The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  A mournful wail filled Rashk’s ears. Wind snatched at her mantle, and she took a step back. There was silence for a heartbeat, and then a blast of air hit her full on, knocking her to the side. She scrambled on the narrow walkway, feeling empty air beneath her foot. She threw herself towards the rampart wall and the gale released its hold. Huddled against the stone, Rashk watched as the fog parted.

  A fell wind rushed in from the sea, plunged over the walls, and into the courtyard, kicking up a whirlwind of ice. The fog was sucked into the cyclone like a syphon, and for the first time in too many days, Rashk saw the sky: a dull, wintery grey.

  Eyes watering, she squinted through the wind at Tulipin. The gnome hovered in midair, surrounded by a vortex of runes. And below, in the bailey, doors flew open, shutters were ripped from their hinges, and the summoned Fell Wind tore through castle corridors.

  The roar battered her eardrums and stole her breath. It sapped her strength and put fear in her bones. A tornado screamed in the bailey, and she dug her claws into the stone as it threatened to rip her from the wall. And then all at once the storm let go.

  The Spine loomed overhead. It was bathed in bluish runes, with veins of power climbing its impossible height. But there was a crack in the Barrier—at the Storm Gates. The doors had not fully closed. Thick ice filled the gap, freezing them in a half-closed position. Hope lay in that crack between doors.

  Encased in a Barrier of her own, Thira strode across the rampart until she had an uninterrupted view of the Storm Gates. She raised a slim vial, and uncorked it, letting the wind snatch it from her fingers. The Lore came sharp and precise from her lips—not a word out of place, each one clipped with command.

  The vial burst into flames. Fire roared towards the whirlwind with a conflagration of heat. Tulipin thrust his hands towards the Storm Gates and the fiery tornado responded. It moved towards the gates, between the guardian statues. The ice began to melt. Tulipin pushed the storm through the gap, and mist and fire followed. But the howl of wind did not disappear, a remnant churned at the entrance.

  A storm of ice burst from the gates. It snuffed the fire, shattered the weaves, and slammed into Tulipin. The gnome fell over the rampart wall. Rashk sprang up and reached over the wall. Her fingers locked around his ankle. She hauled him up and shielded him with her body. He was unconscious.

  Eventually, the ice lessened, and the storm died. She nudged her hood back, dislodging snow, and squinted towards the Storm Gates. The doors were nearly glazed over with a solid wall of ice. There was a crack, and out of that hole, the fog seeped back out, into the open air. The elemental in the great hall was pushing the fog from its domain. The fog crept back over the bailey.

  Another voice took up the chant. Thira did not possess Tulipin’s skill with air, but the mist had already been gathered, and now she corralled it with a weave of her own. The woman was utterly focused, keeping her eyes on the whirlwind even as she walked down the rampart steps. Thira hit the ground, and strode through the corpse-littered field, making for the gates that led to the outer bailey.

  Rashk flung the gnome over a shoulder, and raced down the stairs. A solid missile shattered on the stone by her head. Rashk glanced over her shoulder. A group of guards had emerged from a tower door. Another hail of bolts were fired. She snatched a shield from a fallen guard. The whirlwind scattered the missiles, but a few flew true. She raised her shield, catching bolts. The guards paused to reload.

  Rashk cursed the aimless flurries and the wide open bailey. There was no cover—nowhere to lurk and strike from shadows—not with a tornado of runes lighting the sky ahead like a beacon.

  She put her head down and ran. Ahead, Thira and the imprisoned mist disappeared through the bailey gates.

  The Rahuatl could neither speed the woman up nor expect her to fight. The entirety of Thira’s focus was on the cyclone. Rashk was alone, with a squad of soldiers on her heels, and a useless gnome bumping against her back.

  “Close the gates!” she yelled. The gatehouse looked abandoned. But a face peeked out the gate tower. She repeated the order.

  It was a small chance, but she had to take it. Confusion was a double-edged sword, and what Tharios used to his advantage, Rashk could also use to hers.

  Rashk sprinted through the tunnel, and as soon as she sped out the other side, the portcullis slammed shut. But the gates were designed to defend—not keep soldiers from getting out. It would only slow the pursuing guards.

  Rashk darted across the outer bailey as Thira manipulated her cage of air runes, squeezing the cyclone through the arena gates. When the air stilled, Rashk set Tulipin in a protected alcove, and then moved into a shadowed archway. From there, she watched the walls across the outer bailey. She touched one piercing after another, activating Wards of Protection and Weaves of Speed. When all her enchantments flared to life, Rashk drew her kukris.

  Across the bailey, the portcullis opened, and Isle guards poured through the gates. A buzz pricked Rashk’s ears, and she turned in time to see a dome of crackling green runes flare to life over the arena pit. Mist swirled under the Barrier. It did not seep out.

  Thira stepped beside the Rahuatl. “It’s done.”

  Across the field, soldiers advanced. Too many. “I would like your mammoth dog now,” Rashk admitted.

  “So would I.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brinehilde trotted beside her kinswoman, following a long line of soldiers. She was a head and shoulders taller than most men, and she could see over the silver helms. Through the bobbing heads, she caught glimpses of a tattooed back. Tharios. So close. Her hand gripped the hilt at her hip. She ached for her staff, but any weapon would do. If she could only get close enough.

  They marched through the wide hallways, towards the King’s Walk and the gap in the shield. Morigan had noticed the breach on their way inside. Right at the entrance of the King’s Walk, the border of the Spine. Aside from the Titan Gates, it was the only other entrance to the tower. The coincidence had not been lost on the two women.

  Brinehilde passed through the hole in the shimmering ward. Its edges were frayed, like a tear in cloth, as if someone had picked those threads from the very weave.

  The stream of soldiers marched through the troop gate. Fresh air cooled Brinehilde’s cheeks, and she blinked at the grey sky—not the smothering blanket of mist, but a crisp winter day. Snow crunched under her boots, and corpses. The frozen dead were scattered across the bailey—residents who had been lost to the fog and confusion.

  “The mist is gone,” Morigan said at her side.

  Brinehilde looked down at her thoughtful kinswoman. There seemed to be an idea forming in that head of hers. Morigan touched her arm. “Tharios is headed towards the bailey gates. Whatever he is planning—I need to alert the castle that he’s a Bloodmagi.”

  “How?”

  “I know every face in this castle. I’ll send a Whisper to them all.”

  That seemed like a lot of Whispers, but Brinehilde didn’t waste breath on doubts. She knew little of Wise Ones and their runes. “I’ll distract them.”

  Morigan glanced at her. “Careful, Hilde.”

  “Aren’t I always?” She gave the stout woman a good nudge. With a quick, parting squeeze, Morigan slowed, falling back in the line.

  Brinehilde stumbled, crashing into the soldier in front of her and knocking another to the side. A clash of steel and armor disrupted the orderly march. Soldiers scattered, but discipline triumphed as the troop fell back into order. She muttered an apology, gazing over their heads. Morigan was gone, likely ducked into one of the buildings along the ramparts.

  Slowly, she began working her way towards the front of the line, keeping her eyes fixed on the crimson-robed Bloodmagi. Sever the head and the body would follow. That was her plan at any rate.

  The troop reached the bailey gates, and trotted into the tunnel. Everlight flickered in the dim murder holes that glared from above. In the center of the tunnel, a Whisper slammed into her ear
s. It was not a soft touch, or a flutter of wings, but a roar.

  Tharios is a traitor, a Bloodmagi, and the cause of this horror. Gather in the outer bailey. Either fight him or flee!

  Brinehilde blinked at the message. It was clear as day that it was Morigan’s voice. Everyone knew the healer, and what was more, everyone trusted her. Ahead, she heard a laugh. It was like cool silk brushing steel, and it grated on her ears. Tharios was amused.

  The troop spilled from the tunnel. “Form up!” At the Quartermaster’s order, the warriors formed a loose, three-rank formation. Brinehilde jostled her way into the second rank. The troop slowed to a march.

  Rashk and Thira stood across the wide outer bailey. A runic shield shimmered behind them. The mist had been trapped in the arena shield—an intact Barrier, unlike the patchy, threadbare one that covered the Spine.

  As the soldiers marched across the field, snatches of murmurs rippled through the lines. Morigan had planted a seed of doubt. And they were not the only ones to appear on the field. Isle Guards ventured onto the ramparts and castle residents drifted from their shops and homes.

  Brinehilde barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the sleek, black head of Tharios. He was flanked by a gnome and the towering Quartermaster. She’d have to take care, and be quick.

  The troop advanced, stopping within shouting distance of the two women. Snow stirred fitfully in the empty space between enemies. Brinehilde scanned the area, searching for more footprints, any sign that others were waiting, but the snow was only marred by two sets of lonely prints: Rashk and Thira. There was nowhere to go. The arena was a dead end.

  “Do you really think anyone will answer that pathetic plea?” Tharios asked. His voice carried, amplified by a weave.

  “I expect them to run,” Thira stated.

  “Wise Ones are skilled at that,” he acknowledged. “It’s a pity. I should have liked you on my side. After all, you helped me gain the throne.”

  “An unforgivable mistake for which I plan to make amends.”

  Tharios turned towards the watching soldiers on the ramparts and the castle residents who had dared venture outside. “Morigan is mistaken.” His voice carried without effort to every corner. “Our kindly healer means well, but this woman is the traitor.”

  Soldiers shifted, blacksmiths and stablehands looked to each other.

  “Come peacefully, Thira. And I will show you mercy.”

  “He lies!” Eldred’s voice boomed across the field. The dwarf stepped from the shadow of the bailey gate with Ielequithe at his side, and a mass of guards behind them. With a word, he activated his wards, and his armor flared, pulsing with threat.

  In the confusion, in the shifting front lines, Brinehilde struck. “For the Sylph!” she roared with a scrape of steel. The blade gleamed in the winter light. She slashed at Tharios’ neck, but the Archlord was quick. He lurched forward. The tip of her blade sliced a fine red line across the back of his neck.

  Something caught on her own body, but her vision was filled with the man in front of her. Tharios swiveled with a weave on his lips, and she stabbed. The tip bit flesh, and something more. A tattoo on his bare-chest had come to life—a thick serpent that dripped inky blood. The scaled creature dropped to the snow. And Brinehilde followed; her legs gave out.

  Swords flashed, and her body jerked with each swing. It was so very distant. War swept over the bailey on beating wings, but she felt nothing—no pain or fear, only peace. If Morigan had sown doubt, then Brinehilde had sparked resistance. She bled into the snow, clutching that final thought to her heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  The cutter creaked along at a snail’s pace, groaning to the steady call of the lead line. Isiilde sat with her back against the shrouds. She was alone in the mist. It blanketed everything, but then that was its purpose—to conceal and soothe. She found it both ominous and comforting.

  On this moody, fog shrouded sea, it was cold, and she had traded her silken wrap for warmer clothing days ago. But the chill barely touched her. In the tops, Isiilde was alone with her fire. A steady flame burned in her breast, as indifferent to the cold as a campfire.

  As comforting as it was, she ached for conversation, for the cycle of King’s Folly laid out before her and a worthy opponent plotting across from her. The thought twisted her heart.

  The lump of flesh beating in her breast felt like a bird trying to fly—trapped in a cage of bones—heavy one moment, and airy the next. She wished she could tear her heart in two and offer one piece to Marsais, and keep the cold half for herself. Feeling hurt, and she was tired of it.

  “Sprite?” A voice tried to whisper from below, but it bounced and echoed in all directions, hitting the water and sticking in the fog.

  Isiilde peered over the edge. Her ears twitched. A face looked out of the grey. Oenghus clung to the ratline, and the rope quivered with his grip. Unless there was a rock to anchor himself on, her father was afraid of heights.

  “I have food for you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at the man. “I have my own.”

  “Would you come down here?” he whispered, eyeing the tricky tangle of ropes that would force him to go up and around the platform.

  “Are you going to bellow at me some more?”

  “No,” he spluttered. “I haven’t bellowed at you for days.” His entire body sighed. She ducked back from the edge, and stared at the mast, tracing the maze of lines and knots as she considered her options. After a minute, she heard the rigging creak, and felt the giant making his way up.

  She poked her head back over the edge. “I was going to come down.”

  “Well, you didn’t,” he huffed. Oenghus squeezed his bulk through the lubber’s hole, and stood on the platform, gripping the ropes with an iron hand.

  “Have you seen any more fires?”

  “Only the lanterns on deck.”

  Oenghus handed her a linen handkerchief. She unwrapped the offering of bread and dried fruit, and stared at the food.

  “Might as well save your own provisions.” He sounded doubtful, but she had assured him that there was plenty of food in her pouch.

  “Would you lie to me, Father?”

  The use of father threw him off guard, and he blinked. Whenever she used the endearment, mist clouded his eyes. “What?”

  “Would you lie to me?” she repeated.

  “No.”

  “But you have withheld the truth.”

  “Not saying something is different than lying.”

  “That sounds a lot like something Marsais would say.”

  Oenghus tugged on his beard. “Well I’ve known the ol’bastard long enough.”

  “Is this food drugged?”

  “What the Void, girl?”

  “Answer me,” she insisted.

  “No.”

  “Do you plan on stopping me from coming with you?”

  He looked into the bleakness. “No,” he said faintly, and settled beside her. “In Nuthaan, a man, woman, or child who has seen battle is considered a warrior. Doesn’t matter if it’s a child who defended a sheep, or a farmer defending his land. Same goes for a woman who has given birth. Your life is your own now, Isiilde. What you do with it is up to you. I won’t dishonor you by taking away that choice.”

  She studied him, and after a moment’s consideration, took a bite of the bread. It was full of seeds and nuts and a doughy mixture. Unappetizing but filling. It took a long time to chew a single bite.

  “Acacia said that you were threatening to leave me behind.”

  “I was threatening—that’s all,” he admitted. “I won’t stop you, but that doesn’t mean I want you to come.”

  “I know.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “No choice in the matter.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “I’m not one to turn away from what needs doing.”

  Isiilde lifted her head, and looked him in the eye. “Why do you imagine that your
daughter would be any different?”

  His throat caught. He swallowed down a lump. “I never have.” On impulse, he raised an arm, and put it around her shoulders, drawing her close. “You keep your wits about you, Sprite.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had any,” she admitted.

  A laugh rumbled from his chest. “Neither have I.” He took out his pipe and the little tool he used to clean the bowl. She found the gentle sounds of her father preparing his pipe soothing. “Do you uhm...want to talk about the other day? With the fire?”

  “Should I?”

  “Yes.”

  Isiilde opened her hand, palm towards the grey sky, and with a soft whisper, she called to her fire. A flame sprang to life, dancing on her skin. Oenghus’ hand stilled, his pipe forgotten.

  “It burns inside of me now,” she confided. “So bright that it’s more real than the wood beneath me now.”

  “And what about the fire on the cliffs?”

  “I was angry.”

  Oenghus digested her words. When he spoke, it was with slow care. “A berserker feeds off rage and pain. He pours it into his blows, but a berserker is limited by his own flesh and blood.”

  “Not you.”

  “No,” he admitted. “I can feel the earth, the rocks, the storms in the sky.” Oenghus took a deep breath, and exhaled with a puff. “Most berserkers don’t ever learn to control the rage. It took centuries before I learned. And in that time, I killed far too many allies.”

  “You set them free,” she said, her voice so cold and sure.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I killed friends, fellow warriors, men who didn’t do anything but get in my way.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  “When it’s their time,” he countered.

  “I’m not sure one less human matters in this realm.”

  Oenghus stared. His jaw nearly dropped. “Everyone matters.”

  “Even enemies?”

  “Course not.”

  “I have very few friends.”

  Oenghus narrowed his eyes. “You need more than rage to live. Trust me, I know. Eventually, it will poison you.”