The Shattering of the Spirit-Sword Brackish: Part I by Sam Farren

Author:Sam Farren [Farren, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B07Z2RNB9G
Published: 2019-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

The bear trap creaked, jaws spreading open. The trigger rose, hidden in the long grass, and the trap was never sprung. Metal never met flesh, never scraped across bone. Castelle spent those missing months in the hills, back and forth, back and forth, making up for the stillness of temple life.

There were no fractures in her bones. Blue light coursed through her, filling the faults, smoothing over like clear ice covering a murky lake. Her legs were strong, and her lungs drew down deep breaths as her feet pounded the uneven ground, rock solidified in ripples and waves.

Fél was the smallest of the inhabited islands. There was the port town, the caves and the statue, and a few settlements that thrived on fishing and tourist trade, barely worth calling villages in their own right. There was nowhere for her to go, for her to hide, no forests to lose the crowd that’d gathered for piety and set themselves to a different purpose altogether.

Her heart pounded. Her mouth split into a grin. Castelle gripped Brackish to her chest, sword warm through the cloth and twine, blue light trailing behind her like smoke caught in the wind.

Half the crowd had fallen behind, frustrated they couldn’t keep up with her, not knowing what they’d do with the spirit.

Just a little further. That’s all it’d take. Away from the main town, across the unforgiving basalt, towards the coast. The people would lose interest after another mile. They’d convince themselves they’d been outpaced by everything but courage and head back to the town to keep watch. They’d ensure their families were safe, ensure the spirit’s blue lights didn’t blaze through the night.

Castelle caught her foot on a rock, tripped, but didn’t fall. She stumbled without losing her gait, charged down the hillside along the coast, cliffs falling away sharply, ancient trails of lava spilling towards the ocean, finally stopped.

Spirits rose from the rocks, blue light reflecting against the sea.

Birds squawked, circling her. Brackish thrummed. A little further and they’d both be safe, they’d both be free of the pilgrims and their sharp eyes, fixating on a spirit; not the life that had unfolded before one last betrayal, seeing a woman with long red hair and a Yrician that spoke for her. They’d put the pieces together, cobbling rumours into action. The Princess of Fenroe, the survivor of her own assassination, sprinting with a spirit in her arms.

The archipelago would come alive with it, islands drifting closer together, spreading their word along the empty miles. It was a prophecy none had dared to utter, fulfilled after a decade and a half of silence.

Sharp rocks rose along the stone beach, spreading out into the sea, cutting off most of the land, by boat. The spirits gathered, but what did she have to fear? Castelle had Brackish in her arms. Those ahead couldn’t do a thing to her. She flew forward, beach betraying her. The rocks caught her arms, her knees, but it was as nothing. They were just bruises, bruises and scrapes, and she could outpace any who followed.

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