, placing a hand on the stone door. He spread his fingers and muttered the Lore. Runes flashed and subsided, and he ducked into the tunnel. Isiilde followed him down the stairwell, aware of the pressing stone. It reminded her of their capture, and subsequent events in the dungeon. Panic fluttered down her spine. A hand encompassed her own, gripping it with reassuring strength, and she moved closer to her Bonded.