King's Folly (Book 2) (45 page)

“With respect, Captain, I disagree. In my soldiering days, we had another name for them—scapegoats.”

The shadows shifted ahead, and Lucas hefted his sword.

“But why did the Ardmoor come after us? Was this all for Isiilde?” asked Rivan.

“Tharios knows we’re alive,” Acacia reasoned, shrugging her side of the load off on Rivan. She unslung her shield. “If we make it to a Chapterhouse alive, then word will reach the Isle—Tharios’ scheming will be over. There’s likely a bounty on our heads in Vaylin. I just didn’t expect a whole army to come collecting.”

“How are we going to find Isiilde?”

“First things first, Rivan. Stay with the seer, protect the women and children. We’ll make for the river.”

Without a word, Acacia and Lucas moved into a trot, speeding ahead of the knot of Lome warriors. Acacia summoned light to her shield, and illuminated a waiting line of Ardmoor and collared Reapers at the end of the path. A battle cry rose into the night, and the paladins charged, followed by a ragged group of Lome.

❧

Somewhere in the night, in the blood and carnage, their little band of refugees touched the valley floor, hounded and ambushed, skirmishing as they limped away with women and infants and wounded men in tow. A scout hissed, and the group took cover in trees.

Acacia scanned the shadows, tense with exhaustion and listening. A warbling call pierced the din of the river. It was answered by another. The fur-clad scout at her side relaxed, and so did she. A shadow detached itself from a tree and was joined by an opposing one. The two men embraced. And the Lome emerged from their concealment, flocking around their massive, one-eyed leader.

Lucas looked at Acacia. She gripped Rivan’s shoulder, keeping him in place before he could rise, but the scout pointed back towards the paladins.

“This can’t end well,” Lucas adjusted his shield.

“Steady,” she warned, and stood.

V’elbine greeted them with a growl and three long steps that took him within striking distance. Elam shot in front of the grizzled warrior, holding up his hands, but the chieftain swatted him to the side like a fly.

Acacia stepped up to meet the one-eyed warrior. And Elam yelled from the snow, words pouring from his raw throat. Women and wounded stepped from the crowd, adding their voices with the boy’s, and finally the warriors, who nodded and gestured—all the Lome who they had fought with through the night.

The chieftain continued to glower, casting his eye from the unconscious seer to Acacia. With a sharp, dismissing word, he thrust his spear towards the river.

“Supplies will get us farther,” she ventured. She mimed food and hugged her cloak. V’elbine snarled, and Acacia slowly backed away, inclining her head.

Silently, the Lome vanished into the darkness, leaving three paladins and a seer in the middle of nowhere.

“It was worth a shot, Captain,” Lucas sighed.

Movement caught Acacia’s eye. They had a follower. Elam stood nearby, watching and gesturing. “We may have something better.” She pointed at the boy. “A guide.”

Lucas hoisted Marsais over his broad shoulders, and the group limped after Elam’s hurried steps, trudging through the snowdrifts. The walk was exhausting, and they had to stop more than once to recover their breath.

“Where did that crazy sister of his get off to?” Rivan puffed in the chill.

“I didn’t see her during the attack, did you?”

“No,” Lucas grunted. “She left after the nymph nearly killed you.”

“It was barely a scratch, Lucas. I needed the exercise,” she said dryly. An answering
harrumph
shattered her boast.

Acacia stopped, scanning the trees. “Where did the boy go?” she whispered.

Trees and flurries and the distant river’s drone greeted them. A short shadow waved wildly and the paladins approached warily. Elam stood at the base of a towering sequoia. A mound of fresh powder hugged its broad base, and when they were within sight, he scrambled up the mound, digging in the snow.

“Help him, Rivan.”

Rivan exhaled, dropped his shield where he stood, and trudged up the hill with dragging steps.

“If I had any energy left,” Lucas winced, setting down the seer. “I would chew him out for that.”

Acacia looked at her soldiers’ discarded shield. “I’ll remind you to yell at him later.”

Together, with Elam digging like a dog, and Rivan using his sword like a shovel, the two uncovered a hole. Elam beamed, lifting and shaking a covering of fur to reveal a round door. He opened it, and climbed in. Rivan looked at his captain.

Acacia rolled Marsais onto Rivan’s shield, gripped the seer’s arm, and dragged Marsais up the mound on the makeshift sled.

The snow covered dwelling was cozy and bare, but the real surprise lay in the back, at the base of the tree. Elam shot through another Winter Wolf fur covering, and the paladins followed. The sequoia was hollowed on the inside. Herbs hung from racks, furs covered the floor, and a fire pit sat in its center.

“Thank the Sylph,” Acacia breathed, ruffling the boy’s filthy hair.

❧

Marsais regained consciousness at sunrise. He sat up with a start, throwing off his furs. Confusion clouded his eyes. Acacia stirred from sleep.

“There was an attack on the Lome city,” she explained from the other side of the coals. She rose and handed him a mug and a chunk of jerky. “We’re in a scout’s hut, or something of the sort.”

“Oenghus,” he breathed, staring at the meat.

“He fell.”

“I dropped him.” Pain cracked his voice.

“Do you remember Isiilde?”

“Of course I do, Captain,” he snapped, tossing the jerky aside and springing to his feet. He downed the water in one long gulp. At his harsh tone, the others woke, reaching for their swords. Marsais launched himself at the supplies, rifling through stores and sacks.

“Do you know where Isiilde is?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” he barked. Marsais upended a large sack, spilling its contents onto the floor. He snatched a furred pouch from the crude table, upended that too, and brushed aside a pile of skulls and clay bowls, knocking them onto the floor.

Elam jumped to his feet, chattering madly at the seer. He ignored the boy, working quickly, but stiffly. His white hair was stained with blood, one eye was nearly swollen shut, and creases lined his face.

“You’re not fully healed, Marsais,” Acacia pressed, worried for his sanity. “You need to rest before you go after her.” But the ancient ignored the captain too.

The Lore leapt to his cracked lips. Nimble fingers traced the larger sack, over and over, weaving a swirling net of glowing runes. His fingers shook, but whether it was pain, exhaustion, or desperation, she could not tell. Slowly, he teased a thread from the ethereal weft and coaxed it into the smaller pouch. Inch by inch, he pulled, as if sewing a piece of delicate lace.

The paladins watched in wonder as the larger sack disappeared into the smaller. When the two merged, Marsais snatched up the pouch, and reached for a water skin. Elam’s mouth fell open as the large skin disappeared into the small pouch. A cloak, flint, knife, vials, rations, and a spare set of furs disappeared inside too.

“We’ll help you get her back, Marsais.”

The seer shot out the opening, into the mound, and out the other side appearing above ground. The paladins followed, emerging to a white world, glittering beneath a rising sun. It was blinding.

Marsais tugged off his tunic, and then his shirt in the chill. He rolled them into a bundle and stuffed them in the pouch.

“Where are you going?”

“Where I go, you cannot follow.” Marsais tugged off his boots, and then his trousers, stripping down to the flesh. Bruises and half healed wounds marred his wiry frame. It was cold, his body shook, paled and shriveled. He stuffed the last of his clothes into the pouch, cinching it tightly, and looked at Acacia.

“Vlarthane,” he chattered.

And then he did not look at them again. With trembling fingers, he unwound the coins from his goatee, attached them to a leather cord, and slipped it over his neck.

The coins chimed in the early morning light, and his fingers flashed, voice rising with power. A chant stirred the snow. Runes swirled to life with the flurries. Marsais jerked, his muscles spasmed, and his neck arched towards the sky like a bow about to snap.

The pouch fell to the ground, and the seer followed. Bones cracked, and feathers as white as snow emerged. In a blinding flash all went still. A tall owl stood on the ground, blending with the whiteness. A cord dangled around its neck, and its noble head swiveled. Two large, luminous, grey eyes locked on the paladins. With a beat of wings, the owl took flight, snatching the pouch with its talons.

“By the gods,” Rivan breathed. Elam appeared to agree. He was crouched in the snow, head buried, murmuring a frantic prayer to whatever gods he served.

“I hate Wise Ones,” Lucas growled.

“You hate everyone.” Acacia glanced at the scarred man.

“I liked the Nuthaanian.”

“So did I.”

TWO
CLOAKED
FIGURES
bent their heads together, creating a barrier against the wind and sleet. The mare stepped to the side, uneasy. Rashk steadied her restless mount before uncurling her fingers, checking the skree’s direction.

The stone arrowhead floating above her palm pulsed with runes, spinning aimlessly. “The storm,” Rashk hissed to her companion.

Thira’s lips moved, but her words were lost to the Rahuatl. With a decisive hand, Thira wove runes in the air, and swept them aside dismissively. They swirled to life and the wind subsided, snow drifted to the ground instead of slantwise into their faces.

Rashk did not know what Thira wove, but then there was so much about the woman that she did not understand. Knowledge and mystery, however, went both ways—Thira did not understand Rune-etching, only weaves and potions.

The skree stopped spinning, pointing solidly towards the sea and the group of manors perched on the hill. Rashk was not surprised. She curled her numb fingers around the skree, feeling the pillaged strands of hair wrapped around its weight.

Thira nudged her horse forward, oblivious to the cold, while Rashk shivered beneath her heavy fur poncho. The Rahuatl was not made for the north. The jungles of Rraal ran through her veins, not the Frozen Wastes.

The skree led the two women to white-washed walls and a heavy gate. Rashk hissed the Lore, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, what was dormant became visible. Runes scrolled over the tall walls of the manor, guarding Tharios’ estate.

Rashk uncurled her fingers again, checking the skree’s tip. It quivered at the gates. She frowned at the wards, and looked to Thira. The woman never had any scent, save for tea and dog; therefore, Rashk could not sense a thing from the Mistress of Novices. The lack of a scent made Rashk uneasy, made her want to gut the old woman and peek inside her body to see what made her tick.

“Are you sure, Rashk?” Thira asked.

“The skree does not lie. Are you sure you gave me the right hairbrush?”

Thira raised a sharp eyebrow. “The hairbrush was in Morigan’s rooms. So it is hers unless someone snuck into her chambers to use the brush, or for some fanciful reason, switched brushes. I think that highly doubtful, don’t you?”

“Maybe Morigan is visiting Tharios.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Rashk,” Thira snapped, dismounting. “I’m already surrounded by enough dim-witted fools.”

“Look at those wards,” Rashk thrust her chin towards the walls. “What are you going to do, walk up to the gate and knock?”

“What else would I do?”

Rashk hissed. “Hunters do not shout into a Reaper’s lair.”

“Oh, but I do, and I yell very loudly.” Thira set Crumpet down, and the useless animal shivered in the snow as his Mistress crooned over his poor little paws.

“We should speak with the Lord General.”

“And tell Ielequithe what, precisely?” Thira looked up at the Rahuatl. “That Marsais’ spymaster betrayed him, chased him from the castle, framed him with Bloodmagic, and that the current Archlord may or may not be a mad Bloodmagus holding a healer prisoner? Should we ask her to ever so politely interrupt the Nine’s Council so she can interrogate the Archlord?”

Rashk ran her forked tongue across her teeth in irritation.

“Stay if you like,” Thira said, opening her long coat and selecting a slim vial from a pocket. “You have found Morigan, as I asked of you, nothing more is needed.”

The Rahuatl eyed Thira, who was weaponless, save for her potions. She had the look of an old one who intended to walk into the jungle and never return.

“We should find a secret way,” Rashk said by way of answer. “A hunter strikes from the shadows.”

“Unless you are a Mammoth with the disposition of a Pomeranian.” Thira poured the vial down Crumpet’s throat, and the furball lapped at the liquid greedily. When the vial was empty, Thira swung onto her horse, and urged it towards the gate, leaving Rashk with a transforming dog. The swirl of runes was powerful, the light blinding, and the shape that emerged—mammoth.

The ground shook, the furry beast reared, and Rashk’s horse jumped back, dancing away from the tusked horror.

“Come along, Crumpet,” Thira called

As the earth shook with Crumpet’s gait, Thira summoned the Lore, weaving a Barrier of runes around her pet.

Rashk abandoned her horse, and sped after the charging mammoth, drawing her kukri from its sheath. Alarms rose, guards shouted, and thunder bellowed as Crumpet slammed his tusks into the gate, triggering a chain reaction of wards. Lightning struck the mammoth, but bounced harmlessly off, reeling into the night. Crumpet charged the guards with a bellow.

Rashk hurried through the ruins of the gate, keeping to shadow and silence as Thira trotted on Crumpet’s heels, cloaked in a swirl of runes and protective Barriers. Arrows zipped though the air, and Rashk moved quickly, slipping behind the crossbowmen. Her blade struck kidneys, quick and brutal, dropping three guards in agony.

A clash of runes rose from the center of the courtyard as a Wise One challenged Thira. The Mistress of Novices deflected the weave, sending it hurling back at the foolish Wise One. With a flash of energy he dropped dead. A stream of guards flowed from all corners and Crumpet greeted them with a clash of tusk against flesh and crushing hooves.