The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  The berserker growled, picked up a boulder-sized fragment, and tossed it aside. “Morigan!” His heart tore in two. But in the haze of rage, he felt an old stirring of familiarity. His palm itched. And then he heard a faint voice—a child’s voice.

  “Oenghus?”

  Paladin and berserker rushed towards the far wall. Oenghus heaved stones aside, until he uncovered the source. A filthy, bloodied child hunched over the head of a warrior. The boy looked up with one eye.

  Oenghus could not believe what he saw, but he recognized that one remaining eye. “Zoshi?” He crouched, plucking the battered boy off the ground. When he looked down, he saw who the child had been protecting. Morigan. He passed the boy to Acacia, and pushed back the rubble, making room. She was half-buried, her legs pinned, her face covered in blood. With inhuman power, he tore at the stones and beams, tossing rocks and wreckage aside. When she was free, he felt for a pulse.

  “No, Mori, please, no.” He summoned the Lore, sending a burst of Life into her broken bones. With trembling fingers, he unbuckled her armor, and slipped a hand beneath the chain. But rage and grief filled him, and he could not see past the red haze.

  Another pair of hands joined his. A warm silver glow surrounded the paladin, traveling down her arms to Morigan’s body. Acacia drew back with a gulp of air.

  Morigan’s chest rose, a single shaky breath. And then another. Oenghus willed her to take a third. She did. Tears cooled his rage, and he watched as her fingers curled, and then fell limp.

  Calmer, Oenghus pressed his hands to Morigan, summoned the Lore, and plunged into her body. Her wounds took his breath away, and although he could not mend them all, he did enough. There was a rot inside of her that he could not touch—a darkness. When he withdrew, Morigan breathed shallowly, but steadily.

  Oenghus gently cupped her face in his hands, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Ah, my girl,” he whispered. “You’re not finished yet. Keep fighting; keep breathing for me.”

  “I tried to move the rocks, but I couldn’t. I tried to save her,” the boy said.

  Oenghus straightened, raking a rough palm over his eyes. “You did, lad. It’s up to her now.”

  “Did you sense it? There’s some kind of taint in her. What was it?” Acacia asked.

  “I don’t bloody know.”

  “The... man, he stabbed her with... with a spear,” Zoshi stuttered, and then the past weeks came pouring from the boy in one long rush. At the end of his tale, a sob tore from his throat. Zoshi put his forehead to the bloodied ground, and began to cry. Acacia scooped the boy into her arms, holding his head to her breastplate.

  Oenghus stared at the face of his closest companion in this life. She had always urged him to think before acting, and even half-dead, Morigan got through to him. The berserker thought, but more importantly he remembered.

  Oenghus stood, gazing at his palm. It tingled. He flexed his fist, then opened his hand. “Slàtra,” he said.

  The rubble shifted, a rock tumbled off the top of the wreckage, and a warhammer flew through the air. The haft smacked into his palm. Runes flared to life, and energy crackled around the head, sizzling down his arm like a net. In the crackling blue, past and present united, and a deep growl rumbled from his chest.

  “Another lost warhammer of yours?” Acacia asked. Without taking her gaze off the towering Nuthaanian, she gently pushed the boy away, and stood.

  “Stay with her,” Oenghus ordered.

  “There’s an army of Fey in there.”

  Oenghus shook his head. “I’m not going to the throne room.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To finish what I started,” he growled.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “I need to know that Morigan is safe.” His voice was harsh, and he gripped her shoulder. “These Fey won’t stay dead. This might be my only chance. Do you understand?”

  Acacia hesitated for a moment, and then glanced at the ethereal bodies in the chamber. Slowly, she nodded. “I do, but what about Isiilde and Marsais?”

  Oenghus reached for his targe and slipped the strap over his arm. “She’s my daughter. She can take care of herself.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  In the confusion, in the scene of death and insidious suggestion, no one noticed a small human boy slip through the twining gate. Elam slapped his palm against the panel behind the throne. The metal gate opened, sliding up into the ceiling.

  Marsais limped into the throne room. The fight with the elemental had drained him, and he already had an air of defeat.

  The Fey warriors closed in, but Pyrderi held up a hand. “I trust Marsais will be civil. He is, after all, one of us.” Pyrderi nodded to a Fey, who trotted off to close the gate.

  The gate slammed shut. And Isiilde found herself standing between Marsais and Pyrderi. Both men stared over her head at one another.

  One of us. Pyrderi’s words registered, and her ears twitched.

  “Oh, didn’t you tell her?” Pyrderi arched a hairless brow. “All seers are touched by the Fey, and there is a tad more than a touch in that Lindale. But he is broken, whereas I am not.” Pyrderi dragged a long finger across his own chest, mirroring the path of Marsais’ scar.

  “It doesn’t matter what he is; only who,” Isiilde said. “I won’t let you kill my friends. And I won’t slaughter humans because of what they are.”

  “I’m not going to kill them. I’m going to drive every last human into the Bastardlands. And there they will remain, corralled like cattle. But do you know what the humans will do? They will slaughter each other, as they have been trying to do since they first drew breath. That is why I wished to speak with you, Isiilde. I offer you a place in my kingdom, not one forged by ruthless men, but by orderly, exacting faerie.”

  “You mean Fey.”

  “Fey is the name that humans gave me. To put a face on the very thing that they brought upon themselves. No, I mean what I say. Faerie. Wisps, nymphs—the few that remain of our scattered kind.”

  “And what shall I be? Bound to you?”

  “Walk with me, please.” Pyrderi raised his arm, beckoning her towards the obsidian throne. She glanced at Marsais, but he betrayed nothing. Only stood, watchful, as if he were a simple observer, waiting for her to make the next move. When she followed Pyrderi, Marsais did too, and, although he limped, an escort of Fey fell in step beside him.

  As they walked, Isiilde furtively searched for Elam, but she didn’t see a sign of the boy in the vast hall. She hoped he had escaped through one of the many secret doors.

  Pyrderi stopped in front of the throne. Memories washed over her of the day she’d stood on that very dais, in front of a sea of human eyes that gawked and stared. Even now, their whispers seemed to brush her ears.

  “I would not ask anything of you, Isiilde, but I will offer.”

  “And what is your offer?”

  “I offer you the throne,” Pyrderi said.

  His words struck more soundly than a sword. It cut to her marrow, stirring her blood. Time stretched, and in her mind’s eye she saw all that she could accomplish, all that she could do to right the injustices and atrocities that had been committed against her kind.

  Isiilde climbed the steps to the dais, and ran her fingers over the cold, unforgiving stone. “This throne?”

  “Yes,” Pyrderi said. “Without any demands.” He knelt, gazing up into her eyes. “I only ask that you let me serve as your general. Let me put the humans where they belong, and I assure you, our people will thrive.”

  The nymph sat on the obsidian. It was, she found, more comfortable than she’d imagined, and the view from the dais was remarkable. Monolithic pillars stretched before her like soldiers in formation. The faces of the Voiceless called to her. Command us, they whispered.

  Isiilde rubbed her hands along the armrests, considering the possibilities. The stone vibrated under her fingertips.

  A world without humans. How tempting. That thought was like a small seed f
alling on fertile ground. Her mind grasped it, turned it over, and it blossomed into a beautiful idea. How simple, she thought. And then she looked at the Fey, their faces and joyless eyes, and she remembered another pair on a sunny beach, so long ago. Those eyes had shone with joy, and laughter, and everything warm. In the sea of faerie, she searched for those very same eyes, and found the soothing grey.

  “And what if I desire Marsais?”

  “That is for him to decide, my Queen.” Pyrderi stood, and half turned, gesturing for his warriors to let him through. The Fey stepped aside, but Marsais did not immediately climb the steps. He stood still as a statue, his face unreadable, even to her.

  Isiilde tucked her legs on the throne, and leaned back, making herself comfortable. The nymph liked the view. “He is my Druid; he will do as I say. Won’t you, Marsais?”

  Marsais inclined his head.

  “I think he’s right,” she said softly. “Humans are a blight on this realm. I am tired of their leers, sick of their butchery and lies. I know you are, too.”

  In answer, Marsais slowly climbed the steps, and knelt at her feet. “I am,” he said, bowing his head. The thing of it was, he spoke the truth.

  “But why would I take this man, when I can have you?” she asked, looking to Pyrderi. Keeping her eyes fixed on the Fey, Isiilde leant forward, grabbed a handful of Marsais’ hair, and jerked back his head. He dropped to both knees.

  Isiilde saw a twisted kind of pleasure in the Fey’s pinprick eyes. She smiled. “For my first act as Queen, I’d like to issue an order.” She felt Marsais tense beneath her hand.

  “As you wish.” Pyrderi’s eyes glinted with triumph.

  “Kiss. My. Faerie. Arse!” She slapped her palm on the armrest, activating the teleportation rune. Marsais had been banned, but no one had bothered with a mere nymph.

  The familiar pull of stone sucked her through, but at the last possible second, the man she had had by the hair jerked away. Time stopped in that frantic moment. She saw his eyes: so calm, so sure, and full of love. And then the moment slipped through her fingers, and the rune pulled her away.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Pyrderi laughed, low and soft. The sound danced in the cavernous throne room. It might have been beautiful, if it had not chilled his bones. Marsais gripped the throne’s armrest and climbed to his feet.

  “I like that nymph,” the Fey confided. “You were right to go to such lengths to keep her spirit intact. But she has nowhere to go. She’s trapped herself, and you foolishly remained—to do what? You can’t possibly think that you can stand against me?”

  “I am not so boastful of my own meager skills.”

  “A pointless sacrifice, then.”

  Marsais shook his head. “I’m giving her time.”

  Pyrderi smiled, the look of a wolf about to devour its prey. “To do what? Hide?”

  It was Marsais’ turn to smile. He was the older, wiser wolf, and more than a little mad. “She’s Isiilde. I’m certain she will find trouble in no time at all.”

  Pyrderi’s humor faded. “She’s young; still pliable. She’s already taken her first few steps with me. With time, I will mold her into a perfect queen. After all, she was never meant for you.”

  The words echoed his very own, and the visions he had glimpsed over and again. Marsais narrowed his eyes. “It was you,” he said.

  The Fey bowed, and rose with a glint in his eye. “The one and only.”

  “You manipulated my visions.” Confirmation rather than surprise filled his voice. Marsais had begun to suspect that his visions were not all his own during their descent into the Spire. He thought of the pain he might have saved Isiilde, of the delay he had taken in confronting Tharios—and all the while he had been blind to Har’Feydd’s lingering spirit. Marsais slowly backed away, putting the throne between them. But it wasn’t only Pyrderi. There were hundreds of Fey gathered in the throne room. And now they drew closer.

  “I seeped into your cracks,” purred Pyrderi. “Your mind was so shattered that you could not tell vision from lie. I learned much from Karbonek. The fiend manipulated and used me for his own gain. I had plenty of time to reflect on my mistakes, and I have little doubt that you will too.” The Fey drew a curved sword. It was elegant and deadly. “Don’t worry, Marsais, you have until the Shadowed Dawn,” Pyrderi mocked, stepping off the dais with a twirl of his blade. His men backed away, making room for a duel.

  Marsais winced. Another lie. “You planted a seed in Tharios’ mind and let it blossom, knowing that no matter what course he took, the tomb would be opened. You have no intention of releasing Karbonek.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again,” Pyrderi confirmed. “I prefer to play the puppeteer. The power that lies in subtle suggestion is formidable.”

  “Subtlety is a lost art, I’m afraid.” Resigned, Marsais limped down the steps, and stood in the center of the circle.

  “Butchery is the art of the day,” Pyrderi agreed, circling him like a panther. But Marsais did not turn to watch the Fey’s restless prowl; he was too busy thinking.

  “What of the stave, then? What part did that play?” he asked. What was real; what was vision; and what was whispered suggestion?

  Pyrderi stopped in front of him. “We were scattered, cut off from the ol’River, banished. I will bring my warriors back from the farthest realms.”

  “Noble of you, but where is the stave, Pyrderi?” Marsais asked. “I doubt a prize like that would leave your hand.”

  “That does not concern you.” The Fey’s eyes blazed for a moment. Answer enough. “Your only concern is whether your spirit was cut from the ol’River as well.”

  Pyrderi raised his sword, pointing the tip at Marsais’ chest. “The Shattering affected you in a most curious manner. I’ve long wondered about your scar. I think a part of you is drifting, and after today you will be lost for eternity—a Fate worse than oblivion.”

  “I have long wondered too,” Marsais admitted. “But the question you should really be asking yourself is the one that Isiilde said matters most.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Who am I, Pyrderi?”

  The Fey cocked his head. And Marsais struck.

  Chapter Sixty

  Isiilde landed on the floor. Alone, and desperate. She blinked at the Archlord’s study. It was nearly barren and painfully clean, and only the most valuable things of his remained. Her frost bear pelt was gone, leaving the stone naked. It made her ache for Marsais, and the thought of him brought up a well of oaths. She knew what the man was about. He intended to sacrifice himself—to give her a chance to run.

  The nymph climbed to her feet. She darted from the barren study, sped past doors, and skidded around a corner, flying into the alcove at the end of the hallway. There she stopped, hand poised over the teleportation rune that would take her back to his side. But what was she going to do against an army of Fey? Memory of her pathetic attack on Saavedra leapt to mind. She had her fire, but would it be enough?

  Isiilde hesitated, chewing on her lip. It hadn’t been enough for the Fomorri. And it certainly wouldn’t be enough with an ice elemental under the Fey’s command.

  Time pressed heavily on her shoulders, and every wasted second felt like it would be Marsais’ last. She’d not waste his sacrifice. A strategy was needed. With that realization, an idea sparked in her mind. Her fingers strayed to her enchanted pouch.

  Isiilde hurried back down the hallway and stopped at a familiar door: Marsais’ vault. The door was cracked. She gingerly touched the knob, pushing it open. Dismay filled her heart. His vault was as barren as the rest of his study.

  “Void,” she growled, and started to turn, but stopped. It was not entirely empty. A crude circle had been drawn on the stone floor. It looked like chalk. Isiilde tilted her head. That circle nagged at her mind and pricked her instincts.

  The nymph stepped into the vault, as she had done a lifetime ago. There was no plunder—no chests of gold or artifacts on the shelves—o
nly that circle. And it filled her with more wonder than all the treasures that she had glimpsed.

  Isiilde walked into the center of the circle. The edge of her lip quirked. “Witman is Wondrous.” The nymph fell through the floor and landed on a pile of rotting fish. Bile rose in her throat, and she rolled down the pile, scrambling away from the stench. She did not get far. She was in a dank, dark room. A single Everlight flickered in a rusty sconce, revealing walls of bristling spikes, each and every tip aimed at her.

  A sound whipped her head upwards. Gears turned, chains moved, and a split second later a net plucked her and the fish off the floor.

  Isiilde gagged, fighting against the coarse rope. The world spun. “Blast you, Witman. Marsais needs help!” she screamed. Fire leapt to her hands, and she grabbed the netting.

  “Not fire!” called a frantic voice.

  The net released its hold and she fell, landing with a thud. The rotting, smoking fish plopped on top of her, burying her in stench. Her fire was smothered. A sound like a rummaging badger came to her, and large, stubby hands pulled her free.

  “Oh, it’s you,” a gruff voice said.

  Isiilde fell to her hands and knees, and retched. A pair of curled carpet slippers met her eye. She looked up, past the patched trousers, the bright greet waistcoat with little yellow flowers, and into the face of the legendary enchanter.

  Witman smoothed two strands of greying hair over his bald pate, and looked behind her, at the wall of spikes. “Where’s the laddie?”

  “Hiding in the fish,” she snapped, climbing to her feet. “Marsais needs your help.”

  Witman retrieved a pair of half-moon spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and threaded the wire over his ears. He squinted at the fish, and then pushed the spectacles down to the tip of his nose so he might get a better view. “I don’t see him.”

  The nymph spluttered. “He’s in the throne room. Pyrderi Har’Feydd and the Fey are back.”