Page 69 of Tusk Love

“Over my fucking corpse!” came a deep bellow from above, and Oskar dropped into the cargo hold, kicked Wensleydale in the stomach, then took a running leap at Accanfal and tackled him to the floor.

Chapter Forty

Oskar

Oskar was admittedly startled when Selene popped out of the ship’s hatch in the clothes that the Opal of the Ocean had been wearing—but not so startled that it could override the instinct stamped into every drop of blood in his body to get to Guinevere as soon as possible.

He swung first, his sword already dripping with the blood of Accanfal’s hapless crew. Oskar had taken ten men with him in his frantic race to the docks, where they’d spied one ship leaving port—a tri-masted wooden barkentine with Marquesian sails. They’d rowed out to it, and Oskar had lost seven men battling the crew and the remaining three in taking down Bharash, the dragonblood.

Now there was only Selene left to tangle with on the upper decks. Oskar’s blade landed in the intersection of her two daggers, swiftly produced from the folds of her formal skirts, but he had taken her by surprise as well, her stance unsteady, her grip loose. In the tussle that followed, he didn’t relinquish his advantage, didn’t give her anyopportunity to switch from purely defensive maneuvers; he rained blow after blow upon her, forcing her backward across the ship. He had to save Guinevere. He might already be too late.

At last, Selene collided with the railing, and she stumbled. With another powerful slash, Oskar knocked one dagger out of her hand. The mercenary lunged at him with her remaining blade, grazing his cheek, but he caught her by the elbow—and pushed her overboard.

The distant splash of a body hitting the water barely registered as Oskar turned and ran for the hatch. He flung open the door, and he was barreling down into the cargo hold—into a world of shadows and flickering light—and he was brawling like a man possessed. And hewas—by fury. He was running high on it and the adrenaline it produced, insulating him from the burn of frostbite on his right arm and the dagger wound on his cheek. Accanfal’s hollow bones cracked under the onslaught of his fists.

But fighting an eisfuura was trickier than fighting most other humanoids. The anatomy wasn’t where it should have been. The feathers were slippery. It wasn’t long before Accanfal tore his right arm free, and there was a flash as the emerald ring on one talon took on an unnatural luminescence, colliding with Oskar’s shoulder…

Oskar hissed as a million bolts of static shot through his body, prying his veins apart like burning knives. He didn’twantto collapse—not when Guinevere was still in danger—but he did, laid out on his back on the floor, curling in on himself as the lightning wreaked its havoc on his system. Through the dark haze of pain, he saw Accanfal’s blurred form tower over him, more emeralds glowing around his wrist. He reached for his sword, but the nerves on his hand were deadened, refusing to cooperate, and a dozen knives fashioned from pure ice came barreling toward him.

Oskar somehow managed to roll away from the initial attack, the knives sinking into the floorboards after him in a glittering trail. But his luck was quick to run out. Another flash of frost, and then—

It was the chill he felt first. Followed by the pain. He tried to move, but there was resistance, something tearing. He went still.

As the clamor in his head died down, he became aware of the spearof ice in his chest. It had shot straight through and into the teak underneath, pinning him to the floor.

He braced himself for Guinevere’s screams, knowing that the sound would cut much deeper than any weapon could, but the only person carrying on was Wensleydale, and Oskar certainly didn’t care abouthim.Guinevere was silent. He craned his neck and looked at her for the first time since he’d entered the cargo hold.

There was an unearthly blankness on her face, but she was pale, her violet eyes fixed on him, her lips moving soundlessly.

“No help there, my friend,” said Accanfal. He waggled Guinevere’s totem at Oskar. “Gently bred misses brought up in the Shimmer Ward don’t know how to fight. Not without their elementals.”

Oskar ignored him.It’s all right,he tried to tell the woman he loved. The woman he had hurt beyond measure. The woman he couldn’t save now.It’s all right. I’m sorry.

But the words refused to come. His mouth was also not cooperating. Nothing was working as it should have been. The bracelet on Accanfal’s wrist blazed with eldritch light once more, and a new knife crystallized out of thin air, the tip of the blade poised directly over Oskar’s forehead.

“Stop.” Guinevere’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed through every chamber of his heart.

Accanfal arched a downy brow. “Oh, sonowyou’re ready to negotiate.”

“Yes.” Guinevere was still speaking softly, but Oskar knew her well enough by now to recognize the steel behind it. “If I open the trunk, you’ll heal Oskar with your magic. Then you’ll let him and me go. Those are my only terms.” A dismayed cry rose up from Wensleydale, and she sighed. “Oh, all right. His lordship, too.”

“Done,” Accanfal said at once. “The Duskmaven’s Parure includes a scepter of healing. But, from the looks of your sweetheart, there’s no more time to waste, eh?”

Guinevere stumbled over to the trunk and stretched her arm above it, pulling back the lilac-and-silver sleeve of her bedraggled gown. With a flick of Accanfal’s wrist, the knife that had been hovering overOskar was sent zipping in Guinevere’s direction. It sliced cleanly across the length of her arm, leaving a streak of bright red blood in its wake.

Oskar was powerless to do anything but watch. He watched the blood drip in scarlet beads from copper skin, landing on the lid of the trunk. He watched the pearwood respond at once, an assortment of runes forming across its surface in swirls of molten silver. There was a noise like the grinding of celestial gears, followed by a sharpclick—and the lid popped open.

And there they were.

Nestled amidst folds of red velvet, the golden ornaments took what little lantern light there was in the cargo hold and magnified it a thousand times over. They shone like fire—a crown, a scepter, earrings, brooches, and several rings, all adorned with dark emeralds in various cuts and sizes.

Oskar was actually sort of glad that he was on the brink of death at that very moment. Otherwise, he would have broken out into a cold sweat at the realization that he and Guinevere had blithely carted several fortunes’ worth of gold and gemstones around Wildemount. Gods, the number of times they’d left the trunk unattended while they f—

“Finally,” breathed Accanfal. He went to the trunk while Guinevere ran to Oskar and knelt by his side.

“You came after me,” she murmured. Her hair hung around him like curtains of moonlight. His vision was darkening at the borders, but he forced himself to stay conscious, memorizing every inch of her face. That amazing face. He could have asked for no better last sight.

“Oskar. Hang on. We’ll heal you. You’ll be okay.” She squeezed his hand. “The scepter?” she called out to Accanfal over her shoulder.

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