The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Chaim shook his head, and met his gaze. There were tears in the god’s eyes.

  “The raid on the ol’River—you don’t watch every spirit, but you watch some, don’t you?” Marsais asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I did not...” the words got stuck and Chaim swallowed down the lump. “I didn’t know what else to do. I kept the child separate from the others.”

  “What child?” Marsais demanded.

  “I swore to her—to Raven. She came to me after the Shattering. I could not deny a mother’s love.”

  When Marsais spoke, his words carried the weight of his age. “Tell me, Chaim.” Not even the Guardian of Life would ignore that voice.

  Chaim closed his eyes, took a breath and told Marsais of events long ago, and a beginning that would not end for years to come.

  Marsais opened his eyes to a quiet night. Runes swirled at his feet, and he stood in the center, still as a statue. Time churned at the edges of his eyes. A mash of pieces, all shattered and broken, reflecting light in fragments. Cursed with foresight, and yet utterly blind. It was as if he saw too much. He was a man who saw every detail, every vibrant color, until it burst behind his eyes.

  The ancient sank to his knees. His gaze drifted to the sliver of moon and he focused on its light. There were eyes on him.

  Keeping his gaze on the stars, he unlaced his robe, baring his chest to the cool air. Slowly, Marsais brought out his arms, and shed his shirt, kneeling bare-chested in the sand. Each breath came harshly, and every heartbeat pained him.

  Marsais drew a knife from his sash, and with slow purpose, he brought the blade to his throat. There he paused. His hand trembled. Two paths lay before him. Which crossroad would he take?

  The realm held its breath, waiting for an answer.

  “Grant me peace,” he whispered, bringing up his other hand. Fingers found his shortened goatee, and he brought the edge of his blade to the first braid, slicing the hair. A coin fell into his palm. He moved onto the second, and finally the third.

  The three coins chimed softly. They were warm and cool all at once. He dropped his knife in the sand, and with trembling fingers, picked the hair from the coins.

  Marsais took a deep breath. This was a crossroad; a divergence. There was no going back. The weight of the ages pressed on his shoulders, and although his were not broad, they were resilient.

  He closed his hand over the coins, concentrating. The illusion that Witman had woven over the coins melted. When he opened his fingers, three small pearlescent discs glowed on his palm. They were the sun, fragments from an artifact long shattered.

  Marsais looked to the night sky. “So you want chaos?” he asked the presence he knew was watching. He could picture the Sylph now, crouched over her pool of scrying. “I will give you chaos, Yasine.”

  It was time to let go. And he did.

  Marsais squeezed the discs until their edges bit into his flesh, drawing blood. Light exploded from his closed fist. A chant rose from his lips. Words that had not been spoken since before the Shattering. He slammed the fragments into his scar and searing heat stabbed every nerve in his body.

  Marsais clenched his jaw, forcing each word past his teeth. Power beat around the ancient, stirring the sands, blotting out the grotto. He knelt in the eye of the storm, alone, pressing the slivers into his skin, until the last fragments of the Orb melted into his flesh. The air burst, fire roared to life, and in its red glow, he looked down at his palm. The fragments were gone. For better or worse, two relics of a shattered age were now joined.

  As the grotto burned, and battle raged, Marsais fell forward into the sand.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A song jolted Isiilde awake. Fire roared, spitting upwards and outwards, funneling through cracks and open air. It shot into the grotto with a Whoompf of heat, consuming the sentries who failed to dive under the blast.

  It was beautiful.

  Ropes unfurled from the rocks above, interrupting the fire’s song. As Fomorri slid down the lines, Isiilde tore her eyes from the blaze. There were others too—dark shapes that crawled down the rock face like spiders over a web.

  Arrows were loosed from both sides. She dove for cover, pulling Elam down as a hail of missiles cut towards the overhang. The deadly rain sliced over her head, and one shattered on the rock by her ear.

  A bellow rose over the song of fire, drowning out the cries of attackers. She poked her head around the rock, watching a wave of warriors crash against another. Oenghus was at the forefront. He barreled into a knot of Fomorri, swinging his club. Bones crunched and bodies flew, and her father kept swinging, crushing the Fomorri who stood in his path. He was unstoppable, and the Fomorri scattered, trying to escape the berserker’s fury.

  Isiilde tore her eyes from the carnage and looked to her right. Coen stood behind a rock, releasing one arrow after another in quick succession, dropping shadows like flies. But she did not see Marsais. Where was he?

  She wove an armor ward and added her rune of fire. Isiilde pressed Elam against the boulder, and held up a firm hand: Stay.

  She took a deep breath, and darted across an open patch of sand. Air hissed over her shoulder, and she dove behind another rock. Keeping low, she searched the chaos. The paladins fought in a tight knot, side by side, each shield protecting another. Acacia slammed her shield into a Fomorri with four legs, stunning the monstrosity. Lucas stepped forward and swung his axe, cleaving its skull in two.

  “Where is Marsais?” Isiilde yelled. With the noise and clash of battle, she worried her voice was drowned beneath steel.

  Acacia swiveled, looking from the nymph to the battle. It was Lucas who answered. “He walked across the grotto before the attack!”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Isiilde darted into the fray. An arrow whizzed over her head. A heavy blade stirred the air, and she ducked, rolling and scrambling beneath a jumble of feet. The nymph came up running, darting behind her father. He stood alone, at the largest break in the rock, holding the floodgates with brutal strength. A pile of Fomorri lay at his feet.

  She raced through a mass of bushes, and slipped between boulders. Marsais was sprawled in the sand, white hair gleaming in the dark. He was partially undressed, his robe hanging around his waist, displaying all the scars that crisscrossed his flesh.

  The realm fell away, the noise and clash of steel and death. Her world consisted of his prone body, lying so still. She skidded to a stop, sliding on her knees in the sand. Dread gave her strength. She braced herself and rolled him over. He flopped onto his back.

  Her heart skipped, and the ground seemed to drop. She summoned an Orb of Light, casting a blue glow over his body. Blood mixed with the sand that covered his chest. With shaking hands, she probed the area, searching for a wound. But there was none. His heart beat and his breath came evenly.

  Isiilde dusted off the sand, revealing the long, gash-like scar. She blinked. It was no longer pink and raw, but puckered and pale. Her brows knitted with confusion, but questions were forgotten when a soft thud, more felt than heard, snapped her head around.

  Isiilde spun, thrusting out her hand. Fire leapt from her fingers to a Fomorri. His cloak went up like a torch, scales glistened, and eyes burned with rage. He kept coming.

  Another thud vibrated the sand at her back. Heedless of her own safety, she drew her knife, hopped over Marsais, and charged the flaming creature.

  There was leather in her palm, darkness, sweat and blood. And pain. The nymph was no longer in Fomorri; she was in a washroom with a man.

  A raging scream came from her mouth as she stabbed. Her knife slid beneath scales. She threw her weight behind the thrust, pressing hard. Flesh parted and blood warmed her hand, filling her senses. The two went down in a tangle of limbs. A ball of flame illuminated the Fomorri’s face, and her fire’s light was reflected back in six eyes. Those eyes were full of fear and shock; each surprised by death. The thou
ght made her laugh. In a veil of flame, she watched the life drain from those eyes, and felt every unnatural curve of the Fomorri go slack.

  Her vision narrowed.

  The nymph climbed to her feet as more Fomorri landed on the sand. She screamed, unleashing a wave of flame. The creatures were blown backwards, off their feet.

  The paladins rushed into the carnage. Steel glinted in the heat, blades rose and fell, and a clash of battle surrounded her. Isiilde stood by the fallen seer, inside a protective knot of armor. She caressed the fire roiling between her fingertips, fed it rage and pain, and set it free. Her voice rose over the din, a wash of death that soared like a bird with beating wings.

  A serpent of fire lashed through the air. Fueled by the nymph’s voice, it slithered up rock walls, seeking hearts in the dark. Hungry. Merciless. Beautiful.

  Desperate lips pressed against hers. For a moment, she struggled, pushing at the man, but the lips were persistent. And familiar. Isiilde stopped struggling. The kiss stole her breath and rage, and will. Robbed of her voice, the fire dimmed and died, and the flames roiling over her flesh traveled to her veins, clouding her mind. Her teeth ached with need.

  The man pulled back, and she sucked in a breath. Marsais’ arms were strong and sure, and she pressed against his body, fingers buried deep in his hair.

  A few wispy flames clung to his warded flesh, illuminating his eyes. His gray gaze was bright and alert, and she saw herself in their reflection. The nymph filled his world.

  “I swore I would not take your fire, but I never said anything about stealing your breath,” he whispered, harshly.

  “Yes,” she said nonsensically, stretching towards his lips and taking his lower lip between hers. The nymph’s head swam with lust. Blood thrummed in her ears, and then came the pain. It lashed through her body. Her knees went weak.

  Marsais caught her, one hand on the small of her back, the other pressed to her side. She looked down. Blood seeped between his fingers. Isiilde came back to herself and the realm took shape.

  Sunlight peeked over red rock. Charred bodies smoldered in the grotto. A moment of panic clutched her. The paladins had been fighting beside her when she summoned her flame. Legs shaking, she took a step back, searching for the others. Marsais’ supporting hand stayed with her. Acacia, Rivan, and Lucas stood in the wreckage, armor singed, clothing crispy, smudged with ash and blood.

  “Tend to the wounded. We need to move. The smoke will bring more.” Nimlesh’s order snapped the survivors to action.

  Oenghus stomped into view, and relief drained her strength. She sat down hard in the ashy sand. His wild eyes settled on the nymph. “Void, get some clothes on, Sprite.” As soon as he spoke the words, his gaze shot to her ribs. Oenghus reached for his flask, and told her to lie on her side. When she did, he poured Brimgrog on the wound. It tickled.

  Oenghus frowned at the slash. “You’ll live,” he grunted.

  “I think her collapse was more from exertion than injury,” said Marsais. He looked exhausted, too.

  Oenghus nodded, placing a hand on her forehead and another over her stomach. Isiilde growled at her father, and batted at his hand. “I will not be carried. Bandage it.”

  Her father paused, and then bared his teeth. Brain and gore were stuck in his beard. “Aye.” There was pride in his voice and approval in his eye. “I’ll do a quick stitch.”

  “Gods, no,” Marsais said. “Your fine needle work is appalling. I’ll tend to her.” He reached into his pack. “Leave your Brimgrog.”

  Oenghus eyed the seer suspiciously. Slowly, he passed the flask to Marsais, thought better of it, then thrust it into her hands. Oenghus ruffled her hair, and rose, stalking away to pillage the dead.

  The aftermath of battle left her empty and cold. Isiilde shivered in the early morning light. She untied the warded pouch, and rummaged through, taking out clothes and a cloak. Before leaving Mearcentia, she had raided the wardrobe in her room; unfortunately, not all of the clothing was practical, but presently, anything would do.

  Marsais wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. With infinite care, and a confident hand, he cleaned the wound, and began to sew. She clenched her teeth. The needle bit and thread tugged flesh. She distracted herself by studying Marsais. There was something different about him.

  He was not burned, thank the gods; he had had sense enough to place a fire ward over his flesh before the kiss. Her gaze strayed to his chin. The coins. His coins were gone, and what remained of his goatee was short and uneven.

  “I found you lying here,” she said through her teeth. “There was blood on your chest. What happened?”

  Grey eyes flickered from the wound to her face. “I bought myself time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Until I fall.”

  “How?”

  “I let go,” he said simply.

  She tilted her head, but he said nothing more. When the last knot was cinched, he sliced the thread with his blade. A neat bandage covered the line. It burned and tugged, but she managed to dress. Isiilde turned to where Acacia had been tending to a gash on Rivan’s arm.

  “Thank you,” she said to the trio. “I’m glad you are not burned.”

  Lucas’ dark face turned towards her. The paladin was always unreadable and disagreeable. She was well used to that fact. But this time, his eyes glittered with something close to approval. “Your serpent passed over us.”

  Acacia slapped her heartily on the shoulder, reminding the nymph that she was bruised. “Well done. Are you sure you can manage, Isiilde?”

  “I’ll have to.”

  In the mad dash to the grotto, one Elite had fallen, and four more in the recent attack. Of the thirty-six souls who had entered the Leviathan’s lair, seventeen remained, one being a small boy.

  When wounds were bandaged and dead comrades plundered and buried with stones, Oenghus secured his weapons and adjusted a rope on his back. They would attempt to traverse the maze from higher ground.

  He put his hands on the red rock and began to climb. The giant looked a part of the stone, just another edge jutting from a crag. He stuck to a crack that ran up the rock face, thrusting fists into the crevice and climbing it as swiftly as a ladder. Isiilde craned back her head. Two other scouts were ascending ropes left from the Fomorri attack, the only other ropes that had survived her fire.

  Elam asked something, his eyes fixed on her side. A spot of blood had soaked through her bandage and shirt.

  “He wonders how you will climb,” Marsais translated.

  “I was wondering the same,” Rivan admitted, testing his arm. “About me.”

  She turned towards the paladin, and flashed a smile. “I’m going to fly,” she answered, flapping a hand.

  Marsais shaded his eyes, gauging the distance to the top. Although he did not voice his worry, she could see it in his posture; he was tense and she shared his skepticism. The height would be a stretch for her nearly five-second record.

  “I’ll give you a boost, Rivan,” Marsais murmured.

  The paladin shifted. “Uhm... are you sure?” he hesitated, leaving the last unsaid. Are you sure you won’t have a vision and drop me?

  Lucas slapped the soldier on the shoulder. “If he drops you, I’m taking your sword.”

  “All clear,” Oenghus called from the top.

  When the scouts reached the top, they unslung bows from backs and crouched on the blistering rock. Marsais looked to Isiilde. He nodded. And the nymph began to sing, weaving her voice through the runes, filling the gaps in the weave: a feather rune, a bind to her, and around that, air and spirit, creating wind. That was where concentration came into a levitation weave. With a breath, she looked up. The ground fell away, and the top of the rock neared—at an alarming rate. She sped towards the sun.

  Isiilde dropped the weave. It unraveled. Momentum waned, and her stomach began to leave through her throat. She lunged for the rock. Too far; too late. She was falling. A hard force slammed into her back. She hit the
cliff, and clawed at the rock face. Fingernails scraped over stone, pieces flaked off, and an iron grip locked around her wrist.

  Isiilde looked up to find the face of her father. She smiled at his scowl. He hoisted her to safety and set her on her feet. Color heated her cheeks. It didn’t take a far stretch of thought to realize that Marsais had given her a push, and Oenghus had caught her.

  Her ears wilted. “I need to work on that,” she admitted.

  Oenghus grunted in agreement.

  Rivan came next. He drifted softly to the rock, eyes brimming with excitement. “By the gods, that was amazing!” When Marsais joined them a moment later, Rivan looked like he might hug the man. “Thank you.”

  Marsais waved a hand, and nudged the distracted paladin back a step before he fell off the edge. Isiilde tugged Rivan down, following the scouts’ example. Sobering, Rivan crouched beside her, too excited to notice the glowering berserker.

  Next came Elam. Quick as a lizard, he scampered up the rope, and crouched, sling held at the ready.

  The top was nothing more than a pause. Isiilde had expected a table-top; instead, a cracked mountain range stretched under the sun. Fomorri was an unforgiving land. If the group wanted to keep to the high ground, they would be forced to climb down, cross the sand below, and climb back up. They had no choice but to find a path through the twisting maze of cracks.

  The rock threw off heat. To the nymph, it was bliss; to the humans, it was death. Isiilde stopped shivering, and she soon felt invigorated, greedily soaking up the sun. Here, the power in her blood was not as draining as it had been in Vaylin. Was it the heat, or had she grown stronger? As Isiilde mulled over the possibilities, another question came to mind. “Where is Finnow’s Spire?”

  Marsais pointed northeast. “There.” Crags and wind-shaped pillars stretched to the horizon. “Beyond the rocks.”

  “That’s a long way.”

  He sighed. “It is.”