Flame of Ruin
Flame of Ruin
Spark of Chaos
Book Two
Sabrina Flynn
FLAME OF RUIN is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are chimerical delusions of a tired mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely due to the reader’s wild imagination (that’s you).
Copyright © 2022 by Sabrina Flynn
All rights reserved.
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This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Published by Ink & Sea Publishing
www.sabrinaflynn.com
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ISBN 978-1-955207-22-5
ebook ISBN 978-1-955207-23-2
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Book 2 of Spark of Chaos
Book cover by Miblart
Contents
World Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Connect with Author
Book 3: God of Ash
Chapter 1
Also by Sabrina Flynn
About the Author
Appendix
Calendar Of Fyrsta
Festivals
“One must start at the end to find a beginning.”
—Galvier Longstride
Chapter 1
Fire sang in her blood. It was a song of rage that licked her skin, but she felt cold and hollow. She blinked in confusion.
Where was she?
Isiilde Jaal’Yasine dangled over an armored shoulder, staring at a kilt, moving boots, and the ground. Not stone, but moss-covered earth.
For a moment, she was back on Isek’s shoulder beneath the Wise One’s stronghold, trapped with a group of traitors. She felt the click of shackles around her limbs, the rough wood at her back, the bite of teeth on her neck.
Isiilde panicked.
“It’s all right, Sprite,” a deep voice rumbled.
Oenghus.
Relief washed over her as confusion cleared, making way for memory: a battle in the bowels of the Spine, a dead end, and a desperate escape through a portal.
Marsais.
Oenghus had shoved Marsais through the portal. Where was he? She didn’t even know where she was.
Isiilde slid off Oenghus’ shoulder. The moss under foot was comforting, but the night was chilly and the oversized shirt she wore offered little in the way of warmth. She’d burned away her clothing in a firestorm—one of her making.
Isiilde shied away from that memory.
She turned to study the runic portal, but the light seared her eyes and all she glimpsed was a swirl of chaotic runes between two stone pillars.
The portal deactivated, plunging them into darkness. With the blinding blue light gone, the softer moonlight illuminated a forest. The trees were as large as towers, and stone ruins crumbled around the Gateway.
This place felt ancient. Not the ruins, but the trees. The forest was pleased with their intrusion at all.
A nearby fern rustled, and a shadow shifted with a groan. “Marsais,” she breathed, rushing to his side. His hands were shattered, his fingers a bloodied, torn mess of bone. They were bandaged and useless, but then that had been the point—to ravage his hands so he couldn’t weave.
She could feel his pain, lurking beyond the veil of their Bond—a bond of intertwined spirits.
Oenghus stood on a fallen pillar, with war hammer and shield in hand as he searched the darkness for threat.
“Oen, you must heal him.”
“Not yet,” he growled. “It’s not safe.”
Something stirred in the shadows between trees. Despite her own exhaustion, she put a shoulder under Marsais and helped him stand.
Staggering under his weight, she retreated to Oenghus’ side, and then heard a soft scrape and a click that held a rhythm of movement.
They weren’t alone in the forest.
The air between pillars rippled, runes flared to life, and a winged-imp shot out of the portal, flapping away with a squeal of delight.
Luccub was free.
Deep in the ruins, a flash of icy light blinked and disappeared.
“What was that?” Isiilde whispered.
“Void,” Oenghus growled. “You’re bleeding all over the place, Scarecrow.”
“It’s not like he can help it,” Isiilde shot back. She could smell the blood on Marsais, seeping from the spear wound on his side. His duel with the Hound seemed a lifetime ago.
As the portal’s blue glow faded, Oenghus wove a rune around his shield. It erupted with light, pushing back the darkness of the surrounding forest. A tangle of shadows moved unnaturally to the sides.
The air between the standing stones distorted again, and Knight Captain Acacia Mael stepped out of the portal. She took in the forest, the ruins, and the night, and moved to guard Isiilde and Marsais, shield and sword held at the ready.
The two paladins, Rivan and Lucas, followed on their captain’s heels: one young and smooth, the other seasoned and scarred.
The shadows beyond the light writhed like a pit of snakes. Clicks and scrapes and a sibilant chorus whispered between trees.
“What is that?” Isiilde whispered.
Lucas spat. “Reapers.”
That single word clutched her throat. Creatures of nightmare that feasted on blood. Voidspawn.
Isiilde wanted to bolt back through the portal, but Marsais’ arm circled her neck, pulling her protectively against his body.
Another flare of runic power spit out a confused enemy soldier, who hesitated a fraction of a second too long. In that second, Oenghus swung his war hammer, catching him off guard. Bone and brain misted the night.
The scent of blood sparked a feeding frenzy. Shadows came alive, and a hundred glowing eyes snapped open, burning with hunger.
“Shields on the nymph!” Acacia ordered.
The paladins surrounded Isiilde and Marsais with a barrier of steel. Oenghus roared, picked up the soldier’s body with one hand, and chucked the corpse towards a cluster of icy eyes. Reapers converged on the dead soldier with a chorus of gnashing teeth and ripping flesh.
It was gruesome and mesmerizing, and Isiilde could not look away, until a humanoid shadow leapt from a branch—all fang and claw and sleek scale. It lashed at her with a swipe of claws, but Marsais was quicker. Before she’d even registered the attack, Marsais stepped forward and kicked the Reaper in the head. The blow dropped the creature to the ground, and Acacia spun, felling it with a sweep of her blade.
Acacia chanted in a clear, ringing voice, then her shield burst with light, cutting through the murk and slamming into a knot of reapers. A path opened through the tangle.
“Get out of the ruins!” Acacia ordered.
As one, the fighting unit moved forward in a tight formation, all save Oenghus. He waded into the fray, crushing, charring, and flinging reapers against trees.
The portal activated again, and a cloaked figure stepped from the shimmering Gateway. Above the clamor of scraping claw and steel, Isiilde heard the guttural chant of the Lore and glimpsed the quick movements of a man tracing runes.
Marsais broke through the circle of paladins with a shout of alarm, racing through the ruin, back the way they had come, towards the traitorous Wise One at the Gateway.
Before Isiilde could follow, Acacia shoved her back and bolted after him. A few seconds later, Marsais slammed into the man with a bone jarring force that sent both men to the ground. The enemy came out on top. He straddled Marsais, raising a wicked dagger, his eyes to the sky.
Isiilde screamed.
The Wise One brought the dagger down, but instead of plunging it into Marsais’ chest, he sank it into his own heart. The Wise One’s fingers spasmed. He twitched and fell to the side.
“No,” Marsais rasped.
What in all the realms? Why had
the man killed himself? It didn’t make sense. There was no time to wonder.
Acacia kicked the Wise One off Marsais, and the reapers fell on the corpse, fangs sinking into flesh. But something was gathering in the air over the dead man. Both power and perversion. The Wise One’s body began to harden and warp.
Whatever the Wise One had done, it was no weave Isiilde recognized. It was more like a… ritual. Bloodmagic.
Acacia dragged Marsais to his feet, pulling him away from the transforming remains, but Isiilde’s view was blocked when a wave of reapers converged, crashing against the paladins’ shields.
Before Isiilde could dash into the fray, a single word of power split the night. Energy crackled around Oenghus’ hammer. A chain of lightning lashed towards the standing stones, slicing a path through the horde. Marsais and Acacia raced through the opening.
Behind them, in the clear path, a stone-like corpse cracked and eerie light seeped from its hardened flesh, burning brighter with every heartbeat. As the searing light consumed the corpse, the reapers scattered like rats and an inky spot appeared in the brightness, devouring the dead man’s spirit. It grew and slithered until there was nothing left save an eternity of torment.
An inhuman screech sliced through the forest.
Isiilde could not tear her eyes from the abomination as she was dragged away. Finally, her feet remembered they were attached to legs, and she ran.
A frigid wind infused the scream, beating at her back, sucking the air from her lungs. She pressed her hands against her ears, but the sound rattled inside her skull, until she forgot to think, forgot to move. She stopped along with the paladin at her side.
Terror rooted her and Rivan in place.
Frost climbed the trees, foliage wilted, and a great flapping form rose in the wind—of tatters and bleakness and hungry death.
Hardened warriors to the bone, Oenghus and Lucas turned to face the monstrosity. Tendrils of inky rot spread, snaking through the forest, striving towards life. She could feel its touch like a cold tongue, flicking beneath her skin to lick her bones.
Oenghus roared, sending a bolt of jagged lightning into the center of the Forsaken spirit. It twisted and wavered, then snapped back into focus with renewed strength.
A shadowy tentacle lashed at Oenghus. He threw himself to the side, bringing his hammer down on the limb. But his blow passed harmlessly through. Oenghus bellowed the Lore, awakening the earth. The ground answered his call, rising over the Forsaken blot. Trees groaned, and dirt and vines surged like a wave, drowning the writhing form.
The earth shook Isiilde off her feet. She hit the ground, and in the settling aftermath, Lucas Cutter ran towards the center of misery. His blade burned white and pure, pulsing with a prayer. Inky tendrils whipped at the charging paladin, groping for his soul.
The warrior leapt from crumbled stone to fallen tree, and off, plunging his blade into the Forsaken’s heart.
Rage filled the forest, pounding at her eardrums. The tendrils folded in on themselves, retracting into a shapeless mass. The Forsaken was pinned to the ground, twisting beneath the searing blade, and with a snap of air, the ink-like spirit broke free, flying towards the tree tops until it disappeared.
Isiilde could not breathe. Her heart spasmed, forgetting its rhythm. Marsais was in front of her, cupping her face with bandaged hands. His lips moved, eyes urgent, but so very far away.
One word cut through her terror. “Move!”
She moved.
Chapter 2
“They’re swarming!” Acacia shouted.
Stone bit into Isiilde’s bare feet as she ran. A jangle of armor, haggard breathing, and hurried boots joined her flight. The group raced towards a ruined tower, its top shorn but its foundations strong.
Oenghus roared. And lightning answered. It charged the air, slammed to the earth, and seared holes through the reapers. They dropped like flies. But there were so many of them—an endless horde of shadow and claw.
Isiilde flew through a stone archway and was headed for the next when Marsais dragged her to a stop. They stood in the ruin of a toppled tower, its stone walls crumbling but intact.
The paladins planted themselves at the exits while Oenghus turned to face the swarming pack of reapers nipping at their heels. Over seven feet of fury, of death and carnage, made for a formidable gatekeeper.
Isiilde was lost in the chaos, detached from her body as battle raged around her. Time moved sluggishly, and she watched as a reaper crawled across the ceiling like a spider on its web.
There was no flame nearby. No knife in her belt. She was helpless. Somewhere, in a distant corner of her shocked mind, a voice urged her to scream. She obeyed.
The reaper sprang at her. Quick as a whipcord, Marsais slammed into the reaper, catching it in midair and knocking Isiilde to the ground. He drove a shoulder into the creature, ramming it against the tower wall. But his hands were useless; he couldn’t hope to defend himself.
Rivan rushed forward to help, pinning the reaper with his shield and running it through. It went still.
Oenghus roared, shaking loose dust and stone, as he sent another charge of lightning into a knot of reapers. They fell dead, piling up at the archway, but more surged to fill the gap.
Dust swirled in the air. Isiilde sneezed, sending three fiery bursts puffing from her ears.
Marsais raked his eyes over the debris. Decay in all its morbid stages surrounded them: rotting flesh and dried bone; brittle timber and climbing vines.
“Rivan,” he ordered. “Gather timber, dead vines, anything that will burn.” Marsais kicked a branch against a thigh bone that was still attached to a brittle trouser leg.
Rivan blinked in confusion. Blood and sweat streaked the young paladin’s face, but Isiilde was used to confusing orders from Marsais, so she rushed to obey without question. She picked up a rotted sack and tossed it in the pile. Rivan caught on, adding more kindling as he found it.
It felt like she was moving in a fog. Fear was distant. The sounds of battle muted. She could only hear the rush of blood in her ears.
And then Marsais was standing in front of her. “Forgive me, my dear.” He shook out a filthy cloth in front of her face.
A puff of dust tickled her nose, and she sneezed, fire bursting from her ears. The cloth ignited. He dropped the burning fragment onto the pile of debris, and it caught on fire.
Isiilde stared at the growing flames, transfixed. It filled her vision and consumed her mind. The raging fire in the dungeon seared her memories. Sweet release and power, as she had never known. It terrified her.
“More,” Marsais urged. “Reapers fear fire.”
Isiilde watched the fire grow into a bonfire, captivated by its hiss and seductive dance. It whispered to her and drew her away from the carnage to a place of tempting beauty.
An explosion of sparks made her blink. She came back to herself with a start, her toes buried in the fiery ashes of the bonfire. How long had she been standing here?
Everyone was moving, fighting, and Rivan was picking up a burning brand from the fire.
“Light it!” Acacia shouted.
Rivan rushed to the archway, touching his torch to a makeshift barrier. Acacia and Lucas held the opening until the fire caught, then backed away to pile on more wood. As the fire grew, the frenzied reapers retreated a fraction.