“The Sylph,” she said. “I’ve seen it around Brinehilde’s neck.”
“Yes.”
“Why would the symbol of the Sylph be in a place like this?”
“It’s newer than the other writing. Added much later, I think. We are not the first to break into this ruin.”
“Of course,” she realized. “You said this ruin was ancient when you were young, but Soisskeli’s stave was used during the Chaos Wars. Why would the end piece be here?”
“Because it needs protecting.”
“Who placed it here?”
“The Keeper.”
Isiilde blinked, but before she could ask more, he turned back to the door, absorbed in the markings. The Keeper. The very man to whom the Sylph had entrusted the Orb, to fight the Void. The leader of the Guardians who sacrificed himself to erect the gates, cutting off Dagenir the Betrayer and the Guardians of Morchaint.
“What now?” Nalani asked. She stood at the bottom of the dais with Oenghus, facing the approaching wall of shadow.
“Do your light thing, Acacia,” Oenghus said, hoisting falchion and targe.
“I’ve told you, my prayers are worthless.” There was no anger, only defeat. It was worse than the paladin’s earlier fury. Despite her hopelessness, Acacia forced herself to straighten, placing most of her weight on her uninjured leg.
“Void,” Oenghus spat.
Isiilde hated waiting. She stepped forward, summoned her fire with a breath, and sent a wave of flame into the darkness. Its roar sang in her ears, and she fed it with her voice. Fire swept over the great hall. The darkness retreated into the adjoining chamber, and for a moment, she thought she had banished the creeping black, but it slipped between the currents of heat, and gathered.
Slowly, resiliently, the shadows crept towards them. Shades of grey fluttered in the dark, and a whisper hissed in her ears. Isiilde’s throat went dry.
“Keep singing,” Oenghus urged. “Give him time.”
Isiilde braced herself, raising her voice until the air beat with her power. An arc of flame roiled through the great hall. The shadows shifted like water, opening and closing in the fire’s path. But for every lash of flame, the shadows came back stronger than before.
There was no fuel, nothing for her fire to feed on save her voice. With a final note, a fireball exploded, sending sparks raining down on the floor. When the last ember faded, the shadows remained.
“I think it’s darker than before,” Acacia said.
Oenghus grunted, and Elam ran up the stairs, standing on top of the dais. He got out his sling, and sent a rock spiraling into the mass. It disappeared with a puff, and the boy loaded another stone.
“Acacia,” Marsais called. “I need you up here.” He did not take his eyes from the doors.
The captain frowned, and looked about to hold her ground, but after a moment, she sheathed her sword. Isiilde quickly put a shoulder under her arm, helping her up the stairs. As soon as Acacia reached the doors, Marsais abandoned his inspection and stepped in front of the Knight Captain. His gaze flickered over her shoulder—at the approaching darkness—and when he spoke, there was a note of desperation in his voice. “Listen, please, I beg of you. You believe that the Guardians have abandoned you because of my actions—”
“I allowed it,” Acacia bit out.
“Your own choices, then. Which is even better, my dear Captain. So listen to me if you are brave enough. I only ask that you listen.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Acacia said. “I can’t do anything. You can, however. In Vaylin, the Forsaken fled from you.”
Isiilde could hear the captain’s teeth grinding, and did not like the way her hand gripped the hilt of her sword.
“I cannot banish that.” His eyes flashed to the gathering darkness. “We have triggered a ward—a very powerful, complicated series of traps. There is no stopping the reaction and ultimate conclusion.” He paused, letting that sink in.
Isiilde glanced over her shoulder. It was closer, and the shapes were taking form—phantoms drifting in torment.
“Listen to me,” he beseeched. “Even the undisciplined can tap into the Gift. Prayers are but errant whispers—crude and unformed. A few are desperate enough to touch upon the ears of the Guardians. You could just as easily pray to a beggar in the gutters, Acacia. Your rituals are a discipline that allows you to wield the Gift, just as the Wise Ones use runes. The power lies in the Gift; not the Guardians.”
“Lies. More lies from a heretic,” Acacia said. “If you are hoping to restore my faith in myself, you are sadly mistaken. I am a Knight Captain of the Blessed Order—I have given my life to the Guardians of Iilenshar, and now you tell me it is a grand jest.”
“No jest. Only misplaced knowledge,” Marsais said urgently. “There is one who listens, who works through her favored few.” He thrust a finger towards the symbol on the door. “That symbol is new. We are not the first tomb raiders.”
“Scarecrow,” Oenghus growled.
Shadows approached like mist, bringing a cold chill that creeped over Isiilde’s heart. She closed her eyes, focusing on her flame. It warmed her considerably, keeping the dread at bay.
“The Keeper placed the end piece in that vault,” Marsais continued. “He put that symbol there. Only someone pure of heart and motive can open the door—a devotee of the Sylph.”
Oenghus roared, swinging at the shadows. His sword passed through a grey phantom. It retreated, and grew, and when the phantom emerged next it towered over the berserker.
Marsais’ eyes remained fixed on Acacia, keeping her pinned with the sheer intensity of his gaze. “I am far from pure, and quite frankly I am afraid of what may happen if you touch that symbol. I don’t know if the Keeper unraveled the original ward. That ward, the original, requires a sacrifice.”
“What the Void, Scarecrow?” Lightning crackled from the berserker’s hand. A jagged streak of energy shot through the giant phantom. The air dissipated, scattered, and two stood in its place. Nalani’s sword strikes had been no more effective—for every strike, another phantom formed.
“Don’t you dare, Acacia,” Oenghus urged as he fought. “I’ll break the bloody door down.”
“And bring the mountain down on our heads!” Marsais snapped.
Oenghus and Nalani were forced back, up the stairs, one at a time. Isiilde sent a wave of flame over their heads. It pushed the darkness back, but when it gathered again, the grey, indistinct wraiths stood in a tight mass. They were nearly tangible now, growing in strength. She could feel their eyes, hear the malevolent whispers coming from beneath their tattered veils. Their presence tugged at her heart, as if the shadows sought to rip it from her breast.
“I think they are feeding off of us,” she whispered. “Feeding off our attacks.”
“I’m not about to stand here and do nothing,” Nalani said.
Marsais chanted, tracing runes. As Oenghus and the woman retreated, he stepped to the forefront, down to the first step, and spread his arms. A white hot pulse of light stabbed at a knot of wraiths. The air gathered and burst with an implosion of force. Isiilde’s heart skipped, and stuttered at the sheer power of his weave. It bought them time, nothing more.
The air was stale and cold, and a shadow reached from the step. A wraith-like hand appeared, and then a face—all malformed and tortured, caught in an eternal scream. Elam and Isiilde put their backs to the wall.
“You think me a heretic?” Marsais shouted over the hissing multitude.
“I do not think,” Acacia said through clenched teeth. “You plow fiends and use Bloodmagic!” She swung her sword at an emerging phantom. It retreated, and two more appeared, climbing from the stone.
Fingers brushed the back of Isiilde’s neck, cold ice that shot straight to her heart. Her knees went weak, and she spun, sending a burst of flame at the phantom. The air rippled, and the fire shot through the incorporeal form, slamming against the stone above Elam’s head. The boy’s eyes went wide.
The whispers laughed.
“I do, and worse,” Marsais confirmed. “I have knowledge, Acacia. As do the Guardians. If you will not listen, then look!” Marsais chanted, but it wasn’t the Lore, it was another language, both foreign and familiar, a language that stirred something deep in the nymph’s bones; of earth and fire; of air and water. It was the sky, and the sun, and each sliver of grass. Marsais opened his hand, and a pure, white light flared to life, swirling over his palm with a hypnotic pulse. The aura of his spirit.
Acacia’s breath caught. She took a step back, studying Marsais as if seeing him for the first time. “Who are you?” the paladin breathed.
“Trust me,” he said softly. “You are favored by the Sylph. Oenghus is drawn to her priestesses like a moth to flame.” And then, like those very moths, the phantoms surged towards Marsais.
A great howling echoed between Isiilde’s ears: madness and fury, and every pain ever inflicted in a lifetime, focused on that single man. They swarmed him and swallowed his light. Marsais screamed with pain.
Oenghus started swinging, but his blows were useless. The giant reached into the mass, and yanked out the seer. Marsais staggered, and Isiilde caught him. He was so very pale and his skin was like ice to the touch. He slumped against her as Oenghus stepped to the forefront. The berserker’s voice boomed, lightning crackled to life, charging the shadows.
Isiilde looked to the Knight Captain. Acacia’s face was calm, her eyes focused. She touched her blade to her forehead. The steel flared to life—silver and pure—and then it hummed through the air. A shimmering silver Orb snapped to life. The shadows retreated, but did not flee. They stayed just out of reach, beyond the mercurial shield.
“The door!” Marsais gasped.
Acacia turned and slapped her palm against the triune of rings. She closed her eyes, and the whispers screamed. A roaring multitude of near-mute voices raged in Isiilde’s skull.
The door swung open, and Acacia’s fingers relaxed. Her sword clattered to the stone and she fell with the blade. The silver shield collapsed, and a wave of shadows swarmed. Isiilde shoved Marsais through the titan doorway, grabbed Elam by the wrist, and pulled him in her wake.
Oenghus seized Acacia’s collar and dragged her through, and as soon as Nalani entered, the giant threw his weight against the door. It slammed shut with a final, deafening boom.
Chapter Fifty-Two
A single, trickling fountain filled the silence. It nearly made Isiilde weep. Gold and jewels were piled higher than her head. The hall was immense, and not a corner was bare. No one cared a bit about the treasure.
“Acacia!” Oenghus knelt beside the paladin. She was not breathing. He placed one hand on her forehead and slipped the other bloodied palm beneath her armor, over her stomach. Oenghus closed his eyes, and Isiilde held her breath, waiting for the flicker of a lash, the rise of a breast, but the woman remained as still as stone.
Oenghus broke the link. Blood trickled from his nose and ears, and he planted his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. His broad shoulders slumped.
Marsais turned from the sight, walking away. At first she thought he was fleeing the building rage that was sure to explode from the berserker. But no, Oenghus was still, and so incredibly quiet. It was worse than fury, worse than a roar; her father looked old and fragile kneeling beside Acacia’s body.
Isiilde remembered to breathe. She sucked in a shuddering breath, and placed a light hand on her father’s shoulder. It seemed a cruel dream. At the very least, she thought distantly, Acacia was at peace.
An hour might have passed, or a few seconds, the nymph was not sure. Marsais came hurrying back, holding a drinking horn in his hands. He knelt beside the dead paladin and put a hand under her head, lifting her lips to the rim of the horn. Water splashed over her mouth, trickling down her throat. Color returned, flesh mended, and Acacia gulped in a breath as if she had been under water too long.
“Aha, I thought so!” Marsais grinned, and Oenghus grabbed the woman, crushing her to his chest.
Acacia spluttered, and pushed at the giant. “Oen, I can’t breathe,” she gasped.
Oenghus blinked, and loosened his hold. “Sorry.” He did not entirely let go, however.
“What happened?” Acacia asked.
“The Unicorn’s Horn,” Isiilde realized.
Marsais nodded, turning the legendary artifact over in his hands. “I didn’t think the Keeper would allow a sacrifice without some means to revive a Priestess of the Sylph.”
“You still bloody risked her life,” Oenghus growled.
Acacia laid a hand on his broad chest. “It was my choice.” She untangled herself from the giant’s arms, and stood easily. A light entered her eyes. “We need to go back. I’ll use the horn on Rivan.”
But Marsais was shaking his head. “Treasure seekers have long searched for this artifact, but its power is limited. Both water and horn are needed, and it takes a hundred years to replenish the power.”
Hope died in Acacia’s eyes. Her mouth worked, and finally she found the words. “And you wasted it on me?”
“I do not consider it a waste,” he said. For a moment, Isiilde thought the Knight Captain would strike him, but she closed her eyes and sighed.
“Rivan was a noble young man,” Marsais said. “I am truly sorry.”
“And a friend,” Isiilde added.
Silence descended, each turning to look at this new chamber, wondering what tricks lurked in the golden splendor.
Oenghus shattered the lull with a growl. “A hundred years? How the Void did you know it’d be full?” He snatched the horn from Marsais’ hands.
“I did not know,” Marsais admitted.
Disgusted, Oenghus stalked to the fountain, and replaced the horn in its cradle. The group joined him at the basin. Isiilde’s mind worked through the puzzle. “So the vault is designed to require a sacrifice, and the Keeper changed it to be someone pure of heart. But before that, the thief would have had to choose between a life and the treasure.”
“Possibly his own,” Marsais added. “The ward likely works differently if only one person enters.”
Isiilde considered this, but shook her head. “I think two need to enter. The mirrors, the husks, it’s all designed for two. Sacrifice one to save another; a common enough ploy in King’s Folly, only now... with lives.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s over,” said Nalani, nodding towards a far wall. “Something moved.”
Isiilde barely heard the woman; she was lured to the side by a flicker of light. Voices faded as she walked through and around a wide pillared arch, navigating the mounds of gold.
A wide patch of stone floor was void of treasure, empty save for a single skeleton in its center. The skeleton’s spine was bent at a breaking angle, and tattered robes still adorned its frame. Isiilde looked up. A whirlpool of chaotic energy churned high overhead. Her mouth fell open.
“So once we find this artifact, how the Void are we going to leave this cursed place?” Oenghus rumbled as he neared.
Isiilde started to laugh. Eyes dancing, she looked to Marsais. “Did you know?”
“Names have meaning, my dear.”
“Wait, is that...” Oenghus trailed off, gawking.
“What?” Nalani asked.
Acacia stared. “That looks like the...thing in the Spine.”
“Lispen’s Folly,” Isiilde supplied, flashing Marsais a grin. “You are clever.”
He gave an elegant gesture of dismissal. “I was merely hopeful.”
“So is that the crazed bastard himself?” Oenghus looked to the broken skeleton.
“It appears so,” Marsais said.
“Is it a Portal?” Acacia asked.
“Hmm, yes and no,” he answered. “Lispen was obsessed with rare artifacts, especially the Unicorn’s Horn; he took great risks in the pursuit of wealth.”
“But fiends have been known to come out of the portal,” Isiilde said, suddenly wary and watchful of the pile
s of gold.
“It’s far from stable.”
Acacia sighed. “I am sick of working Portals, let alone broken ones.”
Elam nodded in agreement.
“Let’s find the end piece and get out of here,” Oenghus said.
Isiilde thought that was a wise idea. The gold, gems, and treasures of arms and armor made her ears twitch and her skin crawl. She said as much to Marsais.
“Where there is bounty, there is blood, and a great many lives lost due to its presence. Greedy spirits often linger over the very gilt that slew them.”
“I’m not sure that’s it,” she said softly. “Something is holding its breath.”
“Whatever that something may be—don’t touch anything,” he stressed, and repeated the order to Elam in Lome. The boy thrust his hands in his pockets, and Isiilde did the same.
“We touched the Horn,” Acacia said.
“Let’s hope it was part of the puzzle,” replied Marsais.
“A Queen was not taken,” Isiilde observed.
Marsais frowned. “No, she was not.” His eyes flickered to the nymph. Worry clouded the grey. “The game is still in play.”
Isiilde looked to the swirl of energy. “Then it’s time to cheat,” she whispered for his ears alone.
“Hmm,” he agreed. “Spread out, look for the end piece. Elam, come with me. Isiilde, stick with Acacia. Yell if you find something, and meet back here.”
They spread out, the pairs walking in different directions. The mounds of gold and jewels made Isiilde’s head spin. So much wealth; all pointless and futile. She was not even tempted to touch anything—all of it carried the stink of death and greed.
“Gold is the weakest rune in King’s Folly, but it’s also the most resilient,” she said to Acacia. “Water only moves it; fire can melt it, but only when surrounded; power can move through it, but gold is never destroyed.”
A coin tumbled from a hill of treasure. The gold disc bounced and shimmered its way down, hit the floor with a soft tink and rolled to the nymph’s boot. Isiilde stared down at the little coin. She tilted her head, and slowly looked up to the top of the mound. The air above wavered like a mirage. She stepped forward and stretched out her hand. Heat rippled from the pile of gold.
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 34
