The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Six sentries seems like a low number. I’ll wager they are waiting for us to get at the water,” she whispered to the man stretched beside her.

  “I’ll not wager against that,” Marsais murmured.

  Isiilde wrinkled her nose, and passed the glass to him. “I thought an ambush was supposed to be a surprise. Isn’t it all a bit obvious?”

  “Not when we need the water,” Acacia answered.

  Oenghus spat. “I hate ambushes.”

  “Maybe we killed the rest?” No one bothered responding to Rivan’s optimism. He tried another tack. “Could we backtrack and search for another route through the mountains?”

  “We still need water,” Acacia said.

  “Are the others out looking for us?” he pressed.

  “They’ve been herding us,” Lucas said.

  “Right, I’ll walk out in the middle and draw out the ambush while the rest of you get water and open that gate. I’ll catch up.” Oenghus started to rise, but Acacia clapped a hand on his shoulder and bullied the berserker back down.

  “That is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard,” Acacia said.

  “Do you have a better one?” he shot back.

  “Anything that doesn’t end with you being disemboweled by the Fomorri.”

  “So you do care?” He was all cocky grin and brows.

  “Yes,” Acacia said flatly.

  Oenghus opened his mouth.

  “No,” the captain interrupted. “I don’t want to see what’s under your kilt.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Marsais cut him off. “She’s right, Oen, it’s a terrible plan.”

  “Then you come up with a better one,” he growled. “I am tired of dithering around like some cockless bastard with two fingers.”

  “With the right man, that would do,” Isiilde mused. She flashed Marsais a smile, and he cleared his throat, eyes darting to the giant who was turning varying shades of red above his black beard.

  “That ol’Bastard is a bad influence on you, Sprite.”

  “Clearly it’s the seer,” said Acacia. “At least wait until dark to plow the Fomorri, Oenghus.”

  His eyes slid sideways. “I love it when you use words I can understand.”

  “I try to keep things simple.”

  “We’ll wait here until dark,” Nimlesh said. “It’s close to their camp, but more defensible than the terrain we passed. Set a guard on the other side.”

  No one argued with that logic. Rivan and Lucas moved to the rear of the crevice, and the rest settled in the middle, leaving the two scouts to watch the valley.

  Oenghus planted himself on the rocky ground, grumbling under his breath, fists clenching. Acacia settled beside him, and he flashed his most charming smile. “At least I get to wait by you.”

  Acacia smirked. “The only time I’ll sleep with you.” The Knight Captain drew her sword, and laid it across her knees, keeping a hand on the hilt. Oenghus opened his mouth to say something crude, but he stopped when Acacia leaned into him and rested her head on his arm. He closed his mouth, clearly shocked.

  “Wake me when it’s dark.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Coldness crept over the desert. Nothing stirred but the faint ripple of moonlight on the tempting pool. Isiilde had slept fitfully, and now the wait was over. The sun had fallen. It was time.

  Marsais wove an armor weave for each of the warriors, and Isiilde wove her own, adding fire. He eyed the weave as it melted into her skin. When it tingled over her body, she arched a brow, but not in question. Yes, that brow said, the weave was perfect. What else did he expect?

  “I should add,” he said to the group. “Finnow’s Spire is sacred to the Fomorri. It lies beyond that gate. Whatever the cost, reach the Spire, recover Soisskeli’s end piece, and take it to Iilenshar.”

  The warriors nodded, each grim save for Oenghus, whose eyes gleamed with expectation.

  “Hold the weave, Seer.” Nimlesh said.

  “I will.” With a murmur, and a careful eye, Marsais began to layer runes over the group. As each shimmered, Isiilde reached out, and took Elam’s hand. The boy squeezed it back, holding on tight.

  The slope was steep to the canyon floor, and with every careful step, bits of sand and scree tumbled loose. She hoped the darkness would conceal the disturbance.

  Mirror rune or not, she crouched at the bottom of the slope, waiting for the word to move forward. She could not see the others but she could sense the mirror weave. A stray thought prickled her mind. Could the Fomorri Grafters do the same? She held her breath, watching the caves, black and impregnable to her eyes. Were the Fomorri watching, even now?

  A soft whistle touched her ears. The signal to move. She rose, and walked, boots crunching in the stillness. She looked to the gate, and to the silent sentries. Hairs rose on the back of her neck. This place was wrong; every inch of it was vile. Isiilde wanted to forget the water, run straight to the gates, and take her chances with whatever lay beyond. But she did not run; she kept her fire close, ready, on the tip of her tongue.

  Closer to the oasis, the air cooled. A breeze stirred the water, creating ripples that disturbed the moon’s reflection. Isiilde had never been so thirsty.

  One of the group crouched at the edge. By the sound of movement, she thought it was Acacia. A slosh of water signaled a waterskin dipping into the pool. Isiilde held her breath, ears taut, silently lending all her strength to Marsais, hoping he could hold the weave before a vision shattered his focus.

  Three more blurred shapes bent to fill their own skins. The wind picked up, kicking up sand. Holding back a sneeze, she quickly buried her face behind a scarf. The mirror weave would not conceal a flaming burst of fire. But that was not what gave them away. As the sand blew, it gathered on clothing, and outlined each person in their group. Isiilde’s eyes widened, and she swallowed down a cry of alarm. It was too late.

  A horn shattered the silence. Fires sprang along the canyon walls and cliff base, lighting the caves like a myriad of gleaming eyes. The caves spewed Fomorri from their depths.

  “If you attack, I’ll poison your water!” Marsais’ voice boomed like a thunderclap. The Fomorri who had rushed from their holes stopped, and the bowmen on the high ledges hesitated.

  Isiilde looked to the source of their fear. The mirror weave had unraveled, revealing them all. Marsais stood knee deep in the pool, his arm outstretched, a vial poised to tip. “Widow’s Mark venom. A drop will taint this water.” He repeated the words in Abyssal, a harsh, grating tongue that slithered from his lips.

  Weapons bristled on both sides, but no one dared move. She could feel the fires in the braziers that lit the caves. The flames whispered to her, begging to be set free. She looked to Marsais, but he gave a slight shake of his head.

  A line of Fomorri shifted, making way for a single cowled figure who walked from a cave into the night. He lowered his scarf, revealing a scaled face and slitted eyes that glinted in the fire’s light. He resembled one of the horned snakes found throughout the desert.

  The leader grinned, displaying rows of sharp teeth. “We have other wells, Magi.”

  “If that were the case, then I’d be dead,” Marsais called back. “We seek Finnow’s Spire. That is all.”

  “Then walk there, right past those gates.”

  Marsais smiled. “Your word is as fleeting as a drop in the sands, Grafter.”

  The man laughed. “No, it is as fleeting as the pillars. That is where my word will run out. After that, no more words. We Fomorri like games, Magi.”

  As they talked, Elam continued to fill the waterskins, but Isiilde did not share the boy’s optimism.

  “I will even give you time to pray to your weak gods,” the Grafter offered. “You can beg them for a swift death.”

  Marsais considered the distance, and then looked at the others. Fomorri surrounded the oasis; hundreds against seventeen. “Walk to the gates,” he said softly. “I will join you there.”

  “The
y’ll attack as soon as you are clear of the water,” Oenghus growled. “Let me take the vial.”

  “We’ll need you at the gates, Oen.”

  “Then I’ll take it,” Acacia said.

  Marsais sighed. “Everyone is so eager to die.”

  “As if you’re not?” Isiilde growled.

  “The seer has a plan,” he said with a wink. His fingers flashed, and a moment later, he released the vial. It remained in the air. A levitation weave. In a louder voice, he stated his ultimatum. “If anyone approaches, the vial will fall; if you attack, it will fall; if you block my view...I believe you get the point. Need I go on?”

  The Grafter said nothing.

  Slowly, Marsais backed up, keeping his hand stretched towards the vial. The Elite and paladins closed in, and Isiilde and Elam were herded into the center of a tight knot of warriors, protected on all sides by armor and shields. With Marsais at the rear, the group moved as one circle. Oenghus stood at the fore, his fingers flexing and curling around his bone club.

  As the group walked towards the gates, the Fomorri parted, slowly. Some were hidden in robes with only eyes glinting from dark cowls. Others were not, and she wished she could wash the look of them from memory. Faces that had been stitched into flesh stared from bare chests. There were eyes where there should be none; heads sharing one body; too many legs and an amalgam of limbs; scales and the skin of serpents and beasts—the Fomorri grafted human and animal pieces onto themselves like a jester’s motley. The stench of rotting flesh made her gag.

  Isiilde could feel hungry eyes lingering on her. Obscenities were thrown at the women, and threats of torture at the men. She closed her ears to what the Fomorri planned.

  “That one is mine,” a giant of a man pointed his spear at her. With curling horns and gleaming bronze skin, he looked like the brazen bull statue. His armor was his flesh.

  Oenghus growled at the hulking Fomorri. He was on the verge of losing control.

  “Oen,” Marsais warned.

  Their leader fell in step, walking on a ledge that skirted the cliff base. “If you reach the Spire, what do you think you will do?” he called.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Marsais replied. “Take in the sun; enjoy the scenery.”

  “Funny, Magi.” The Grafter displayed his teeth. He did not laugh. “Do you run fast, eh? A child, women, and a few warriors will outrun Fomorri? We will see if you are so carefree on a Cradle.”

  Isiilde was sure that she did not want to know what that was. She still clutched Elam’s hand, and she could feel the boy’s trembling. Beside her, Rivan’s knuckles were white on his sword and the blade quivered. She stilled her own heart, reaching for the raging fire in her breast. It washed over her, leaving her cold with clarity, and imagining every single Fomorri in flames.

  “We have a strong sense of preservation,” Marsais replied wistfully. “As I’m sure your warriors have discovered. Pitiful, really. How many warriors did you throw at us? How many were lost?”

  The Grafter spread his hands. “Merely fodder. The weak die; the strong live. And don’t worry, we will let your women live, to breed, and raise the boy as one of us.”

  Isiilde snorted, eyeing the braziers. Elam would not spend a moment with these men.

  “Not yet,” Marsais murmured to her.

  The Fomorri began to close in, forming a wide semi-circle around the group, matching them step for step. They passed the pillars, into a narrow bit of rock, and there, the Grafter joined his men on the canyon floor. The Fomorri warriors parted for their leader.

  “Remember,” Marsais called. “If I cannot see the vial; it will fall.”

  The Grafter jerked his pointed chin. His men left space, a straight line to the pool and the suspended vial. “What do you want with the Spire?”

  “A visit.”

  The Grafter laughed, a disturbingly high-pitched sound. “A visit—do you plan on knocking and asking to enter?”

  “That was my plan.”

  “It would be entertaining to watch you try.”

  “If it would add to your amusement, I could juggle while I knock,” offered Marsais.

  “Only if it’s with the heads of your friends. Maybe we will let you try after we toy with you.” He looked to his men. “Keep his hands intact, so the Magi can knock.” A ripple of laughter passed over the Fomorri. It was not a pleasant sound.

  “He does not need hands, he can knock with his skull,” the giant bull of a man roared. More laughter followed them as they came to the gate. Isiilde turned towards the mass, all glinting eyes and tensed muscles. Blood lust filled the night.

  “Open the gate,” Marsais called.

  “Remove the vial,” the Grafter countered.

  The gate was as solid as it had appeared from the crevice. The round stone sat in a track that disappeared into a narrow slot in the cliff. High above, on the canyon wall, a heavy winch sat on a ledge where three Fomorri stood at the ready. The rest of the Fomorri closed in, forming a semi-circle, keeping the line of sight to the pool clear.

  “Your word,” Marsais said.

  “My word,” said the Grafter.

  Marsais gestured. In the dim firelight, the vial drifted to the side, and toppled safely in the sand. “Open the gate,” he said again.

  The Grafter bared his fangs. “My word is not worth much, Magi.”

  Marsais shrugged. “The vial was empty.” He looked to Oenghus. “Bring down the mountain.” The berserker reached for his flask.

  Slitted eyes blazed. “Preserve them!” the Grafter hissed.

  As the horde charged, Oenghus chugged more of the sacred brew than Isiilde had ever seen.

  “Now,” Marsais hissed at her as his own fingers flashed.

  Isiilde called to her fire. It leapt from braziers, surged from tunnels and gushed from the holes. Red flame spilled into the canyon, silencing the archers’ arrows. But another roar cut through the flame, stealing her breath and stopping her heart.

  Oenghus stepped in front of the charging Fomorri, arms spread, bellowing into the night. The earth shook, the ground cracked, and the cliffs fell. Isiilde was knocked off her feet. Sand and rock choked the air. Grit stuck in her eyes, smothering her voice and fire.

  A flash of runes lit the chaos. Marsais stepped in front of the Elite and thrust out his hands. The air snapped, and a raw surge of energy sliced through the storm. It hit the first wave of Fomorri, blasting bodies, severing heads and limbs, and tossing others aside like rag-dolls. But more were coming.

  The giant, bull-like Fomorri climbed to his feet, and roared a challenge that the berserker could not ignore. Oenghus charged.

  “The gate!” Marsais yelled, but the berserker was caught in the moment. The two brutes clashed, muscle against muscle. Both staggered back from the impact and were swallowed in a rush of fighters.

  Isiilde could not see her father, but she could hear his rage over the clash of steel. Grunts and howls filled the canyon. A Fomorri broke free from the haze, sword raised, and Rivan appeared, slamming her attacker with his shield. Another, four-legged creature rushed forward, nearly trampling the nymph. She scrambled back, flinging a bolt of energy at the second. His body jerked, and he stumbled. Lucas’ axe finished him off.

  Stone met her back. The gate.

  “Give me a boost, Nymph!” It was Lucas, wounded and bleeding, he pointed up towards the ledge where the guards stood, and slung his shield over his back.

  She understood. Choking on dust, she coughed out the Lore as her fingers wove. With a gesture, the paladin shot upwards, but her hand was too heavy. Isiilde focused, willing the paladin to slow. When he did not, she let the levitation weave unravel. He flailed for a moment in midair, and then caught the ledge.

  The archer on top the ledge saw Lucas, and his bow swung down, arrow pointing at the paladin’s head. Lucas grabbed the Fomorri’s ankle, and pulled. The arrow went wide, bouncing off his pauldron. Weaving quickly, Isiilde hurled an energy bolt at the archer high overhead. The weave was big
and sloppy, and knocked him off the ledge.

  Lucas scrambled up, ramming his shoulder into another Fomorri, swinging his axe with both hands. He cleaved and cut his way through the knot, and when the last fell, he threw his weight against the gate’s lever.

  A sizzling crack drew her attention. Blue energy shot from Marsais’ fingertips. Lightning collided with a Barrier of swirling black. The energy bounced off the Grafter, spiraling into a mass of fighters. Ten men fell where they stood, their charred flesh mingling with sweat and fear.

  The Grafter held a knife in his hand, but he didn’t use it to attack Marsais. The Fomorri leader slashed his own arm, and the air rippled around the scaled man. An inky tendril lashed at Marsais. The seer’s own Barrier flared, sending the whip of darkness into a nearby Fomorri. The man fell to the ground howling.

  Marsais’ fingers flashed, and a burst of light lit the sky, blinding the Fomorri closest to him. Isiilde blinked away the spots, unable to follow the flurry of deadly weaves. As the two fought, power thrummed in the air with a clash of weaves that tore through flesh. Death rained on the surrounding fighters, and Fomorri trampled each other, trying to escape the backlash of force, giving the two magi room to fight.

  A grinding sound jarred Isiilde’s bones. The stone at her back moved, and the gate rolled into the rock. Above, on the ledge, more Fomorri rushed Lucas. He abandoned the wheel, swinging his axe.

  “The gate is open!” Isiilde yelled. Only two feet, but it was enough.

  “Go!” Acacia ordered.

  She hesitated, searching for her father in the chaos. He stood at the forefront, holding back a horde. She summoned a flame, but it sputtered on her palm, dying out. The air was too clogged with sand and stone for her fire to burn. There was little else she could do; the nymph was no warrior.

  Isiilde grabbed Elam, and dragged the sling-wielding boy through the opening. They rushed through the gap, stumbling into the open desert.