The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Stories of the enchanter were legendary. Even the Guardians of Iilenshar did not cross Witman the Wondrous. Given the chalk circle and his unlikely entrance, she could not think of another explanation. Acacia quickly lowered her sword and sheathed it.

  Witman twisted the jagged sun onto the intact end of the staff. “There. Fixed. Maybe.” He scratched his beard, shrugged, and handed the stave to Acacia. “The lass seemed to think this would be needed. There’s trouble in the throne room.” At his words, the ground began to shake with more vigor and a crack split the stone wall. Witman was nearly thrown off his feet.

  When the stone settled, Acacia studied the stave in her hand. It was foul, both cold and sticky all at once. She wanted to fling the thing across the room. “The boy and the two women here...” She pointed to each. “Will you watch them for me?”

  “Are they trouble?”

  “No, they’re injured.”

  “That’s trouble.”

  “One of us needs to get this to Isiilde.”

  “That’s why I gave it to you.”

  Acacia grit her teeth. “Don’t leave them,” she ordered, and took off running.

  The dwarf raised his voice. “That’s my payment, so don’t try and run off with it. I’ll find you.” It was not a threat, but undeniable fact. No one, legend went, crossed Witman the Wondrous.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Smoke seeped from the flagon, spilling onto the ground around Isiilde’s feet. It spread and billowed, until the elemental was lost to her. She took a step back, and then another as the cloud grew. It was black and choking and all consuming, and a moment later, a monstrous face poked out of the smoke: slitted eyes, large, hungry fangs, flesh scaled and thorny. Leathery wings spread with a snap, and a tail lashed, felling columns and shaking the throne room. The creature bellowed its freedom. A dragon.

  Isiilde’s mouth fell open. She stood, stunned. And promptly dropped the flagon, kicking it away to conceal the evidence of her involvement. The coal-colored dragon took a breath, a great intake of air that stirred her hair. Veins of molten heat flared to life over the creature’s body, and then he exhaled.

  Fire roared towards the nymph. It sang to her.

  Isiilde threw out her arms, welcoming the fire’s touch. It leapt to her, and only her, like a child to its mother. She gathered the fireball with a rising song, and when the last spark died on the dragon’s maw, the nymph stood, clothed in a rush of flame.

  The dragon cocked its head like a puzzled dog. She hurled the fireball into a knot of approaching Fey warriors, searing the flesh from their bones. Weapons clattered to the ground, and smoke rose into the air over their charred bodies. The remaining Fey turned and fled the dragon and its fire.

  The greater elemental creaked and the dragon spun, searching out the largest, most threatening foe like a brute in a tavern. Its tail whipped, and Isiilde threw herself on the ground. The two titans clashed.

  As the earth shook under her body, and stone rained all around her, she scrambled over to Marsais, crawling through his blood. With every wheezing breath, blood bubbled from his lips. He lay very still.

  A column tipped, crashing into another. In the dust and fire and ice, Isiilde wove a quick armor weave, then shielded Marsais with her own body. When the crashing was over, she opened her eyes. A large chunk of stone had landed a foot from her.

  She pressed a hand over a hole in his chest, trying to stem the blood that seeped from the wound. “Marsais,” she said desperately.

  His eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused and glazed.

  “You can’t leave,” she begged, brushing the hair back from his face. She could feel the muscles straining as he fought to breathe.

  Those eyes focused for a moment. He tried to rise, but barely got his head off the ground. “Go,” he gurgled.

  Isiilde glared at the man. “Not without you.” Swallowing, she stood, and grabbed an arm. Isiilde braced her feet, and pulled. He budged an inch. He was far too heavy for a nymph.

  A Fey leapt over the rubble, and she sent a blast of searing flame into the warrior. He caught the burst on his shield and kept coming. A stone flew through the air, pegging the Fey in the side of the head. It was a small distraction, but it was enough. With flashing fingers, she switched tune, throwing a grease enchantment at his feet. The Fey slipped and fell, and the fire clinging to his clothes mingled with the grease. He went up like a torch. She snatched up Rivan’s sword and charged with the point leveled like a lance, impaling him through the gut.

  Elam hopped over a fallen stone. “Kiss my arse,” he yelled, loading another stone in his sling. She had forgotten all about the boy.

  Isiilde wrenched the sword free and started to toss it aside, but thought better of it. With deft fingers, she traced a feather rune over Marsais, layered it with air and a spirit, and attached a sturdy bind. Marsais floated off the ground. His entire body convulsed with pain, and she quickly lowered him, switching focus, until he brushed the ground, cushioned by a mattress of air.

  Not near as heavy, Isiilde grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the shattered gate. Three Fey appeared, grinning like maniacal hounds. While Elam kept dragging Marsais, Isiilde called to her fire. Flame leapt to her hands, rippling along the blade. The ol’Father’s wolves glowed red on the steel.

  A sword flashed, but not her’s or the Fey’s. Acacia rushed into the fray, charging in from the side. The paladin slammed her shield into the first and followed with her sword. The blade gleamed with silver light, and it bit the Fey’s flesh. “Go!” the captain barked.

  Isiilde ran towards Marsais and Elam. A Fey leapt in her path, and she swung her burning sword at his side. She did not stop; she did not look back, but grabbed Marsais’ arm and dragged him through the shattered gate into a realm of ice. Only the realm was melting. At the end of the great hall, ice and water dripped down the Storm Gates, and with every bellowing roar and lash of tail, a piece of the castle gave way.

  Isiilde risked a peek over her shoulder. The dragon rammed the elemental, but the creature of ice only turned to gas and reformed, swinging a massive fist at the scaled monstrosity. A tail crashed into another column and an entire section caved in. Isiilde and Elam started running.

  Ten feet from the exit, a final slab of ice slipped off the gates. The Storm Gates finally slammed shut and the wards flared to life. “Bollocks!” she yelled at the impossible barrier.

  Acacia sprinted down the center of the great hall. Her shield was gone, and her arm hung bloody, but she had her sword. The dragon squeezed through the Nameless chamber and spread its wings in the expansive hall.

  Elam dropped Marsais’ arm, and turned, advancing on the dragon with a slow whirl of his sling. The boy took aim. With a rush, he put power into the swing, and the stone shot from its cradle. It soared through the air and bounced off the dragon’s head. The beast bellowed.

  Isiilde pulled Marsais behind the relative safety of a pillar, and hurried back to the gates. The wards glowed and pulsed. She had always wanted to unravel these gates. With hands raised, the nymph stepped forward.

  “Wait!” Acacia yelled. Isiilde spun, and the Knight Captain skidded to a stop, yanking a splintered stave from her belt. The jagged sun sat on its intact end.

  Isiilde gaped. There was no time to ask how the paladin had gotten it from Witman. Acacia raised the stave over her head. Barbs dug into her palm, drawing blood, and for a heartbeat, the jagged sun gleamed. And then it died.

  The dragon kept charging. Acacia threw herself to the side, and Isiilde and the boy followed.

  There was thunder, a roar, the song of fire, and a quaking that stole her breath. Isiilde scrambled to Marsais, draping herself over his prone body. The air smelt like the aftermath of a forest fire that had been quenched by a storm. Sharp and tingling and full of char. As stones crumbled and columns crashed, a cool wind swept over her, bringing a flurry of snow.

  Isiilde cracked open an eye. Through the swirling wreckage, she saw the drago
n take flight, soaring into a wintery sky.

  Sky. Fresh air. Isiilde blinked. The Storm Gates had been blown open, its wards broken. Coughing, the Knight Captain dragged herself over to the nymph. Without prompting, Acacia placed her good hand over Marsais’ wound, and closed her eyes. Silver light flowed down her arm to his body. Acacia drew back with a gasp.

  “What?” Isiilde demanded, pressing her fingers under his jaw. A pulse pushed against her fingertips.

  The captain shook her head. “I can’t get all of it,” she swallowed. “He’s... difficult to heal.” But he was breathing easier. “You both need to leave.” Acacia climbed to her feet, looking back towards what remained of the throne room. Determination was etched on her face.

  “Where is Oen?” Isiilde asked.

  “I think he went down... into the tomb.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I’m not sure.” From her stance, Acacia appeared to have every intention of finding out, but she never got the chance. The earth convulsed, and it did not stop.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Bodies littered the hallways. Soldiers with red armbands, Isle Guards, Wise Ones, peasants—children. Some were still dying, but Oenghus did not stop. He raced down, and farther still, until he stood at the mouth of a gaping tunnel. A line of Fey blocked the way, silent, watchful, shrouded in fog. The warriors might as well have been formed from ice. They knew what he was after—their lifeline.

  The ritual had never been severed. As long as that Chain remained, the Fey were tethered to this realm. He knew that as sure as he knew his name.

  Oenghus glared at the warriors. He reached for his sacred flask, and drank long and deep. Fire raced through his veins, muscles bulged, skin hardened, and the berserker shook the rock with his roar. Slàtra, the berserker’s warhammer from another age, flared to life. Lightning crackled, spreading over his skin like a net. The wild god beat his hammer against his shield in challenge, and then he charged the line.

  He hit the Fey like a storm. Red filled his vision and carnage sang to his ears. In that haze, down the long tunnel, the slaughterer of thousands added more blood to his hands. One pale face after another fell, and each cut and slice against his skin drove his fury, until he was drunk on it. Time fell away, leaving only the moment.

  Instinct pulled him forward, through a maze of tunnels that his feet had walked in another life. This was his Fate, to die in the dark yet again. Only this time, he would not leave the thing half done.

  When the last Fey’s skull caved to his hammer, Oenghus stood panting. His chest heaved, and his senses were filled with blood—his enemies’ and his own. Memories drifted in the haze. An ancient battle surged across the cavern, phantoms drifting in time. Pyrderi Har’Feydd was there; Hengist, and a knot of loyal men and women. The few who still stood were heroes, one and all.

  Oenghus shook the vision from his mind, and stepped into the tomb of fallen legends. In the light of his hammer, he saw the bones of companions long dead. And that Chain. It rasped against the stone, pulsing like a heartbeat. For millennia, it had tethered the fiendish nightmare to this realm.

  The berserker gripped Slàtra and let rage wash over him. With a growl, Oenghus stalked into the chamber. Light touched the hole in the realm, illuminating Karbonek’s prison. A void in the stone; a crack in the earth.

  Terror beat from the dark portal on powerful wings, and fear crawled along the Chain like a living thing. Inky tentacles reached from the void, slithering from the edges, reaching through and curling around the stone walls. A vision, a memory, or reality? Oenghus did not care. He approached with a roar, shaking stone and bones. Rage was his shield and he let it consume him. The thick Chain slithered and rasped and he followed it to the void. There it rose, leaving the ground, wrapped around the fiendish god within.

  Oenghus tossed aside his targe and gripped the Chain with his left hand. With a booming chant, he sent white hot energy crackling into the ancient metal. It heated and sizzled, and he pounded his hammer against the links like a smith at his anvil. Again, and again, until his arm went numb with the ring of iron.

  As he beat at the links, inky tendrils of shadow reached and grew, twining around the Chain like vines. He did not let go.

  Thunder bellowed with every crack. The Chain jerked and twisted, glowing red with heat. Shadowy tendrils writhed and reached, wrapping around his arm, binding him to the metal. Oenghus ignored the pain, and gripped the tether with all his might, his hammer swinging, pounding, crushing the metal.

  The Chain gave. But when it snapped back like a whipcord, it pulled him towards the void. The force of the tug wrenched his shoulder from its socket. With a bellow, he dug in his heels, fighting against a tremendous strength. Karbonek was pulling him inside.

  Desperate, he beat at the shadowy tentacles, driving his hammer into the tethers, but the weapon passed through the shadows. Oenghus clenched his teeth, gathered his strength, and heaved, pulling the Chain an inch out of the portal.

  An eye moved beyond the veil, watching, waiting. And realization came like a flash. The fiend wanted the god to tug and fight—to drag himself away. In saving himself, he would unleash the fiend.

  Braced against the stone, Oenghus raised his hammer and hurled it into the void. Energy crackled and surged, and the eye swimming in the void jerked back. The Chain yanked Oenghus forward, but he stopped on the edge. Shadowy tendrils twined around his forearm and with every passing second, they reached for more, binding his own Fate to the Chain.

  “You bastard!” he roared, drawing a knife. “Kiss my arse!” Oenghus sent a charge of energy into his blade, and when the metal heated with lightning, he drove the blade into the crook of his arm. He cut, and sliced, and pried with savage strength. White hot fire burned along his nerves. His knees went weak. With a final roar, he cracked the joint. Flesh gave way, and Oenghus fell to the ground. The Chain snapped back into the portal, taking his arm.

  The portal collapsed in on itself, and the earth began to quake, a great rumbling in its core. Bleeding and delirious, Oenghus dragged himself across the chamber, laughing along the way. The link was severed, but the tear in the realm was still there.

  “Never again!” he bellowed, and added his own voice to the quake, bringing the mountain down on his head.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Panic reigned. Soldiers and paladins fled the inner bailey, running across the quaking ground. Isiilde and Acacia joined the stream, dragging Marsais over the trampled snow.

  Isiilde glanced over her shoulder. Cracks split the earth, running up the length of the Spine, and the entire tower gave way, collapsing in on itself.

  The thunder stole her breath, and as the tower fell, she ran. A cloud of debris and stone overtook the fleeing mass. A hand gripped her and dragged her into a gateway tunnel. As the world fell, she huddled over Marsais, choking and gasping for air. It seemed to last a lifetime. And there was nothing she could do.

  Silence came slowly, and when the world finally settled, it came as a surprise. White dust swirled in the air, tickling her nose. Isiilde sneezed and fire burst from her ears. Acacia jerked away from the nymph.

  “Sorry,” she wheezed, setting off another burst of flame.

  The paladin climbed to her feet. She was covered in white stone dust and streaks of dark blood. A smaller chalk figure uncurled, and stared at the ruins. Elam’s eyes were wide with shock.

  Isiilde looked down at her own body. The dragon had burnt her clothes to a crisp, but her pouch had survived. The dust clung like a second skin that nearly looked like clothes. She checked on Marsais. He looked like a corpse, but he still breathed.

  Acacia offered her a handkerchief, which she pressed to her nose. The sneezing stopped, and the two women staggered out of the gatehouse, leaving Elam to protect Marsais.

  The Spine was gone. All that remained was a great mountain of rubble, a crushed keep, and a single guardian statue. A shimmer of power still crackled from its massive stone sword. It was surreal—a
dream—and Isiilde drifted unattached over the broken ground.

  “By the gods,” Acacia murmured.

  “Oen,” Isiilde breathed, running towards the rubble. Numb to the cold and pain slicing the soles of her feet, she sprang over crevices and cracks and bodies, racing through the slush of snow and stone. A chalk-caked man stood in front of the remaining guardian statue. The man was not her father. Thedus turned slowly, and caught the nymph as she tried to run into the ruined keep.

  “Let go!” she hissed, beating at him, but he held fast. Milky, half-blind eyes focused on hers. He shook his head.

  The nymph had spent her tears, and all her strength. She dropped to her knees in the soot and slush, and an armored hand rested on her shoulder.

  “The mist is rising.” There was fear in Acacia’s voice. And indeed it was, rising from the ruins like a slow, sinuous smoke. “Come away, Isiilde. We can’t leave Marsais alone.”

  Isiilde let the paladin draw her back, but halfway across the bailey, a chant rose into the air. It was more a rasp, from a damaged, little-used voice. Thedus croaked the Lore. He stood before the single, guardian statue, with his arms raised towards the grey sky. The clouds parted and the sun shone weakly. He raised his eyes to the distant orb. The statue’s sword tip flared, and the remnants of the castle shield crackled and gathered like a vortex, sucking the mist into its core.

  Acacia gripped Isiilde’s arm, and quickened the pace. But there was no explosion, no burst of energy—only silence as the mist was sucked into the shield and a bright beam shot towards the sun.

  Thedus lowered his arms, the clouds closed over the sun, and he fell over. Acacia let go of Isiilde, rushing back to his side. The paladin placed her hands on the man, but when the flare of healing subsided, Acacia looked up with a shake of her head.

  Isiilde stood, stunned. And so very hollow.