A monstrous shape rose from the sand, and she stumbled to a stop. A giant scorpion with the head and torso of a man kept rising, standing on six legs. The Fomorri abomination wielded pinchers and a deadly tail that dripped with ooze.
Elam screamed, letting a stone fly from his sling. The missile pegged the monster in its human, shell-encased head. The eyes blinked, but the monster advanced with a snap of massive claws. Isiilde hurled fire and bolts, but the Fomorri only grinned.
An Elite slipped through the gate, weapon in hand. Of the nymph, boy, and warrior, the latter was the greatest threat. The Gate Guard struck, catching the Elite in a pincher. The man was snapped in two.
Isiilde shoved Elam back, stepping in front of the boy. Fury rose from her throat. Fire erupted, surging from her outstretched hands. A wall of roiling flames slammed into the Fomorri, but it was a creature of the sand and sun, and it walked through unscathed.
A pincher opened, the tail quivered. Death flashed in her eyes, but the snapping blow never came. The flames of her armor weave flared, halting the killing blow. The Fomorri plucked the burning nymph off her feet, struggling to shatter her armor weave.
Isiilde could not breathe, her voice failed, and the flames had no effect on the creature. In the cocoon of her flaming shield, Isiilde pushed and pulled, struggling to pry the vice-like pinchers apart, enough to loosen the hold and slip through. The tail came up, curled and poised, and the scorpion raised her for the killing blow. The tip was as long and sharp as a sword.
With her remaining breath, she gasped out the Lore, tracing a crude earth rune with trembling fingers. When the last thread was cinched, she slapped her hand against the pincher’s apex. The weave seeped into the creature; earth and stone, all sloppy and haphazard. The pinchers turned grey, and cracked. Isiilde slipped through, falling to the sand. The Fomorri’s human head looked at her, eyes wild with rage. She quickly scrambled back.
With a shout, Lucas Cutter leapt off the ledge. He landed on the scorpion’s back, rose to his feet and swung his axe. The blade sunk into the human head, cleaving it in two, but some life remained; some instinct, headless or not. The tail that had been poised for her caught the paladin instead. The tip pierced armor, and burst from his stomach. Lucas gasped, impaled on the end.
The scorpion lurched forward, and Isiilde threw herself to the side, dodging the six stamping legs as a swift form ran past. Acacia twisted and dodged the remaining pincher, hacking at the legs and vulnerable underbelly. The scorpion reared on its back legs, and Isiilde rolled away from the thrashing beast. A wave of force zipped over her head, leaving her hair frizzed. The giant scorpion crashed forward, twitching in the sand.
Pain bloomed, and her breath came short. She clenched her teeth and stood as Acacia hacked at the quivering tail. It broke free, and Lucas fell. The Knight Captain caught her lieutenant and Rivan rushed forward to help. They lowered the man onto the ground. Acacia abandoned shield and sword, laying her hands on the warrior. She bowed her head, but no light flared; no power warmed Lucas’ body.
Acacia drove her fist into the sand. “Damn you, Seer—save him!”
Marsais slid to his knees in the sand, and placed his hands on the impaled paladin.
“Go now, all of you!” Acacia shouted, clutching her leg. Blood seeped between her fingertips.
Rivan nudged Elam in the direction, but Isiilde took a step towards the gate. Oenghus was still beyond the barrier. Screams and death filled the night, and a roar stilled her heart. The ground began to shake, trembling and quaking beneath her feet.
Nimlesh and three of his Elite squeezed through the gap in the gate. Marsais opened his eyes, and Lucas took his last, rattling breath.
Thunder cracked in the clear night, and a moment later, lightning crackled from the sky. A jagged, razor-white streak struck the stone gate. Forks of energy reached out, pounding the earth.
Isiilde lay on her back. She did not remember getting there. Fire flickered around her flesh. Acacia and Marsais bent over her. She blinked, reeling. Her skin felt charged. Acacia was shouting in her ears, but all she could hear was ringing. She scrambled to her feet, and felt firm hands push her towards darkness.
The Knight Captain staggered beside her. Isiilde shook the buzzing from her ears, and put a shoulder under Acacia. Together, they limped forward, following the fleeting shadow of Elam over the sand, away from the carnage into the cool endless night.
Chapter Forty-Four
With every step she slipped and sank in the sand. It whipped in her face and pelted her bare skin. Isiilde glanced over her shoulder and nearly tripped. The gate crumbled.
She stopped, rooted in place, unable to look away. Fomorri staggered from the rubble, and the Elite archer Coen picked them off like flies. Marsais’ arms were a blur, snake-like in the haze, gathering force.
A swift, hulking shadow charged from the dust, and a lash of inky darkness reached towards her father’s back, whipping the legs from under him. He crashed into the sand. Oenghus crawled forward, tried to stand, and fell.
Marsais released his weave. A white hot arc sliced through the air, rippling over Oenghus’ head, cutting Fomorri down like wheat.
Isiilde started to run, back towards the gate—towards her father, but Marsais got there first. He did not get close, but shouted at Oenghus, goading him with words. The berserker snarled, swinging his club. Marsais jumped back, out of reach, and hastened away, still shouting.
A berserker’s rage did not distinguish between friend and foe. There was no reasoning with him. Oenghus climbed to his feet, and Marsais ran for his life. Oenghus chased after the long-legged seer, limping and staggering but picking up speed. Even wounded, he could outrun a horse. Given Marsais’ caution, she wondered if he’d recognize her. The nymph was not keen on discovering that answer.
Isiilde turned and raced after Acacia, Elam, and Rivan. Her feet sped over the sand, catching up in no time. Suddenly, the trio halted.
“Stop!” Rivan shouted.
Isiilde tried to do just that, but she slipped. A gaping void stretched beneath her feet, and the nymph skidded right over the edge.
Sand poured after her like a waterfall. She was falling. In darkness, it felt like an eternity; a breathless lifetime. And then a crash. Hard, unrelenting ground.
Isiilde rolled and plummeted off another edge. She clawed and grasped in the void, reaching for an island of rock. Her fingers dug into stone, and she hit a wall, dangling over an abyss. Her sutures split and pain lashed, nearly knocking her senseless.
Frantically, she released one hand, gasping out the Lore, tracing a trembling rune, but her grip on the edge slipped. Isiilde fell again. The last rune settled on her, and the air caught her. It was a weak, hasty weave, and it instantly unraveled. But it was enough. She landed on sand and rock, resting on her belly, gulping in the cool night air.
Isiilde wiggled her way forward, until a wall blocked her progress. She looked up. Stars shone with reassurance. She was not underground. Somewhere above, the battle still raged.
“Isiilde?” Acacia’s voice pierced the dark.
“Yes?”
“Thank the gods,” the Knight Captain breathed. A light flared. It came from Rivan’s hand. He shone the light down, bathing the nymph in a golden flare. Isiilde rather wished he had not. She sat on a ledge, on the brink of a void. If the earth had a throat, this would be it.
“Are you alright?” Rivan stood twenty feet up, at an angle. There must be another ledge farther up—the first one she had hit.
Isiilde winced at the question. Every inch of her ached, and she was sure something was broken, but when she moved and tested, she was only bruised and bloodied from her reopened wound. “I’ll live,” she said, pressing a hand against the wound. With the other, she traced an Orb of Light. The little orb pushed at the edges of black, but did not penetrate to the bottom of the hole.
Isiilde stepped to the edge of the ledge and let the orb drift into the darkness at her feet. It touched on another
ledge, one that hugged the cliff and curved upwards. One ledge above, and one below, they were like very steep steps for a titan.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“I think it’s the Spire,” Acacia replied.
She blinked. The Spire? The famed Unicorn’s Horn? She had expected a mountain or tower, something that went up, not a hole in the sand.
Footsteps and hurried breaths sounded above. “Isiilde?” Marsais’ voice echoed and bounced in the dark.
Isiilde’s ears stood on end. What else lurked down here? “I’m here,” she called, softly, waving her Orb of Light. Oenghus loomed overhead. She could not see his face, but she could hear his growling breath. He turned from the edge, and a roar thundered in the dark, followed by an arc of lightning that split the night.
The Fomorri were not finished.
“Climb down. Hurry!” Marsais ordered.
As the others helped each other down steps ten feet tall, Isiilde reached into her pouch and produced another pair of breeches and shirt.
Elam hung from the ledge above her. She started to reach up, but was far too short. The boy let go and dropped, landing lightly beside her. A roar shook stone loose, and she cringed, waiting for the rock to slide out from under her feet.
Elam grinned at her, and pointed. “Oenghus.” He nodded, completely unworried. But Isiilde did not share his optimism. Her father was not invincible, and he was not very careful.
As sounds of fierce fighting raged above, Rivan helped lower Acacia down. She hung as Elam had, then let go. Isiilde tried to soften her fall, but the captain bit back a cry, and crumpled to the stone. Her breath came in short gasps.
Isiilde directed the orb over her. Dark spots saturated her clothing, seeping beneath armor and cloth. Acacia tried to unbuckle a greave on her thigh, but her fingers shook with weakness. Isiilde quickly helped. The wound beneath gaped.
Acacia tossed her greave over the edge. “Bind it.”
Isiilde reached into her pouch, and pulled out a long bit of bandage. Working quickly, she cinched a tourniquet around Acacia’s thigh as Rivan joined them on the ledge.
A scream pierced the din of battle, a flash blinded and spots danced in her vision. The air went taut, charged like a storm about to snap.
“Oen, no!” Marsais barked, but his cry was drowned in an earthquake. Rock cracked and tumbled loose, and sand poured over the edge. Isiilde started slipping. She threw herself against the rock face, and reached out, grabbing Acacia’s pauldron to keep the paladin from falling.
The two women hugged the stone. Sand clogged Isiilde’s nose and mouth, and her light was snuffed, plunging them into darkness. As the sand flowed over their heads, she buried her face in her shirt, but the shaking was relentless. Sand tugged at the nymph, and she was shaken towards the edge.
All at once, the quaking stopped. In the swirling sand, Isiilde sneezed, shooting flame out both ears. She blinked, trying to find a clean spot to wipe the sand from her eyes, but she was covered in it.
Coughing out the Lore, Isiilde summoned an Orb of Light. Acacia’s pale eyes stared from the haze. The paladin looked like she was sculpted from sand. Another mound shifted. It was Rivan. He lowered his salvaged shield, dislodging a pile of sand on the boy who had taken cover with him.
Isiilde climbed to her feet, and took a cautious step towards the edge, peering upwards. All was silent. Something heavy dropped on the ledge above, and then a massive form stepped over the next edge. Oenghus landed with a snarl. Fury beat around the giant. One eye was swollen shut, and the one that remained was wild and savage. He was covered in gore and sand, clothes torn and shredded from more wounds than she cared to count.
When he looked at Isiilde, there was no recognition; only a glint of death. He bared his teeth, stained with blood, and gripped his club. Unworried, Isiilde stepped forward, placing a hand on his forearm. “Father,” she whispered. His eyes focused, and he saw her then. A long, violent shudder swept through his body.
“Go!” Marsais snapped from above.
Oenghus stepped towards Acacia, and Rivan raised his sword, preparing to defend his captain. Isiilde gave a sharp shake of her head.
“Oenghus—” Acacia warned, but he ignored her. The berserker did not ask, he simply hoisted the injured captain over one broad shoulder as if she were a child, and stalked down the path, ignoring her protests.
Rivan followed, but Isiilde stayed, eyes on Marsais. He stood on the lip of the Spire, weaving. A flash of power left his fingertips, and he stepped back, off the edge. The seer did not fall; the air caught him, and he drifted down beside her.
“Cover our backs,” he ordered the three remaining Elite: Nimlesh, Coen the archer, and Nalani, who fought like a dervish with twin scimitars.
Isiilde snapped her fingers, extinguishing her light.
“Careful now,” Marsais whispered. Her hand found his own, and he squeezed it back. She could not see, so she felt along the rock wall, hoping the path would not abandon her feet.
As they hurried down the winding ledge, shouts and torches drifted on the rim. Arrows were loosed, zipping and whizzing through the dark. Some missed their mark by yards, and others brushed her hair. The Fomorri could not see either. In a futile attempt to illuminate the pit, one of the Fomorri tossed down a torch. She watched it fall, tumbling end over end, slowly drifting, and then fading until the fire was swallowed by darkness.
A part of her was relieved that she could not see.
Eventually, the torches faded, and nothing moved on the rim of the Spire. At least, not that she could see. Isiilde felt as if she were falling, slowly. With every step, the moon drifted farther from reach. The scuff of boots was the only thing that marked time.
Soon, the air turned frigid, and her teeth started knocking together. Oenghus’ breath came harsh; his Brimgrog had finally worn off.
“We should stop,” Rivan whispered. “The captain—”
“The Fomorri may regroup,” Nimlesh said from the rear.
Marsais nodded in the dim. “Make it quick.”
“An Orb,” Oenghus growled.
Marsais summoned a small one, barely a wisp. In the soft blue light, Oenghus lowered the captain onto the ledge. Acacia’s face was pale and etched with pain, and Isiilde thought her father did not look much better.
When he crouched to heal the captain, he swayed, nearly falling off the edge.
Acacia grabbed his wrist. “I’ll live. Let me walk.”
“I could heal you,” Marsais offered.
“No,” she snapped. “Unless I’m dead, I’ll not be left helpless in this gods’ forsaken place.”
Isiilde understood. A healing rendered the wounded unconscious. The thought of waking up in Fomorri hands was too much to contemplate. Better to die fighting.
Oenghus uncorked his sacred flask and took a long, fortifying swig. It seemed to revive him. He unwrapped the bandage around Acacia’s thigh. “This will sting.”
Acacia braced herself. The muffled cry that escaped her lips was worse than a scream. Isiilde thought she could smell smoke hissing from the wound.
“How do you drink that?” the captain gasped.
“The first time, it feels like the flesh is being pulled from your bones.” Oenghus worked quickly, hands sure and now steady, rewrapping the gaping wound. When it was bound and cinched, he drew his knife and applied the tip to his own shoulder, digging after an arrowhead.
The rush of adrenaline had left her shaky, and Isiilde turned away from the sight, slumping against Marsais. His heart was steady and his arms sure, and she closed her eyes, thinking of Lucas and his sacrifice. If the paladin had had time to think, would he still have sacrificed himself for a nymph? Her heart said yes, but her mind churned with confusion. Lucas had hated her. Why would he protect her—a mere nymph?
“What’s at the bottom?” she asked, pulling away.
“A door.”
Isiilde waited for more.
Marsais spread his hands. “That’s al
l I’ve seen.”
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Perhaps. Maybe not. I hadn’t really...” he trailed off, frowning in thought. “Hmm.”
In all the years that Isiilde had known Marsais, that sound had never filled her with so much dread. “Hmm?” she asked.
“I may have overlooked something.”
“What?”
“Have you ever stepped on broken glass?”
“I love my feet too much.”
“Well, I have. There’s a shock of pain, and it’s so distracting that one never wonders.”
“About what?”
“Whether the shards were all from the same glass.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Tap, tap, tap. An impatient guide knocked on his skull like a woodpecker, and then the bird’s weight left his shoulder. Zoshi’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone—not here. But the crow was close. Crumpet hopped from a helmet to the stone, and disappeared, leaving the little pool of blue light.
Zoshi climbed hastily to his feet, snatched up his lantern, and followed the crow. The light touched sleek black feathers, and the boy sighed with relief. But for every step, the bird hopped two more, keeping just on the edge of light, always out of reach. He hurried after his guide.
So much death, so much silence save for that rasping, shuddering breath. A whisper of metal on stone; of rust and age; of something old and worn, biding its time.
But what was the silence waiting for?
Zoshi shook the dizzying fear from his mind, and followed the crow. He would follow Crumpet anywhere, except back, towards that chain. Happy as he was to be traveling in the opposite direction, he did not keep track of the twists and turns. The entirety of his focus was on the crow. And then the bird stopped.
Crumpet cawed softly, and Zoshi raised his light. The boy screamed. His fingers lost their strength, and the lantern fell. All the moss tumbled on the stone. Zoshi backed away, and a rush of fury and feathers flew at his face. His boots got caught in a hip bone, and he tripped, falling hard on his backside. Crumpet thudded onto his chest. The bird was angry.
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 29