Chapter Twenty One

  A Cord of Three Strands

  Misha held her son Dana tightly in her arms. Both of them were sobbing terribly. Nephis was proud, but each of them knew they could not waste any time celebrating. The Sons of Barthus had not all been in that decrepit fort. It was merely a holding ground for the boy. What plans they had for Dana were beyond Nephis. As far as she could tell, he did not possess any great life within him. He was, by all accounts, just a boy. She turned to hurry on Kugo and Moss. Moss watched Dana and his mother with great interest, cocking his head and staying still and silent. But it was when she saw Kugo that she was taken aback, stunned into silence. He was still as stone, still poring over that letter he found. She could not see beyond his wooden mask, but she was sure of his expression. Ice. Bitter cold, as if his very soul was frozen through. Goose bumps ran up Nephis as she looked at him, snapping, snapping at the page.

  “Kugo,” she called gently, fearfully, “It’s time to go.”

  “I cannot,” a voice hissed from within him, like air escaping from the bowels of stone; she was not even sure if his tongue moved to speak — only the voice, leaking from the mask. “I have to follow. They are going to get away.”

  “That they are,” Nephis responded, “The Sons of Barthus are, with those people. So enough of that letter, let’s go.”

  “No,” he turned to her. The foul mask snarling at her. She was sure that his expression was the same. Only blue eyes glinted from within. As blue as ice. “I’m following after them. The Rod of Three Parts.” His voice was like gravel stuck, grinding against itself, snapping and breaking into shards that cut flesh and spilled blood.

  Nephis stepped back in fright. “You can’t leave us!” she cried out, and the pleasant home of Dana and Misha began to take notice. “Come on, let's not stay in here, we will be a bother to a happy reunion.”

  Reluctantly, Kugo left to stand outside the home. The still swamp water filled the air, and stuck to the skin, the scent of dying leaves all around them. “I’m not going with you,” Kugo said, “I can’t miss this chance. Please understand me,” he pleaded with her, almost begging her to come with him, but he could not say it, to bring her into his blood feud.

  “No!” Nephis was aghast at what had overtaken him. She had never seen him quite like this, frozen through. “What about the oracle, that whole town. They’ll never be wed if we don’t help them. Who knows what is being done to them!”

  “They’ll be fine!” Kugo cracked, “They’re not going anywhere! But I have hunted this Rau since before I ever knew his name.”

  “They will not be fine,” Nephis replied sharply and quietly, “I was in there, with that creature, I cannot let them stay.”

  “You were fine,” Kugo hissed. “I am going.”

  “Kugo, you promised me!” she cried, “You swore to be my blade!”

  Kugo did not answer, but only turned his gaze. Then, that fat man who first greeted them so terribly, who had tasked them to help find Dana, who had not followed after, passed by. And the ice seized Kugo again. He turned his face from Nephis and grabbed the man by the shirt. “You owe us money. Hand it over,” Kugo snapped.

  “I don’t have it!” the man stammered, “I tried to collect it, but we don’t have it!” He was pathetic, Kugo thought, blathering. But as he looked into the frightened eyes, wide and trembling, Kugo loosened his grip. “Go on then,” he said in defeat, “I won’t hold it above you, now go.”

  And then the man ran off, the dock trembling beneath his heavy footfalls.

  Nephis was about to scold him when Kugo turned to Moss.

  “Moss, come with me,” Kugo asked him. “I could use your strength.” And he looked into the great, crystal eyes of Moss. And though Moss did not move, Kugo could feel his answer before he said it.

  “No,” Moss said, “We have to help them. I won’t leave Nephis.”

  Kugo sighed, a terrible and low sigh, from the depths of his chest. It was harsh and scratchy. “Fine! Fie and fie!” Kugo cursed, “I will do it all myself. And he stuffed the letter into his pockets and headed off to that next town over.”

  “Kugo!” Moss cried out.

  “We don’t have the time, Moss,” Nephis said.

  And she stomped off, back into the swamp, the thick mud snapping at her ankles.

  Nephis trudged through the swamp, fuming and steaming as her clothes dampened and her hair began to tumble over her face. She muttered under her breath. They had not walked more than thirty minutes before Moss took her around the waist and set her up on his shoulders. “You’re going to catch a cold,” Moss said.

  Nephis snorted. “Thank you, Moss.” She wondered where he had even picked that up.

  “Are you angry?” Moss asked.

  “Hardly!” Nephis lied. “Besides, he’d hardly be any good if his heart were not in it. That’s just how it is!” she said definitively.

  “Hmmm,” Moss rumbled, “I don’t know.”

  “It is true,” she said, “And why should I be angry? It’s you and me, Moss, just as it has been this whole journey.”

  “Kugo came along soon,” Moss rebutted.

  “Nonsense!” Nephis answered. “We were just fine, the two of us, and we’ll be just fine now.”

  Moss was unsure, but said nothing in response.

  And so they walked through the still waters and sucking mud. For hours, they ambled, passing by that old fort, their eyes peeled for signs. But nothing showed itself that day. The sun soon bowed low, and the water glistened with its gold. And for a moment, it was beautiful. And the dark came upon them. And the boughs of the trees grew in shadow and terror. Air blew over the water and brought with it cold. Though they were surrounded by dry wood, they could not light a fire. That night, Nephis slept in Moss’ arms, like a little bird in a great nest. It was cold and terrible, but at least it was not wet.

  When she awoke, she looked up to see Moss staring down at her. His great, sapphire eyes sparkling in the water light. “Good morning, Nephis,” he said. And she noticed small branches and buds sprouting from him.

  “Good morning, Moss,” she yawned and plucked the buds from him, looking them over. “Does this happen often?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. And indeed, his mossy hair seemed thicker and brighter.

  “What a strange thing you are,” Nephis replied.

  “Oh,” he sounded terribly sad, bowing his head low and dropping his shoulders.

  “Don’t be that way, Moss, it is not such a bad thing to be strange.”

  “Is it good?” he asked.

  “It can be,” she answered.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Then I will be strange every day.”

  And for another long while, they walked through the water, Nephis’ heart beating in her throat. Every second they lost was another moment the townsfolk were trapped with that devilish creature. And another vision flashed in her mind, like ripples upon water. The Knights of the Black Oak. They would be at the coast by now, or near it, no doubt reveling in their finds; in their treasures and wonders; getting one step closer to the Stone of the King. Nephis bit her tongue. And as she looked down into the water, she saw her own reflection staring back at her, and she nearly did not recognize it. A demonic scowl, much like that wooden mask. She shook it away. And in a blink, her face returned to her. What a terrible thing, she thought to herself. “Hurry on, Moss! We’ll be behind!”

  Then, as the shadows grew long, something appeared in the distance, hidden by branch and reeds. There was another fort, much larger this time, set upon an island within the swamp. Her walls were well under repair, and light trickled through the arrow slits and gaps. Shining like beacons in the plain waters. They approached slowly. Moss let her down, and they watched it for a while.

  It might have been any place. But Nephis was certain it belonged to them. For sitting outside its door was a creature, foul and thin. It was much like the two dire wolves, but longer and paler. Great jagged teeth crowded its maw, and heavy paws clawed at the dirt. An iron chain meant for a mote was bound about its thick neck, and sharp, hungry eyes lumbered through the trees. A warg, it was. More terrible than a wolf. A creature of wicked invention, bred long ago to kill and maim. Nephis had never seen such a creature before, but had read of them. There should have been only a few left, and their fur was dark, not sickly like this one. But even still, it was frightening. Behind it was the door.

  Nephis and Moss watched it, hoping it might fall asleep or be taken on a walk or anything. But it remained. Nephis stepped back so they might discuss the next step, but she stepped upon a vine that lingered low in the water, and it pulled at the trees. The leaves sang, shivering and trembling at their presence, their cry was soft, but it the fragile silence. The warg pulled his head up and looked around. Then, Nephis caught its eyes. She was still in the brush and the water, and did not know if it saw her, so she dared not move, for it might have been chance. It looked straight at her, right into her eyes. He had a low brow and a wise, bowed snout. In his dark eyes glittered some knowing. They were tired and thinking. In his skull, trapped by bone and fur, were the wide eyes of a man. And then he turned his head, continuing to search for the source of the noise. The moment of clarity within seemingly little more than a vapor. But Nephis could not move until the beast set his head down to rest.

  Slowly, the two of them crept back, watchful of any vines or branches that lay in their way. They scratched their heads in silence for a while. And then, in their silence, emerged three Sons of Barthus from the fort, each bearing a lantern. They passed by the warg, allowing him to smell them, before peacefully moving on. They left from the small island and waded into the swamp, heading west into the gnarled, rotting forest. Nephis watched for a while, watching them grow smaller and seeing where they would go. She motioned to Moss, and they crept after.

  Nephis stood alone in a clearing, waiting with a rushing heart. And eventually her patience bore fruit as around the way came three pale men in black cloaks, each baring a lantern. When they saw her, they each froze. “You cannot be here,” one said. And he drew a knife from his belt. As one, they drew closer.

  Nephis threw up her hands. “Wait!” she cried, “I am Lady Radier of Dej! I am lost, take me to my father and you will be handsomely rewarded!” She spun the lie, and they fell into her web. The Sons of Barthus stood still long enough for a great shadow to fall upon them. And with a heavy fist, they each fell into the water.

  Moss stood behind them, looking down at their still bodies. “Did I crack them?” he asked.

  “You did, Moss, good work,” she shuddered. Had they been wiser or quicker, she might be dead. But for now, they peeled the black cloaks from them, each throwing one over their shoulders, until they returned to the castle in the swamp. A single black cloak hung in the swamp, swaying from a low branch.

  With a thrumming heart and a tight neck, Nephis and Moss approached the warg, clad in black robes. Nephis held her head high and walked with as much confidence as she could muster, only stopping before the warg. It sniffed at her, pressing its fat, wet nose into her leg and side as if it were ravenous. It had left the true Sons of Barthus quickly, but it gave her a more thorough look. And it growled. Nephis froze, hardly moving an inch. She could feel its hot breath through the cotton and its powerful jaw, though it hardly bumped, she nearly fell over. And then, it settled, apparently satisfied with her. She carried on, hurrying to the door and praying there was no one behind it. It sniffed Moss for a moment, and then a moment again, cocking its head in confusion, but it let him pass with little trouble. Moss had little to smell, after all.

  Nephis pressed open the heavy door and peered in. Much to her surprise, this castle was not pitch black like the sinking fort. Indeed, it was dim, with great shadows and only faint lantern light. But light there was. The walls of the fort were tall and dark, wet with the water of the air and slick to the touch. Nephis could see no one in this dark hall, either to her left or right, and so she and Moss crept in.

  It was hot. Goosebumps ran up Nephis’ arms as a wretched scent filled her nose. The air was thickflowing as spittle, and smelled sour, of old blood and sharp rot. Nephis had to keep herself from vomiting and began to fear the worst. It was an acrid and deep dwelling scent that burrowed itself as far as it could with every breath. But within the fort was no sound, no cries of fear or bellows of guards, only the constant dripping of water. Plink, plink, plink. The sound echoed through the halls, regular and steady. They pressed deeper in.

  Neither of them had any idea of where to head, only hoping the next room would be empty, over and over again. Nephis constantly peered over her shoulder, sure that shadows were men and corners were hiding spots; these shadows stuck in her mind like thorns wrapping around her and binding her in place. But they were always only shades.

  Until, across from one hall, she saw a Son of Barthus patrolling. She and Moss stuck to the shadows for him, waiting for him to pass. And further in they went, moving past guards and vacant-eyed men with little trouble. But the deeper they were, the more terrible the castle grew. It was warm and wet, like a throat, pulsing with the ever-dripping of water. Plink, plink, plink. Always in her ear. Sweat stung her eyes. It should not have been so wicked. The summer was fading, but it was not cold. Even still, the walls were slick to the touch, and the floor seemed to bite at her, nipping her further in. And then, they came to the very stomach of the castle. An oaken door, cracked and bulging, stood before them. All this time, they had not seen a hint of the glass. She motioned to Moss to press it open.

  Behind the heavy, moaning door was a small room, no larger than any hut or hovel. But it was stuffed full of clay jars. Nephis eyes fell upon them. There must have been a dozen, all lined up against the wall. She crept closer to check within. “AAARRRGHGHHH!” A wailing filled the air like thunder.

  Their eyes whipped to the far end of the room, where one of the pallid men shrieked mindlessly, his jaw fallen to his chest and eyes pulled wide. His voice echoed throughout the keep, bouncing off the walls and filling each room. Nephis had to keep her hands to her ears. Then, the pallid man charged her, yelling – though now his voice was pathetic and weak, as if his throat had been torn to shreds. A glinting blade peeked through his robes. She stepped back, but Moss slammed into him, crushing his hand with a closed fist. In a moment, the Son of Barthus lay lifeless on the ground. But Nephis’ ears still rung from his shouting. Plink, plink, plink. Only a moment remained.

  Nephis ran to the jar to find it full of dirt and shining glass. She was sure that these were the villagers, pressed into that terrible palace. “Moss! Grab them!” she shouted and tried to lift one. It came up to her chest, but was so heavy that she could barely lift it from the floor. She tried again to pick it up, and could not. Once more, she pulled up at it, her arms burning, but they just as soon gave out.

  Then, a voice called from behind her.

  “Thief. Sneak.” It was hoarse, and spake as if speaking was unfamiliar to it, as if its tongue fat tongue was an unwieldy thing. As if it had sucked in air to form the words, as if it were eating the words. She froze and slowly turned to see the warg, bound and held in chain, staring at her. “Thief. Sneak.” It said again, its unblinking eyes far too forward on its head gazed at her. It spoke again, saying the same words, “Thief. Sneak.” Though she watched its mouth open, clacking its teeth together, she could not believe it. Then she followed the great chain to see the wizard who wielded it. His skin was like cold fat, and his eyes like ice, stabbing her, full of hate. “Sneak-thief,” he said, “You’ve come to rob me again.” His eyes lingered over to Moss, where for a moment, the hate melted into lust and envy. “Ah. And you’ve brought me a gift. Come with me, won’t you, my darling thing. My master would very much like you.” And behind him hurried a small wall of the pale men.

  Moss rushed him, a fist raised, ready to strike like sky upon the earth. And Nephis raised out her hands and began to chant a spell, for a sling of flames.

  “Andrei, sic him,” the wizard commanded in a dull voice. And the warg pounced upon Moss, tackling him to the cold floor. Nephis had nearly finished her spell, her arms shaking and her throat as dry as sand, when he pulled aside one of the Sons of Barthus, gripping him tightly by the arm. And he spoke a single, strange word.

  “Bind.”

  The Son of Barthus fell to the ground, a thousand cuts upon him, but no blood sprinkled the ground. Nephis would have shouted in shock if she were not trying to cast the spell. And then, as she tried to speak, the world turned. She realized she had forgotten to finish and found she could not speak. And the world spun, and ground came to meet her. She slammed into the floor, able to do little more than wriggle. Pain shot up her arms as she looked around. How? She wondered.

  The wizard walked with slow steps, casting another spell, this one ordinary and long-winded, until Moss stood still. “My, you must be surprised,” he chuckled. “But I am surprised as well. To use yourself as a catalyst, I hadn’t thought you so desperate. Unless?” he paused, and a silver glint appeared in his eyes. “A sorcerer?” he muttered. “Oh, Lovely. You’ve brought me two gifts.”

  She tried to wriggle out, to escape these invisible bindings. He knelt down next to her, an amused look upon his face. “You are surprised. A mage must know the first principles of magic, no? That it is life? The more of it in your breast, the more powerful you shall be. A sorcerer should know that? So why are you agog?” He spoke quite genuinely, but his smile betrayed him, a mocking, glinting smile.

  And they were dragged from the room of glass and into the dark of a dungeon, where good use would be made of them.