The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Not an option,” Acacia bit out.

  Isiilde had to agree. “Something simpler?” she suggested.

  “I can try.”

  “Try what?” Nimlesh asked.

  “A mirror.” Marsais gestured at the soldiers. “Have your men group together. Closer...more! Blast it, I can’t keep track of all of you.”

  The warriors closed in, and when the group clustered around the camels, he seemed satisfied.

  “Would it help if I made it appear more natural?” Isiilde asked gesturing towards the haze.

  “I do believe it would. Can you manage not to whip up a storm?”

  “Probably not, but I can try.” She gave him a lop-sided smile. “Will you be able to hold the weave long enough to reach the cliffs?”

  Weaving a mirror rune on an inert object was akin to setting a mirror in front of it and leaving it there. But weaving a rune around a person that moved—well, that was the equivalent of running around with multiple mirrors trying to keep the reflection in place for each person. Isiilde had managed it in the ruins because Elam and Rivan had not moved. But even then, it had taxed her.

  “We shall see,” he said. She wanted to pull him into a feather bed, wrap her arms around him, and let him sleep for days. But that was part of the issue: Marsais did not rest easy.

  “You start; I’ll finish,” he said.

  Isiilde turned to the cliffs. She needed a breeze, not a storm. A light touch was required, more like a whisper than a word. She focused on the haze and the light mist of sand swirling over a baked earth. For a moment, she closed her eyes, picturing the runes, and then softly, she sang. A whisper insinuated itself into the air. Her fingers traced the runes, but her voice brought them to life. First air, then a breath of wind.

  A strong breeze snatched her hair, blowing sand into the eyes of the group. Everyone tucked a scarf around mouth and nose, but Isiilde had forgotten that part. She nearly choked on the sand. Three puffs of flame shot out her ears. She scrambled to cover her nose and mouth, but her weave unraveled. The sand, however, continued to stir. It had only needed a nudge.

  With his own scarf in place, Marsais was already weaving. Grit clogged her vision, and she averted her gaze, wishing the scarf covered her eyes.

  When the sand pattered back to the earth, the haze remained, like a stirred pond, all cloudy with mud. A ripple of gasps surrounded her. She looked at the soldiers, but could no longer see them.

  “Now that’s better,” Lucas’ voice drifted from air.

  “Isiilde did this too—when the Fomorri came. Elam and I looked like stone.” The voice belonged to Rivan.

  “Quick thinking,” Acacia’s words drifted to her ear.

  The air rippled whenever someone moved, but it was still hazy. It would take a sharp eye to see through the weave.

  “How long can you keep this up, Marsais?” asked Acacia.

  “I suggest we start walking,” he replied. The strain in his voice was already apparent.

  “Right, move towards the cliffs,” Nimlesh ordered.

  As the sun fell, the group grew nearer to their goal. The cliffs were full of nooks and pitted stone that had spent a full day under the sun, and rather than cooling the humans, the rocks threw off heat like a kiln.

  Isiilde basked in that heat. She closed her eyes, trying to soak up every last minute of sunshine. A wet tongue licked her cheek, and her eyes flew open. Spot was walking beside her, and so was the rest of the group, all blinking with surprise. The mirror weave had unraveled. A screeching cry of alarm split the desert.

  “Void,” Oenghus spat. “Get to the cliffs.” But instead of following his own order, her father sprinted in the opposite direction. Marsais was not by her side. He had fallen behind. And now he stood staring at the sun, arms spread, fingers splayed as if he were taking flight. It reminded her of Thedus, and that thought terrified her.

  “Oenghus will get him.” Acacia pushed her towards the rocks.

  Overhead, a black cloud of winged creatures gathered. And to the north, a cyclone of dust rose on the horizon: Riders. Horns howled in the desert, sending her heart speeding.

  The Elite drew weapons and ran for the cliffs, making for a narrow crevice. She ran too, glancing over a shoulder.

  Oenghus had Marsais by the arm, dragging him in his wake. A shadow swooped at the pair. It was swift and leathery, and had the face of a man, but the wings of a bat, with scaly skin and talons where fingers and toes ought to be.

  Oenghus swung his club at the Fomorri. It reeled from the blow, falling to the ground. Another swooped. And an arrow pierced its shoulder. The wings spasmed, and it spiraled down.

  Isiilde looked to the riders, coming from the north. The Fomorri were closer, bearing down with a fury; some rode camels, while others looked like beasts themselves. She stopped running and began to weave. Runes flared to life. A wind swept from the cliffs, hitting the winged Fomorri, sending them off course. When her weave brushed over the ground, it plucked up sand, and she hurled the sandstorm at the approaching attackers.

  A wall of sand blasted the riders.

  Isiilde dropped the weave, and raced through the storm towards Marsais. Acacia was close on her heels.

  The Fomorri who had been hurled to the ground had a strangely human face on a chaotic amalgam of limbs. The creature charged her, hopping and flapping, talons stretching. Acacia shouldered her out of the way, and caught the attack with a shield. The paladin plunged her sword through the Fomorri’s body.

  In the sand and grit and swooping forms, Isiilde grabbed Marsais’ hand, freeing Oenghus to fight. She pulled Marsais along, towards the waiting Elite. Halfway there, she felt him tense.

  “Run!” she screamed.

  There was no recognition in his eyes, but he ran, following her without protest. Darting through the sandstorm, she rushed into the safety of the cliffs. Oenghus and Acacia came pounding in after. Both coughed, wiping the sand from their eyes.

  She looked up, searching the sky for more winged Fomorri, but the rock closed in, nearly creating a ceiling of stone. Only a sliver of light shone through the crack.

  The Elite were in front, and with a quick gesture from Nimlesh, four dropped back to bring up the rear. Alert and ready, the group filed through the narrow crevice.

  This close to the stone, she could see the whorls of red, copper, and orange in the rock. It had been blasted by wind and sand, and smoothed by time. It might have seemed beautiful if not for the moments that had come before.

  Isiilde looked back at Marsais. He was staring at the slice of sky. She squeezed his hand, and he focused on her. “Are you with me?”

  “You’re holding my hand, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she agreed. “Another vision?”

  “Isn’t this one?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.” Grey eyes darted forward, and then back. “Isiilde?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not shivering.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Aren’t we in a glacier?”

  She pressed her lips together. And then shook her head. “Just hold on to my hand.” Marsais tightened his grip.

  “We could be walking into a dead end,” an archer whispered. His name was Coen, and he had broad shoulders that were always hunched, ready to draw and fire the bow in his hands.

  As the group ventured farther into the crevice, the camels’ sides began to scrape the walls. Nimlesh ordered the gear stripped from them.

  While the dwindling supplies were being redistributed through the ranks, Oenghus laid a hand on the rock and closed his eyes. Covered in sand and grit, and bulging with muscle, he looked like an extension of the stone. After a minute, he opened his eyes.

  “It’s like a honeycomb. There’s a lot of movement in this hive.”

  “How can you tell?” Acacia asked.

  The giant shrugged. “Vibrations in the rock.”

  A shadow passed over the slice of sky and everyone tensed, but nothing swooped
from the sky.

  “I feel like a fish in a barrel,” Lucas grunted.

  “Then we’ll find a place to make a stand,” Nimlesh said.

  Oenghus slapped the jawbone against his palm. The berserker liked that plan.

  Rock rose, and the sky narrowed. Pillars of red hemmed the group, herding them through a twisting maze of stone. Every time a shadow swooped, Isiilde summoned her flame. But she was penned in, unable to get to the back of the line.

  A clash of steel sounded from the rear. Grunts came next, and distant horns. The last two soldiers in line fought a desperate battle as the group trudged forward, unable to help in the narrow crevice, only able to listen to cries and howls and clashing steel.

  Through moving legs and arms, she caught snatches of battle. The Elite at the end of the line wielded a short, stabbing sword and shield, and the second soldier wielded a long spear. The two men worked together, one fending and blocking while the other stabbed with deadly aim, backing up, step by step. Isiilde had no idea how many Fomorri fell, or how many crowded the passage.

  When the crevice finally opened, and the slice of sky widened, winged Fomorri swooped down, shooting arrows. Isiilde yanked Marsais under the paladins’ raised shields. Arrows bounced off the solid ceiling of metal. With a practiced signal, a shield was lowered, and the Elite answered with arrows of their own. A winged Fomorri crashed from the sky, thudding on an Elite with a sickening crunch. The impact broke the soldier’s arm.

  “Marsais,” she shouted in his ear. “You need to weave armor.” But he was lost, and she didn’t want to risk weaving one for him. He did not have her resistance to fire. She wove a quick armor weave for herself, adding fire, and peeked through the cracks in the shields.

  Nimlesh barked an order, and the Elite rose as one. The sky was clear, and the line of soldiers moved to the next crevice.

  That was the rhythm for the day: a rush of battle followed by long stretches of silence and a tense wait. Isiilde felt as if they were being corralled, pushed forward by nipping dogs at their heels.

  After a long day of the deadly game, darkness washed out the slice of light, and eventually the crevice spilled into a natural hollow. Silver moonlight streamed into the grotto. Tense and ready, the warriors edged into the open space, searching the tall bushes that grew along a dry stream bed. Nothing moved; nothing stirred. Until finally, Oenghus had had enough. He marched out into the middle of the grotto and slapped his bone against a pillaged shield. No one answered his challenge.

  Oenghus walked beneath an overhang. It was wide and spacious and tall. But more importantly, it offered protection from an attack from above. He nodded to Nimlesh, and the sergeant signaled his men. The Elite fanned out, searching crevices, and scouting passages. Each returned with a shake of their head.

  Camp fires were lit, sentries stood guard, and Isiilde sat with Marsais under the overhang. Nearby, the camels lay down with a groan. She did not know how long they could go without water, but it already seemed too long, even for a camel.

  Isiilde reached into her pouch for a waterskin. It was half full. She had been replenishing it with her water runes, which she was also sharing with the others. But her supply was running low. She handed the skin to Marsais, who sipped it with a muttered thanks.

  “I couldn’t hold the weave, could I?”

  “You’re tired, Marsais. It wasn’t an easy one.” She was happy to see that he had returned to himself.

  He violently stuffed the cork back in the top. She handed him a strawberry, but he shook his head.

  “Eat it. You’ll feel better,” she ordered.

  Grey eyes slid over to her. With great ceremony, he plucked it from her hand. He did not eat the entire thing, but slowly tore each leaf off the stem, letting it fall to the ground. The flutter of green captivated him, and he forgot about the berry in his hand, staring wide-eyed at the leaves.

  Isiilde sighed. She wanted to stuff the berry in his mouth; instead, she ate a dozen of her own, and watched Rivan and Elam digging in wet sand at the base of a rock. They gathered the sand in a handkerchief, and twisted, squeezing out the water into their mouths.

  Isiilde titled her head. Abruptly she stood, and thrust her arm inside her enchanted pouch, searching for a runestone. “Get the pot that was on the camel,” she mimed to Elam, and pointed. The boy darted to the soldier that had taken on the burden.

  When Elam returned with the pot, she set a water rune inside, and activated it with a tap. “This should gather more water here,” she explained. But it did more than that; water filled the pot, and overflowed. The three quickly caught the overflow in their waterskins, and when those were filled, Elam ran to each soldier, taking their skins to fill, and repeating the process. Even after all the waterskins were bursting, the water kept bubbling from the ground like an underground spring.

  Isiilde beamed, and ran to fetch the camels. She led Spot and Red back to the pool, and watched the camels happily drink their fill.

  “Is Marsais all right?” Rivan asked in a hushed voice.

  She looked over at the man. He was still staring at the strawberry leaves while he held the forgotten berry. “I don’t think so,” she admitted.

  “What a life...” Rivan shook himself. “I would never want to know the future.”

  “Worse, he sees every possible future.” And then some. “Do you think the Fomorri will come tonight?”

  Rivan considered her question. “I think that the Fomorri know these mountains very well. If it were me, I’d bide my time and wear us down.”

  Isiilde sighed. “I hate waiting.”

  Oenghus chuckled from where he leant on a rock, watching the grotto. “Might as well make the best of it. You up to setting wards, Scarecrow?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Gah, never mind, you ol’bastard.”

  “I can.” Isiilde hopped to her feet. “But I don’t think I can weave a stone rune over everyone’s boots.

  Oenghus frowned at her. “Make it strong, and tell them to keep clear of it.”

  Rivan walked beside her as she made her way down a narrow passage. An Elite stood watch in the shadows. “I’m going to set a ward—a very powerful lightning strike. If you walk past it, you’ll die,” she explained. The man appeared pleased.

  The nymph tapped her lips in thought. Why lightning? She was far more skilled with fire. A slow smile spread over her lips. “Something powerful, at any rate.”

  Rivan glanced nervously at her. His sword was in hand, steady and very ready. “Don’t burn us.”

  “It will only burn Fomorri, unless someone is foolish enough to trigger the ward.”

  He muttered a prayer under his breath.

  The Elite backed up, and Rivan took a long step, too. Isiilde stood in the narrow canyon of dark rock. It was still hot from the long day. In Vaylin, Marsais had taught her how to trace a lightning weave onto a small stone, set a perimeter around the camp, and bind each stone to the other, like a string that would be tripped if someone passed over it.

  Before she worried over the outcome, she closed her eyes and began to hum, slow at first, and then with rising confidence, tracing a fire rune over the rock on either side. The weave glowed red in the night, and the nymph thought it beautiful, so she left it, binding it just as it was.

  Rivan looked warily at the pulsing rune. “What will it do?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But I can’t do anything for the open sky.”

  At each passage, she repeated the process. And on the last, when she turned, a voice spoke from the shadows. “You’ve changed the Lore.” She started in surprise, and Rivan stabbed his sword at the shadows. A quick hand batted the blade to the side, and it went wide, scraping the rock. A moment later, realization came. It was Marsais. He stood tall and slim in the dark passage, white hair gleaming in the reddish glow. It gave him a fiendish air.

  “Gods, I’m so sorry,” Rivan said in a rush.

  Marsais silenced the paladin with a gesture, his gaze int
ent on the nymph.

  “I didn’t change it,” she corrected. “I made it prettier.”

  “It’s beautiful, Isiilde.”

  “The wards?”

  He shook his head, coins chiming softly in the night. “The Lore is a crude voice. It drags the Gift into the light of day, but your voice...” he trailed off, ending with a sigh. “May I talk with her alone, Rivan?”

  “Erm, yes, of course, sorry,” the paladin stammered. Rivan tried to get by, but the crevice was narrow. He ended up having to squeeze his way past Marsais. Heat rose to his cheeks, even in the near darkness. “I hope you feel better,” Rivan murmured, breathlessly.

  Marsais turned to watch him leave. When he looked at Isiilde, his features were thoughtful, almost amused. “Hmm, I see why Acacia chose him.”

  “He’s very nice,” she agreed.

  “Even more so around nymphs.” His lips twitched upwards.

  “What do you mean? Rivan’s been nothing but a gentleman to me.”

  “Indeed. A wonderful and rare thing. I don’t think any woman has to worry about her virtue around Rivan.” Before she could ask, he waved a hand at the ward and stepped closer, studying the rune.

  “What happened in the desert?” she asked.

  “I drifted.” He shivered in the night. She had brought a cloak; he had not. She took a step closer, leaning against his body, sharing her own heat.

  “You seem very...distracted. More so than usual.” Her words were soft, and she felt him shrug.

  “As apprentice and master, we did not spend so much time together. I visited you on my more lucid days.”

  “Were you embarrassed?”

  A shudder vibrated in his chest; a near silent chuckle. “I did not want to frighten you. Save for Isek and Oen, you saw more than most.”

  “I think you were always more focused with me.”

  “I was,” he admitted.

  “It’s been difficult on you—severing our bond.”

  “It has.”

  “I miss it.”

  He looked down at her, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “I do too.” His fingers brushed her cheek. “I’m cracking, Isiilde. I’m not sure what it would do to you.”