The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  An arm wrapped around his waist, and then a rope was thrust into his hands. He was pulled through the water towards a staircase carved into the cliff. The Elite lined the stairs, rapidly pulling the rope through their hands. Another wave came, trying to dive down his throat. He was thrown against the cliff, but he held onto the rope. When the tide ebbed, he sucked in another breath. Hands reached for him, and he was yanked onto solid ground.

  “Go!” Nimlesh hissed.

  Two Elite ushered him up the stairway as the others reached for the paladins. As Marsais climbed, he focused on the slick stone, trying to keep it from dancing. His head was not happy. It felt like he had guzzled a keg.

  Soon, the crash of waves dimmed, and Marsais paused to catch his breath.

  “What did you do?” Acacia asked from a lower step.

  “I wove an illusion to confuse its senses,” he said with a chatter of teeth.

  “Do you think Oenghus survived?”

  The question reminded him of another: Isiilde’s Whisper. Marsais sat heavily on the step. Gathering his strength, he traced a Whisper, speaking into the weave. ‘I should ask the same of you, Isiilde.’

  ‘Are you all right? What took you so long?’ she answered immediately. ‘You sound hurt.’

  ‘You sound exhausted.’

  ‘I’m alive. Rivan is with me, and so is Elam. Kasja is dead.’

  ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘There is a cave with a stairway that leads up to the surface. It was blocked, but we managed. There are Fomorri in these ruins—on the east side. They have camels.’

  This gave him pause. His gaze strayed in that direction, on the opposite side of the channel. ‘Fomorri are dangerous warriors.’

  ‘I have a plan. Where are you? Is Oenghus with you?’

  ‘On the west side. Wait there in the ruins if you can. Stay hidden. We’ll meet you there. And no, Oenghus is not here, but he was alive last I saw.’

  ‘My plan does not involve waiting.’

  ‘Isiilde,’ he warned. But she did not reply.

  Having only heard half a conversation, Acacia clenched her jaw, waiting for news. He traced another Whisper, this time to Oenghus. Hopefully, it would keep him from bellowing out their names again.

  ‘Isiilde is with Rivan and Elam on the east side. We’ll meet you at the top.’

  Acacia’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  And for good measure, Marsais traced a final message to the giant. ‘I’m alive, if you are wondering. Thank you for distracting the Leviathan. You make splendid bait.’

  Lucas chuckled, and helped the seer to his feet. Together, they made the long trudge up the uneven stairs that clung to the cliff.

  Slowly, Marsais left a world of grey mist and entered a realm dominated by a blazing sun and charred ruins. He staggered up the last step, and dropped to his knees. A large shadow stretched over the rocky ground. He squinted up at the giant.

  Oenghus stood on the plateau, white teeth stark against the black of his braided beard. “I won.”

  “You sound winded,” Marsais wheezed.

  Oenghus crossed his arms. “Not at all.”

  “You took a shortcut,” Acacia said.

  Relief bubbled from the blue depths of his eyes as he caught sight of her. He stepped forward, and caught the Knight Captain in a hug, crushing her against his chest.

  The Knight Captain gasped. She could not breathe.

  Oenghus set her down, color rising above his beard.

  “I’m glad you’re alive too,” she said, patting his arm.

  He cleared his throat. “Aye, well, I leave the Scarecrow with you for a few hours and he comes back looking like a lion has had its way with him.”

  “I found him pinned under the Leviathan.”

  “I would have left him,” Oenghus snorted.

  “We were napping together,” Marsais corrected.

  “I’d offer you a healing, but we need to find Isiilde.”

  “She said that there are Fomorri in the ruins.”

  Nimlesh heard this last. “These ruins look abandoned. Attacked,” the sergeant noted.

  Lucas touched a deep gouge in a stone wall. “By something very large and clawed.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not the Leviathan’s land dwelling cousin,” Acacia said.

  Oenghus looked at the remaining warriors. “Is this it?” he asked. There was grief in his question.

  Nimlesh pressed his lips together, and nodded.

  Marsais counted the remaining Elite. Only fifteen had survived. Cas, the dark-haired woman whom Oenghus had been knocking against the walls, was not among the living.

  Marsais felt the gaze of warriors on him. There was accusation in their eyes, but he felt no guilt—he could not. A sea of blood already stained his hands, and if they failed the realm would drown in an ocean of it. These were warriors, not children. They knew their Fate, and so did Oenghus.

  The berserker took a deep breath, and blew away his gloom. “I need a weapon,” he growled.

  “Did you lose yours again?” Marsais sighed.

  Oenghus did not answer. He stomped away, and returned shortly, carrying the jaw bone of some long dead creature. He slapped the bone against his palm. “Better than Kilnish steel.”

  "You could have bought a kingdom with the warhammer you lost,” Marsais said, climbing to his feet. It had been a gift from King Syre to replace another one Oenghus had lost.

  “Well, now I have a bone.”

  “Shall I throw it to get you walking?”

  “Har, har, you skinny bastard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Before age and neglect had tinted its skin green, the brazen bull must have glowed like molten metal under the sun. Isiilde tried not to think of the screams that lingered inside its belly.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rivan asked.

  Isiilde cocked her head in thought. “I used to do things like this all the time on the Isle.”

  “This isn’t the Isle.”

  “You’re right.” The Isle had its own dangers, but she had grown up with those dangers, had avoided and flirted with ancient forces that would have killed Rivan in a heartbeat. In the Wise Ones’ castle, knowledge was power, and a lack of it killed. Out here, in the wilds, so much was unknown to the nymph. Unfortunately, there was only one way to learn.

  Isiilde rubbed her hands together, flexing her fingers, and preparing her mind. What would come, would come.

  Since the Fomorri appeared more interested in damaged but still standing ruins, Isiilde, Rivan, and Elam had taken refuge behind a fallen pillar. From the way the Fomorri picked through the ruins, she thought they might be scavengers.

  Two Fomorri shambled into view. One was hunched, walking with a horrible limp, sniffing at the ground like a dog. It reminded her of Kasja, dressed as it was in garbled clothing that blended with sand.

  With a soft voice, she began to weave, calling to her flame. It sprang to life in her palm, and she coaxed it with a touch, causing the flameling to swirl. She bound air and power to the flame, and then whispered her desire: the bull.

  Fire leapt to the beast’s hollow belly. She sang softly, weaving her voice through the air like the hiss of flame on a cool night. As the fire grew and danced for her devotion, she wove a spirit rune, and whispered into the weave, “Long have I lay abandoned.” She bound the Whisper to the air, and it boomed to life, coming from nowhere and everywhere in a voice that was not her own.

  Isiilde nearly squealed with delight. Elam pointed at himself, and then gestured towards his own lips.

  Why not?

  The nymph repeated the weave, only this time, Elam spoke in his own strange and foreign tongue. Perhaps the Fomorri would mistake it for Abyssal.

  It did not really matter what the creatures thought. Elam’s voice hit the air like a flight of birds screeching their way into the sky. And as the bull glowed with her fire, all seven of the Fomorri gathered around their fallen idol.

  Another quic
k weave. “Abandoned. Forgotten. Starving.” She drew out the last word until it hissed on the wind. The Fomorri retreated a step. Worried they would flee, she changed tactics. Her fingers flashed. “Stand me upright so I may gaze on the faithful.”

  The Fomorri stopped, heads turning away from one another to the glowing bull.

  “Set me right so I may repay your devotion,” she urged.

  This was the final hook. They shuffled forward, edging into the fire’s glow. Isiilde smiled with a cool twist of her lips. The nymph started singing, pouring her rage into the fire. It was trapped in a shell and she gave it release. Flames roared towards the sun. And the weakened bull burst.

  Heat blossomed like a flower over the dais. Glowing metal rained from the sky and Isiilde tucked herself under a fallen stone.

  When the wreckage had settled, and the glowing shards of copper dimmed, Isiilde peeked from her hiding place. Seven burnt bodies lay on the charred stone.

  Isiilde grinned. “That was gorgeous!”

  Rivan and Elam slowly climbed from their own cover. The two looked stunned, and more than a little fearful of the beaming nymph.

  ‘By the gods, what was that?’ a hurried Whisper came to her mind, but there was no time to answer.

  “Let’s find the camels before they run,” Rivan said.

  Elam led the way through the stone maze to the camels. The long-legged animals stood on the outskirts of the ruins, near a half-covered well and an overturned bucket.

  The scene sparked a warning in the nymph’s mind. And a moment later it was confirmed. Steel glinted in the sunlight.

  A Fomorri sprang from behind a crumbled wall. Rivan threw himself in front of Isiilde, and rammed the veiled-figure. Both men fell in a cloud of dirt and grunts. Rivan scrambled free, reaching for his fallen sword. The Fomorri raised his own, and Isiilde hurled a grease weave at his feet. He slipped. Rivan chopped, bringing his blade down on the sword arm. The falchion fell to the ground along with a severed arm, but the attacker’s cloak flew open, revealing three more hands: one with a dagger, one with a shortsword, and the last all clawed and curving.

  Fury twisted Rivan’s face. He screamed, and using the advantage of height, brought his sword down. His blow was deflected by a shortsword and claws. An attack snaked through his defense, and a dagger plunged into his thigh. The paladin reeled backward, hitting the crumbling stone.

  The Fomorri hopped to his feet with a hiss, and Isiilde shouted, calling to her fire. Flames surged from her hand, wrapping around him. He did not fall.

  Rivan staggered to his feet and charged with a bellow. His blade sliced across the creature’s neck. With gurgling, rasping breaths, the Fomorri sank to his knees, and fell forward.

  Rivan wrenched his sword from the flesh. His knuckles were white on the hilt of his weapon. He was breathing hard, glaring at the dead creature. With a sudden growl, he drove his boot into the Fomorri, and then again, jerking the body with force. Next came his sword, rising and falling, hacking at the corpse. Tears streamed from his eyes, blow after blow fell, until blood pooled into the sand. The camels tugged on their reins, trying to flee.

  “Rivan!” she whispered, urgently.

  When he did not stop, she stepped forward, touching his shoulder. He raised his sword as if to attack, but the moment he saw the nymph, reason returned. Rivan backed up, away from his enemy, and dropped the weapon as if it were poisoned.

  Isiilde bent to retrieve his sword. It was warm, the leather wet with sweat and fear, and the blade covered in ichor. “Does it help?” she asked.

  Rivan shook his head. “My family is still dead,” he whispered.

  Isiilde held out his sword, and he accepted, cleaning it on the tattered remains of the Fomorri’s cloak. “You have a dagger in your thigh,” she said.

  Rivan nodded, numbly. A moment later her words caught up with his mind, and he looked down. “I think it caught on my armor.” He reached for the dagger, and wrenched it free. Blood dribbled out, but not enough to cause alarm. He tossed the blade to the ground, and turned, walking some distance away to see to his injury, but mostly, Isiilde suspected, to collect himself.

  Elam’s eyes were wide. He had either counted wrong or missed a Fomorri while he was scouting.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Isiilde soothed. She looked to the camels, and frowned. Animals were not usually comfortable in her presence so she was glad when Elam trotted over and held up his hands, talking to the beasts in a soft trilling tongue. It seemed to calm them.

  Isiilde turned to the corpse. She nudged his cloak aside and rolled him over with her boot. A human male—but not quite. Bone horns protruded from his skull, and his face was a mottled mix of scale and skin. The scales covered most of his brown, sun-baked face, but the edges around the scales were red and swollen, and yellow sores circled his lips. He smelled of rotten meat. She wondered if it was Blight, like the hags in Vaylin.

  Careful not to touch his blood, she examined the extra arms. One looked more suited to a child, and beneath some heavy stitches maggots squirmed in open wounds. Both arms were covered with scars—neat slices that had too much rhythm to be coincidence.

  ‘Isiilde?’ She marveled at the heart-wrenching fear that a Whisper could carry, as if Marsais’ lips were inches from her ears.

  She looked over the desolation, the barren, sun-baked landscape, and the small, half-covered hole and bucket. The rush of battle had left her drained. She sat beside the bucket and wove a short but proud reply.

  ‘We have camels and a well of water.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A dust cloud heralded new arrivals. A large man led the pack, speeding ahead of the rest. Her heart swelled with relief.

  As soon as Elam recognized the leader of the pack, he burst from his hiding place and began waving his arms. “Oenghus! Bastard!” Elam yelled, gesturing at the spot where they had dragged the dead Fomorri.

  When Oenghus stopped beside the well, the boy threw his arms around his waist. “Aye,” Oenghus grunted, patting the boy’s back. “I need to teach you more Common.”

  Isiilde eyed her father. Dried blood crusted his beard, chest, and arms. It looked like he had had a rough time of it. Before she could protest, he stepped forward, plucked her from the ground and crushed the air from her lungs. She returned the hug with all her strength.

  After he set her down, the others arrived. Only half of the Elite remained. She was relieved to see Acacia, and even Lucas, in the group. She gave them all a passing glance, and looked to the lone straggler. Blood marred Marsais’ white hair, and his clothes were torn. He staggered to a stop, and sat down, hard.

  Isiilde hurried over. “You look terrible.” She touched the blood on his head, and carefully probed his skull, finding a large, swollen knot. She touched his chin, and tilted his head upwards, searching his eyes. He flinched at the light.

  “You have a concussion,” she noted.

  “I managed to weave an air rune in the water before I was knocked out.”

  Isiilde brushed his cheek, but before she could remove her hand, he seized it, pressing his lips fiercely to her knuckles. She did not take her hand away, but gripped his own with equal fervor.

  “There are seven dead Fomorri in the ruin—there isn’t much left of them. The eighth surprised us, but Rivan dispatched him.” She nodded to the paladin who was suffering through his lieutenant’s concerned inspection.

  Marsais looked towards the dead Fomorri. He climbed wearily to his feet, and they joined Oenghus, who was looting the corpse for weapons and cloak. The very idea of wearing anything that had touched that maggot infested thing twisted her stomach.

  “I’ve worn worse,” the berserker said. He bared his teeth, and slapped her on the back. “Another tale for the mead hall.”

  Isiilde was too busy trying to draw breath to reply. As Oenghus strutted over to the camels, no doubt to loot them as well, Marsais knelt beside the Fomorri. He swayed, nearly pitching forward, but Isiilde grabbed his shoulder, stea
dying him.

  “It will pass.” He waved a tired hand.

  “I did not expect the Fomorri to be human.”

  “Hmm.” He studied the man for a moment. “Fomorri alter themselves using a combination of Blood Magic and Void Rituals.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s part of their worship of Karbonek. They aspire to fiendish heights. But it’s more than that—the thirst for power is an addiction.” He plucked a maggot from the stitched over flesh that joined an arm to the man’s ribs. “The ultimate victors of all life.” He held the maggot in front of her eyes. It wiggled and writhed between his fingertips. “Maggots eat rotting flesh. Fomorri place them in grafts to help the healing process—leeches too.”

  Marsais let the reigning monarch fall to the ground. He wiped his hands on what was left of his robe. “This man is a mere nomad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His grafts are sloppy. He likely did it himself. True Grafters, as they are known, are like artists. They strive for horrific perfection. The warriors who are shaped by a Grafter are formidable.”

  “That arm—it looks like a child’s. Is it?” Grey eyes, misty with pain, met her own. She answered her own question. “Fomorri harvest the dead, and the living.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they experiment on their captives, too? As a kind of canvas for practicing?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  Isiilde’s hands curled into fists. “And Karbonek is their god?”

  Marsais dipped his chin, eyes drifting to the corpse. “The very god that Tharios seeks to release.”

  “This will happen on the Isle, won’t it?”

  “Not if we can stop it.” The use of ‘we’ was telling. At another time, she might have brimmed with joy, but not now.