The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Oenghus dragged too, resting a hand against the rock to keep himself steady. His gaze kept drifting towards the long spiraling path and the widening rim far overhead, searching for a sign of the Fomorri. It was only a matter of time before they gathered for another attack.

  Isiilde tried not to think of that. As she walked, she marveled at the spire. It was unfathomable, piercing the earth for miles. The path hugged the rock, around and around, spiraling down. Isiilde risked a peek over the edge. Even under the rising sun, the titan’s stairway stretched into darkness. A wave of dizziness tugged at her, and a hand clamped over her shoulder.

  She looked to Marsais, steadying herself in his eyes. “What is this place?”

  “A madman’s obsession.”

  “Obsession for what?”

  Marsais looked across the vast, open space towards the spiraling ledge on the opposite side that they had traversed hours ago, and then up, craning his neck to gaze at the perfect circle that made up the sky. Sand drifted over the edges, swirling down into the throat. A narrow slab of stone jutted into the abyss.

  “There are many myths,” he explained quietly. “Some stories claim that this was a diamond mine; others a vault, a weapon or the tomb of a god. When I was young, the legend was of a madman who tried to capture the sun. But even then, in my youth, the legends were ancient.”

  Isiilde could feel the Spire’s weight; it was like a wound in the earth that never healed. “Which story is true?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you can’t remember?” she asked.

  Grey eyes narrowed, a piercing, penetrating gaze. Isiilde stared unflinchingly back. She had nothing to hide, so there was never anything for him to find. He, on the other hand, was vast. His eyes were the stars, warm and comforting, but unreachable. The corner of his lip quirked. “You ask all the right questions,” he whispered. “Both are correct. I can’t remember if I should know.”

  She started walking again, focusing on the path, and Marsais followed. “Do you remember anything about Finnow, the man who built this?”

  “I don’t think Finnow was a man at all.”

  “A woman?”

  “A word.” She glanced back, curious, and he obliged. “All tongues change over time. Words are mangled and shift, taking on new meanings from one age to the next. As old as this place is, the spire may have been built by the Lindale, or at the very least, named.”

  “Finnow is a word in the old tongue?”

  “A mangled version, I think. It stems from the legends about catching the sun. The original word in ancient Lindale means futile, or folly—a fool’s task.”

  “Do you think spire was originally spiral?

  “It could very well have started that way. Time has a way of muddling things.”

  “Fool’s Spiral,” she murmured. A thought pricked the back of her mind, but when she tried to grasp the intangible thread, it fluttered out of reach.

  Isiilde looked towards the sky. The sun had not yet peeked over the rim, but the sky was blue and clear. “I’m not sure this would capture a falling sun, but I’m fairly sure the Fomorri intend to capture us.” She pointed at a dark blot in the sky: the faithful herald of an impending attack.

  As Isiilde and the group descended, the walls closed in, until the opposite side was a mere forty feet away. All was dark down below, but overhead, the sky was blinding white. Around and around; until the first in the line of travelers could see the last on the opposite path.

  Isiilde climbed over a fallen pillar. Down in the basin, arches had been carved into the rock, faded and pitted with time. A single mark repeated itself, carved into every surface: a spiral pattern, worn and nearly smoothed to obscurity.

  Isiilde touched one of the carvings, following its trail. It was exactly like the Spire itself, narrowing to a pinpoint. Ahead, Oenghus stopped on the path, squinting into the dark. He grunted at Marsais and pointed down. Speech it seemed, was still beyond his reach.

  Marsais fed light into the Orb, and the blue glow brightened, filling the frigid basin. The path plunged beneath sand.

  Oenghus stepped to the very end of the path, and crouched, brushing away the sand. There was ice underneath. It looked like a frozen pond.

  “Void,” the giant spat, reaching out to brush away more.

  Isiilde peered over his shoulder. There was something under the ice. A skull, bones—lots of bones. She craned her neck, looking up towards the top, and to where that arch of stone jutted from the edge. Was it a sacrificial altar, or a testing ground for Fomorri and their newly grafted wings? She did not really want to know.

  “You said there was a door,” Nimlesh stated. All eyes went to the ice and the path that disappeared under its surface.

  “Do we have to swim down there?” Rivan asked. There was dread in his voice, and Isiilde shared his worry. The idea of swimming beneath the ice through freezing, bone-riddled water in search of a door did not sit well with her either.

  “You want me to break it?” Oenghus raised his club, but Marsais stilled him with a gesture.

  “This is a madman’s dream. Let’s take things slowly.”

  “But the Fomorri are on their way,” Coen said.

  Even now, a long line of warriors raced down the spiral path. They would arrive within the hour. There was nowhere to go, no defensible position. Down here, at the bottom of the basin, the group would be ripe for the picking.

  “Move the light closer to the edges,” Acacia ordered. Marsais obliged, illuminating the rock above the ice. “Are those bore holes?”

  Small holes ringed the basin, just above the frozen surface. Isiilde knelt on the path and bent over the edge, studying the rock beneath her. She stuck her finger inside of one.

  “Sprite!” Oenghus hissed.

  “What?” She withdrew her finger. “It’s just a hole.”

  “Don’t bloody touch anything in places like this. Ruins are usually riddled with traps and wards.”

  Isiilde ignored him, and sat back on her calves. “It slopes downwards.”

  Marsais joined her on the ledge, bending over for a closer look “There’s no lingering weave around the hole, and it’s not large enough for a spear.” Upside down as he was, his voice was muffled.

  “Maybe it blows poison darts at anyone dumb enough to stick his face in it,” Oenghus grunted.

  “Are you referring to the time you got pegged in the forehead by a poisonous dart?”

  Oenghus raised his foot to shove Marsais over the edge, but Isiilde grabbed his leg, keeping the kick at bay.

  “I think they are drains,” Marsais stated, oblivious to the foot aimed at his backside. “During the stormy season, this basin would make for an excellent well.” He pulled out his dagger and began chipping at the ice directly under the drain.

  Oenghus lost his balance, and yanked his foot free. Isiilde stuck her tongue out at the brute.

  “But why block the door?” Acacia asked. “Unless the entrance is farther up and we missed it.” All eyes went in that direction, searching the crumbling arches that they had walked past.

  The sky, far overhead, caught Isiilde’s eye. The sun had not yet shown itself in that perfect circle of light, and that thought sparked an idea. “Do you think something happens when the ice melts? Maybe the holes are here to keep the water at a certain level?”

  Marsais straightened, sitting down beside her. He looked thoughtfully at the sheet of ice. “I think you’re right,” he murmured. “There is a trigger—a faint weave—that is aligned with the layer of ice.”

  Isiilde bent over the rim. She traced a runic eye and studied the rune. Quicksilver—a catalyst used in alchemy. The element was sensitive to changes in temperature.

  “Before the Shattering, water was used as a source of power. Even in this era it’s used to run mills and such.”

  “So when the sun is at its peak, it melts the ice, triggers the weave, and a ward is activated?” Oenghus asked.

  Isiilde frowne
d at the skeletons beneath the ice. It seemed plausible.

  “It could also open the door.” Acacia said. “Think about it—a perfect defense against unwanted intruders. No need for guards at night and early dawn.”

  “Do you think the water is poisoned, then?” Nimlesh asked.

  “Perhaps,” Marsais said.

  “Can you test its purity?” Oenghus asked Acacia.

  She looked away. “Rivan can perform the ritual.”

  The paladin blinked in surprise. “I’ve only done it once—”

  “Do it,” Acacia ordered. “My prayers are worthless.”

  Rivan hopped forward, crouching at the end of the path. As Oenghus smashed a hole in the ice, the paladin pulled out a stone from his ritual pouch. But Isiilde did not watch Rivan; her eyes were on his captain. Acacia had tried to heal Lucas, and had failed. Not once, in all these long days since Mearcentia, had the Knight Captain used any of her rituals—not even a light.

  Marsais watched her too, but Acacia pointedly ignored him. The tension in the air was palpable, and it had nothing to do with their surroundings. As Rivan worked, Isiilde moved beside the captain, and sat, resting her back against the stone.

  “What happened?” she ventured.

  A muscle in Acacia’s jaw tensed. “I failed Lucas. That is what happened.”

  “There was poison in his blood,” Marsais said. “I doubt Oenghus could have saved him.”

  “I might have, Seer,” Acacia bit out. “But the Guardians have abandoned me.”

  At her words, Rivan nearly dropped his stone. His concentration broke, and he looked at his captain, clearly baffled.

  Isiilde tilted her head. “Did you piss off Zahra, too?” she asked Marsais.

  He raised a shoulder. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Was it you who sent the Whisper in the guise of Chaim?” Acacia abruptly accused Marsais. “It was, wasn’t it? You tricked me into following you.”

  Isiilde blinked at Acacia.

  “Would you believe me if I denied it?” Marsais asked.

  Acacia shook her head.

  “But why would he do that?” asked Isiilde.

  “He needed the Blessed Order’s support for your trial.”

  Oenghus looked to his old friend. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Right then,” Oenghus growled. “It’s settled. You’re exhausted, is all.”

  “He’s lying, Oenghus, as he always does. Why else would I fail even the simplest of rituals?” The Knight Captain’s voice was level, but her pale gaze burned into the seer.

  “Are you sure you have not lost faith in yourself?” Marsais asked. In contrast, his voice was calm and full of warmth.

  Acacia did not answer. The silence stretched until Rivan broke it. “The water isn’t poisoned,” he muttered. He cleared his throat, and raised his voice. “But I wouldn’t drink it without a purification ritual first.” Rivan replaced the Sacred Sun around his neck, and tucked away his implements.

  “So what now?” Oenghus asked. “Do we break the ice under each hole, or do we wait for the sun to melt the ice?”

  “We don’t know what will happen to the water once the triggers are activated, and if we wait for the sun, the Fomorri will be on us,” Nimlesh said from the ledge above. What was left of his Elite, were spread out: Coen hunkered down in an archway, bow held at the ready, and Nalani stood on the path, scimitars in hand, following the Fomorri with keen eyes.

  Isiilde looked at the ragged band. Even her father looked deflated, weak with wounds and unsteady on his feet. And she could not remember when she had last slept. The nymph was tired of fighting Fomorri, and she never wanted to see another as long as she lived, which, she thought grimly, might not be for very long. That thought sparked action.

  “I can melt the ice,” she said.

  Marsais looked at her. “Are you sure?” He did not say more, but she heard the words. Are you sure you are up to it? Are you sure you won’t burn yourself out? Are you sure you won’t burn us all to a crisp?

  She flashed him a cheeky smile. “I’ll wager you a hundred crown.”

  “I believe I owe you as much.”

  “A chance to even your debt.”

  “I’ll take that wager.”

  Isiilde stepped to the end of the path. With a whisper, she summoned her flame, and the fire in her blood responded. Her bond flared to life, leaping to her palm. The flameling flickered, small and steady, eager to do her bidding.

  She began to sing, gently at first, wrapping the flame to her will. Her voice was the soft hiss, the smolder of a low burn, throwing heat in the air until it sweltered.

  The nymph whispered her desire, and the ball of fire surged from her hands, rippling outwards, spreading over the ice. It caressed the cool sheet. Her voice grew. Power soared in the air, beating around her like wings. The Spire fell away, the humans, her father, and even Marsais. Bound in a cycle of allure, one fed off the other, the nymph and her fire. The seductive quiver of flame captivated her, and she ached to feel its touch on her skin.

  Isiilde moaned.

  A deluge of water hit her. The fire hissed, and steam rose from her skin. Isiilde spluttered and turned, fury rising in her veins. Emerald eyes flashed at the giant who towered over her. Father and daughter opened their mouths.

  Oenghus beat her to it. “There is no way in the Nine Halls that I’m going to stand here and watch—” Words failed him, so he changed tack. “You’re running out of clothes,” he growled instead.

  Isiilde seethed. “That water is filthy!”

  “Well, now you are too.” Her father bared his teeth. She punched his gut, and instantly regretted it. Pain lanced up her arm. It was like hitting a rock. As Oenghus snickered, she shook out her hand and the others watched, eyes wide and worried. The paladins, Elam, and the Elite had all retreated to an upper tier. Except for Marsais. She turned away from her aggravating father, and looked to the seer. He was crouched on the edge of the path, gazing into the pool.

  “You owe me two hundred crowns,” she said to his back.

  Marsais glanced over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “An invigorating defeat.”

  Isiilde ignored the grumbling giant behind her, and stepped beside Marsais, watching the water. A loud, grating rasp filled the basin. The water began to turn, creating a whirlpool. Marsais gripped her arm and pulled her away from the edge.

  Bones churned in the terrifying swirl, a continuation of the spire itself. The water level dropped, revealing toppled pillars and faded carvings. And as the last drop disappeared through a rusty grate, the bones settled in the center. Water dripped from stone, pattering on stone tiles and running rivulets through moss and slime towards the drain. The tiles underneath were patterned in the same dizzying design as the spire.

  “Door!” shouted Elam. The boy pointed excitedly at a segment of stone. He nearly hopped from the path to the bottom, but Rivan held him back. The door was hard to spot. A faint outline of seams in the stone was the only revealing mark.

  Marsais moved to the bottom of the path and murmured the Lore, layering the Runic Eye over a spirit rune. The weave took shape, and a gossamer net fell softly on the tiles. He eyed the ground suspiciously. After a minute of inspection, the seer stepped on the first tile. Isiilde held her breath, but nothing happened.

  “Don’t touch anything. Any of you,” he said, pausing to look first at Isiilde, and then at her father. Oenghus replied with a rude gesture.

  Marsais stepped beside the grate, and the others moved into the basin. It was a perfect circle that was a mere twenty feet across. Isiilde wrinkled her nose at the slime and bones. She looked through the rusty grate and down into the hole; it swallowed her heart. The nymph shivered, and took a quick two steps back.

  “What is it?” Marsais asked.

  “I don’t know. This place is... watchful. Malevolent.”

  “Hmm,” he agreed. Marsais craned back his neck, looking at the golden sky blazing high overhead. “At midday
, the sun will be directly over the Spire, and the ice would ordinarily begin to melt.” He directed his Orb of Light towards the grate. The little orb slipped through and descended into darkness. Its light was lost. He snuffed it out with a quick gesture.

  “So every day the drain is triggered,” she mused. “It doesn’t rain much, so the water must come back.”

  “That’s what I fear.” Marsais turned abruptly and walked to the door.

  As he wove a Runic Eye over the door, she traced yet another worn mark on the stone. The spiral pattern was repeated, over and over, all around, as if a mad child had taken chalk and marked the walls. “Marsais, did this symbol have a meaning before the Shattering?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” he replied. “If the end were connected to the beginning, then yes, it would. But unattached as it is, the symbol is simply a spiral.”

  “It reminds me of the cycles in King’s Folly,” Rivan said at her shoulder.

  A light flared in her mind, and her ears stiffened with excitement. She looked at the paladin, eyes wide. “You are brilliant!” Her voice echoed off the stone, and then soared. She was sure it would burst from the rim and pour into the desert, but the nymph didn’t care. In her exuberance, she stood on her toes and kissed Rivan on the cheek.

  Rivan blushed. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Yes, you are, even if you don’t know it. You see sun melts ice, and water moves stone. This is a giant game!”

  Marsais slowly turned his gaze on her. There was worry there. “I think you’re right, but not quite a game—not when we are the runes.”

  Isiilde waved off his concern. “We are not runes, Marsais. We are the players.”

  He rubbed his goatee in thought. “No, not the players, but an opponent. We are on one side of the board, Isiilde. We could very well be playing the builders.”

  That thought hung heavy over the group.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  “That means there will only be one winner,” Acacia noted without enthusiasm.

  “Bollocks,” Oenghus spat. But Isiilde thought it brilliant, and she looked at the spire with new eyes.