The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Marsais wiggled out of the hammock. A wave hit him again, and the rope slipped through his fingers. He clawed and floundered in the swirling cold until a steel-like grip latched around his wrist, holding him fast.

  “Get on your feet, you drunk bastard!” Oenghus bellowed. The water ebbed. Marsais spluttered and coughed, slipping on deck before Oenghus yanked him towards the poop deck.

  Captain Carvil stood at the helm, wrestling with the wheel. A knot of Windtalkers stood close by. The sea-shamans had abandoned their drums, and their voices rose in a beseeching chant as they tried to calm the sea god. But Nereus would not be soothed.

  “Did you order your men to throw him overboard?” Oenghus yelled at the captain.

  Marsais tried to shake off the berserker’s grip, but it was firm.

  “Look!” Captain Carvil thrust his chin forward.

  Marsais blinked past the sleet. The sea was black, slashed with towering white crests, and the seafarers, to a man, had the look of men marching proudly to their deaths.

  A wave roiled, the ship tilted, and the fore of the ship disappeared beneath the sea before bursting through. Marsais would have been washed off his feet if not for the unrelenting hand on his arm.

  Beyond the waves, beyond the black sky, there was a horizon. A clear, starlit night with a silver moon. As fast as he glimpsed it, the calm was washed out by another wave.

  This storm was not natural. Marsais took advantage of Oenghus’ distraction. He shook off the giant’s grip and slipped towards the bulwark, catching the rail to look overboard. He saw a fitful sea of whirlpools.

  A hand gripped his waistband, and Oenghus bellowed about Marsais’ mental state. He ignored the man. His fingers flashed, layering one rune over another, drawing the moon’s silver light to his fingertips. He chanted the Lore for control—for emphasis. With a final sweep of his hand, he Bound a message to the water, and hurled it down like a spear. The weave of runes collided with the sea and rippled outward with a boom.

  A slice of lightning touched the foremast. Timber cracked, and rigging snapped, flapping in the storm. And then the sea went still. Storm clouds fled, and moon and stars appeared, reflecting in the water’s surface.

  The clipper bobbed like a cork, until finally, it settled.

  The silence was deafening. Slowly, the crew began to move; a tentative touch over a heart; a hand pushing back wet hair; or a tap of a foot to check if the deck was still there.

  It might have been a dream save for the splintered masts and dripping sails.

  “What did you do?” Captain Carvil’s voice bounced off the water.

  Marsais turned to face his wary shipmates. “I sent a message.”

  “What kind of message?” Acacia asked, climbing the companionway stairs.

  “The reasonable kind.” Marsais waved a distracted hand. His coins chimed, his features sagged, and he threw himself forward. But rum was running through his veins, and it slowed his reaction. A tentacle whipped over the rail, wrapped around his neck, and yanked him backwards.

  The seer disappeared overboard.

  Chapter Two

  “Void,” Oenghus cursed. He unhooked his warhammer, let it fall to the deck, drew his knife, and dove over the rail. He plunged into the sea, into a writhing mass of luminescent tentacles. It was like diving into a briar bush. Small barbs caught and tore at his flesh, and a coil of muscle wrapped around his body.

  The creature dragged him down into the deep.

  Water rushed past his face, and clacking echoed in his ears. In the mass of appendages, he glimpsed a razor-sharp beak. It grew closer.

  He plunged the tip of his dagger into a tentacle. Flesh parted, the muscle separated beneath his blade, and the tentacle released its hold.

  Light pulsed in the inky water. A zap of energy shook Oenghus’ bones, and the creature jerked with a gelatinous ripple. For a moment it froze. And so did he. With a shake of his head, Oenghus untangled himself, kicking hard, slipping through the thick trunks towards a bulbous head. He stabbed at a massive eye, his blade sinking into soft flesh.

  The creature thrashed, and quick as a retreating spider, the tentacles spread, propelling it into safer depths.

  Lungs burning, Oenghus swam upwards, catching up to another swimmer. Both men broke the surface with a gulp of air. Marsais choked and went back under, but Oenghus wrenched the man back to the surface. Small red circles ringed the seer’s swollen neck.

  “That was a rather rude response,” Marsais coughed.

  “Your reasonableness always defies reason.”

  “We’re not dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  The clipper had drifted away. As he treaded water, Oenghus’ skin crawled with threat. They were utterly exposed to an attack from below. With knife in hand, he dipped underwater, searching the dark depths. When he poked his head back up, he noticed a smaller blot in the moonlight. A rowboat.

  Oenghus pushed at the seer to start swimming towards the dinghy, and he followed, kicking at the water like an enemy. As Oenghus swam, he braced himself for an attack: a fin piercing the surface, the scrape of teeth, or a grip of tentacles. But none of it came. Nereus, the God of the Seas, had sent a message. That was all.

  As the boat drew near, Oenghus saw that Rivan manned the oars alone. When the young man pulled alongside the swimmers, he set his oars in the locks, and reached for Marsais, helping to pull him into the boat. Oenghus climbed in after, and the boat tipped dangerously. Both passengers threw themselves to the opposite side.

  Oenghus sat down in the middle with a thud. He peeled off a section of tentacle from his leg, glared at it, and chucked it into the water. “I hate the ocean.”

  “Is it true what the sailors say?” Rivan looked at Marsais with wonder in his eyes. “Are you the Trickster of legend?”

  Marsais sighed. With slow purpose, he lay back, letting his head fall against the hull with a dull thunk.

  The crew stared at the giant as he climbed aboard. He planted his feet, looked at the sailors and soldiers, and cracked his knuckles. The round welts covering his flesh gave testament to his battle with the sea creature.

  Sergeant Nimlesh of the Elite gave a nod of respect, and the sailors appeared heartened until Marsais climbed over the rail. No one wanted to go near a man who had roused the sea god’s ire.

  Soaked and shivering, Marsais walked towards the poop deck and climbed the stairs two at a time. He charged the aft rail, stopped, and spread his arms wide. “Are you through with me, Nereus?” Marsais demanded. “Because I am the least of your worries.” His voice boomed like a thunderclap, echoing over the water. “Your realm will burn with this one!”

  Arms spread in surrender, Marsais slowly turned, making a single revolution. A streak of red flew at him, squawking. It was a parrot. The bird soared past, landing on the rail.

  Marsais tilted his head. “Blood and ashes,” he whispered. Quick as a viper, he lunged at the parrot. It surged with a cloud of feathers, soaring towards the mainmast. “Blast it! The Void sodding...” Rage overwhelmed him, and he turned back to the sea. “On second thought, Nereus—go plow yourself!”

  If the crew had been quiet before, now they were frozen.

  Ship Captain Carvil stepped forward. “How dare you!”

  “How dare I?” Marsais snapped. “I am tired. I am tired of playing nursemaid to this realm—tired of petty gods and their childish grudges.” He turned back to the sea. “Go ahead, Nereus, kill me and stop Karbonek yourself!” he howled into the night. And then he thrust a long finger at the moon. “And that goes for you too.”

  Marsais turned on Oenghus. “What is her plan? Does she wish to torment me for her own amusement?” he demanded, eyes silver and glowing in the dark.

  Oenghus cleared his throat. “Scarecrow,” he spread his hands in surrender, “you’re soused to the bone. Now’s not the time for this conversation.”

  “Not the time?” Marsais asked, voice cold as steel. The man took a step forward. “The time would
have been from the very beginning. She should have consulted with me. Tell me what her scheme is, Oenghus!” The last was said with a crack, an explosion of command that made the water surge, tossing the clipper down a swell. Everyone lurched forward with surprise. But Marsais remained planted to the deck, defying the sudden movement, eyes intent, focused on the berserker. “Tell me.” The seer’s fingers twitched.

  Oenghus frowned. He felt as if two pinpricks were boring into his skull, and for all he knew, Marsais might be trying to get into his head. It was a good thing his skull was thick. “When you’re sober,” he grunted.

  “The parrot has ruined everything,” Marsais hissed.

  “The parrot?”

  “The parrot,” the seer repeated. “Tell me.”

  “I swore an oath.”

  “Curse you!” Marsais barked with a flash of fingers. Before he could unleash a weave, Oenghus swung at him, but with a chime of coins, Marsais ducked under the blow. A weave churned in the air, but it never hit the berserker. Acacia stepped forward and cracked a belay pin over Marsais’ skull. The seer crumpled to the ground.

  “He’s utterly mad,” Acacia said, crouching to check his pulse.

  Oenghus blew out a breath. “No more than usual—drunk more like.” With those words, he bent and hoisted Marsais over his shoulder. Straightening, he slowly looked around the boat, putting all his threat into the task. “If anyone tries to toss my friend overboard again, they will answer to her.” He pointed at Acacia and her lip twitched in response.

  Satisfied, Oenghus stomped towards the companionway, carrying Marsais below deck. When the two had disappeared, the entire crew remembered to breathe.

  Chapter Three

  Oenghus Saevaldr glared at the Windtalkers. Men and women alike were bare-chested, beating sticks against drums like footsteps striding across the sea. Only the ship wasn’t moving. There was no wind. The shamans’ efforts to summon even a breeze had failed. The white sails hung limp.

  He wanted to bellow at the sailors, snatch a stick of his own and beat the drum senseless. The Isle, however, would be no closer.

  Oenghus tore his glare from the men, and looked to the pipe nestled in his large hand. Protected in the cradle of his fingers, the embers still glowed. He wished he could shelter those he loved in the same way.

  With a sigh, he cast his gaze to the northwest, looking to the horizon, as if he could see over the wild Bastardlands, the Gates of Iilenshar, pass over Whitemount and its cursed Emperor, and travel all the way across the treacherous channel to that little speck in the vast ocean: the Isle of Wise Ones. But no matter how his heart ached with worry, he could not fly there.

  “The waiting is always the worst,” a voice said at his side. It was firm enough to pierce his thick skull and he started in surprise. He had not heard her approach. Oenghus glanced at the woman. Knight Captain Acacia Mael regarded him with a calmness that currently mirrored the sea.

  “Never been at my best during it,” he admitted. “I usually find a well-stocked tavern and a few frisky women. You?”

  “Meditation and prayer.”

  Oenghus snorted. “Sounds like an orgy of excitement.”

  “It passes the time. How is Marsais?”

  He shrugged. “The Scarecrow is having a bit of a rough time, is all.” That was an understatement, and they both knew it. Marsais had not been sober since Mearcentia.

  “Would it help if I spoke with him?” Acacia asked. There was surprising compassion in her voice.

  Oenghus shook his head, carefully. “I’d keep clear. His fuse is long, but it’s powerful, and right now he’s at the end of it.”

  “If Marsais is unstable...” she let the thought flutter in the air. “It’s not too late to turn west and sail for the Spotted Coast.”

  “He’ll come through,” Oenghus said.

  The captain leveled a pale gaze on him. “Are you sure?”

  His heart twisted. He did not answer her question directly. “Right now, I’m not even sure if we have the option of sailing west.” He thrust his chin towards the still sea.

  “Telling Nereus,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “to go plow himself likely didn’t help our mission.”

  Oenghus grunted.

  “When we first boarded, and that old sailor accused him of being the Trickster, I didn’t think much of it. It’s true, then? He’s the infamous Trickster of Mearcentian legend?”

  Oenghus thrust his pipe between his lips. “What do you think?”

  Acacia blew out a breath. “Well, that complicates matters.”

  “At the moment, he looks and smells more like a drunken beggar.” He sighed, and leaned on the rail, puffing furiously on his pipe. A ribbon of smoke marred the brilliant azure. It wasn’t yet midday, and he was already sweating under the heat.

  “I’ll put Rivan and Lucas on guard duty. Between the pair of them, they can keep him away from the rum.”

  He looked at her as if she were mad. “They’re your men, but knowing the ol’bastard, you’ll end up with two rats. Like I said, his fuse is powerful.”

  “If he transforms my men again, I’ll personally toss him overboard.”

  “I’m sure Nereus would be happy,” he grunted. “That would likely take care of our wind problem. Then we could sail west.” The idea was not without its appeal. Oenghus had certainly threatened to leave the seer more than once, in just about every corner of the realm. “But you couldn’t do it.”

  Acacia sighed. “No, I am far too...” she searched for a word.

  “Caring?” he offered.

  “I was going to say foolish.”

  He chuckled. “I’m right there with you, then.”

  “I certainly feel the fool,” she said, tightly. “I’m following a madman into Fomorri. He’s given us no plan, and no information other than we’re to find a mythical ruin in the middle of an endless desert. Some explanation would be appreciated. Has he told you nothing more of Finnow’s Spire? Or even how the Isle of Wise Ones is faring?”

  Oenghus felt as if she had punched his gut. “You know all I do.” His voice came rough, and he turned towards the horizon, that perfect line that separated the sky from the sea. He blew out a breath, rousing the embers in his pipe, and sucked in a long draught of the calming weed. It didn’t help. He itched to take a long swig of his Brimgrog and let the sacred brew burn away his worry. “Even if the Scarecrow told us that the Isle was going to sink into the ocean, there’s nothing in the Nine Halls that I can bloody do from here!”

  Helplessness was an enemy, and he hated it with a passion.

  Most men flinched when he growled, but Acacia only smiled, sadly. “Doesn’t stop us from worrying, does it?”

  That smile deflated him. Oenghus wasn’t the only one frustrated. “Do you have friends on the Isle—besides those under your command? A lover maybe?” This was asked with a glint in his eye.

  “A harem full,” Acacia answered.

  Oenghus puffed a cloud and plucked out his pipe. After the smoke cleared, a chuckle rumbled from his belly. The edge of Acacia’s lip raised, but the moment of whimsy was fleeting. She leaned on the rail and stared into the sea.

  “I loved my Oathbound, Oen. I still do.” Her voice was soft, and full of ache. He had to lean close to catch the words. “When I heard of his death, saw his body—it was emptiness. Duty keeps my heart beating, but it’s those we love that we ache for. If I could spend one more day with him...” She ran her fingers through her short hair.

  “Aye,” he said. There was grief in her eyes, and he knew that ache well. Those words spoke of many things unsaid between the two.

  Acacia cleared grief from her throat. “What of you?” she asked. “Do you have children on the Isle?”

  He looked into the smoldering bowl of his pipe. “No children there, but the mother of a good number.” In the silence and stillness, the lull between battles, his worry had grown. And now it bubbled over, filling his heart with dread. “Morigan and me have taken Oaths her
e and there through our lifetime. If it weren’t for me, she’d have gone home to Nuthaan long ago.”

  Acacia’s brows rose sharply. “Morigan Freyr was your Oathbound? I questioned her during my investigation. You said your daughter is Clans Head of Nuthaan. Does that mean—”

  “Aye, Morigan is her mother, and the matriarch of the ruling clan.”

  Acacia was quiet for a time. The two watched the sea bump lazily around the hull, both lost in their own worries. Eventually, she broke the amiable silence. “My Oathbound, Henri, always worried about me. When I was presumed dead in the Fell Wastes, it broke him. There’s nothing worse than losing hope, Oen.”

  “That’s the kick right to the bollocks,” he grunted. “When you lose something, it’s never by choice.”

  “Never,” she agreed, faintly.

  Oenghus cleared his throat and pushed off the rail, thumping it with a hand. “I’m sure Mori is tossing those bastards to the Nine Halls.”

  “Is she a warrior too?”

  He bared his teeth. “A healer.”

  Acacia smirked. “If she’s anything like you, I’ll wager on her in a fight.”

  Oenghus feigned shock. “I’m corrupting you.”

  “Terribly.”

  He offered her his pipe.

  Acacia held up a hand. “I prefer the sea air, but thank you.”

  Oenghus mulled over her words. “Mori is tougher than I’ll ever be.”

  “Is that because she’s had to put up with your ‘hairy hide’ during your Oaths?”

  “There is that,” he admitted. “But no... she’s a mother.” With that statement, some of the dread left his heart. He blew out a slow breath that deflated his chest, and took in a calmer one that was full of certainty. “The Sylph will keep an eye on her.”

  Acacia narrowed her eyes. “I thought Nuthaanians didn’t worship gods?”