King's Folly (Book 2) (43 page)

The horns died. Steel and cries and blood bounced off the stone. She scrambled upright as the tempo increased. Women screamed and men roared and Isiilde’s heart drowned out the chaos. Still weak from her training, she yanked on her clothes, tasting blood in the back of her throat.

A curse brushed past her lips. Fatigue and fear made her fingers clumsy, and she struggled with the laces of her shirt. Hurried voices were carried on the wave of approaching battle, and the curtain was thrust aside.

Marsais returned. “Time to leave, my dear,” he announced. “The Ardmoor have breached the city.”

His words barely registered over the tumult of frantic noises. The laces to her boots had become impossibly slippery and she fumbled over the ties with growing frustration.

“Blast it,” she growled. The dying embers in the fire pit stirred fitfully.

Marsais paused in the process of stuffing a pack full of supplies and crouched in front of her. Grey eyes held her own as he deftly laced her boots. “Stay close to me, Isiilde,” he said calmly, “and all will be well.”

The contrast of his voice against the beat of steel brought her up short, and under his steady gaze, her breathing evened. When the final lace was knotted, Marsais finished packing supplies, slung the pack over his shoulder and seized her hand, pulling the nymph towards the battle.

Isiilde wanted to stay and hide behind the curtain.

A grunt and crunch welcomed the pair into the common room. Oenghus’ hammer caved in a man’s skull. The giant shoved the dead warrior backwards, into a knot of wild, naked men covered in chalk like paint and blood. The hammer swung again, taking chunks of flesh and bone, and Oenghus slammed his shield into the last of the intruders, knocking his opponent down the stone steps that led to the valley below. Marsais threw a weave at the entrance, concealing their cave with an illusion.

The Ardmoor warriors were as large as Oenghus. One moved on the cavern floor, and a sword appeared from above, impaling him through the heart. Captain Mael wrenched her sword free. And Isiilde turned from the sight, from blood and slaughter and organs that were never meant to see the light. Reapers and Blighted were not human. These men, no matter how wild, were. Isiilde turned to flee, but Marsais kept an iron grip on her shoulder.

“Bloody Void,” Oenghus cursed, flicking a chunk of clinging brain matter from his hammer. “They’ve overrun the city.”

“A perfect time to take our leave,” Marsais declared.

The paladins stood at the ready, weapons drawn, shields poised. Fear widened Rivan’s brown eyes, but he stood his ground, steeling his shoulders for what was to come. Marsais’ fingers flashed, he tapped Isiilde on the head and tingling warmth spread to her toes. An armor weave.

“Is this what you were waiting for, Scarecrow?” Oenghus growled.

“Now is not the time,” Marsais snapped, slapping a weave onto the bristling berserker. “Stay with us, Oenghus, and by the gods, don’t bring this mountain down on our heads.”

An Ardmoor charged the entrance with a rush. Oenghus stepped aside and swung, catching the man on the chin. His head and body snapped back, and his feet flew forward. The stone stopped him and Oenghus stomped on the man’s head, stilling the warrior with a jerk.

“Like the Void I will. You’ll get in my way. Guard Isiilde, or I’ll have your hide, Scarecrow,” Oenghus barked. He ripped the cork off his Brimgrog, took a long swig, and jammed the flask back in his belt. Smoldering eyes focused on Marsais, and for a moment, Isiilde feared Oenghus would pummel the seer, but the Nuthaanian turned towards the illusion, beating his hammer on his shield. With a growl, Oenghus stepped into chaos.

“Stay out of his range,” Acacia ordered her men. “Form around Marsais and Isiilde. Stay together. We’ll head towards the falls.”

A thundering rhythm reverberated over the din of battle. Steel on steel, echoing like a drum beat, heralding doom.

Armor and shields surrounded Isiilde, and she gripped Marsais’ cloak, as the group moved towards the illusion. Fear clutched her. They were going out into the valley, into the screams of women and children, and the dying—into the thick of the slaughter.

Isiilde was dimly aware of Rivan at her side, muttering a frantic prayer. Marsais pulled her on the captain’s heels, and with a breath, they pushed through the illusion.

Ardmoor swarmed the valley, clashing with surprised Lome and chopping down the defenseless like wheat. Clusters of warriors fought, but the valley was vast and the Ardmoor numbered in the thousands. And into the chaos, Oenghus waded, beating his hammer against his shield in challenge.

Time was indecisive, hurrying to outline the naked fighters, raging and chopping, and then slowing down for every sickening slice of their axes. Isiilde was pulled into the slaughter, buffered by steel and shield, fighting to catch glimpses of her suicidal guardian.

The Ardmoor heard Oenghus’ challenge and the painted barbarians swarmed him like moths to fire. A roar shook the valley, and then an earthquake. Oenghus slammed his hammer onto the valley floor. The rock cracked. A chant beat the air and the earth trembled. A wave of stone rippled, rising like a wave, crashing over the warriors’ heads. Oenghus charged in its wake, slamming into the Ardmoor with fury and death and bone rending force.

But he was lost in the surge of battle, and the nymph was battered like a leaf caught in a raging river as the Ardmoor charged. The attackers’ were human but their eyes were wide, burning with feral thirst. Captain Mael matched their ferocity with efficient grace. Axes battered her shield, but her sword tip struck with precision, bringing up blood with every strike. Lucas cleaved at painted flesh with methodical persistence. Blood and bone sprayed into the air, and slipped beneath Isiilde’s feet.

Rivan struggled at her side, frantically parrying and swinging at the Ardmoor’s rushing forms. Cleavers and spears and hammers bit into the paladin, seeking chinks in his armor and encountering stone. Despite the powerful weave of protection, the enchanted paladin staggered beneath the onslaught of blows, knocking against the nymph, fighting to hold his own.

Marsais murmured under his breath, weaving a masterpiece of runes with calm finesse. “Pardon me, Captain.”

Acacia instantly stepped to the side and the seer thrust out his arms, fingers splayed. A wave of crackling death rippled from his fingertips, arcing from one barbarian to the next, leaving a path of charred, broken bodies, and burnt flesh.

The Ardmoor dropped like flies. More rushed to fill the void.

The nymph’s world drained of color. Only black and white existed, with vibrant slashes of crimson that pooled and curdled in the dark. A waterfall of blood roared in her ears. She walked in a dream, detached, floating high above the valley; a pair of eyes and a cold heart, tracking the progress of an ethereal creature surrounded by steel and power.

A shock of pain shattered her daze. Events rushed in like a crashing wave, snapping her back to her body. She tripped up a slippery step, blinking with surprise. The stairway was cut into a rock face that circled a churning pool—the waterfall at the end of the valley. Marsais steadied her, and Rivan clambered behind, helping a wounded woman, while the captain and Lucas held the base of the stairs, ushering Lome up its winding path.

Arrows soared in the air, zipping through wind and mist, aimed at the stairway. Marsais gestured sharply. The air in front rippled, and the arrows bounced away, but some pierced his weave, pinning the fleeing Lome and dropping them into a watery grave.

Another roar shook loose rock. A massive stalactite cracked from the sky, and fell with thunder. Isiilde saw her guardian then, bloodied and enraged. He stood against a tide of painted bodies. The stone shifted and cracked beneath Oenghus’ feet and lightning crackled from his hammer. There were so many Ardmoor. He would surely drown in death.

“Curse you, Oenghus,” Marsais growled, weaving a message that hopefully contained more than irritation. With a sharp gesture, he sent the Whisper fluttering to the berserker’s ears. But Oenghus was lost in battle. He would stand until there was no one left to fight, or die with his hammer swinging.

A bonfire on the valley floor caught Isiilde’s attention, one of burning flesh and whatever else the Ardmoor could throw in the stack. Smoke billowed, clouding the ceiling. Isiilde did not think, she reacted, calling to her fire with a frantic command.

Flames surged, exploding, washing over Ardmoor and Lome alike. A timid, frightened part of her was aware of Marsais shouting, but her voice drowned out his words as a hot wind stirred her hair, beating against her skin. The flames swirled, coiling, and sprang, cutting through the air with a maddened hiss of heat.

Fear vanished, and her vision sharpened. The chaos lacked one thing: fire. All the blood, screams, and death would vanish beneath a cleansing flame. And the flame sensed her desire. A wave of fire slammed into the Ardmoor surrounding Oenghus. And as they burned and scattered like ants, she saw what Oenghus had been fighting for. Elam was there, helping a wounded woman who carried two bundles, while over their heads Oenghus fought.

The nymph’s words transformed into a song that thrummed in the air with a flame’s roar. Her voice fed the fire, skipping from one painted form to the next, licking skin like tinder. It ate the blood from the stone and drowned out screams with its hunger.

Cries of pain became cries of passion as Isiilde’s fire danced from form to form in a whirlwind of death and glory. She ached to feel its touch. One human became indistinguishable from the next. The nymph was blind to Oenghus dodging the flames, she failed to see him catch a fireball with his shield, bearing the brunt of the scourge as the fleeing Lome were caught in a wave of heat.

A hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her rampage. Isiilde thrashed against the grip, biting down with vicious teeth and a gurgling call. Flames arced towards the stairway, and her attacker. Marsais shot out his hand, sending a wall of air into the flame, directing it downwards, into the pool. His concentration broke.

Arrows slid through his weakened shield. One after another slammed into the stairway. An arrow pierced Isiilde’s skin, snapping her from rapture. A trail of heat burned on her arm, but others weren’t so fortunate. An arrow pierced a child’s neck, sending the girl reeling into the abyss, and as Isiilde watched her tiny form plummet, realization slapped her soundly.

The valley floor was littered with the smoldering corpses of Ardmoor and Lome. Revulsion rose in the nymph’s throat, and Marsais slammed her against the stone as another hail of arrows pelted the stairway. A sting of pain pierced their bond, but his fingers were already flying. Another barrier snapped into place in front of the stairway and its cowering occupants.

“Hurry!” Marsais grimaced, snapping off the shaft of an arrow that protruded from his shoulder. A veil dropped over their bond, numbing his pain.

“But Oen—”

“Will be fine.” Marsais nudged her, and Isiilde’s feet obeyed. She stumbled for the first few steps, fighting to keep her feet as the press of fleeing bodes closed in on her. In the current of fear, she was separated from Marsais and corralled down the narrow tunnels. The cave closed in, her head swam in confusion. Isiilde pushed forward, using her slighter form to slip between bodies, struggling to control panic and the rising temperature of her flesh.

Fire would clear the way. It whispered to her, aching for release, to drown the cries and screams in one roaring wave.

An old woman brushed against the nymph and cried out in pain, as her skin was scorched. Isiilde could not stop, did not dare slow to help her. The nymph pushed forward, moving towards an open sky.

The river of Lome rushed blindly into the night. But the waiting paths were treacherous with ice. Some Lome slipped over the edge of a winding trail, spiraling into the roaring mist. Water turned to ice, and Isiilde slipped to the side, following the narrow trail. The path opened and the first trees clung to the steep mountainside, struggling against ice and gravity and the raging falls.

Fresh snow was trampled underfoot, and virgin white turned to red. Isiilde glanced down, uncomprehending, until a gap opened in the press of fleeing Lome.

Ardmoor stood on the mountainside clearing. They held torches, snatching up women and children as they fled. The men, they killed, and the old, they tossed to a pack of feasting Reapers.

The Lome in front turned, slipping on snow, trying to run back into the mountain, but the wave of humans could not be stopped. An axe swung, Isiilde threw herself onto a snowdrift, and the woman at her side was cloven in two. A gleaming eye caught sight of the redhead in the torchlight. Desire burned, and the Ardmoor reached for the nymph.

Isiilde scrambled away, but was yanked back and off the ground by her hair. The Ardmoor howled in triumph, Isiilde’s fingers flashed, and a bolt flew from her hand, hitting him square in the chest. The Ardmoor snarled, barely fazed. She called to the fires on the torches and they leapt at her command, slamming into her attacker. The barbarian’s howls took on a frantic note. He flung Isiilde away, rolling onto the snow. Her skin cooled with a hiss, and she slid, twisting and clawing as the ice took her nearer the edge.

A hand clamped down on her ankle, halting her slide. The Ardmoor was blistered, and spitting oaths in a rough tongue. She opened her mouth, but was silenced with a fist. Spots danced, pain blossomed, and Isiilde found she could not move her tongue.

The barbarian grabbed her hair, pulled her up, and tucked her under his arm trudging towards the other captives. Isiilde reeled, dazed and dangling, she worked her jaw, but only a moan emerged. A split second later, she was falling. Seared flesh filled her nostrils, burning down her throat. Blood splattered on the snow and the Ardmoor fell on top of her as a powerful lightning bolt crackled from warrior to warrior, dropping the men like flies.

The remaining Ardmoor turned towards their challenger, and the Lome scattered, fleeing down treacherous pathways. Three axes flew towards Marsais in simultaneous threat. The torch wielding attackers abandoned their charges, rushing the seer. Coins chimed above the tumult, and Marsais twisted. An axe grazed his arm, but the others flew harmlessly by. His fingers moved faster than she could follow. Another wave of pounding force slammed into the charging barbarians. The knot of warriors were thrown back, sliding on the slippery slope.