King's Folly (Book 2) (39 page)

Isiilde grabbed a pan resting by the fire and swung two-handed. Iron hit wood, and Isiilde swung again. The sword rapped against the nymph’s knuckles. She dropped the pan with a clatter, put her head down, and with a growl, rammed the woman’s stomach. Or tried to at any rate. Acacia stepped easily aside, bringing the practice sword cracking against Isiilde’s thigh.

Isiilde grabbed the second sword and charged, swinging wildly, forcing the captain to retreat. The captain parried and deflected, and brought her sword against the nymph’s hand. This time, Isiilde did not let go, she grit her teeth and continued to swing.

“By the Pits O Mourn, if you ever interrupt me in my bedchamber again, I’ll burn you to a crisp, you whore’s son of a drunken swine!”

Rivan’s mouth fell open, Lucas arched a hairless brow, and Elam and Kasja skittered into the shadows. Marsais’ coins gave a low chime as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Really?”

“Does Zemoch have bloody bollocks?” she spat.

Insulting the Knight Captain was tolerable; however, defaming a Guardian’s name was another matter entirely. Acacia snatched up her shield and surged towards the nymph. The practice sword smacked against the nymph’s ribs, arm, and a boot connected with her backside, pushing her to the ground.

Isiilde called to her fire. Coals roared to life, licking the stalactites, rolling and crashing towards the captain. The paladin deflected the fireball with her shield, grunting at the heat. Sparks exploded in the cavern, but Acacia did not falter. She sped towards the prone nymph, grabbed her by her hair, and pushed her head into a bucket. Isiilde was being drowned, or so it felt.

Acacia brought her up for air, and a calm, even tempered voice spoke in her ear. “I wonder where you got that mouth of yours. Never use a Guardian’s name in vain, Girl.”

“Kiss my faerie arse!” Isiilde spat, sucking in a breath as her head was forced into the bucket. She struggled against the iron grip, and then purposefully went limp. She had not spent hours in the bath for nothing. The nymph could hold her breath for a full turn of the hourglass.

A surge of concern filled her bond, but she refused to call to Marsais for help. This was between the captain and her.

Isiilde readied herself, biding her time. When the captain yanked her up for air, she was ready, gasping for her flame. It stirred with fury. Acacia abandoned the nymph, diving to safety, hitting the stone, and bracing her shield as a wave of heat slammed into the steel. The Lore throbbed in the air and Isiilde’s fingers flashed, hurling a bolt of lightning in the fireball’s wake.

Steel crackled with energy, but the captain held fast. “Is that the best you can do, Girl?” Acacia stood, brushing the ash from her arm.

“Ladies,” Marsais began; however, both women pinned him with a cool gaze and he drew up short.

“All part of training, isn’t it Captain?”

Acacia dipped her chin.

“I know what you’re doing,” Isiilde stated, circling the woman cautiously. “But I’m not one of your mindless, dim-witted recruits.”

Acacia matched the nymph step for step.

“I’ve watched drillmasters before. I know their tactics. You want me to fear you, but you will settle for my hate.”

“I don’t settle, Girl.”

“I won’t give you anything. You have no control over me.”

“Apparently, I’ve been too soft with you. A shame your guardian put restrictions on me.”

“Is that an excuse, Captain?”

Marsais gestured sharply, hinting strongly for silence. Isiilde ignored him and focused on the captain, who smiled at her challenge. It was the first time Isiilde had seen the Knight Captain smile during their training, and she suddenly wished she had not. Quick as a snake, the captain charged. Isiilde barely managed to weave a shield. Without thinking, instead of a feather rune, she added fire. Heat rippled over her flesh as the captain swung, connecting with her gut.

The blow knocked the breath from Isiilde’s lungs, and an unexpected occurrence, but not altogether ill, flared to life in the form of an arcing flame. Fire sped up the captain’s arm.

Isiilde coughed, scrambling back. “Is that the best you can do, you sheep buggering crone?”

Acacia plunged her arm into the bucket, snatched it up, and tossed the contents at the nymph. Isiilde was too slow. Water drenched her, sizzling on her flesh, and a split second later, a sword hooked her legs, whipping them out from under her. She hit the stone flat, gasped, and croaked out a word.

Fire rippled from the pit, slamming into Acacia, who twisted to deflect the blast. The distraction was enough. Isiilde recovered her breath, her fingers flashed, and she sent a bolt, one after another, crackling towards the paladin’s exposed side.

Acacia grunted, stumbled, but pressed on. Exactly as Isiilde had anticipated. The paladin hit her grease enchantment and slipped on the stone. The woman pounded onto her back and the nymph was on top of her in an instant, ripping the sword from her slippery grasp. Isiilde lay on her shield, between her body and Acacia’s, and brought the wooden sword side ways to the captain’s throat. But it was not a woman’s face beneath her.

“Don’t you ever touch me again, you puking, slimy bastard!” Isiilde screamed through a haze of hot tears. It was Stievin and his fevered eyes. The nymph’s skin sizzled, the water on her skin boiled, and the fire pit flared in anticipation, waiting for her call. She opened her mouth, intending to burn them both, but the captain slapped her palms against Isiilde’s ears, stunning the nymph.

Isiilde slid off the shield, gasping, rolling into a tight, painful ball. Marsais started towards the redhead, but Acacia thrust out a hand. “I have another two hours, Seer,” she rasped.

“You’ve done quite enough.”

“If she wants your help, then she can ask. Otherwise, stand back.”

Isiilde bit her lip, swallowing her tears, nostrils flaring with pain. It would be so easy to ask. Marsais was so close, so willing and ready to rush to her rescue, but determination tore at the thought. She would die before she gave the Knight Captain the satisfaction.

Ignoring her shaking limbs, she climbed to her feet, and faced the woman. “You’re still a sheep buggering crone.”

“Since that’s impossible, I’ll let that curse slide until you come up with a better one, Isiilde.”

The nymph blinked in surprise.

“And in the future, next time you start throwing your fire around, I’ll stop going easy on you.”

“Likewise, Captain.” She raised her chin.

“Good. Now pick up your sword.”

OENGHUS
STROLLED
BEHIND
his pint-sized guide, savoring the first pipe after a long night. The Nuthaanian didn’t speak the language, but he understood clans. And when the chieftain invited a guest to a feast—you went. The others had feasted with V’elbine on the second night, but Oenghus had been invited back, nearly every day. Last night, however, had been different.

The feast had been interrupted with news that a woman was in bad sorts with her first child. In a clan such as this, every woman and child mattered, and Oenghus had offered his talents.

Childbirth was grueling work, especially delivering twins, but exhaustion aside, there was a jaunt in his step. Mother and children had survived and V’elbine was pleased.

Oenghus passed his pipe to Elam. As far as he could tell, the boy had no other family beside his crazed sister. He was a good lad, and made for refreshing company compared to the tension brewing in their dwelling. Marsais was best tolerated in small doses. Prolonged contact with the skinny bastard would drive anyone to murder.

Elam flashed a gap filled smile at the giant and handed the pipe back. With the elated excitement of a ten-year old, he began conversing. Language was never a barrier with children. The boy’s gestures said everything as he described what could only be a battle.

“Aye, sounds fearsome,” Oenghus grunted, pressing himself against the side of the passage to make way for two women. The natives’ pale faces glowed with tattoos that swirled enticingly around their eyes, dipping beneath their collars and spiraling down strong arms. The women eyed him unabashedly, roving over Oenghus’ arms and chest and down his kilted legs. Oenghus offered a charming smile, watching their hips sway as they passed. He wouldn’t mind fathering a whole clan with these women.

Movement tore his gaze from the women’s hourglass figures. Elam stood to the side, holding up two thumbs and a big smile. The boy was intent on finding Oenghus a good woman who wasn’t Elam’s sister. Kasja always received a thumbs down.

“Aye, you’ve got good taste,” Oenghus ruffled the boy’s black hair. The Nuthaanian had a generous appetite for women, but he never could stomach leaving a child fatherless, so thus far, he had kept himself in check; however, the longer they stayed, the more difficult his self-restraint was proving.

They exited the passage, climbed down the steep winding steps that spilled into the valley, and entered the bustle of the underground city. Oenghus towered over the populace and the Lome greeted the giant with wide smiles. News traveled quickly in a clan. A fighter Oenghus’ size was a prize, but a healer was a treasure. The Lome would not part with him easily.

Oenghus tugged his beard. Blood would be spilt whenever the Scarecrow decided it was time to leave. And he didn’t much care for the idea of bashing their hosts’ heads in—not after they had been so hospitable. Oenghus wondered what would become of Elam and Kasja after Marsais and he and the others had left a bloody trail of death in their wake. Unfortunately, there was nothing for it. He mounted the steps to the cave dwelling two at a time, nodding to their token guards.

“Bastard!” Elam swore. It was the boy’s favorite new word in the trade tongue. Oenghus had to agree as he ducked under the arch and stepped through the short passage into the common room.

The keg had burst in his absence.

Isiilde and Acacia faced each other, practice swords in hand. His daughter looked on the verge of collapse, blood trickled from her nose, and fresh bruises blossomed under a layer of sweat and grime. The captain looked ruffled.

Marsais stood off to the side, tight-lipped and sharp-eyed, while Rivan and Lucas watched from the wall. The common room was in ruins. Scorch marks stained the carvings, the fire pit appeared to have exploded, and the pans were scattered, along with an over turned bucket that had seen better days.

“What the Void is going on?” Oenghus demanded.

Emerald eyes flashed. “We’re sparring, Oen.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” He looked at Acacia.

“Yes,” the paladin confirmed. “And we’re done. Aside from that tongue of yours, you did well today, Isiilde. Don’t make me wake you tomorrow.”

“I was already awake,” she argued.

“Wait, what tongue?” he asked, pushing away the bundle of furs who was sniffing at his legs.

“She has your foul mouth, Oenghus,” Acacia explained.

“Since when?”

“I have something to curse about now.” The nymph set her practice sword aside, snatched up bread and cheese and limped into her room. Tension bled from the cave the moment her shimmering figure vanished behind the curtain.

Elam said something to Marsais. “Hmm, the boy wonders why we are fool enough to travel with an elemental spirit.”

Oenghus was not amused, but then, Elam wasn’t joking. He eyed the captain’s stiff movements and scorched shield as she limped into her quarters. “You know, Marsais, before you got to her, she was a little docile thing.”

“Oh, really, Oenghus?”

“Aye, that’s right, timid as a mouse.”

“With fangs,” Rivan muttered.

Grey eyes slid to the young man. “I better see to her,” Marsais sighed.

“You look scared,” Oenghus bared his teeth.

Marsais ignored the jab, hesitating at the curtain a moment before pushing it aside. Oenghus gestured crudely at his back, and stomped over to Acacia’s chamber. He stopped outside of the fur covering.

“You need healing, Acacia?”

“Lucas is seeing to me.”

“Aye, but I’ll have your sword arm good as new.”

There was silence, and finally, “Come in.”

Oenghus pushed the curtain aside and crouched, ducking into a room that was little more than a hollow. Isiilde and Marsais had taken the largest nook in the stone hovel.

Acacia sat on a bed of furs with Lucas at her side. He had helped her out of her jerkin, and was trying to peel away her scorched shirt, but the wool was stuck to flesh. Acacia grit her teeth, sweat glistening on her brow.

“Not like that, Lucas.” The hollow would have been crowded with just Oenghus, but with all three, it was cramped. “Get out of the way.”

Lucas glanced at Oenghus.

“It’s fine,” Acacia said.

Lucas was hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“Your captain’s honor is safe with me,” Oenghus said with a hand to his heart.

“But not my temper,” she remarked, dismissing her lieutenant with a nod.

“Bring me my kit and water, would you?”

Lucas squeezed past, and Oenghus settled himself at her side. The paladin returned a moment later with the requested items: mortar, pestle, a waterskin, and herbs. Oenghus grunted his gratitude, withdrew a narrow knife, and waited for the captain’s permission. She nodded and he began slicing the fabric, leaving the bits that were stuck to flesh.

“I didn’t take you for the type to have a watch dog.”

“He’s my lieutenant, I’m his captain.”

“I was wondering about that.”

“You can keep wondering.”

Oenghus grunted. She watched him work in silence, grinding herbs, mixing and sniffing at the contents. “What is that?”

“I can mend your flesh, but I can’t do it until the wool is out of those burns.”

“Won’t water do?”

“Aye, but this is just my excuse to rub a foul smelling poultice all over your lovely skin.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“I’m stubborn, remember?”

“More like pig-headed.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“I’ll save you the trouble. I have an Oathbound.”

“Paladins make horrible liars—the good ones, anyway.”