King's Folly (Book 2) (47 page)

❧

Thira slammed her fist against the Titan gates with a snarl. Cold needles battered her body, freezing her anger, and she turned, taking refuge behind a stone column. A blizzard raged inside the main hall. If she remained, frostbite would rot her fingers. She traced a quick weave with chattering teeth, warding against the chill, and scanned the carnage. Bodies were buried in the ice, but she could barely see in the whiteness, save for one single glowing form in the center of the storm.

Thira squinted at the glow, and the man in its center. Thedus stood, unperturbed by the raging elemental, a pinprick of heat in the blizzard. All at once, the naked man turned towards the Titan gates, striding faster than she had ever seen him move, and then he broke into a run, stopping at the gates. His sun blinded eyes focused on her.

Time stopped, chaos fell away, and in that instant, all was still. She could see every shard of crystalline ice, and every facet of the elemental, the bodies in the snow, and the Wise Ones and soldiers fleeing for their lives, but she remained. She felt as if she stood there for eternity, eyes locked with his, until he turned away, splaying his fingers against the gates.

The stone shuddered, and a spiderweb of dormant runes flared to life, traveling over the marble, flaring from the gates, breathing life into the guardian hounds.

For the first time in over three thousand years, the castle wards were activated. Thira grabbed Thedus, yanking him away, dragging him along as she fled the Hall of Judgement, sorely regretting her decision to bind a greater elemental to a clay jug.

THE
WORLD
SWAYED
, back and forth, with creaking rhythm. An emerald eye peeled open with effort. Isiilde’s gut twisted and bile rose in her throat. She shut her eye. The other didn’t seem to be working.

Memories washed over her, chaotic and bloody, full of fire and pain. Her sun was gone, she was cold. Her cheek rested on metal, uneven and uncomfortable. Harsh voices and laughter echoed in her ears. And screams of terror.

Steeling herself, she peered through her lashes, through an interwoven pattern. All was dark, save the slatted metal beneath her. A covered cage that swung over pristine sand. With the upward swing, she pressed her eye to the slat, glimpsing stone at the border. Clumsy with pain, she slipped her arm through the bars, searching through a gap in the hide covering her cage. When she found it, she pulled back the edge, gazing through the slit. A twisted stony visage glared at her from a hewn wall. Its mouth gaped and its tongue lolled, nearly touching the sand. The mouth and tongue reminded her of the drains decorating manors.

Sapped of strength, Isiilde let the hide fall back in place, and collapsed to the rusty grating, eyeing the heavy bar and chain sealing her inside the prison.

In her current condition, the nymph doubted she could lift the bar. Hopeless and alone, she turned her eye to the sand, watching the whiteness shift as the cage swayed. Eventually, that proved too much effort, and Isiilde curled into a tight ball, wishing the world away.

❧

The world did not go away. It reinserted itself in the form of footsteps. The screams and laughter and terror had subsided, and now the soft hiss of shifting sand grated on her ears. Someone was pacing. The footsteps traveled around her prison with a predatory gait.

Isiilde wanted to disappear. She knew what was coming next. But why the sand and why the cage? Her body was numb, and she swallowed back fear.

The movement of her throat and tongue slapped her mind into action. Marsais had thrown a weave, right before she disappeared through the vile portal. It had tingled down her throat in a familiar way. All was not lost—the nymph had her voice.

A swish of fabric revealed light through her eyelid. Peering through her lashes, she gazed at the massive figure dominating her limited vision. Muscle, sinew, and flesh all covered with scars and chalk and dark lines. The Ardmoor’s hair was a matted clump of braids and his fierce eyes studied her. He wore a leather loincloth, decorated with trophies: scalps, knucklebones, and shriveled pieces of flesh that Isiilde did not want to identify.

“Don’t spoil the sand, Fell,” a familiar voice hissed from beyond.

The Ardmoor tore his gaze off the nymph, glancing at the new arrival. “Do not give me orders, Rahuatl.” His voice was harsh, the common language foreign and clipped on his tongue.

“You are no Bloodmagus,” N’Jalss replied. “If the sand is spoiled, we cannot open a gate.”

Fell snarled. “That is for your kind to worry. I get you cattle, and I get you this—creature.” He ripped the hide off her cage. Isiilde did not move. She continued to lie in the center, listening.

“But not the seer.”

Fell crossed his arms at the accusation. “The others are dead.”

“So sayeth your scryer.”

“
My
scryer led you to the mountain after your rotting men were defeated,” Fell snarled.

Isiilde’s heart lurched. She focused inward, on the darkness, searching for any sign of life beyond the thick veil that Marsais had thrown up after he had been wounded. Would she know if he was dead? What would become of their bond?

“The price was for their heads.”

“Their heads are at the bottom of the gorge. If you will not pay us, then I keep this nymph.” Fell tasted the word on his tongue. He stepped towards her cage, thrust his arm between the bars, and grabbed a handful of her hair. She bit back a scream, swallowing sound. “Go home, Rahuatl. Your fangs are little ants in Vaylin.” Fell ran a rough hand over her face and shoulder. Isiilde squirmed away from his touch, but he crushed her to the metal grate with ruthless strength, working a hand beneath her jerkin and shirt to pinch her breast. She bit her lip, and stilled, willing herself to remain silent.

N’Jalss strolled down a set of steps carved into the stone pit. “Ants supply you with your venom, Fell. Don’t forget that.”

Like all Rahuatl, he was predatory in nature: copper-skinned, black-haired, with ivory studs decorating his brow and cheeks and pointed chin. N’Jalss had always made her skin crawl, and even more so now. His bite lingered on her neck. And the nymph could never forget his part in Marsais’ betrayal.

“There are many ants,” Fell snickered. “What is this nymph to you?” The groping hand squeezed her breast, and Isiilde jerked with pain, biting her lip.

“Have her if you wish. I’ll take my venom elsewhere. There are other tribes, other warlords, who would pay dearly for my vials.”

The hand loosened momentarily, and Isiilde threw herself backwards, scrambling to the opposite side of the cage. Fell tilted his head, matted hair brushing his shoulder as he studied her through the gaps. She met his eyes, defiant, and his lip curled. He gripped a bar and pulled, sending the cage spinning on its chain. Slowly, she drifted closer to the warlord, and quickly moved to the opposite side, but this time, he gripped the cage and heaved, and she could not escape his grasp. An arm thrust through the slats, seizing her neck, yanking her against the bars.

“Why is this faerie so important, Rahuatl?” Fell’s breath crawled in her ear. He smelt of lust and blood and rot. The hand on her throat was strong; he could crush her in a moment.

“My master has obligations, Fell,” N’Jalss hissed. “As do you to your men. How long can they last without their venom?”

Fell’s dark eyes flickered to the Rahuatl. “There are less men to supply now.”

“A hazard of any mercenary,” N’Jalss said, glancing at his sharpened finger caps.

“You did not tell me these men were so powerful.”

“I hired your company to kill
two
men and three paladins. Did you think them an easy kill—like the nymph?”

Fell’s hand tightened around Isiilde’s throat. If she had wanted to make a sound, she could not have managed one. “I think you are frightened of these men. But they are dead, Rahuatl, so you have no more to fear. Give me the venom, or leave, and I will keep the spoils of war.”

N’Jalss glanced at the nymph, whose freckled skin was turning mottled and purple under Fell’s hand as she clawed at his fingers. “I’ll need more cattle for the portal to Vlarthane.”

“Lazy,” Fell spat, releasing her. “You could walk.”

Isiilde fell to the cage floor, sucking in air, filling her lungs around the pain in her throat.

“Can your men wait that long?”

Fell did not reply. He grabbed the cage and heaved, sending her world spinning before stalking up the stairway.

N’Jalss reached out, letting the claws of his finger caps scrape the rusty metal with every turn. A cold heart beat in her breast, and she met his gaze with each revolution. As the cage slowed, he gripped a bar, stopping the spin so she was facing him.

“If I had my way, Nymph,” he said softly. “I’d leave you to Fell.”

Never wavering from his imperious gaze, Isiilde hugged her knees and rested her chin on top, smiling ever so slowly. The future stretched in front of her with perfect clarity, like the runes that Rivan had clumsily maneuvered every evening.

Men were predictable.

The Rahuatl frowned at the knowing nymph. With a hiss, he tugged the hide back in place, and left.

❧

Fell returned in the quiet. Whether night or day, she did not know. He paced like a restless tiger around her cage, eyes darting to the creature sitting within. Lust and need warred within his heart.

The nymph followed his path from a hollow body. Memories whispered of her future, of pain and humiliation and choking captivity. Isiilde retreated deep inside herself, where the memories could not find her, to that numb organ that beat in her breast. From a safe cocoon, detached from her body, she focused on the man and the moment.

She parted her lips in invitation and the warlord stilled. Fell could not tear his eyes off the ethereal creature. He would have thought her a spirit, if not for the feel of her, the smell of her lingering in his memory and settling in his loins.

The Ardmoor drifted towards the cage, and gripped the bars. His body was tense, his erection apparent beneath the leather loincloth, and his eyes were blinded with desire and wildness.

Isiilde swallowed a grimace, reached through the bars, and ran her fingers up his thigh. The man’s chest heaved. He shoved his loincloth aside and grunted at her, reaching into the cage. Isiilde pressed herself against the opposite side as the barbarian pressed himself against the bars, straining to drag her closer.

Frustrated, Fell growled, spun the cage, and stopped it at the door. He ripped a key from his belt, thrust it inside the iron lock, and ruthlessly twisted. The chains fell to the ground under his determined hands and he lifted the heavy iron bar, dropping it to the sand.

The moment Fell swung the door open, he triggered the nymph’s ward. The iron erupted, crackling with energy, melding his hand to the iron bars. Muscles spasmed, his body convulsed, and the paint on his skin sizzled. Burnt flesh filled the air, sharp and noxious. Isiilde watched Fell die from the center of her cage, safely wrapped in an earth weave.

The warlord dropped to the sand with a thud and his men rushed to the side of the pit, gazing down at their fallen leader with raised torches. N’Jalss hurried down the steps, followed by the woman who had opened a gateway and another man, grizzled and bent and covered in scars.

The Shaman bent over his fallen lord, studying the bulging eyes, charred skin, and black blood in the torch light. “A trap,” he declared.

Isiilde pointed at N’Jalss.

Voices rose in a grating tongue. The warriors above shook their spears and brandished swords.

“I set no ward,” N’Jalss hissed. Slitted eyes focused on the nymph. Realization sent his fingers weaving, but Isiilde was faster, her weave was waiting, and she traced the final rune. N’Jalss hurled his silence weave at the nymph. Blue runes swirled to life in front of her, deflecting his attack. It rebounded, slamming into the weaver.

N’Jalss’ eyes widened, he choked on his own gag, and Isiilde called to her flame. It leapt from the torches, gathering at her call.

A whirlwind of heat and fire swirled around its mistress, snatching up thrown spears and spitting them out as ash. The nymph’s voice rose with the fire storm, she spoke the language of flame, of passion, and the roar of pain.

The Rahuatl turned and fled, with the Bloodmagus and Shaman on his heels. A lash of flame whipped from the whirlwind, catching the Bloodmagus in a coil of fire, devouring her scars and flesh with a flare.

The nymph’s lips parted, tendrils of fire toyed with her hair and the wind beat on her flesh, rendering cloth to ash. The power in her veins burned and there was no one to stop her. She let it carry her away, far from the cruel earth, to a realm of heat and cleansing fire, riding the currents like a bird on the winds, stretching her wings until she was a part of the storm. Her voice wrapped around the flickering flame, seducing it like a lover.

As her clothes fell away, and the cage heated, Isiilde unfolded herself and stepped onto the sand. It was hot and burning and she curled her toes gleefully at its touch. The fire took shape, mirroring the coiled serpent on her back, rolling through the cavern with a roaring lash.

Amid a chorus of screams and smoke and glowing stone, Isiilde moaned. The nymph was free, and men fell at her feet in fear and writhing death.

❧

Ash and smoke filled the air. The pit sweltered, and Isiilde stretched in the silence. She floated on warm waves, spent and exhausted, but dreamy with pleasure. Gentle fire hissed, whispering
 
over charred husks, smoldering in cocoons of flesh and drifting into ash.

The sand was hot, and the nymph was tempted to lie down and sleep. But she had not forgotten where she was. She wove another armor ward, adding fire to the cycle, and climbed the steps, alert for survivors.

There were none. The cavern was filled with smoking corpses, twisted in death, littering the floor like a forest of burnt trees. Isiilde felt nothing for the humans.

The cavern walls were scorched and black, covering the chaotic patterns and horrific visages etched into their surface. Everything was ruin save the stones of a large fire pit and a few crumbling pieces of timber.