The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “If it’s a game, then how do we begin?” Nimlesh asked.

  “I don’t know,” Marsais sighed. “This is where my vision stopped.” The admittance was so unlike the seer.

  “The Fomorri will be in bow range soon,” Coen called down from his perch.

  “Let me try,” Oenghus said, stepping up to the door. He placed his hands on the stone, palms flat. Muscles strained as he tried to push, and then slide. Finally, closing his eyes, he concentrated as if he were listening to the stone.

  Isiilde glanced over her shoulder at the pile of bones. She stepped over to the grate, to the very last tile that spiraled into the metal. She nudged the bones with her boot, sweeping them out of the way. There was a perfectly round hole in the grate, only two inches across. Pinching her nose with one hand, she picked up what looked like the haft of a broken spear with the other, and thrust it into the hole. It fit. Fingers quivering with excitement, the nymph pushed the spear forward. The entire grate began to turn with a grinding that tore at her ears. She hopped back, covering her ears.

  “What the Void did you touch, Sprite?”

  Heat rose in her cheeks, and she spluttered, pointing at the turning grate.

  “Marsais said not to touch anything,” Oenghus growled, dragging her away from the mechanism. The others backed away too, watching the center. Stone rasped on stone, and the ground beneath their feet quivered. The door swung open. Everyone turned from the grate to the opening, and Oenghus quickly moved to the forefront, hoisting targe and club.

  When nothing charged out of the blackness, Isiilde raised her chin. “I opened the door,” she said, cheerfully.

  Oenghus muttered something rude.

  “Next time, some warning would be appreciated.” Acacia took a breath, and unslung her shield, putting some weight on her bad leg.

  Marsais looked to each in turn. “Remember, we’re looking for a spiked sun, the end piece to Soisskeli’s stave.”

  A thrill traveled up the nymph’s spine. Isiilde rubbed her hands together, nearly hopping with anticipation. “Let’s begin.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Isiilde could not see anything of the interior, but the air smelled surprisingly fresh. Marsais gestured, sending his light bobbing ahead. The orb crept through the door, chasing away the dark. He stepped over the threshold, and Isiilde followed on his heels.

  Cool blue light filled the chamber, illuminating a stairway. The room, like everything in this spire, was circular in shape. Stairs hugged the rough stone walls, spiraling upwards in a room that was covered in vibrant green moss.

  As the group filed up the stairway, Isiilde stopped to gape at the ceiling. Overhead, a scintillating spiral of tiles continued the pattern of stairs. When the orb’s light touched the tiles, it threw back prisms.

  “I’m glad I haven’t eaten,” Rivan groaned, focusing on the solid steps.

  It reminded her that she had not eaten all night. She reached into her pouch and popped a strawberry in her mouth. The berry burst against her tongue, chasing away hunger and the long, bloody night.

  “How many of those do you have?” Rivan asked.

  The nymph blinked at the question. Before leaving Mearcentia, she had requested five heaping bowls of her favorite fruit, and then poured them into her enchanted pouch. Shouldn’t she have run out by now? Isiilde shrugged, more to herself than the paladin.

  “That looks like a door up there.” Acacia pointed to the top of the spiral, some forty feet up.

  “There’s nothing to brace the door, Scarecrow.”

  “Hmm, that would be cheating.”

  Oenghus grumbled, and wedged his club in the groove. When her father stepped over the threshold, the stone door fell, rendering his bone club to dust and splinters. The giant turned, and in that moment, the floor slid open. Nalani leapt towards the stairs, catching an edge, but Oenghus fell, disappearing down a hole.

  Isiilde pushed her way past Nalani, rushing to the edge. Water bubbled upwards, touching her boots. A pool of brackish water sloshed where the floor had once been.

  A head burst from the surface. Isiilde reached for her father, tugging at his arm. He handed over his targe, and hoisted himself out. The water brushed her ankles; it was rising.

  “Up!” Marsais barked.

  Oenghus climbed to his feet, and took his targe. He nudged her up the stairs, and she bolted past the others, swift and light of foot. The nymph beat Marsais to the door, which was in the middle of the chamber, not at the very top.

  The door was a piece of solid round stone: no handle, no lever, no adornment. It bored the nymph, so she continued past, to the very top, where the stairway disappeared into the ceiling, touching the beginning of the same tiled pattern.

  Something caught her eye on the stair. The stone dipped near the wall. She crouched, studying the indentation. It was a small, half-moon basin with grooves etched into its curve, very similar to Saavedra’s ritual chamber. She called to Marsais, and he sprinted up, crouching to examine her discovery.

  “A Bloodmagi’s ritual stone,” he murmured, running his fingertips over the grooves. She took a step back.

  “Scarecrow, we don’t have much time!” Oenghus called from the door. Isiilde looked down. The water was rising, fast. Her father was braced in front of the upper-story door, trying to push, slide, or pry it open. But the door did not budge.

  “Sun, ice, water... blood. It requires a sacrifice.” Marsais pulled back his wide sleeve, exposing a slim wrist.

  Isiilde grabbed his hand “No!”

  “We don’t have time,” he said, drawing a curved blade from his sash.

  “Wait one moment.” She thought furiously, glancing up at the spiral tiles. The light threw back its reflection, shimmering on the black water. “This is the second cycle of King’s Folly: ice, sun, water and stone.”

  “And we need life to move into the third. That is blood.”

  “But water moves stone, Marsais, not life,” she argued.

  “Scarecrow,” Oenghus shouted. “I’m about to crack this door open!” The water was a foot below the others.

  Marsais shook off her hand and placed the tip of his blade in the hollow of his wrist, poised over a vein.

  “You’re wrong,” she challenged. This gave him pause. “When the water reaches this basin, we’ll all be dead,” she said quickly. “Death bridges the cycles too.” She reached into her pouch and brought out the waterskin that Elam had refilled in the oasis. Isiilde yanked out the cork, and looked into his eyes.

  “Do it,” he said.

  She poured water onto the stone. It ran rivulets down the grooves and pooled in the basin. A grating sound signaled her triumph. The door rolled open. The water was now level with the opening.

  “Get down here,” Oenghus said.

  Isiilde flew down the steps, and Marsais followed at a slower pace. A long, terrible slope of stone dived down the tunnel. Stairs were etched into the stone, on either side of a deep channel. Water began to rush down its center.

  “Go. Be careful,” Oenghus ordered.

  The Elite were in the front, and Rivan helped his captain down the slick stairs. Death would have indeed opened the door. When the water reached the basin at the very top, the chamber would have been filled with water, and when the door opened, those inside—treading water and fighting for breath—would have been sucked down the steep chute.

  As water rushed down the middle like a river, Isiilde picked her way carefully down the stairs. The tunnel passed in a blur, and soon a roar filled her ears. It sounded like a waterfall.

  The water spilled over an edge, plunging into a grate of spikes that covered a dark hole. Skeletons were impaled on their tips. Isiilde stopped at the bottom of the slope, pressing her back to the slick cavern wall. The deadly trap had collected an assortment of victims: humans, gnomes, and a great many Fomorri—all long dead.

  Marsais stopped beside her, and although she was safe against the wall, his arm came across, as if he worried she woul
d pitch over the edge and join the skeletons.

  “See,” she said triumphant. “Death.”

  He arched a brow at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  The Spire was fiendish and ingenious, and the nymph was loving every moment. “Of course I am,” she said, tilting her head. “Aren’t you?”

  His eyes danced. “Oh my dear,” he said, taking her hand. “The tombs we could plunder.” It was the first time he had spoken of a future at all.

  As the cool water rushed over the edge, it hit the warmer air in the cave. Steam rose and hissed, rising towards the darkness above. Two narrow walkways skirted the deadly drain, circling the pit to meet on the other side. There was no door, but a long, narrow passage covered in pristine tiles. Condensation gathered on the tiles.

  “What bloody now?” Oenghus asked.

  Marsais squeezed his way to the front, and Isiilde followed, peering down the strange corridor. Ominous was the word that came to mind. Marsais gestured, tossing a weave into the hallway. Runes flared, but none clung to the tiles. He directed his Orb of Light into the passage, and the moment it entered the corridor, the light weave unraveled.

  “What is it?” The nymph’s voice echoed strangely.

  “Power,” Marsais said, tossing his dagger into the hallway. Energy surged from the tiles. A web of crackling energy slammed into the blade, knocking it from the air. It fell to the floor and was zapped again and again, skidding its way to the very end. Finally the ward let go and the blade slid out of sight.

  “Give me an arrow.”

  The archer handed one to Marsais. He snapped the metal head off, and tossed in the wooden shaft. The wood clattered on the ground, unharmed.

  Oenghus frowned at the little dagger smoking at the end. “Give me a stone weave, and I’ll test it.” It made sense, after all the berserker had an affinity with lightning. Still, Isiilde doubted that even Oenghus could withstand that many bolts.

  Marsais’ fingers flashed, layering a stone rune over air and binding it loosely to the barbarian. It was a delicate weave that required skill; a stronger bind would turn her father to stone.

  Oenghus blew out a breath, and stepped into the steam. It swirled around his body like a hungry thing, but no sparks flew. Oenghus disappeared down the hallway, and his discovery soon echoed back. “There’s some kind of chamber beyond. All full of mirrors. Watch out for the bones.”

  Marsais nodded, and traced a weave for each of the Elite and paladins. When it came to Isiilde, he hesitated. “I don’t want to risk a feather rune here.” He always added a feather to her armor so it wouldn’t suffocate her.

  She nodded in understanding. “Do it.”

  He bound stone to her flesh, and it was every bit as suffocating as it had been the first time he’d done it. The weave clung, crawling over her body. She swallowed a cry, and closed her eyes, focusing on her fire and its roaring touch.

  The nymph walked into the steam, picking her way over skeletons. The bones, still encased in armor and clothes, gleamed white on the floor, picked clean of flesh and hair. She didn’t pause to look; she could barely breathe with the weight of stone sticking to her flesh. When the nymph stepped out of the swirling heat, Marsais was close on her heels. Without asking, he plucked the weave from her body, and she shuddered with relief.

  Marsais gripped her shoulder, eyes searching her own. She swallowed down bile, and nodded, but the weave’s lingering touch continued to shake her bones. His hand remained, and she did not mind. They turned to look at this next puzzle—the fourth cycle.

  Alcoves ringed the chamber of stone. The same swirling pattern covered every inch of rock, etched and repeated until her mind spun. There were no bones on the floor, but a mirror stood in each alcove.

  Oenghus stood in front of one, gazing at his grizzled, blood-smeared reflection. Isiilde moved beside him. It wasn’t glass, but a thin, crystal sheet of water that threw his image back. She looked to the one where Elam stood mesmerized by the effect. She stepped behind him, and blinked in surprise. Elam was there, but she was not.

  “We’re not there,” Acacia said. Isiilde turned slightly. The Knight Captain stood at her shoulder, but was not in the reflection.

  “Elam, come over here,” Oenghus ordered. The boy went, but his reflection remained.

  “He’s still in this mirror,” Isiilde said.

  “And he’s not reflected here,” said Oenghus.

  Isiilde wove a Runic Eye, layering it over spirit. When the weave touched the water, a mirror rune flared to life. She looked over her shoulder at Marsais, but he was nearly lost in the steam. Sweat beaded on his brow.

  “It’s getting hot in here,” Nimlesh called. “Where do we go?”

  Marsais stepped in front of an empty alcove and frowned at his battered reflection. He leaned right, and then left, watching the movement. The steam thickened, pouring out of the hallway, until Isiilde could barely see the others.

  Elam strayed too close, and the steam brushed his arm. The boy yelped, jumping back. He hugged the arch, clutching his burned arm.

  “Go, Oenghus,” Marsais said.

  The berserker drew his heavy falchion and stepped through the waterfall. He disappeared, but his reflection remained. Nimlesh followed on his heels.

  A hiss filled the chamber, and the air snapped. A lash of force slammed into Nimlesh, knocking him clear off his feet and across the room. He disappeared into the steam.

  As their sergeant’s screams filled the chamber, Coen and Nalani started forward, but when the steam touched their skin, both jumped back, faces red and burnt where it had touched.

  The Lore leapt to Marsais’ lips. He threw an air weave into the mass, parting the steam. For a split second they saw the sergeant. Nimlesh writhed and twisted on the ground, burnt and red, down to the bone. The archer started forward, but the steam slithered through the weave, and it unraveled. Before the air closed in, Coen loosed an arrow, silencing his commander’s agony.

  Coen retreated, grim-faced, and Nalani nodded to her kinsman. It had needed to be done.

  The sergeant’s agony reminded Isiilde of Spot’s bellows before the man had slit the camel’s throat. The fact that she felt nothing over Nimlesh’s death disturbed her more than his screams. There was, she discovered, little pity in her heart.

  “Walk through your reflection, and only yours,” Marsais ordered the others.

  When they did not immediately move, Acacia spurred them with a sharp word. Rivan closed his eyes, and stepped through his archway, and Coen and Nalani walked into their respective reflections.

  Marsais steered Elam to his reflection. He gripped the boy’s shoulder, said something in Lome, and turned him towards the sheet of water. Elam straightened his shoulders, and walked bravely through.

  Isiilde tore her eyes from where Nimlesh had lain. The steam thickened, and even she, with her affinity for fire, could not linger overly long.

  “What did you say to him?” Acacia asked.

  “That he cannot die because I have foreseen a long life.”

  “Did you?” Steam hissed and spit, rolling towards the trio.

  Marsais’ lips twitched. “Some lies are kind, are they not?”

  Acacia shook her head. “Not to me.” She stepped through the water.

  Isiilde’s heart hammered in her breast, but the nymph in the reflection was cool and calm. She did not recognize herself. “This isn’t me,” she whispered, wondering if this was what it meant to be strong.

  “What?” asked Marsais.

  Isiilde touched the water. It was as cool and calm as the nymph who stared back. “This isn’t me,” she said for his ears.

  “Mirrors always tell the truth.”

  “I think this one is lying.”

  He looked at his own reflection. The steam touched his back, and he flinched, stepping forward. “Ladies first.”

  “As long as you are second.”

  “I always come last.”

  Isiilde snorted, and steppe
d through.

  Chapter Fifty

  An empty corridor stretched beneath her feet. Tiles spiraled along the floor, ceiling, and walls. It made the nymph feel as if she were spinning. The world tipped her towards a door.

  Isiilde was alone. She glanced back, and saw that the water was gone. A sheen of glass reflected her back—a grimy, dripping wet nymph with blood and grime smeared on her skin.

  Water dripped down the tiles, gathering in the spiraling grooves and flowing towards the door. Again, this place reminded her of Saavedra and the ritual chamber. The thought made her shudder, and she wiped the blood from her face, but it only made things worse. A long, hot bath was needed. The thought made her laugh, and the sound bounced strangely in the corridor. It was cold and hollow, like her eyes.

  She shook the image from her mind, and hurried through the corridor. The dizzying pattern threw her off balance, and she reached out, steadying herself on a wall.

  Water trickled to the end, slipping under a door. As far as doors went, this was a simple one: plain wood with a metal handle. Isiilde traced a Runic Eye, and let the weave fall over the door. Nothing flared to life.

  This felt like a trap, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Isiilde touched the handle and pulled open the door. It led into yet another circular chamber. When she stepped over the threshold, the door closed on her heels.

  There were no spirals, no doors, no markings, save for a ring of alcoves along the wall and a round fountain in the very center of the room. Water flowed from a basin of stone, trickling peacefully into the pool below. The tiles were polished and white, and the whole room seemed far too bright.

  Isiilde was not alone. Oenghus, Marsais, Elam, Acacia, Rivan, and the two Elite stood in front of their arches—all looking wary and perplexed. A breath of relief swept past her lips.

  “That was easy,” said Rivan.

  Oenghus grunted, readjusting his grip on the sword.

  “Is everyone all right?” Acacia asked.

  Everyone nodded. The others moved towards the fountain as if drawn to it, but Isiilde stood her ground. Something was horribly wrong; every fiber of her body screamed out danger.