King's Folly (Book 2) (20 page)

The passage was long, interspersed with intersections and alcoves storing the dead and their brittle bones in all their untouched splendor—until now. In a chamber of alcoves, Oenghus tugged at a skeleton, stripping it of a jeweled necklace.

“You can’t take that!” Rivan gasped. “Don’t you have any honor?”

“He doesn’t bloody need it, now does he?”

Every frazzled nerve in Isiilde’s body screamed at her to leave. She tugged on Marsais’ sleeve as he examined a cobweb covered sword.

The moment Isiilde found her voice, a frigid wind swept through the room, stirring her hair and sending needles of ice through her bones. The room erupted with a piercing wail as a hazy form shot from an alcove.

A tattered funeral robe swirled around the swift apparition. It darted towards the nymph, eyes seething with fire. Oenghus threw his hammer, but it passed through the howling spirit. Marsais stepped in front of Isiilde, coins chiming as he snatched up the sword, and brought its point to bear.

“I think not,” he said simply. The fluttering rags drew up short, opening a shapeless mouth and unleashing fury. The wail pierced their ears, Acacia’s voice rose in a chant, and Rivan swung his sword at the creature as it retreated. His blade passed through the Forsaken, and he screamed, stunned by the chill that swept up his arm. His sword clattered to the ground, and the kilted barbarian threw himself to the side, narrowly missing the incorporeal form’s attack.

An instant later, Captain Mael raised her sword. “Leave us!” The blade flared, and the Forsaken was caught in a whirlwind of searing light. Rags dissipated, the form shimmered and churned, and tore a great shrieking rent in the air. Reddened eyes blazed with hatred.

Anguish beat at Isiilde’s heart—hunger, pain, torture and madness. She clutched her ears as agony pounded at her sanity.

“Silence!” Marsais’ voice cut through the shriek, and Acacia’s blade ripped through the spirit. A flurry of ash drifted slowly to the floor.

All was quiet, all was still, and Isiilde stood on trembling legs.

“Stubborn bugger,” Oenghus spat, retrieving his hammer with a long string of inventive oaths.

“A Forsaken, my dear,” Marsais explained, wrapping his arm around Isiilde’s shoulders. She pressed her face into his chest, willing the world away. “Just a Forsaken—a very old and faded spirit.”

“Aye, Sprite, they’re a miserable bunch.” A heavy hand patted her back, knocking the air from her lungs before moving on.

“That’s an understatement,” Acacia muttered, inspecting Rivan’s arm. It was limp and his fingers refused to bend.

“It feels like ice, Captain,” Rivan chattered.

“It will pass,” Acacia assured.

“I can’t do this, Marsais,” Isiilde breathed into the front of his robe.
 

He leaned down, speaking softly, “But you already are.”

“Is everything so terrible in this realm?”

She felt him shrug. “It could always be worse.”

Isiilde frowned, and arched her neck, seeking his calm, grey eyes. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“You seem a talented liar, Marsais. I doubt I’d know.”

“You wouldn’t,” he agreed. “All the same, upon my honor, I swear that there is joy to be had.”

“We didn’t find a feathery bed.”

“Not yet.” Marsais’ eyes glittered. “But we do have a tomb to loot, and grave robbing has always been one of my guilty pleasures.”

Isiilde nearly laughed, because she knew, beyond a doubt, he was not lying.

“You approve of this, Marsais?” Acacia asked, gesturing at Oenghus.

“The dead have little need of such things in the Spirit River. Just think, one of these slumbering mounds of dust could have held Rivan’s spirit in a past life.”

The paladin blinked, and took a step back.

“That sounds like a thief’s reasoning to me,” Acacia noted.

“I have been many things in my lifetime, Captain. And I freely admit to being a rogue at heart.” Marsais held his pillaged sword up, inspecting the blade with a critical eye. Its cross-guard was short, the blade double-edged.

“This blade would have connected with the Forsaken. I’m surprised the Blessed Order doesn’t issue better weapons for their soldiers.”

Marsais presented the hilt to Acacia. Without hesitation, she accepted the offering, inspected it, and blew on the blade. An intricate pattern materialized on the metal. Isiilde edged forward, as did Rivan, and her guardian peered over their heads at the sword. A row of wolves chased each other along the blade. Acacia handed Rivan the arming sword, and Marsais plucked a smooth stone from the crypt.

“This is the blade’s Heartstone,” Marsais explained, pressing the plunder into Rivan’s hand. “Do not lose it.”

“What does it do?”

“Smites the good-hearted,” Oenghus snorted. “What do you think it does, lad?”

Rivan held the sword up, studying the design. “It’s the ol’ Father’s symbol, isn’t it?”

“Aye, and he’s been fighting the Void longer than your blasted Order.”

“Have a care, Oenghus.” Acacia said.

“Never been my strong point,” the Nuthaanian grunted, sweeping a pile of bones off their eternal resting place with a careless hand.

Acacia dismissed the barbarian with coolness and tapped the stone in Rivan’s hand. “Use this to sharpen the blade. Such stones are usually attached to the scabbard, though I’m sure that is long rotted.”

Isiilde turned, searching for Marsais, but he was gone. She found him standing in front of an alcove, gently shifting the brittle occupant. It had been a woman once, or a man with very long hair. The hair was whisper thin, as white and brittle as ash, still clinging stubbornly to a preserved skull. She wrinkled her nose and backed away as he tugged a garment free and shook it out. A cloud of grave dust flew into the air. She sneezed and a burst of flame puffed from her ears. The nymph felt the touch of eyes—Rivan was staring at her. The paladin tilted his head, as if she were a puzzle that needed another perspective, and Isiilde’s ears turned red.

“Hmm, sorry,” Marsais said, giving the garment another firm shake. It was a cloak, and he started to place it on her shoulders, but Isiilde flinched, taking a step back.

“That was on a dead person,” she squeaked.

“Better dead than half dead. I’d wager this smells better than Rivan’s leggings.”

She glanced at Rivan, who quickly began fiddling with his plundered sword.

“Yes, it probably does,” Isiilde conceded. With a sigh, she accepted the cloak and allowed it to embrace her body. Despite its age and dust, it was lightweight and warm, and she said as much.

“It’s a traveler’s cloak. The Lindale were excellent tailors, which is why it has survived all these years. Unfortunately, I don’t see any boots for you.”

A curved knife appeared in front of her eyes. “Here, Sprite.” And then it was pressed in her hand. The feel of the hilt against her palm unleashed a torrent of flashing sensations, of pain, leering eyes and stone digging into her cheek. The smell of blood, muck, and lust. Her vision narrowed, her heart raced, and a hand reached through the veil of death, squeezing her throat.

“Oenghus,” Marsais hissed, snatching the knife from her fingers. The weapon disappeared behind his back. “It’s all right, my dear,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep it until you’re ready.”

Oenghus frowned at his daughter. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists, wishing he could kill the bastard who had raped her all over again, but there was no enemy within range, and nothing to say—no comfort to give nor reassurances that would chase the past away.

“Come on, Sprite, let’s find you some sunlight.”

Isiilde wrapped the cloak tightly around her, ignoring the smell of musty decay and worn time to stare longingly at its previous owner. The Dead, she decided, looked very peaceful.

A familiar hand rested on her shoulder, steering her away from the funeral bed and out of the tomb.

AS
MARSAIS
SUSPECTED
, there was a stairway leading up, a long winding climb that was strewn with rubble. When the path was blocked, Oenghus made easy work of the obstacle, reducing rock to dust. It was little wonder that such a large man was unaffected by confined spaces—Oenghus Saevaldr simply forced the stone to suit his size.

Cool afternoon air greeted them on the surface, along with a city of ruin and a towering canopy. Frost still clung to the trees, and daggers of sunlight caressed their leaves with brilliance.

As Isiilde’s eyes adjusted to the brightness, she breathed in the sharp air with new appreciation while the paladins scanned the ruins. One tree looked much the same as the next.

“The river is that way,” Oenghus answered Acacia’s unvoiced question.

“How do you know?”

The Nuthaanian shrugged. “Never been lost.”

“I’ve always thought it had to do with his stature,” Marsais mused. “He’s so large that moving south feels like walking downhill.”

“So if I were to walk on stilts, I would have his same sense of direction?” Isiilde raised a brow at her Bonded.

“Have you tried it?”

“No, but you’re tall, and you get lost all the time.”

Marsais frowned in thought. “Perhaps it’s his girth, then.”

“He does break a lot of chairs.”

Oenghus glanced back at the nymph and seer, tugged his beard, and pressed on with a muttered oath.

Despite their jesting, a tense alertness hung over the group as they hiked through the ruins and lush undergrowth. The forest stirred, but only from a breeze. Isiilde was exhausted, her feet were numb, her body was bruised and aching; and yet, with every step that took her farther from the underground lair, she brightened.

“I see why you don’t stay in one place for very long, Marsais.”

“Hmm, and this is just
one
realm.”

“Don’t get her curious, Scarecrow,” Oenghus grumbled. “There’s plenty to see in this one.”

“And plenty of danger,” Marsais remarked, scanning the trees. “But it’s true; no matter how many ages I have walked these lands, there’s always more to see, and I never tire of seeing sights like these.” He gestured to the towering trees that would surely dwarf the throne room on the Isle. Smells of ripe earth and fresh bark filled Isiilde’s senses, leaving her heady with its scents.

“Aye, well, I’m still searching for the best ale in the realm.”

“One pleasure house at a time,” Marsais quipped.

“I’m surprised you can’t turn water into ale,” commented Lucas.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

From the looks of the group, Isiilde thought that the enchantment would be particularly welcome at the moment. They were, she reflected, a ragged looking bunch.

❧

The river was wide and fierce, and the afternoon sun shone brightly on the water. They followed the river as the terrain allowed, until a slice of land split the torrent, calming one side into a slow, sluggish eddy. Reeds grew along the red banks and large, flat boulders caught the sunlight, reflecting heat into the cool mountain water.

Oenghus paused, squinting ahead. “Stay here,” he ordered, unslinging his shield and unhooking his hammer. Isiilde’s ears stood straight and alert as her guardian moved forward, disappearing between the thick trees.

Isiilde wandered to the bank. Ancient stone steps clung to the edge. A fallen pillar marked the ruin. She thought it might have supported a bridge at one time. Something caught her eye, and she wandered farther, conscious of Marsais on her heels, and another—Rivan.

A ring of redwoods gathered in a cluster. One was burnt and hollow but nonetheless alive and thriving. She peered timidly into its shadows.

A snorting huff was the only warning. The shadows exploded. A boar charged from the hollow and Isiilde threw herself to the side of the opening. The tusked keg slid and turned, madly scraping dirt to gain traction. And then it came back for her.

Marsais stepped in front, fingers flashing, but Rivan was quicker. He thrust his sword into the beast’s ribs, and the boar ripped the hilt from his grasp, turning towards its attacker. Rivan tripped over a root, and threw up his shield as the boar pounded into him.

The boar was too close to Rivan for Marsais to throw a bolt. Unwilling to risk hitting the paladin, he dropped his weave, grunted in annoyance, stepped forward, and drove the heel of his boot into the pommel of the protruding sword. The blow forced the blade deeper, and the boar thrashed and twitched, until it stilled, falling on top of Rivan and his shield.

The others ran into the grove in time to see Rivan on his back, struggling under three hundred pounds of dead boar.

“Didn’t I bloody tell you lot to stay still?” Oenghus growled, dragging the boar off Rivan.

“We got bored,” Marsais shrugged. “Besides, Isiilde found us dinner, and Rivan killed it. Huzzah.”

“No, I didn’t—” Rivan began, but Marsais stepped into the hollow, weaving a light rune. Isiilde followed. The tree’s hollow was empty, save for a few creeping spiders and salamanders. The interior was spacious and tall and the earth was soft and yielding.

“These trees are extremely resistant to fire. They’ll continue to thrive long after their core is hollowed.” Marsais ran his fingers over the charred innards. “We ancients are a hardy bunch, aren’t we?”

Isiilde did not think he was talking to her.

“And look,” Marsais pointed, “someone has used this as a campsite before.”

Isiilde followed his gaze to a little hole in the side that appeared too perfect to be caused by coincidence. “Who made it?”

“Someone very tall,” he quipped.

Isiilde grinned, and she felt a presence behind her, heavy and glaring. She turned to find her guardian.

Oenghus poked his head inside. “Can you come and look at what I found, Scarecrow, or do you already know?”

“I do.”

“Well I don’t,” said Isiilde. “Do I want to?”

“It’s not near as pleasant as this.”

“All the same,” Acacia said from the entrance. “I’d like to see. And coincidently, there is another untouched patch of strawberries that the boar seems to have completely left alone.”

“Luck follows a faerie,” Marsais smiled.