Untold Tales (12 page)

Dust and grass clouded his vision. Blinded, he scrambled towards the screaming child. When his vision cleared, he saw the princess laying on her back, clutching at her leg. A dark spot grew like ink on her riding dress.

Soataen leapt from his horse and rushed to his daughter’s side the same instant that Oenghus reached her.

“Sarabian, look at me,” the emperor ordered, taking her face in his hands. Oenghus drew his blade, slicing the voluminous fabric in search of the wound. A splintered bone protruded from her shin. Soataen clenched his jaw and looked away, swallowing a pained sound. The emperor focused on his daughter, holding her gaze with his own, speaking firmly. “You are all right, everything is going to be fine.” And on and on he reassured as Oenghus examined the fracture.

“I can heal this,” Oenghus assured them both, but inwardly he grimaced at the puncture wound and the age of the child. He shoved the thought aside. Kindness would not help her now. “But it’ll need leather, Soataen.”

The lack of title went unnoticed as the two men locked eyes. Soataen nodded, and unthreaded his belt as the rest of the company arrived. Aristarchus raced to his sister’s side, but Soataen ordered the boy back.

“Now then, your highness,” Oenghus said, entering her line of sight. He bared his teeth, white against the black of his beard. “You will become a berserker today, and afterwards you’ll be stronger for it.” The young girl looked at him through a veil of tears and snot and gasping breath. “I want you to bite down on this bit of leather,” he said evenly. There was nothing worse than a soft voice when one was in agony. “I’m going to pour my Brimgrog onto your leg. It’s a bit bent is all, and the wound needs cleaning—don’t look at it,” he said firmly while her father pinned her to the ground. “Brimgrog is sacred, so it’ll burn. I want you to use that burn, Sarabian. I want you to channel it to strike fear into your enemies.”

“I don’t have any enemies,” she whimpered.

“Blackness is your enemy. You look at the sky and you keep it blue.” It was an order, the same he had given to hardened warriors on a battlefield. During a healing, the wounded faired better if they were conscious.

Oenghus nodded to Soataen, who placed the belt between his daughter’s teeth. As soon as the child bit down, Oenghus uncorked his flask, pinned her leg and poured the Brimgrog into the wound. Sarabian arched, screaming with desperation. While the princess was in the thrall of agony, Oenghus gripped the small leg and forced the bone back beneath the skin, holding it in place like a clamp.

When the burn dissipated, the girl’s eyes were rolling, but she was awake. He grunted with approval, and placed his free hand over her forehead, summoning the Lore. Oenghus waded into the currents of Life, seeking out Sarabian’s ruined flesh and taking her pain upon himself.

The Sylph’s bond was always with him in one way or another; the connection was as enduring as their spirits. Yasine held the essence of Life itself, the very source of the Gift, which was why Oenghus, a crazed berserker, found it so easy to heal. In minutes, he could heal wounds that would take the most talented of their Order days, or even weeks. Sharing a bond with the Goddess of All had its advantages.

When he withdrew his awareness, Sarabian was asleep, her features calm with rest. The emperor looked from his peaceful daughter, to her leg where the flesh was whole.

“It’s healed!” Aristarchus shouted in disbelief.

“Only a bruise,” Soataen breathed, looking at the Nuthaaninan.

“Aye,” Oenghus sat back, tugging his beard. “Helps the mind heal actually. Otherwise, the mind tends to latch onto the last flare of pain. The bruising is sort of a symbolic healing.”

“You saved her—” Emotion caught Soataen’s throat and he quickly removed his cloak and bundled his daughter up.

“Just quicker than most.”

“The horse rolled,” Soataen continued, lifting his daughter in his arms. “She would have been crushed.”

“I do what I can for anyone who needs it,” Oenghus replied.

Soataen nodded his gratitude, a slight dip of his chin that held the weight of an empire behind it.

“You should not have raced in the first place,” Aristarchus argued. The boy was near to tears.

“All choices have consequences, Aristarchus,” Soataen said. “The choice not to race, the choice to stand aside, the choice to simply watch.”

Oenghus stood, following the emperor’s gaze to the white horse. Snow held her right foreleg off the ground, standing on three, huffing with pain.

“It was Sarabian’s decision to enter the race without council, and it was Snow who threw her. It will not happen again.” Soataen nodded to one of his nearby Hounds. The same gesture that assumed everyone within range was keenly aware of the emperor’s slightest thought, so much so that a nod would communicate his will.

The guard drew a curved blade and stepped forward. It took Oenghus a moment to realize what that nod had meant. He blinked in surprise and stepped forward, planting himself between executioner and horse. “I can heal the horse,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “She’ll just have to limp back, and I’ll have her good as new in the stables.”

Soataen’s gaze turned hard and cold as granite. “I thank you, Lord Saevaldr, but my order stands.”

“Snow was just startled is all. Takes a trained warhorse to become accustomed to a berserker in full run.” Oenghus placed a careful hand on the mare, stroking her gently.

“I understand and respect Nuthaanian customs, but here, in Kambe, my word is Law. Step aside,” the emperor ordered with quiet power.

“Your daughter loves this horse, your majesty. It’s plain, even to me,” Oenghus pressed.

“Please, Father, listen to him,” Aristarchus pleaded.

“Sarabian must learn a hard lesson today—that every action, every choice leads somewhere, good or ill. She entered our contest without consultation, without plan.”

“As children often do,” Oenghus argued.

“She is not a child; she is the heir of Kambe,” there was no softness in the emperor’s voice. “Do not press me, Lord Saevaldr. I am a patient man, but when I have decided upon a course of action, I will not hear argument. I am not a man who tolerates disobedience.”

Oenghus frowned, lowering his hand to the prince’s shoulder. He nudged the boy a step back. The Hound advanced, gripped Snow’s bridle and jerked her neck up, slashing her throat. Bright blood gushed from the jugular, staining her pristine coat. The horse thrashed and slowly weakened, kneeling and finally falling as the life flowed from her body, pooling in the grass around Oenghus’ boots.

The emperor turned with his daughter in his arms, and then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Thank you again, Lord Saevaldr. As a father, I’m sure you understand.”

Oenghus looked down at the young prince. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the final death throes of his sister’s beloved horse. Oenghus squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

No, he did not understand. Not one bit.

TIME
SLIPPED
LIKE
sand through his fingertips when he wanted nothing more than to hold on to every last grain. But Time was fickle. Every night, the Sylph came, slipping through moonlight, falling into his arms.

During the day, Oenghus occupied himself with his court duties, learning, what was to him a tedious and complicated new dance. He might be an uncivilized barbarian, but that did not mean he could not adapt; however, it did mean he didn’t have to like it.

Whitemount was not unlike the Wise Ones’ Isle. But even during his apprenticeship with Marsais, Oenghus had spent as little time as possible inside his Order’s castle. When he visited the isle, he preferred to find rooms in the town. And whenever possible, to keep his sanity, that is precisely what he did in Whitemount.

He left the organization of the infirmaries to Morigan, and lent his healing talents wherever they were needed. Whitemount was not a backwater town. The city boasted many talented healers, but none were as gifted as the Nuthaanian pair. For the first time in twelve years, Oenghus began to brew potions. This was a time consuming process, one unsuited for the battlefields. Oenghus had missed the challenges brewing brought.

Unfortunately, it gave him time to think, and although the emperor had been nothing but a gentleman with Yasine, Oenghus continued to be ill at ease. As with anyone who wielded power, there were dark facets to the man.

Weeks turned into months. Winter flowed into spring, and the rains began to interfere with Yasine’s nightly visits. For two nights, the rains kept her away, and on the third, a knock interrupted his mixing.

“Come.”

The door opened, and he turned to find a harried page. “Lord Saevaldr—Wise One.” No one seemed to know what title to use for the unconventional healer. “Your presence is urgently required in the south. There has been a fever outbreak.”

“Spotted fever?”

The page shook his head. “That is what they first thought, m’lord, but now the healers fear Blight.”

“Blight in Kambe?” he barked.

“Yes, m’lord. His Majesty has asked his royal healers to assist.”

“I take it Morigan has been told?” The page nodded. “Tell her I’ll meet her in the stables.”

As the page scurried to deliver his message, Oenghus gathered supplies in his rucksack, strapped on his belt, shouldered his targe, and hooked his hammer into place. Blight spread quickly.

At the doorway, he stopped, took a last look at the wind battered balcony, touched his sacred flask, and went out into the storm.

“How the Void did you let this get out of hand!” Oenghus bellowed at a healer who was soaked to the bone and shivering in the night. The soldiers who stood guard on the other side of the barricades took their eyes off the sieged district and looked warily at the enraged berserker. Inquisitor Ashe’s presence was not helping Oenghus’ mood. The district was a day’s fast ride from the palace, a major trading port in Wyrim’s Fist, and home to a large Chapterhouse of the Blessed Order. After handing over the nymph, Ashe had taken up residence there.

On Ashe’s orders, a barricade had been erected around the entire quarter, trapping the healthy and sick in with the Blighted.

Well used to Oenghus’ bellow, Morigan ignored her kinsman. Her eyes were on the city and the main road, which was utterly void of lamplight and people.

“We thought it was the Spotted Fever,” the shivering Kamberian healer defended. “All the symptoms were present.”

“We quarantined the infected,” an older, bent woman added.

“But it was Blight,” Oenghus grunted.

“They came out of the graves on the very night the fever victims died—there were so many of them,” the shivering healer said, wiping water from his eyes. “The district was overrun before sunrise.”

“We were battling the Blighted, getting the healthy out—” the Captain of the Watch added, looking at Ashe. “The honorable Inquisitor ordered us to erect a barrier. Some of my men are still in there.”

Oenghus could have guessed that much. He eyed the makeshift barrier: wagons, timber, and some stone on the main roads, but mostly wards. The Wise One who had set the wards had fled immediately after. Wise Ones were not known for their helpfulness, but rather, they were known for the high prices they charged for their valuable skills.

“I will not risk innocent lives,” Ashe stated. “Anyone who steps foot beyond this barrier is considered infected. As soon as the rain stops, we will put it to the torch.”

Before Oenghus could bellow his reply, a shadow darted from a doorway at the end of the road. As it neared, it took shape: a cloaked figure who was running towards the barricade. A flash of eyes, a sound, the way the figure hunched over—Oenghus reacted. As the guards drew back their arrows, he vaulted over the barricade, crashing through the wards with a burst of energy. Lightning pounded into his back, grasping at his legs. It tickled.

The archers hesitated.

“Shoot!” Ashe ordered.

Arrows were loosed, Oenghus reached the cloaked figure, put his arm around the woman and her babe, and raised his shield, catching a barrage of arrows. He roared at the soldiers, shaking the surrounding buildings with fury.