Myth's Legend: Norrix

by Ysobella Black

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  MYTH’S LEGEND: NORRIX | VAMPIRES & | STRYGOI WITCHES: | BOOK 3 | YSOBELLA BLACK

  TUESDAY, | DECEMBER 10

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, | DECEMBER 11

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  THURSDAY, | DECEMBER 12

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  FRIDAY, | DECEMBER 13

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

  SATURDAY, | DECEMBER 14

  CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

  SUNDAY, | DECEMBER 15

  CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  THANK YOU

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO IN THE SERIES:

  MYTH’S LEGEND: NORRIX

  VAMPIRES &

  STRYGOI WITCHES:

  BOOK 3

  YSOBELLA BLACK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Ysobella Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, contact Ysobella Black https://www.ysobellablack.com

  TUESDAY,

  DECEMBER 10

  CHAPTER ONE

  MYTH

  GUARDS PUSHED THE ELABORATELY engraved white marble doors open — each depicted an eight-foot scorpion in attack posture, their stinging tails curved above the heads of anyone entering — and herded Myth from the white marble corridor into the white marble grand throne room. The sight of the vast space, crowded with men, witches, and creatures, slowed Myth’s feet and an icy hand clutched her heart.

  Iqiohr’s white marble throne, carved in the form of an enormous scorpion, head at the foot, arms crafted from two of the scorpion’s legs, seat back curved into a tail, sharp stinger arched high overhead, stood on a dais of seven tall white marble steps that forced everyone to look up at him. White marble columns lined the length of both sides of the room.

  The men belonged to Iqiohr. White streaked hair and white-spotted eyes, clad in white maxtlatls around their hips, white sigils flowed over their dusky skin, marked them as tools of the Scorpion Mage.

  White. White. White. Myth hated the color of white. It represented her prison and everything taken from her.

  Beneath the thirty-foot vaulted ceiling, an expanse of yet more of the abhorrent white, creatures in cages provided hue and sound, their snarls and growls challenging their soon-to-be torturers.

  Tawny-furred sphinxes, half-woman, half-lion. Amphisbaenas, red snakes with an additional head on their tails, born in the desert from drops of Gorgon’s blood, currently muzzled so poison didn’t pour from their mouths. Cockatrices, orange, two-legged dragons with a rooster heads.

  More color came from witches in chains — their hair, eyes, bruised and scarred skin — where they knelt in a row or stood bound to columns, unable to prevent Iqiohr’s men from groping and taunting them, or what they all knew was about to happen when the Scorpion Mage set his soldiers loose.

  Some guards lifted slabs of marble from the floor to reveal the azure water of the lake below. They pulled up cages containing Iara — green-haired, copper-skinned women with dolphin tails below their waists.

  Ahuizotls, wolf-sized dog-like creatures with black, rubbery skin, a human hand on their tails, and raccoon hands on their front paws, paced around the edges of room to keep everyone in until Iqiohr deemed the spectacle over.

  The Scorpion Mage rarely required the magic of so many witches and creatures at once. But when he did, what followed was always horrific. The last time had been nearly five years ago, right after Iqiohr killed the prior mage and took his magic.

  Apan, a guard Myth had known since childhood, stepped close. He thought because he’d been awarded a pair of leather nacochtli that he was entitled to more privileges. His hair in a warrior’s topknot proudly displayed his newest adornments through the stretched holes in his earlobes, . Hot breath blew across her cheek and his eyes roved over her body, clad in a tight wrap of thin, white material. Nothing prevented the ogling, but she wasn’t completely powerless.

  “Do you want to put your hands on me?” Myth turned so her shoulder almost touched his arm. “Go ahead. Show Iqiohr how brave you are.”

  He leapt back like she’d scalded him, sending his yellow tilmatli flapping like wings. Anyone who touched her lost the body part that committed the offense, be it a finger, a swath of skin, or an entire limb. Iqiohr made her watch the punishments to deter her from touching anyone, but sometimes she wished she had the stomach to run through the entire palace, putting her hands all over every soldier.

  “Move!” Gajo, an older man who had terrorized Myth her whole life, pointed to the small white cushion on the floor next to the throne’s scorpion head. He wore turquoise nacochtli through his ears, denoting his high rank in Aztlan society, and his hair long, as all priests did.

  Like she didn’t know her place.

  “Or perhaps you want me to tell the Scorpion Mage how brave you are today.”

  Just like that, he stripped her illusion of power away. If she slapped the man, Iqiohr would remove Gajo’s fa
ce, no matter his standing in society, and that infuriating smirk along with it. She lifted her hand, pleased when a flash of alarm widened his eyes, but she clenched her fingers into a fist and let it drop impotently to her side. If she hit him, Gajo would suffer, but her ultimate punishment wouldn’t be inflicted directly on her.

  His smirk returned, even wider. “Hurry up. You’re wasting time I could be using to choose a witch.”

  Myth forced her bare feet to move and kept her eyes down, unable the meet the glowers and reproachful stares from the women she trudged past. The other witches hated her for the ease of her life. They didn’t encounter each other often, but when they did, none of them wanted anything to do with her, and there was resentment in their eyes when they saw her beside Iqiohr.

  She didn’t sit next to him — she knelt at his feet. But the other witches didn’t see the difference. Myth couldn’t blame them. They only knew what they saw, not that her mind was tortured as much as their bodies.

  Given an option, Myth would have chosen scars she could see. They might be considered ugly and come from pain, but each one could be a souvenir. And maybe, if she could touch and trace something tangible on her skin, it would be a reminder of each time her mind had escaped this place and been free, even if her body could never follow.

  Myth wished she could make her mind as numb as her body. Some of the other witches could do that. Go somewhere else. Be apart from their bodies. They were also treated much worse. Their bodies bore scars and bruises from the way the Scorpion Mage let his men handle them.

  But, if she displeased him, Iqiohr had ways of punishing her that were much worse than any beating he could give her.

  Climbing the steps, she knelt on her cushion and turned her eyes toward the door Iqiohr would come through. There was no way to predict his frame of mind. Ordering such a tremendous event could mean a really good mood or a very bad one. No matter his temperament, nothing fortunate happened when he felt jealous and had to get her attention rather than finding it already on him. The last time that happened, he’d murdered her pet jaguar. Since then, she always tried to put adoration into her gaze, to make him feel like he was the most important person in the world to her.

  There was a time that was true.

  Quiet fell as the door opened, and Iqiohr entered, unerringly catching her gaze with his white eyes. His once ebony hair, now completely white, fell down his back. A white tilmatli hung from shoulders slightly stooped and not as broad as they’d been five years ago. The mage magic he so coveted ate his body from the inside, much as it had devoured his soul. He crossed the room and ascended the steps, taking his place on the throne.

  “Eyes front.” Iqiohr’s heavy hand settled atop her head, skeletal fingers idly playing with tresses of her hair. The brief glimpse of his pale fingers in her mahogany hair reminded her of what she’d lost. His skin used to be almost as dark as her hair. She resisted the urge to shudder as apprehension made her flesh break out in chilled bumps. This wasn’t how Iqiohr treated her. Someone else was ruling him.

  “Begin.”

  Eyes shut, Myth wished she could close her ears to the screams and cries of the witches being drained of their magic. Flesh slapped against flesh. Whips cracked. Women screamed. The smells of blood and lust filled the air, sending nausea burning up her throat.

  Time slowed, dragging out screams that became whimpers, that became silence as Iqiohr’s men finished with the witches and had them returned to their cells.

  Roars of agony meant the acolytes had moved on to the creatures, cutting away scales and skin. Splashes meant cages tossed into the lake as the Iara were returned to their watery prisons. Heavy marble slabs boomed as men dropped them into place.

  Taking a deep breath, Myth opened her eyes. The cold, white marble throne room was empty except for thirty of Iqiohr’s men and one guard at the door. These men were the worst of them, vying for power and rank, willing to do anything. Myth hated the smug expressions on their faces, but took some satisfaction in knowing they wouldn’t feel that way for long.

  “Approach.” Not-Iqiohr’s hand disappeared from her head.

  The men formed a line and advanced towards the throne. The first climbed the steps, knelt, and held out his hand. A white glyph lit not-Iqiohr’s palm — a circle that splintered and opened into ragged tendrils.

  Myth kept her eyes open for this part. She loathed watching the witches abused, but she didn’t mind seeing the men suffer as Iqiohr absorbed their stolen magic. They hurt others for fun and deserved to feel some of the same.

  The men held an unspoken contest to see who could be silent as they endured the procedure. This close, though, they couldn’t hide their fear and pain. As not-Iqiohr drained his men of magic, they lost more of their color and souls.

  The Scorpion Mage made them all scream.

  Eventually.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IQIOHR

  AS THE SIPHONING GLYPH unfurled, Iqiohr fought to retake and remain in control. He’d been petting his Esne like an animal. One of the others liked to do that. The longer he ruled as mage, the harder it became to remember he should care something for it... no, her. More parts of him were lost every day. There was no undoing what he had done, but sometimes, when he saw his Esne gazing at him with affection, he could almost remember being happy with her.

  It! Past mages arose in his magic, their thousands of voices thundering in his head as each battled for enough of the available power to dominate the rest. It is Esne and its purpose is to birth heirs.

  His control over some of them was tenuous at best, and more difficult to maintain as he accepted the offerings of magic. The strongest among the mages trapped inside him used to be a god. Iqiohr craved that level of power, but thinking of the god was a mistake, summoning the very being forward. Lately Tezcatlipoca had proven more unruly, taking over while Iqiohr slept and coveting his Esne.

  Iqiohr hurled his full consciousness at Tezcatlipoca’s astral body, and they collided, wrestling for the upper hand. Panic filled Iqiohr at the strength Tezcatlipoca wielded.

  The god’s visage was more detailed, and his body felt more solid than before. Dark eyebrows twin slashes on a prominent brow over hooded eyes glaring from a thick black eye band with a narrow yellow stripe through the middle. Broad nose and thin lips. He laughed. “It won’t be me going into the cage this time. The eclipse is coming.”

  The magic in Iqiohr’s glyphs added power to his will, but Tezcatlipoca grew taller, muscles bulging. He threw Iqiohr across space. Sending out a tendril of magic, Iqiohr caught himself and used momentum to swing around, crashing into Tezcatlipoca again. Only it wasn’t the god.

  Iqiohr crashed into a reflection, shattering the smoking glass mirror. An image of the god mocked him from every splintered piece of obsidian as the portal left behind pulled at Iqiohr’s body. Arms and legs outstretched, the sharp edges of glass cut into Iqiohr’s grasping fingers. Something snarled behind him. Claws raked down his back and a heavy weight thudded into his spine.

  A jaguar’s razor fangs bit into Iqiohr’s shoulder. Pain followed by numbness shot through his arm and he screamed, losing his grip on the mirror, his mind, and his body.

  Tezcatlipoca savored freedom and the sensation of existence as a physical being. Sitting up straighter on his scorpion throne, he flexed his muscles as blood rushed through his veins. He looked down on the pathetic males before him. These... humans were hardly worth cowing. No challenge in it at all. But subsisting trapped inside magic for hundreds of years at a time made small amusements something to draw out, and seeing their arrogance dissolve into fear and awe was a suitable recompense for bothering with them.

  His Esne watched. Its fierce hazel eyes and mahogany hair, done in braids interwoven with white ribbons, provided colors in the room. It didn’t like these humans either, and prolonging the suffering of these pathetic men as a small treat for its compliance cost him nothing.

  He focused on the siphoning glyph with its sharp tentacles, dig
ging them deep into the man in front of him. The worshipper resisted the pain, clamping his lips into a narrow line. But Tezcatlipoca slowed the siphoning to a trickle and drew deeper. Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and he broke, flavoring the magic with desperation. The man gasped, and a scream ripped from his throat.

  Tezcatlipoca planned to make the world scream and bathe in its sacrificial blood when he started the age of the Sixth Sun and ruled again as he had during the first.

  Before his brother betrayed him.

  TEZCATLIPOCA BALANCED in the akalli’s prow, the wood rough against his bare feet. He and Quetzalcoatl were no canoe makers, but the craft would work for their hunt.

  He scanned the lake for threats. Blue water reflected the bright sky like a mirror. And there was only the lake. The shore too far distant to view, even for a god like himself.

  “Do you see her?” Quetzalcoatl whispered, quietly slicing his paddle through the water to propel the tiny craft forward.

  Tezcatlipoca shook his head, but his eyes never left the surface. He gripped the haft of his tepoztopilli in one fist, ready to stab or slash with its sharp obsidian tip. He hoped the spear was long enough to serve its purpose.

  Somewhere under all this water their quarry, Cipactli, an enormous crocodile with a mouth at every joint, lurked, waiting for her chance to devour anything created. If the new gods were going to start a world, they must be rid of Cipactli. For now, every time one of the gods made something, the crocodile swallowed it and became that much bigger. How could a creature so huge as everything ever created hide so well?

  So far, their parents had done nothing to deal with the monster. It was time for the old gods to make way for the young ones, like him and his brother.

  Ahead of their canoe, the water rippled. Both boys readied themselves, lifting weapons and bracing their feet wide as the canoe rocked. But the crocodile attacked from below without showing herself. Their canoe leapt from the surface high into the air, flipping over, spilling Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca out and scattering their weapons.