The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  With a chant, she bound a powerful combination of stone and water to the lever, and bent to pick up her axe. The realm tipped and spun, but she had one final task to finish. Gathering her strength, fighting the burn of Eiji’s poison, she brought her axe down on the lever. The lever shaft shattered.

  Her ears rang with silence.

  Morigan blinked through a haze of blood and sweat. She slumped against the wall, but her hand stayed firm on her axe. The Fey surrounded her. And on the floor lay a twisted tangle of bodies: Eiji, a good number of Fey, and more allies than she’d care to count. Her gaze swept over Rashk and Bram and all the Wraith Guards who had stayed behind. She was the only defender standing.

  The Fey parted, making way for their god. His cold eyes flickered from the broken lever to the gleaming wards pulsing on the first gate.

  Morigan wiped the blood from her eyes, and made an effort to stand, but her muscles twitched from Eiji’s poisoned blade.

  “Humans never change,” Har’Feydd sighed. An odd chirp issued from the depths of his throat, like a cluck of a tongue. “You’ve delayed me, nothing more.” He twirled his stave and swaggered forward. “This is such a useful little artifact. It was so kind of Tharios to retrieve it for me.”

  Pushing aside pain and summoning strength, Morigan charged. She swung her axe, but Pyrderi leapt back with casual grace. Wood slammed into her face, and thorns dug and ripped flesh. She struck again. But the Fey might as well have been made of wind. Faster than she could follow, her legs were swept from under her, and she slammed onto the floor.

  Pyrderi raised the stave, and speared her thigh with the jagged sun, pinning her to the stone. Morigan screamed, and swung at the shaft, but he gave a twist of the stave. It stole her breath and strength, and the Fey casually plucked the axe from her weakened grip.

  Morigan writhed on the slick ground, fingers reaching for the barbed staff burning in her thigh. Pyrderi tossed her axe to the side, and ran a finger over the line she had carved across his gut. Only a scratch; not nearly deep enough. He licked the blood from his fingertips.

  “Ah, Morigan,” he purred. “Mate to my old foe Ulfhidhin.” He bent close, and grabbed her braid, wrenching up her head. Agony shot from her thigh to her skull. She couldn’t even scream. “What do you call him now—Oenghus? Do you know, in my tongue Oen means blockhead. Fitting, I think.” The Fey bent so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. It was as cold as the Fell Wind. Her entire body trembled and darkness crept into her vision. “If I were human, I would rape and torture you, and hang your mutilated corpse from the gates.”

  Pyrderi jerked the stave from her thigh, and she convulsed, back arching. Morigan clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring, staring through a sheen of tears. But the Fey kept a hand on her braid; she was like a dog on a leash hanging over the ground.

  He set down the stave and drew a blade. Whispered words flowed from his perfect lips—the language of fire and steel. The blade glowed hot with eagerness.

  “You’re a healer. You know what happens when a wound is cauterized. That is what humans did to my heart. Revenge is like a brand.” He pressed the glowing blade to her wounded thigh. Screams filled her ears. The blade left, the pain remained. “There, all better now.” That angular face swam in front of her eyes. Amusement gleamed from the depths of his gaze. “It hurts now—I know—but soon the wound will heal and scar over, and you will never feel anything in that spot again. I’ve given you a gift.”

  Morigan gathered her strength, and spat blood in his face. He licked it from his lips. “Ah, humans. I offer civility and you answer with barbarity. I’m not an animal you know. I only want Ulfhidhin.” Pyrderi released her braid.

  Reduced to a trembling lump of flesh, Morigan flopped to the floor, hitting her head.

  A high-pitched scream filled the chamber. Swimming in confusion, Morigan thought it came from her own throat, but a moment later, a small, dirt-covered boy charged from the line of distracted Fey and flew at Pyrderi with warhammer raised. The rune-etched hammer in his small hands struck Pyrderi’s back. Lightning crackled and splintered. The Fey staggered from the shock, backhanding the boy.

  Zoshi lost his grip on the warhammer. He flew back, off his feet, landing on a heap of bodies.

  Morigan knew that warhammer, she knew its name from the whispered dreaming of a man whose bed she had shared for over a century. She thrust a hand towards the hammer, and called its true name.

  The warhammer of Ulfhidhin leapt to her hand, warm and willing, and with a roar, she brought the head down on the spiked sun. Stone cracked, light flared, and the powerful artifact was rendered to ash, unleashing its violent energy. A wave of force blasted from that focal point. Fey and god were blasted off their feet.

  Morigan hit a wall, tried to rise, but only floundered. She could not see, could not hear, but she felt herself smile. At last, she’d rest.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Gateway spewed Isiilde out the other side. She was falling head first into a realm of ice. The nymph twisted in midair, like a frantic feline hoping to land on four feet. Her levitation weave unraveled.

  Isiilde screamed and threw a sloppy weave at the floor. She hit the ice, hard. Air fled her lungs and she could not suck in another breath. Panic stricken, she slapped her hand on the ice, flailing, sure she had shattered her ribs and was dying. The others would die too. With that desperate thought, her lungs filled.

  She scrambled to her feet. What had happened? The nymph did not waste time with worrying about her surroundings. She studied her handiwork. Ethereal threads of her weave floated in the air, like the grease enchantment that she had used on Tulipin so long ago. This weave, however, was not slippery; it was soft with feather runes, and more akin to shoving a mattress under a falling object than trying to catch a slippery hand in midair.

  The Gateway crackled and spit out a giant. Oenghus plummeted from the ceiling. He bellowed and twisted, and then slowed midway, dropping to the floor like honey. With an expulsion of air, he hit the ice.

  “That was a very high-pitched scream,” she said as he climbed to his feet.

  Her father answered with a glare, and hoisted his shield and sword. He looked to the wintery realm. “Have we bloody fallen into Isiikle?”

  Isiilde’s ears wilted. That thought terrified her. And then a noise pricked her attention: a creak and rasp. Ice shifted against ice, and a chill mist touched her skin, cutting down to her bone. It hurt to breathe.

  “Bollocks,” her father croaked, reaching for his Brimgrog.

  She dared not turn. Isiilde kept her focus on the weave as the portal spit out another person: Elam. The boy flailed in the air, and behind her, Oenghus roared in challenge. It shook the ground, cracking ice. She risked a glance, and wished she had not. A blizzard flew at her face, stinging her cheeks.

  Oenghus charged into the white.

  Fighting for breath, she wove a Barrier of Fire. It snapped into focus and pushed at the chill. Keeping one hand stretched towards the whiteout, she extended the other towards her feather weave.

  Acacia fell next, and she shifted the weave under the falling knight. As soon as Acacia landed, the paladin scrambled towards Elam, throwing her shield up and over the boy. Another roar shook icicles loose. Sharp spears crashed from the high ceiling, but her Barrier caught the icicles, turning them to water.

  Ice and snow swirled, parting for a split second. In that moment, she saw her father. Energy crackled over his body as he faced a titan of ice. An elemental, ancient as the Leviathan. It bellowed like a creaking glacier, and jabbed a spear of ice at Oenghus. He stepped to the side, swinging his falchion. Blue lightning shattered the ice spear.

  The Gateway churned overhead, and Isiilde tore her eyes from the fight, thrusting her hand towards the woman who fell. Nalani hit the feather weave, but the distraction cost Isiilde. Ice blasted through her Barrier of Fire. A deathly chill crawled over her flesh. It was unlike anything she had ever felt. An element in its purest form, utte
rly raw. It threatened to freeze her solid.

  Unable to breathe, the nymph focused on her bond and forced a rasp past her lips. Her bond stirred, and fire bubbled in her breast, warming her throat. Desperate, she screamed. Flames surged from her fingertips, mixing with the faltering Barrier. But her fire also surged in the other direction, out her fingertips, and into the feather weave. The air below the portal burst into flames.

  Marsais fell from the churning portal, plummeting into a blaze. Isiilde’s eyes went wide. There was no time to think. She dropped her Barrier and focused on the flaming feather weave. With a shout, and a bind, she sent the whole burning mass hurling into the ice storm.

  Hot air clashed with cold, and the impact rippled outwards. Isiilde hit the ground. Steam hissed, fire swirled, and ice knocked together, creating its own thundercloud. Lightning ripped over her head, jagged and white, throwing off thunderclaps.

  Her hair stood on end. The air tingled in her nose, bringing the scent of a storm. All was blinding and wild, and as ice shards pelted her clothes Isiilde fought through the storm, scrambling on hands and knees to where Marsais had landed. He lay on his back, and the twisted sun was half-buried in the snow by his limp hand. She threw herself over him, shielding him from the blizzard. A heart beat in his chest. He wasn’t dead, and she hoped nothing was broken.

  Still shielding his body with her own, Isiilde stretched out an arm, reaching for the twisted sun. Her fingers curled over the artifact. Filth crawled along her flesh. Every instinct screamed at her to throw it into the storm, but Isiilde bit back the urge, opened her pouch, and stuffed the artifact inside.

  With a frantic jerk, Marsais regained consciousness. He blinked at the hail and crackling bolts, and his fingers began to weave. A Barrier flared to life. Marsais climbed to his knees and stretched out his hand, holding back the onslaught of forces.

  “Sever the Bind!” he shouted in her ear.

  Isiilde looked at the tangled runes, twisting and bumping against one another. There was no telling what a quick severing would do. Safe behind Marsais’ Barrier, she began to sing, calling to her flame, drawing it out of the weave. When a sinuous line blazed through the air, she stepped from the safety of the Barrier, and gathered the fire to her hands. Her voice rose, feeding it, shaping it, until it roiled and spit with molten heat.

  The elemental roared. Something crunched, and a moment after Oenghus sailed through the air. He hit her feather weave, and slowed, but the elemental charged after him with steps like cracking earth. Isiilde was shaken off her feet. And as she fell back, she raised her voice, sending her fireball hurling into pure ice.

  Isiilde hit the ground, and slid back. Huge slabs of ice cracked and fell, and she rolled to the side. In the storm, she saw a shimmer of blue, and a hole in the wall. An opening.

  As chunks of ice pelted her back, she scrambled through snow and ice towards the hole. It was a cave. A runic shield covered the opening. Glancing back to make sure Marsais was with her, she slithered through the hole. When her head touched the shimmering blue shield, a shock cleared her mind. Her heart sped and her senses came alive. Isiilde slid through, and turned, reaching back to help Marsais through the narrow gap.

  Inside, the air was warmer, and still. She smelled blood. Lingering flashes of lightning lit the darkness, illuminating a small cave of ice. Through a chatter of teeth, she summoned the Lore and wove a small light. The firefly-sized orb emitted a soft glow, enough to see the man beside her. Marsais was shivering and covered in frost. Red streaks mixed with the white, and she touched his shoulder, dabbing at the blood. His wounds appeared to be superficial gashes from the ice.

  “We need to help Oen.” She started to move, but Marsais grabbed her arm.

  “Listen.”

  The ground had settled. Ice creaked and a few flashes from outside their cave lit the dark, but the earthquake had quieted. Something breathed, slow and rasping, in the aftermath. Its slow breathing meant the elemental had either killed Oenghus, or had given up the fight.

  Marsais traced an air rune, and whispered into the weave. Isiilde is safe. Are you? With a gesture, he sent it fluttering through the air.

  “He can’t Whisper back,” she reminded.

  A roar answered. “We’re all here, in a cave...or a tunnel. Where the Void are we?” Oenghus’ shout roused the elemental, and more ice cracked and fell.

  Marsais grabbed Isiilde and pressed her head to his chest. After the ground stopped moving, Marsais wove another Whisper, this one with a sharp, irritated hand. But she didn’t pay attention to his message. A pattern in the ice had seized her curiosity. Something tickled the back of her mind, and she crawled from beneath Marsais, making her way through the dark cave.

  With a whisper, she summoned a flame, and fed it with a soft lullaby. The flameling danced and twirled on her palm, and she held it up to the wall. The ice began to melt. With every drop, a larger portion of the pattern was revealed. It was familiar, a twining image of vines and leaves. When Marsais crawled over to her side, she looked into his eyes. “We’re in the Nameless chamber in the Spine. It’s the gate to the throne room,” she whispered.

  Marsais looked from the pattern of vines, to the black ice. He quickly traced another Whisper.

  “What happened here?” she asked.

  “In the dungeon, when we were captured, Tharios asked about a tomb.”

  “You told him where the map was.”

  “Yes, he opened the flask. The elemental was guarding the map, but I don’t know how it ended up here.”

  “Does that mean he’s found the tomb?”

  Marsais arched a brow, his equivalent of a shrug. “If I were the optimistic sort, I’d say Tharios was likely killed.”

  “You are optimistic...only very practical too.”

  “A seer’s lot in life, I’m afraid.”

  “You said we have until the Shadowed Dawn. We have time.” It was more question than statement.

  “That was a single path in many. Based on my visions, I assumed that would be the date, but I’m not sure I can believe my visions,” he whispered.

  “You doubt them?”

  He glanced back to the shimmering gap in the ice. “Now? Yes.” His eyes were full of enough turmoil to fill a storm-tossed sea.

  Isiilde took his hand and held it with all her strength. “Don’t worry.”

  “I must.”

  “I know.” For a moment, she closed her eyes, burying her face against his shoulder. “A feather bed...all I want is to sleep.”

  “I’ve finally exhausted you.” His breath was warm on her temple.

  Isiilde smirked. “I’d rather you accomplished that without Fomorri, ice elementals, and power hungry madmen.”

  “Such is my life.”

  “I’ll never be bored again.” She sat back and cocked an ear, listening. The elemental rasped its glacial breath. “What is Oen going to do?”

  “Likely the opposite of what I suggested.”

  “Which is?”

  “Something extremely foolish.”

  “Is that part of the castle wards?” She nodded to the shimmering shield.

  “Yes.”

  “Can the elemental pass through it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  Isiilde climbed to her feet, and helped Marsais find his. He looked as tired and battered as she felt. One foot in front of the other, she silently reminded herself. That’s all that was needed.

  “Sorry I dropped you.”

  “You had enough to worry about. I caught myself,” he said, straightening with a wince. “Barely.”

  She looked at the iced-over gate, and without thought, began to sing, a quiet, lilting song. With a deft hand, she traced a fire rune on the gate, adding her own whimsical flourishes to the rune. It glowed molten. As the ice melted, water ran in rivulets down the barrier, puddling around their feet. She stepped closer to the glow, warming herself in the heat that rippled outwards.

  Isiilde looked at her rune, and
cocked her head.

  “That would be extremely unwise,” Marsais said, sensing her thoughts.

  She blinked at the man. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “Your ears are thoughtful.”

  Isiilde narrowed her eyes.

  “In order to melt that elemental, you’d need to trace your rune directly onto it, and even then, it would only turn into a liquid state. An elemental that old and powerful would likely reform.”

  “It would give us time.”

  “Are you cold now?”

  “Freezing,” she chattered.

  “Imagine touching the essence of ice.”

  Isiilde pursed her lips. She’d rather not.

  When a section of the gate had been revealed, Isiilde poked the ice and a slab slid off, shattering on the ground. She looked through the gap. The throne room was dark and misty, and her ears twitched with unease. But then the throne room had always made her queasy.

  “Can you still open this gate?”

  Marsais glanced at his palm, but nothing flared to life. The Archlord’s Runic Eye had passed to another.

  She eyed the gaps between the vines. “I used to squeeze through all the time.” There was a warded panel near the throne, at the far end, that opened the gate. A precaution, in case the Archlord was not present.

  Before Marsais could answer, a loud creaking breath scraped against her ears. Ice rasped against ice, and the floor under her feet shuddered. The ice wall gave way, and a huge slab fell, crashing on the floor.

  “Blast it, Oen,” Marsais hissed.

  A crack of lightning shattered a stalactite high overhead. The mountain-sized spear fell, crashing on the elemental. Acacia, Nalani, and Elam ran towards the Nameless chamber. When they saw the shimmering blue shield, the three skidded to a stop, but Marsais motioned them through with a quick hand. A look of dismay filled Elam’s face when he saw the half-frozen gate.