Flame of Ruin, page 11
Acacia gritted her teeth, and bore down on the hilt, wrenching the blade. With a final rattling breath, the hag stilled.
Marsais chanted in the swarm. Fire surged, igniting the insects, and their charred corpses fell to the ground. He calmly strode forward, fire dancing in his palm. With a soft murmur, he thrust his hand towards the hag, and blew. The body caught like dried pine needles. A quick gesture snatched the fire back, and he dispersed it with a clap.
The forest stilled.
“Thank you, Captain. She was slippery.”
“Your nymph is gone.”
Marsais’ gaze turned inward, searching.
“Where is she?” Oenghus demanded.
Without a word, Marsais turned and ran deeper into the ruin with Oenghus close on his heels.
Acacia glanced at her men—their armor was streaked with blood, and Rivan swayed on his feet, looking on the verge of collapse. “After them,” she ordered.
“By the gods,” Rivan breathed.
Lucas shoved the younger man into a run, and Acacia paused long enough to hack the hag’s head off. At this rate, she doubted any of them would survive the company of a madman, a berserker, and a nymph.
“Underneath?” Oenghus asked.
Marsais was standing on an overgrown expanse of stone. “She’s in danger, and moving fast.”
Oenghus climbed up the stone, shoved Marsais aside, and swung his hammer at the rock. It split with a crack, revealing the pinnacle of a massive dome. He hooked his hammer on his belt and focused on the gap. With an earthshaking roar, Oenghus thrust his hands towards the stone and it answered his call—inch by strenuous inch, the gap widened. Then the earth stilled.
Silence rang in her ears. Acacia coughed, squinting through the settling debris. Marsais was clearing away rubble from a dark opening. She moved to help, and as soon as the opening was wide enough, Marsais folded his long body through the crack. Acacia squeezed in after.
Given the size of the dome’s top, the underlying structure must have been massive. How far had the building fallen?
Acacia summoned light to her shield and followed Marsais through a maze of stone and roots. The space abruptly opened up, and the stone floor dropped with a waterfall of dangling vines.
Marsais skidded to a stop at the edge.
The temple was tilted. It had sunk into a great cavern millennia ago, and was held aloft by its domed top and broad shoulders. The lower sections lay strewn on the distant ground. Stalactites hung from the cavern’s ceiling, and stalagmites rose from its floor. A black pool sat in the middle of a monolithic ruin, and far below on its shore, something was being consumed by a mass of writhing, snake-like creatures.
From the way Marsais calmly watched, she did not think his nymph was part of the feast.
The light from her shield hit something long, pale, and massive that slithered between stones. Its head rose, its body coiled, and a rattling filled the cavern. Not from a tail, but from the head—a human-like head, topped with a mass of writhing snakes. A naga: a creature of Blight and vileness.
“Here lies the rot,” Marsais said as he traced a complicated weave. Searing energy crackled from his fingertips, blasting the creature’s head.
The naga’s massive head whipped around. Her eyes burned as her mouth opened, rattling a barbed tongue at Marsais and Acacia. The great body coiled and lashed, whipping its tail at the base of their perch.
The ruin quaked and rocks clattered off the edge. The hag returned to a pile of fallen stone, clawing at the rubble with distended arms. A weak bolt of energy zapped from the darkness.
Isiilde.
Acacia stepped back, secured her shield, turned her sword around, and caught Marsais’ eye. “Catch me, Seer.”
Without waiting for confirmation, she took two steps towards the edge, and leapt. Acacia fell.
For a split second, she feared the madman had forgotten how to weave. But the descent slowed, and she drifted like a feather, until the naga’s tail swept underneath her and Marsais withdrew his hand.
Acacia landed on the naga, plunging her blade into thick scales. The naga jerked in pain, flinging her off like a rag doll. She hit stone, rolled, and came up, chopping at the serpent’s body.
The grotesque head was topped with Stone Lickers, reaching, seeking, and sniffing for blood with their fanged mouths. Acacia dodged the naga’s attack, swung her shield from her shoulder in time to block the Stone Lickers, and hacked off one.
The naga’s tail slammed into her from the side. She hit a pillar and slid to the ground, stunned.
Marsais shot a beam of energy at the naga’s head, but the creature ignored the blow, focusing on a quick kill.
Acacia abandoned her shield and threw herself to the side, reaching for the Stone Lickers that served as hair. Eel-like creatures coiled around her hands and forearms as the naga lifted its head and jerked her off the ground.
Teeth bit into her armor, searching for exposed flesh. As momentum carried her up and over the naga’s head, she slammed down against rotting scales attached by blood-sucking carrion. The naga swung Acacia like a child’s rag doll, knocking her against stone and battering her against its diseased body.
Momentum again lifted her upwards, and she brought her blade to bear on her downward spiral. The tip pierced the base of the naga’s head. Its body arched and quivered with a rattle that shook the cavern. And with one final, rasping exhale, everything collapsed.
Monster and paladin crashed to the cavern floor.
Acacia hit the body, bounced, and was ripped free from the sucking carrion. She rolled to a stop near the pool. The black water rippled as inky forms surged, but a force slammed into her, pushing her out of reach.
High overhead, Marsais tipped an imaginary hat, and Acacia raised her sword in an answering salute. A whimper brought her back to her senses. Acacia reached for her shield and winced as pain sliced up her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the shield with her sword hand and brought it to bear.
The nymph was huddled in a hole. She stared from the darkness with wide, emerald eyes. Even petrified with terror, the creature looked ethereal, possessing a beauty reserved for dreams.
“Are you all right, Isiilde?”
“Are you?” Her voice trembled.
“Not really.”
“Is it dead?”
“I hope so,” Acacia sighed, ripping a Stone Licker from her cheek.
Marsais drifted to the ground, trotting quickly to his nymph. When he crouched in front of the hole, Isiilde scrambled out to take refuge in his arms.
Acacia gave them their privacy, holding her injured arm close as she struggled to her feet. The abomination appeared good and dead—for now.
“Do you realize how difficult it is to weave a levitation enchantment around a falling person in armor?”
His sharp tone made her turn back around. “As difficult as destroying our only means of retreat during a skirmish? Why did you cut off our escape, Marsais?”
“The tree was old and tired. It needed liberating.”
The odd comment caught her off guard. She narrowed her eyes at the immortal, but he was difficult to read. He was neither young nor old; but tall and lean, a charmer and wanderer with high cheekbones and pointed ears. An elf. And not just any elf.
With his snowy hair, agile body and elegant hands, Marsais reminded her of the Guardians. But there was something more—something vast. His eyes were like a myriad of stars, and she felt exposed beneath his gaze.
Still, she was never one to back down. “Next time a tree wants liberating, kindly free it after we’ve crossed.”
“We need to move forward, not backward.”
“Last night, you told Lucas and me that there is always time, and there always will be. What changed?”
“Never listen to a madman, Captain. And in the future, some warning would be appreciated before you throw yourself off a cliff.”
“You’re the seer.”
Marsais snorted. “Foresight doesn’t account for insanity.”
Before she could question him further, he wove a complex rune in the air. A flame formed in his palm. Marsais hurled the ball of fire at the naga’s body and it went up in flames.
“What was that?” Isiilde asked, covering her nose with a hand.
The stench of burning rot was appalling.
“A powerful Blight Witch. The afflicted take many forms, especially those who do so willingly.”
“Willingly?”
“The thirst for power leaves no room for reason. It consumes and twists, and ultimately corrupts.”
“Did you run off during the battle, Isiilde?” Acacia asked.
The nymph’s ears flicked with irritation. “Of course not. The roots pulled me through the ground.”
“Did they?”
“Yes,” Isiilde snapped.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, only thinking. This naga seemed to want you. I suspect your separation from us was deliberate.”
“A wise assessment, Captain. Nymphs are not just coveted by human males, but by all manner of creatures for various… reasons.”
Acacia studied the faerie with sympathy. It was true. Nymphs often sat at the heart of violence, betrayal, and wars. They were delicate creatures, useless really, and yet… Acacia was reminded of the dainty blossoms that sprouted on corpse-strewn battlefields. The flowers grew in defiance of everything else, contrary to the madness of men. And even now, covered in dirt and blood, the nymph stood on her own two feet, ethereal and beautiful in the flame’s flickering light.
The others had climbed down the cave wall, and now Oenghus charged across the cavern floor and swept the blossom in a crushing embrace.
“I’m fine, Oen.” Aside from the thorns embedded in her arms. The nymph grimaced as her guardian plucked them out, but to her credit, she stood her ground. She was heartier than she appeared.
Acacia had never met another nymph like her, and she had encountered far more of the faerie than most people.
“We shouldn’t linger.”
“Agreed, Captain,” Marsais said. “There are always plenty of Reapers in the deep, but I think the burning Blighted will keep them at bay for now.”
Oenghus nodded to Acacia with respect. “You made quick work of that thing, Captain.”
“Killing should always be quick. Did those Reapers attack you, Isiilde?”
She turned away from the half-eaten corpses. “Yes.”
“You killed them?” Oenghus asked in surprise.
“I used a bolt to knock them back.”
Oenghus beamed down at the redhead with, Acacia noted, what could only be fatherly pride. No man was immune to a nymph’s allure, save her kin. But if Oenghus were indeed Isiilde’s father, as she suspected, the implications were serious—both from the Blessed Order’s viewpoint and that of Kambe.
Acacia pushed the matter aside, and turned her back on the pair to search for an exit. A nymph’s illegitimate bloodline was the least of her worries.
When Lucas and Rivan arrived, Acacia moved farther into the ruins, shining her shield over the ancient stone. Considering her throbbing shoulder, she did not much like the idea of climbing back up the way they’d come.
“That’s ugly,” Rivan panted. He was out of breath, and doubled over, resting his hands on his knees.
“So are those,” Oenghus jerked his chin towards the stagnant pool. “I bloody hate Stone Lickers. You fall in that pit, Sprite, and there’s no warrior alive who could survive.”
“Can we leave?” The nymph’s voice drifted eerily in the empty expanse.
Marsais reached up to stroke his goatee, but found it shorter than before and scowled at the empty air between chin and chest. The strange coins chimed in response. “Without exploring? Where has your curiosity gone, my dear?”
“I left it above ground.”
“That’s not a bad thing, especially here,” Acacia pointed out.
Marsais sighed. “One can always count on the Blessed Order to smother the thrill of adventure.”
“I’d prefer a more comfortable adventure,” Isiilde admitted.
“But who knows what we’ll find,” Marsais mused. “There might be a feather bed buried down here.”
“Good,” Oenghus grunted, “you can use it to float us all topside.”
Chapter 21
Curiosity won out. After they’d patched their wounds with Brimgrog and bandages, they picked their way through the ruins.
Marsais wove a light that illuminated every facet of the cavern. It was remarkable. His light rune shone like the moon, hanging bright and blue overhead.
Underneath the fallen remains of the temple lay another ruin—layers upon layers of rock, all toppled during the Shattering. Something caught Isiilde’s eye. She bent to retrieve a small stone, and dusted it off. It was a piece of marble, etched with whorls. She showed it to Marsais.
“Ah,” he said, plucking it from her fingertips to study. “Elven artwork.”
“I thought they favored the forests. Why would they build underground?”
“The Lindale revered the Sylph and cherished her realm, including what lay underneath.” Marsais gestured at their surroundings. “In other words, everything beautiful.”
“There are Gnomish markings on some of these pillars, too,” Acacia noted.
“What are we looking for, exactly?”
“There was a city here once, Sir Lucas,” Marsais replied. “We might be able to salvage something.”
“It’s a two-thousand-year-old ruin. What are you expecting to find aside from a Reaper’s lair?”
“I’ll know when I find it.”
A quick laugh escaped Rivan’s throat. Lucas glared at the young solider, who quickly swallowed his amusement.
The group wandered inside a ring of standing stones. The dome top had shattered, and was strewn across the cracked floor. Veins of gold and silver shot through the rock, and a shallow basin sat in its center—a fountain, dry and crumbling.
Isiilde looked up, and a sky of glowing lichen greeted her, shining like greenish stars. Given the underground lake in the center—the fountains, precious metals, and intricate carvings—the cavern must have been beautiful once.
“Look at this.” Acacia crouched in front of a crumbling wall, pulling away vines to reveal a relatively intact bas-relief. Three rings intertwined with three wolves. Each wolf held the other’s tail in its mouth to form a continuous, never-ending cycle.
“What is it?” Rivan and Isiilde asked as one.
Rivan peered over her shoulder, and when she glared at him, he took a step back.
“I think this was a temple to the ol’Father.” Acacia pointed at each of the circles.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Rivan said.
“I doubt you would,” Acacia said. “He was an Eldar god who was worshipped long before the Shattering. There are only a few surviving texts that mention the god, and those that exist are forbidden by the Blessed Order.”
“Hah!” Oenghus barked from the far edge of the pillars. “I knew you weren’t as straight-laced as you give off.”
“I’m a Knight Captain. At my rank, the Order assumes one is immune to heretical teachings.”
“And are you immune, Captain?” Marsais asked.
“If a mere myth turned me towards the Void, then I wouldn’t be much of a Knight Captain, now would I?”
“Did the ol’Father serve the Void?” Isiilde asked, tracing the carving with her fingertips.
“No.”
Rivan and Isiilde waited for more. And Acacia pressed her lips together, weighing the mandates of her Order versus knowledge.
The latter won out.
“These three rings represent the moons: the Silver Crescent of the Sylph, the Red Moon of the Keeper, and the Dark One’s moon.”
“The moons have had many names,” Marsais mused.
“The ol’Father was the Weaver of Fates and Time. The wolves in the symbol represent endless time and his control of it. Myth claims that Time holds no sway over the Eldar god—that he alone knows the Fate of the Sylph and Void. He’s a god who stands apart from all others.”
“Oh, Fate is just a word made up by those afraid of the future,” Marsais grumbled, scratching his chest. “May I make one correction, Captain?”
“Of course.”
“I believe your Order may have changed the meaning of this symbol from truly blasphemous to only slightly blasphemous. So brace yourselves, my good paladins.” Marsais ensured he had their attention before continuing, except for Oenghus, who was rooting around the ruins like a disgruntled badger. “Those rings do not represent the moons; they represent the Sylphs.”
“There is only one Sylph,” Lucas objected.
“Those who worshipped the ol’Father believed there were originally three Sylphs—three sisters.”
“You’re right; that is blasphemous,” Acacia said.
“Not to the people who built this temple. There is an old legend, long-buried, regarding the birth of Life and the Void.”
“It’s best left lost, then.”
“Ignorance is viler than knowledge,” Marsais said.
Lucas bristled, but his captain cut him short. “It’s only a story, Lucas.”
“Ah, eons condensed into a few words,” Marsais whispered hoarsely. “How quaint.”
“What did the old ones say about the Sylphs?” asked Rivan.
“This first circle is the Sylph that you worship, the Goddess of All—she holds the essence of Life itself. And here, the second is her sister Chaos.” Marsais traced the last circle with care: a brush and caress, and a faraway stare.
A wave of disorientation swept through their bond. He closed his eyes and swayed, but no one noticed except for Isiilde. As quickly as it happened, he recovered and met her worried eyes with a shadow of sadness. “The third sister is Death.”
Abruptly, Marsais rose, dusting off his knees and turning to the cavern.
“What happened to the Sylphs, sir?” Rivan pressed. “Why aren’t all three still worshipped?” The young man glanced at Lucas, and cleared his throat. “I mean if they lived at all. How does the story go?”
