The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Moving slowly, he limped on his way, descending into light. It grew bright, so bright that he could see the bottom. The rough walls were covered with the glowing moss, and the vast cavern was round as if a spear had been stuck in the ground and yanked back out. This massive cavern was like the great tower, the Spine, only in reverse. Maybe he really was in a well.

  When he stepped off that final stair, it felt odd. The ground was flat, and if he hadn’t been underground, alone and lost, he might have shouted with joy.

  Glowing moss clung to a mound on the floor by the stairs. He limped over to the mound and began pulling and tugging at the moss. When he had uncovered a patch, the boy rubbed his fingers over the underlying surface. Rust. It was metal. Brows knitting, Zoshi set about cleaning the rest. When he was done, he stepped back, studying his work. It was an overturned mining cart.

  Ignoring Crumpet’s persistent demands, Zoshi studied the ground. Twisted metal tracks ran away from the overturned cart. He edged farther into the cave. Debris littered his path: a pickaxe, a twisted piece of metal, and rusty chain. And bones. Skeletons lay in the wreckage. Lots of skeletons. The dead, he believed, should be left alone. That’s what his mum always said. But he figured he’d be one of them soon, so he might as well get familiar with his solemn friends.

  Zoshi limped to the first skeleton and crouched beside the bones. Decayed leather and rusty chain clung to the dry remains, and a sword and shield lay nearby. These were not miners, but soldiers.

  Curious, the boy moved from one to another in the dim light. A white form caught his eye, and Zoshi froze. He stared at the whiteness good and long, until his mind could make some sense of it. It wasn’t a skeleton, but a pale white warrior. The man almost looked alive.

  Chewing on his lip, caught with indecision, Zoshi fidgeted in the vastness, battling between curiosity and fear. Finally, he tiptoed closer.

  Calling the man human didn’t seem quite right. The face was too angular, the cheekbones too high, and the ears too sharp. Even for a Kamberian.

  Zoshi edged forward, eyes fixed on the man’s chest. It didn’t rise. Working up courage, he crouched and crabbed-walked closer. The strange man held a shortsword that didn’t have a spot of rust on it. Zoshi frowned. He didn’t know how to use a sword, and taking one from this man’s hand felt wrong.

  Swallowing, he reached out his arm, as far as it would go, and leant forward. With a trembling finger, he poked the pale creature. The body was cold, and it didn’t move. Definitely dead.

  The boy had once found a perfectly preserved rat in a cellar, as if the cold had chilled the animal’s blood and left its husk. Maybe the cold had frozen the man, too.

  With a shiver, he backed away, leaving the strange corpse alone. He turned his eyes to the rubble and claimed what items had been lost: a dried leather belt, a small tin box, and a knife still in its sheath. It was a large knife with a curving blade, and although its hilt was frayed, he found its blade was sharp.

  The tin box was empty, but he didn’t mind. He had other ideas for it. Using the knife, he poked holes all over the tin. When he was satisfied, he stuffed a whole heaping pile of moss inside the box. Blue light burst from the holes. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do.

  Clutching his new lantern, he limped around the giant cavern. And all the while, Crumpet hopped from track to track, rasping what could only be bird obscenities. Finally, when Zoshi had satisfied his curiosity, he limped back to a twisted track, and held up his lantern. The path disappeared straight into a gaping tunnel that swallowed his light. Zoshi felt like an ant gazing into a snake’s burrow.

  The crow flew in, leaving him no choice but to follow.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A sharp, cold wind tugged at Tharios’ half-robe, but he seemed unaffected. He leant on the balustrade, the stave under his hands, intent on the castle grounds far below. Eiji eyed the raw wound on his torso. A good many tattoos were missing, powerful rituals that had been applied to his flesh. One worked now, a ghostly spider spinning a web of inky threads over his wounds. The surrounding flesh twitched.

  Anger rippled off the Archlord, and the gnome approached cautiously. She stepped up to the gnomish crystal, putting her eye to the lens. The net of wards that covered the castle burst in the eyepiece. She fiddled with the knobs until the bailey came into focus. Here, in the Spine’s pinnacle garden, many a battle had been watched, but never so close to the gates. Eiji hopped on the balustrade and tilted the telescope as far as it would go. Clouded by the shimmering Barrier, the camp came into view.

  “Progress?” Tharios asked without turning.

  The ‘miners’ had not made much. For a split second, Eiji considered hopping off her precarious perch before answering, but Tharios was not the kind of man given to explosions of rage. She hoped defeat had not soured his temperament.

  “Slow,” she answered.

  His hand tightened on the barbed stave. A trickle of blood leaked onto the stone. In the glowing light, he looked even paler than usual, and there was a kind of tautness to his skin, like a stretched piece of leather.

  “Can we use the stave to reach the chamber?” she asked.

  “What did the runes on the Titan Gates once say?”

  “They cautioned any who dared to enter with ill intent.”

  “The wards were never meant to protect the Archlord, but rather the chamber where Pyrderi Har’Feydd opened the portal. The tear in the veil between realms is heavily warded, more so than the wards surrounding the Spine. In order for me to reopen the Gateway, I need to stand in the chamber.”

  “Are you sure we have the right tunnel?” Eiji asked.

  His knuckles went white, and more blood seeped from his palm. “The Fey showed me the path.”

  Eiji shifted, pointing her telescope towards the arena. The Fog swirled in the domed shield. Easy enough to deactivate, but now that Thira and the other Wise Ones knew the mist could be corralled, it was a pointless weapon. Eiji, however, missed its cover and the terror that had spread like a disease. She rather liked the Fey spirits.

  “Don’t fret, Eiji,” Tharios purred. “These walls have never been breached.”

  She eyed the patchy, incomplete ward that shimmered around the open air garden. Eiji had always imagined that the guardian statues protected the Spine from invaders; now, this shield felt like a cage. She did not know what would happen if she stepped through the Barrier—no one knew. If it came to it, they’d shove a prisoner through and the question might be answered, but there was nothing threatening about a prisoner. Given the warning on the Titan Gates, a person’s intent might very well trigger the ward. For now, there was a convenient tear in the weave at King’s Walk that let them come and go as they pleased.

  “There has been no word from N’Jalss,” she ventured.

  Her words lingered. Tharios had sent the Rahuatl to kill Marsais and Oenghus, and bring back the nymph. N’Jalss’ silence was troubling.

  “It does not matter if he failed,” Tharios said. “By the time Marsais and Oenghus limp back here, they will be facing a god.” He straightened and plucked the stave from the balustrade.

  Eiji abandoned her telescope and hopped down, turning to face her master. Pain etched his face. The priestess’ sword had injured him gravely. If not for his Rituals, he would be dead.

  “Where is the traitor Isek?” asked Tharios.

  “I lost sight of him after the elemental appeared. I can’t find a trace of the man. He’s likely halfway to the Bastardlands by now.”

  “I cannot stand a turncoat.” His lips twisted. “What does your Whisperer in Thira’s camp say?”

  “The paladins have arrived. And more soldiers from Drivel are on the way. Rashk is building a battering ram. She’s covering it with enchantments.”

  “How many Devout remain?”

  “Twelve.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. The Unspoken’s numbers had dwindled. “We could use the prisoners...” Eiji began, but stopped when he shook his head.


  “We’ll sit behind our walls. Once the Shadowed Dawn arrives, nothing in this realm or the next can stop us.”

  “It’s the ‘getting there’ that has me worried,” she admitted. “Thira, Rashk, and Morigan are resourceful. And skilled.” Eiji stopped there. She did not mention the battle in the bailey, and the dent it had put in their numbers.

  Tharios began to laugh; madness lurked in that sound.

  “Who knew that the healer and priestess were such formidable warriors? I should have had them gutted in the dungeon.” Tharios glanced down at the Forsaken Orb Weaver that spun its inky threads over his flesh. “Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured. His gaze strayed to the inner bailey. “Gather the dead.”

  Flurries stirred fitfully in silence as Tharios walked over the frozen dead. He was a slash of crimson against white, with a small leather-clad form trotting beside him. The pair joined six figures standing in the middle of the bailey. The cloaked figures were arranged in a circle. The Unspoken did not speak; they waited.

  Tharios looked to each faithful in turn. No sacrifice was too great for their god Karbonek. Without ceremony, Tharios drew a curved knife. Forbidden words washed over the dead. Words that grated on the ears and scratched at the throats of the archers on the rampart walls. The soldiers pressed hands to ears, doubling over in agony. Tharios sliced the blade across his arm, and blood dripped, spattering on white snow.

  A guard dragged a Wise One onto the field. Leiman staggered, fighting the man’s grip. He was stripped to the waist and covered in bruises and cuts. Who else would have let the priestess into the fold? The young man was pale, and when he saw the six Unspoken and their leader, he began to fight. It was useless. A steel gauntlet to the jaw stilled his struggle.

  Tharios grabbed the young healer by the hair, and sliced his throat with one clean jerk. Steam rose in the chill as his life pulsed from an artery. Still gripping the dying man by the hair, Tharios’ chant soared and power thrummed like a pack of wild dogs on a thin leash. He let the ritual blade fall, and teased a scarab from his chest. It fought and chattered in his hand, eager to be free. Tharios dropped the hungry spirit into Leiman’s blood, and one became a multitude. The insects swarmed the dead, slipping between lips and burrowing into wounds, settling like maggots in a new home.

  Bones cracked, bodies shifted, and the dead soldiers of the Isle rose as smoothly as puppets on strings. A forest of dead awaited the Archlord’s command.

  Tharios looked to his Unspoken. Each drew a ritual blade and without hesitation plunged the tip into their hearts. Tharios and Eiji retreated as the screeching spirits were torn from their bodies. Shadowy forms took flight, beating on the air, hungry and alive.

  “Slaughter them. Scatter them,” Tharios ordered. “Open the gates!”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Isiilde could hardly believe it: the mountains were close. As they passed into the shadow of the cliffs, she craned her neck. Sheer red rock rose from the land. It looked like a titan’s step used to reach the sun. Bits of greenery stood out starkly in the crevices and birds circled the plateau. Not vultures, but something much larger. She did not like the look of those creatures.

  Marsais walked beside her, his boots scuffing the ground. Days had passed since their game of King’s Folly, and he had hardly uttered a word. Mostly, the passing rocks underfoot had captivated his attention.

  Isiilde touched his hand, and he looked over, startled. “We’re nearing the mountain range.”

  “Hmm,” was all he said. He did not even glance at the mountains, only returned to his study of rocks. He was as gritty and dingy as the rest, but there was something more than weariness in his eyes.

  Oenghus nudged Elam off the camel. “Stay behind the camels. Use them for cover. That goes for you too, Scarecrow.”

  The words sparked the laughter of a madman, and a chiming of coins. Marsais stopped and spread his arms towards the cliffs. “They’ve been watching us approach for days. A camel won’t save us!”

  “Have you seen an ambush in your visions, Seer?” Lucas asked.

  “Does it really take the gift of foresight to answer that?” Marsais mocked. “Where there is water, there is life.”

  “Is Finnow’s Spire on the other side?” Isiilde asked, reaching for his hand. He let her take it, and dropped his other arm to his side. He seemed to deflate, and she drew him over to the camels, putting the beasts between them and the mountains. He did not object.

  “Yes,” he sighed.

  “How will we pass?”

  “There’s a pass,” Marsais replied whimsically.

  “With the way Fomorri tribes fight over territory, it’s probably more like a trap,” said Acacia. “Do we even know where the pass is?”

  The question caused every head to turn to the cliffs. From this distance, they looked like a solid wall that stretched from the tip of north to the end of south.

  Nimlesh brought out his spyglass, and put it to his eye. “We could climb over, but I do not like the look of those birds.”

  “They are large,” Oenghus agreed. “Bone vultures?”

  “More like flying reptiles.” The Elite sergeant handed over his spyglass. Oenghus looked, and grunted, passing it to Acacia.

  “They could be grafted Fomorri,” the Knight Captain observed.

  Isiilde frowned at the distant blots in the sky. Humans with wings. The Afarim lived on the Isle of Winds, but they more resembled human birds than flying reptiles.

  “What do you know of this, Seer?” Lucas asked.

  “I’m not certain it matters anymore.” There was a note of defeat in Marsais’ tone. It gave her pause. Marsais had schemed and manipulated her Fate with one goal in mind—that she remain in Mearcentia. He had walked that path through his visions, and now, despite all his careful navigating, she was here. Had she thrown his plans into disarray, or was there more? The distance between them felt like an impassable chasm.

  “Do you know anything about the mountains?” Acacia pressed. There was an alarming gentleness in the captain’s voice. It was not a demand, not an order, but said in a way one spoke to the ailing.

  Marsais closed his eyes. He pushed up his turban, rubbing his forehead. “Only from a bird’s point of view. There are wadis and cracks through the mountain range. Beyond are sand dunes, and after that, Finnow’s Spire. You can’t miss it.”

  “A bird’s point of view?” Lucas asked. “You said a Guardian told you where the Spire is—was it Yvesa?” There was suspicion in the paladin’s tone. The Guardian of Peace, a sprite, had a reputation as a prankster. Jesters and bards worshipped her.

  Marsais arched a surprised brow. “Did I?”

  “Yes,” Acacia nearly growled.

  While his captain did not growl, Lucas did. “I warned you, Seer. I will have no more of your games.”

  “A game?” A sharp laugh rose from Marsais’ throat. He took a step towards the knight, gaze as intense as the piercing sun. “I assure you, this is not a game. Would you like the truth?”

  “Yes,” Lucas bit out.

  “A dragon told me. Does that make you feel better? Is that more reassuring? Isn’t that what you all want me to be?” Marsais threw out his arms and shouted at the sun, “Marsais zar’Vaylin—the ancient who knows and sees all!” His voice thundered over the sand.

  As the echo of his mad raving dimmed, Rivan stuttered into the ensuing silence. “A...dragon?”

  Marsais turned on the paladin. “Yes, my apprentice, if you must know. She had a sleek body and beautiful scales.”

  “Oh, gods, shut it, Scarecrow,” Oenghus said, tugging on his beard.

  Isiilde tilted her head. “How many odd notches in your belt do you have?” she asked.

  Marsais looked thoughtful, but before he could reply, Lucas grabbed his robe front, and demanded an answer. “Tell us what you know.”

  Marsais made no effort to resist the paladin; instead, he sobered and seemed to shrink with despair. “I do not know, Sir Lucas. I do
not know what we will find, only that my visions stopped at Finnow’s Spire. Perhaps I will die there; I do not know. And quite frankly, I don’t care. There are Fomorri in these mountains, that much I know, but any of you could have surmised the same.”

  Lucas let Marsais go with a firm shove.

  Oenghus cracked his knuckles. “Are you two done bickering?”

  “I don’t argue with madmen.” Lucas spat, and turned towards the mountains.

  “I would not trust his word anyway,” Nimlesh said, collapsing his glass. “We’ll approach between wadis and scout from there.” The sergeant was a man of few words, and this last was the only indication he had given of his feelings towards Marsais.

  “Void, I hate scouting,” Oenghus grumbled. “Let’s just march in and bash their heads.”

  Even Isiilde thought this a bad idea. But then berserkers were not known for their brains. The vast open ground between was daunting, a sea of heat with no end. And definitely no cover. Isiilde half expected to find a sailing ship coasting over the sands. A bit of air stirred her hair, snatching up sand. The haze obscured the mountain range like a dry fog.

  “Would it help if the Fomorri did not know which way we went, or what wadi we entered?” she asked no one in particular.

  “There’s always an advantage with stealth,” Acacia said. “Do you have an idea?”

  All eyes settled on the nymph.

  “We’re far enough away that we need a spyglass to see the birds. What if we all disappeared—here, and now? Might they think we were a mirage?”

  “Hmm, excellent idea, my dear.” Marsais did not notice the slip, and she did not correct him. “But currently, I can’t weave invisibility around the camels and all these men.” A bone deep weariness laced his words. She looked into his eyes, ringed by dark circles, and haunted by something more. “Not without Blood Magic, at any rate,” he added.