The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “I always figured her for a vulture,” Morigan admitted.

  Bram laughed, but Tulipin was not amused. The gnome hugged himself, and rocked back and forth. “Maybe one of you, but not all.”

  “If we fall, we fall,” Morigan said.

  Evie gave a wistful sigh. “Shame she can’t do that for all of us.”

  “Transformation is dangerous if you can’t weave,” Morigan explained. “Not many Wise Ones can transform others—takes a strong and sure hand. She used to do it, but not anymore. The last novice she transformed never returned to human form.”

  “What if there’s no tear in the shield farther up?” Tulipin’s voice was as high-pitched as a squeak.

  Bram smiled at his fellow gnome. “You’ll just ‘ave to put us down real soft like.”

  “She’ll send a Whisper if there’s a hole,” Morigan reminded.

  Every minute that they waited, Tulipin grew more nervous, and Morigan started to worry that the gnome would work himself into a faint. She took a slow, calming breath, resisting the urge to slap some sense into the man.

  “That fellow must be real cold,” Evie said with a note of caution.

  Morigan followed the Valkyrie’s gaze, and started with surprise. She blinked, and hurried over to the naked man who stood at the base of the Spine.

  “How did you get out here, Thedus?” she asked. But he did not look at her or answer. No surprise. The madman stared at the shimmering net of runes and the mineral-veined stone beyond the veil. The others joined her, all staring at the man with varying degrees of wariness and wonder. Tulipin huffed. He never had any patience for the madman.

  Slowly, like stone being turned, Thedus looked at Morigan, and for a moment, his eyes came into focus. The man appeared as sane as they came. He raised his arm, and she cried out a warning, but his hand pushed through the shimmering ward before she could stop him. Thedus placed his hand on the stone.

  When no lightning flashed, and the air remained cool, Morigan remembered to breathe. The stone beneath his palm thrummed. It was a teleportation rune. She saw his intent, and quickly motioned the other Wraith Guards over.

  “It appears we won’t be needing you, Tulipin.” And with that, Morigan walked through the shimmering net of runes. It was like diving into a mountain river. Her heart sped and leapt, and her senses came alive; a sharp breath later, the stone reached for her, pulling her in with the familiar tug of a teleportation weave. The stone pushed her out into a cobweb.

  Morigan batted at the sticky threads, searching for the elusive spider that she had never seen. She quickly stepped aside, and peeked around the dusty tapestry. The hallway was empty.

  The Wraith Guards and Valkyrie came seconds later, all crowding into the alcove with swords and bows at the ready. The warriors fanned out, their cloaks blending with the stone.

  Thedus stepped out from behind the tapestry, and Morigan nearly hugged the crazed man. “You were an Archlord, weren’t you?” she asked, softly.

  The man did not answer; instead, he shuffled aimlessly down the corridor, in the opposite way she needed to go. Morigan let him be.

  “Do you know where we are?” whispered Evie. It took a moment to find the woman. Their cloaks were enchanted with a chameleon-like power, but she could sense no lingering weave. Such were the mysteries of Iilenshar.

  “I do.” She recognized the tapestry. It wasn’t far from Oenghus’ rooms. She started in the opposite direction of Thedus, leading the Wraith Guards towards the rookery.

  Morigan motioned the Wraith Guards to wait outside, and poked her head through the door. Thira had the falconer cornered and his tongue bound with a weave. There was no telling whom to trust, not even in the camp below.

  Thira joined her at the door. “All here I see.”

  “Thedus appeared at the Spine’s base. He activated a teleportation rune for us—the Archlord’s private entrance.”

  Thira blinked. “Those teleportation runes only work for the Archlord and his trusted few.”

  Morigan shrugged. “We’re all here.” She looked past the thin woman’s shoulder, to the roosting owls and hawks. “Any sign of Crumpet?”

  Thira gave a sharp shake of her head. “Where is Thedus?”

  “He wandered off.”

  Anger flashed in the Vulture’s eyes, and Morigan silenced it. “He knows what he’s about. I’ll not drag him into battle. Let’s be on with it.”

  The roar of the ram droned distantly, a heartbeat of war that traveled through the only opening into the Spine. The King’s Walk was not far ahead. Morigan signaled to Thira, who began to weave, thin fingers moving like knife strokes. At the final slash of runes, a mirror weave settled on the two Wise Ones. Morigan eyed the corridor, marking each faint ripple of air against stone: the Wraith Guards and their blending cloaks. They were ready.

  Morigan poked her head around a corner. Red-banded soldiers guarded the entrance to the King’s Walk. Long ago, killing had become like breathing. She no longer felt the rush of battle in her blood or heard its song in her ears. A cool calm, born from familiarity, had replaced fear. The kind of calm that only came with too much practice. So when Bram tapped the stone, a whisper of a signal, she calmly stepped out of the doorway and stalked across the chamber.

  Wraith Guards fired their bows, arrows zipping past her ears. The traitors fell, but not all. Red-banded soldiers rushed from a guard room, raising shields.

  Morigan picked up her pace, wading over the dead and dying soldiers to add more to the pile. A soldier stepped forward with sword raised. She hurled a weave into the man. Bones snapped, one after another, and he crumpled like an accordion. Morigan never forgot a face; she knew this man and had healed his wounds once upon a time. Once again his agony filled her ears.

  In the chaos of battle, in the cries and swinging steel, she calmly applied the edge of her axe to his neck, and with a decisive swing, silenced his cries.

  Her next swing took another by surprise. The beard of her axe slipped around his neck and caught him under the chin. With a tug, she jerked him off his feet. She ripped her weapon from his throat, and raised her shield to catch another’s sword stroke. A quick bash, a side-step, and she caught the next soldier on the back of the knee. He buckled, but she left his death to another, hewing a path through a knot of steel, towards a chanting voice.

  Evie’s arrow whispered past her shoulder and sank into the weaving Wise One. He slumped, and Bram dropped two more soldiers who stood by a lever.

  Morigan looked to Thira. “Open the bailey gates. I’ll stay and hold the Walk.” Even as she spoke, the Wraith Guards were dragging the corpses behind the watchful statues that lined the long corridor.

  Morigan looked at the bloodstains, and slipped her axe through its belt loop. With deft, practiced hands, she wove a water rune and mixed it with ice. Cold water scrubbed the floor clean.

  “We’ll go too,” Bram said.

  Evie ordered the others to stay and defend. But before Thira entered the Walk, she paused, and Morigan followed her gaze to a patchy, flickering break in the castle ward. It was the hole they had fled through after releasing the elemental. Precisely in the center of the hallway. But now that Morigan had walked, unharmed, through the shimmering Barrier, she knew that the castle wards were for the Fey spirits, not for flesh and bone. That hole troubled her, and from the look on Thira’s face, her thoughts had traveled in the same direction. The placement was too much of a coincidence.

  There was no time to question whether it was luck or divine influence. As Thira led the Wraith Guards towards the bailey gate, Morigan picked up a spear and planted herself in front of the mechanism that sealed the gates—a lever connected to a maze of gears and pulleys and a tangle of enchantments. It had never been activated, and if she had her way, it never would be.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The air was cold. Not cold like underground cold; Zoshi was used to that. He had been here for... the boy did not know, but the air had changed. Empty, he decided,
and then shook his head, trying to dislodge a hiding thought. The whole place was empty. But this was different, like fingers crawling up his spine.

  Zoshi stopped and looked down at a skeleton. Black hollows stared back. It looked like it was laughing at him. He was alone, but not entirely. The dead watched him pass. He’d likely join them soon.

  A screech intruded on his grim reverie. His guide was temperamental, as severe as its mistress. Was the bird like that because of Thira, or had he been that way before? Was that why the two got along so well—due to their mutual tartness?

  Zoshi didn’t know, but one thing he did know, was that he felt like a sheep being herded off a cliff. He didn’t have much choice, but standing in front of this tunnel gave him pause. It didn’t look any different than any other one, but it felt wrong. Every instinct that had kept him alive was itching for his legs to run in the opposite direction. He could go back, and try another hole. There was an endless supply of holes, and dark pits that led to even more. One time he thought he could hear the ocean, but the crow had nipped and pecked at him until he steered away.

  With little else to do, Zoshi plodded onwards. He had trusted the bird this far, and at this point Crumpet was his only hope.

  Bones crunched under his boots. He had found more weapons, another sack, and coins—lots of coins that he didn’t recognize. Zoshi figured that he’d like to at least die rich, so he took them as he walked. But never from the skeletons. The thought terrified him.

  Swallowing, he raised his lantern. That was another thing—there was no moss in this tunnel. It was dark as the hollow eyes of a skull, and a river of bones stretched as far as his blue light dared to go. The bones were all mangled and twisted, with rusted weapons and armor laid bare.

  Crumpet hopped on a crushed skull and cawed. There was a note of encouragement in there, as if promising that he was close to the end. Still, his legs wouldn’t move. It was like staring down Death herself.

  The boy recalled every legend he had ever heard about the Guardian of Death. Pale as a grave worm, quick as a viper, cold as snow, and blue eyes that froze a heart. The Lady Death stalked the shadows, gathering them to her like a cloak. Would she grant him a quick death, or would she toy with him like a cat tortures a mouse?

  “I think we should go another way,” he whispered. His voice bounced and shattered in the desolation. He sounded very small.

  The crow flapped to his shoulder. This time the bird’s talons dug into his flesh.

  “Ow!” Zoshi jerked, but it was hard to get away from something on your own shoulder. A sharp beak nipped his ear. “Stop it!” The more he struggled, the deeper the claws dug, so he took a step forward. Crumpet softened his hold, and gave an approving caw.

  “Fine, but you are a terrible guide.” He kept walking, picking his way over the river of bones. Screams echoed in his ears, as if the strange stillness had captured the death cries and never let go.

  Zoshi edged along the rough hewn stone, assuring himself by touch that he wasn’t drifting in nothing. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat, but he could feel it, thudding against its cage like a frantic bird. The stillness sucked at his breath. He wanted to stop and never move again.

  Even the bird was tense, stiff and alert, like a stuffed parrot he had once seen on a crazed old sailor. Zoshi shuffled forward through the dark until his little light touched upon a corner.

  When he tried to follow the stone, a sharp pain flared on his ear, and the crow thrust his beak forward like an arrow. The boy let go of the wall. He held up his light, edging forward. More bones, more fallen warriors mixed with the pale sleeping dead. The light wavered with his shaking. Zoshi gripped his own arm, trying to keep it still. He was falling, he was sure of it, and his stomach had been left at the cave wall.

  Tears slipped down his cheeks and piss seeped down his leg—the smell of courage. It was strangely reassuring in the void of time and space. He did not know how long he walked, but he stopped when his toe knocked against something hard. Metal glinted in the blue light. A warhammer, all etched with bright markings, just like new. It reminded him of his friend—the giant Oenghus. He shone his lantern down the long handle. A massive skeleton lay nearby. Its hand outstretched, as if his fingers fought to reach the weapon.

  Zoshi hesitated. He didn’t know how to use a sword, but a hammer looked like a simple thing. He did not, however, like the way that skeleton reached for the weapon. As if the warrior were still there, still claiming the hammer as its own.

  The boy crouched, fingers poised to touch the shiny metal, but a sound stilled his heart. A rasp, a creak of metal on stone. It stopped. And then came again like a long, rattling breath.

  The boy looked at Crumpet, eyes wide. The crow was shaking, but only because his perch could barely stand. Something slithered beyond the light. Zoshi clamped his teeth together, to keep them from knocking. He leaned forward, and thrust his arm out as far as it would go. The light touched upon the rattle. It was a chain, a great barbed and rusted thing. It moved again, and then stopped.

  Zoshi stood like a statue for a long time. At least that’s what he thought, watching the chain rasp against the stone with the rhythm of breath.

  He didn’t care if the bird turned his flesh into shreds, he wouldn’t follow that chain, not for any life. He’d rather die right there. But when he looked to his guide, the bird was pointing off to the right. The crow had no interest in the chain. Zoshi didn’t argue. He darted off in that direction, hopping over bones and twining his way around rusted mining equipment. He ran until he found a cave wall.

  Out of breath and dizzy with fear, he slumped, pressing his back against solid stone. He was all alone under the earth with a breathing chain and a lost bird. Life, he was sure, could not get much worse than this.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Water was life. And Isiilde had none left. The water runes were gone. She reached into her pouch for the tenth time, searching through the now disorganized mess. Finding nothing yet again, she plucked out a strawberry and added it to the pebble in her mouth. For a time, at least, the pebble tasted like the beloved fruit, and not stone.

  Isiilde edged forward, peeking around her concealment. Pillars of red rock stretched like a petrified forest, and between them every crevice, every crack, held threat. A maze of it.

  Two Elite scouts crept over the open terrain. A shift here, another there. The pair were good. Even knowing they were there, she could barely see them. But then that was the catch: the Fomorri were also stealthy, and had hounded the group’s every step. It reminded her of the way Mousebane used to toy with a mouse, goading it and batting it until it fell over with exhaustion. The nymph was close to that, and so was everyone else, even her father.

  “This looks familiar,” Rivan croaked by her shoulder.

  “Everything looks the same,” said Lucas.

  Elam pointed at a distant rock, and said something in his fluttering tongue. His youthful voice sounded like sand between cogs.

  Marsais squinted. His lips were dry and cracked, but his eyes were sharp. He had not lost focus since the attack in the grotto. “Elam says that he has not seen that rock before. It looks like a hairless mammoth.” The rock formation had a long wide arch with a shorter one that looked like a trunk.

  A barely perceptible movement caught her eye, far across the pillared space. It was the scout’s signal for all clear. Nimlesh rose from his concealment, and signaled to the rest. For now, it was safe.

  As the group walked in the shadows of monolithic pillars, she eyed the sky, searching for the winged heralds of the Fomorri. “I feel like we’re a flock of sheep,” she murmured to Marsais.

  “Baaah, said the lamb to slaughter.”

  “You’re not very reassuring.”

  “Most sheep don’t know where they are headed. At least we’re prepared.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that the sheep don’t know?”

  “I speak sheep.”

  “Do you?”

&
nbsp; “Baaah.”

  Isiilde snorted. “What does that mean?”

  “We are insulted that you haven’t learned our tongue yet.”

  “That’s very complicated for an animal that doesn’t know where it’s headed.”

  Marsais lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know where I’m headed half the time.”

  “That explains the goatee.”

  “Hmm,” he agreed with a sage nod.

  A scout crouched at the entrance to a crevice ahead. He motioned them forward, and put a finger to his lips. Isiilde followed the others into the narrow passage.

  The second scout knelt in the shadow of the high rocks. She gestured at them to keep low. Isiilde dropped to her knees, and slithered forward, coming to a stop on the edge of a rock. Her breath caught.

  The ground dropped sharply, spilling into a canyon with high cliffs and a snake of green cutting through its center. An eye-shaped oasis sat in the middle of the canyon. Isiilde blinked, cleared the exhaustion from her mind, and looked again. It wasn’t a mirage. Camels dotted the canyon floor, roaming free, drinking at the water. Caves, roughly-hewn stairs, and crude doorways dotted the canyon sides. But instead of reminding her of the Lome’s underground city, it brought to mind a hive of wasps.

  Nimlesh removed his spyglass and ran it over the gorge. “There are a handful of sentries and a gate at the end of the canyon.”

  Oenghus grunted, and Nimlesh handed over his spyglass. The berserker put his eye to the end, taking his time. Without prompt, he passed the glass to Acacia.

  Isiilde was next in line. The caves were black and impenetrable, and the holes felt like eyes. The sight prickled the back of her neck. She shuddered to think what secrets those holes held. She pointed the spyglass down the canyon to the strange gate. Two high pillars of rock guarded a narrow opening that was blocked by a large stone. It looked like a flat disc that rolled into the canyon wall. She counted six sentries, including a hunched figure tending to the camels.