The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “It’s none of your concern.” Marsais swung his feet off the berth and sat up straight.

  The room seemed suddenly smaller, and Rivan wanted to melt into the wood, but he wouldn’t let anyone hurt his parrot. Steeling himself, he looked Marsais in the eye. “I beg your pardon, but it is my concern. I’ve been looking after the bird—during the storm and such.”

  Marsais quirked his lips. “Does this ‘pet’ of yours have any trinkets on a cord around its neck or leg? Something like these?” He tapped a coin that was woven into his goatee. It chimed like a soft bell.

  Rivan shook his head.

  “When did you find the bird?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It matters,” Marsais snapped, leaning forward.

  Rivan leaned back. “Not far from port, it landed on the mainmast yard, and never left.”

  Marsais pushed himself up and swayed on his feet. Rivan jumped to his own, raising his hands. “Captain Mael wants you to remain in your cabin.”

  The ancient glared, but the threat vanished when his features crinkled with pain. He quickly sat back down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s why I want you to bring the bird here.”

  “Captain Mael gave me an order. I’m not to leave your side.”

  Marsais cast around the cabin. He stretched towards a piece of leather that had fallen on the floor, then swept back his hair, cinching it with the cord. His ears had a sharper point than Captain Mael’s, or any other Kamberian that Rivan had ever met.

  “Rivan.” Marsais smiled like a shark. “Fetch me the parrot, or I will turn you into a rat.”

  Rivan paled. “I have my orders.”

  The seer frowned.

  “And truth be told, I’m more afraid of my captain than you.” And Rivan liked rats.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Marsais cocked his head, chuckled once, and then lay back on the berth. “I have asked you not to call me sir. If I was due such respect, you’d do as I ordered,” he said to the overhead.

  “I don’t want to sound disrespectful.”

  “How is using my name disrespectful? Calling me sir makes me feel old.”

  “You are.”

  Marsais barked a laugh, and quickly groaned. Rivan sat back down, watching him as he settled on his berth. After a minute, Marsais’ voice rose casually in the cabin. “It will be on your head when she dies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her blood will be on your hands.”

  “Who?”

  Marsais told him, and Rivan shot out of the cabin, abandoning his post.

  The sea was eerily quiet. As if Nereus had spent all his fury and then collapsed. It was hot, too, even for Rivan, a native Mearcentian. The flags hung limp and the swells rippled lazily. Sweat glistened on the backs of sailors as they made repairs, and although the Windtalkers drummed a steady beat, the wind was still.

  The Squall was dead in the water.

  Rivan shielded his eyes, scanning the masts. A slash of crimson on the topmast caught his eye. He backed up and craned his neck. The parrot basked under the sun. He put his fingers between his lips, pushed back his tongue, and blew. A shrill whistle rose in the air. Every eye turned to the paladin on deck, but he didn’t care. The whistle had caught the bird’s attention; unfortunately, the sun was more alluring than a man with a hard biscuit. He tried again, and then moved to the ratlines, preparing to climb to the tops.

  “Rivan.” The sound of Captain Mael’s voice brought him up short.

  “I have to get the parrot.”

  “I gave you an order.”

  “It’s import—” he never had the chance to finish. A commotion exploded from the depths of the hold. A feral hiss mingled with shouting men and rough voices. As one, he and his captain raced to the hold hatch, shouldering past the gathering Elite to look down into the cargo hold.

  A scuffle of shadows lurched far below. One of the combatants moved with hissing, claw-like swipes. Reapers, his mind screamed. Rivan reached for his sword, but a child’s voice yelled from the shadows. “Kiss my arse!”

  “Elam,” Rivan realized.

  “Let them go!” Captain Mael shouted into the hold. Kasja and Elam, the Lome natives, thrashed like wild animals in the soldiers’ hands. The men looked upwards, at their own captain, who had come to investigate the commotion.

  “Stowaways, Captain,” a sailor called from the depths.

  “The boy and his sister are our companions,” Acacia said to Carvil.

  “They are still stowaways,” Carvil replied, and then ordered the two brought on deck.

  Rivan’s heart sped. He knew the fate of stowaways on a Mearcentian ship. “Please, Captain Carvil. They are foreigners—savages. They do not know our ways.”

  The captain regarded him with the impassiveness of a cliff. “The Trickster has already put the Squall at risk. I will not risk further insult to Nereus.”

  Rivan looked to his own captain, who was tight-lipped and thoughtful. “Go get Oenghus,” she whispered urgently.

  Rivan hurried down the companionway ladder, bumping past the crew. He was not wearing armor, not like his captain, but he wished that he were now.

  The sailors had taken control of Kasja and Elam. The Lome woman had returned to her feral glory, scavenging a costume that blended with her hiding place in the hold: netting, driftwood, bits of sail and canvas. She looked like something from a shipwreck that had washed up on shore. When Elam caught sight of Rivan, he yelled one of the few common phrases he knew. “Kiss my arse!”

  “I’m getting Oenghus,” Rivan assured.

  The boy bared his teeth in a fair imitation of his hero. “Bastard.” His tone was triumphant.

  A narrow door opened, and Marsais emerged from his cabin. He looked lost, scratching at the terrible scar that slashed across his bare chest. Rivan did not like to look at it. Whatever had cut the ancient open, had nearly cut him in half. The seer shuffled away, muttering under his breath, oblivious to the world. Rivan didn’t have the time to steer him back to the cabin, or rather the stowaways didn’t.

  Mearcentians worshipped the sea. Sailing was a spiritual awakening, akin to prayer. Stowing away on a Mearcentian ship was comparative to breaking into a temple and stealing its most holy symbol. While the crime warranted a death sentence in the Blessed Order, here, thieves were flogged, without a care if they survived.

  Why Marsais had not been placed in a dinghy and sent adrift, he did not know. But he suspected that no one wanted to get between a mythic legend and a god.

  Rivan flung the door open to Oenghus’ cabin. He froze, and stared. Heat spread down his body.

  Armor and clothing littered the floor. Oenghus was not alone. A half-naked woman urged the berserker on with vulgar words. Her arms were around his neck, and her legs around his waist as he drove her against the bulkhead. Glazed eyes flickered over to the shocked paladin, and she gave a breathless laugh. Then all at once the woman stiffened and cried out.

  Rivan hastily stepped back, closing the door to a rumbling groan. He blinked, hesitating between knocking on the door, yelling his captain’s request, or fleeing. Indecision decided his course. A minute later, Oenghus emerged, lacing up his trousers. “I’ll toss you in the Pits o’Mourn,” the giant growled.

  “Kasja and Elam are on board. They’re going to be flogged,” Rivan blurted out before the man could wrap a hand around his neck.

  Oenghus cocked his head, a light entered his blue eyes. “They snuck on board?”

  “Yes, stowaways.”

  “Daft, crazed, fools,” Oenghus bit out each word, then opened the door. “Trouble up top,” he explained. The woman started grabbing her own things. Rivan recognized her as Cas, one of the Elite soldiers. As Oenghus strapped on his belt, he paused to give her a kiss, and in return, she bit his lip. He growled low in his throat, looking as if he’d take her right there and then, all over again.

  “Kasja and Elam,” Riv
an reminded.

  Oenghus grunted, slung his targe on his back and snatched up his warhammer, making for the companionway stairs.

  Cas followed, and Rivan found himself running to keep up, trailing behind a woman who was still buckling on her armor.

  “Surely you could allow someone to stand in their place, Captain Carvil?” Acacia asked.

  The Knight Captain was calm and collected, but whereas most believed her to be in an amicable mood, Rivan knew better. His captain was prepared for a fight. And he’d stand with her. A flogging could kill the boy, and Rivan would never allow such a thing. Even if he did think the Lome were insane. Why would anyone sneak onto a ship bound for Fomorri? But then, he now knew that the two weren’t the only stowaways on board.

  “So you’re planning on flogging a girl and a boy for sneaking aboard, eh?” Oenghus crossed his arms and planted his feet. “I let those two on board. How else did they sneak past your sailors?” Everyone looked to the hulking Nuthaanian who glowered back with an unnerving glint in his eye.

  The other Mearcentians took a step away from the berserker, but Captain Carvil straightened his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why the deception? Everyone who travels over the waters must ask the gods’ permission.”

  Oenghus tugged on his beard, and Rivan held his breath, hoping the berserker’s brain would discover cleverness over brute force.

  Oenghus thrust his finger at Acacia. “She is jealous of the woman there—Kasja.”

  Acacia’s eyes flickered to the heavens. If Rivan had come up with that explanation, she’d slap the back of his head for his stupidity. The look, however, was lost on Oenghus—he looked pleased by his quick thinking.

  Acacia cleared her throat. “Terribly jealous,” she said dryly.

  Captain Carvil glanced at the feral woman dressed in netting and canvas. Kasja spit and hissed back at him.

  “She’s, erm...” Oenghus trailed off, scratching his head.

  Rivan stepped forward and raised his voice. “These two owe him a Blood Debt. Oenghus has accepted it, and he holds their life in his hands. He is responsible for their actions.”

  All eyes settled on the young paladin. Rivan was a student of the Law, of all cultures, especially his own. Acacia had always valued his bookish ways. And now, she gave him a slight nod of approval.

  “Aye, that’s right.” Oenghus gestured at the paladin. “What he said.”

  “Do you accept responsibility?”

  “I told them to come on board.”

  “Both of their punishments?”

  Oenghus grunted.

  “Eighty lashes,” Captain Carvil announced. “All hands to deck!” With a gesture, the crew gathered around, but Sergeant Nimlesh and his Elite stood off to the side. The warriors had no say in matters at sea.

  Oenghus handed Acacia his warhammer, let his belt and cuirass drop, and stripped down to his waist. He lifted both eyebrows, and flexed his muscles for her benefit.

  Acacia appeared unmoved. “Only you would attempt to flirt before a flogging.”

  “I’m looking forward to your hands on me again.”

  “I don’t think eighty lashes is worth that.”

  “It is,” he purred.

  “She looks far more appreciative than me.” Acacia nodded towards the dark-haired warrior whose gaze lingered on his physique, the same woman who’d had her legs wrapped around the berserker only minutes before.

  “She’s already appreciated it.” Oenghus flashed a grin at both women, and turned away. The master-at-arms was waiting with a length of rope. Oenghus ruffled Elam’s hair before submitting to the binds, allowing the man to tie his wrists. His arms were hoisted upwards and secured to the shrouds.

  Rivan shifted on his feet. He hated whippings. They were so barbaric, and hardly worthy of his people. When he looked towards the hatch, a white-haired man emerged on deck. A man who knew the touch of a whip well. Marsais still appeared lost. He cast about, searching for the gods knew what. Grey eyes focused on the giant, and he stopped, and frowned, then took two long strides to Oenghus’ shoulder. “Are you about to be flogged?”

  Oenghus smirked. “Aye.”

  Marsais arched a brow at Captain Carvil. “You’re going to flog a berserker on a floating island?”

  “I will not risk further offense to the sacred sea.” Carvil leveled a disapproving glare on the larger offense—the seer.

  “Ah,” Marsais said, very slowly. “Well, by all means, carry on. I’m sure Nereus will be pleased.” Rivan caught a quick flash of fingers before the seer patted his friend on the back for good luck. “Try not to slaughter everyone, Oen.”

  Marsais wandered off, looking under sails, inside barrels, and scanning the rigging before his gaze found Kasja. His eyes widened, and a series of emotions fluttered over his features: recognition, sadness, and finally relief. He hurried over, and bent close to the wild woman, whispering in her strange, lilting tongue.

  “Captain,” Acacia whispered. “The seer is right. A berserker feeds off pain. A flogging could very well send him into a frenzy.”

  Carvil nodded, grimly. “I do not wish to flog a crazed woman and child any more than you, but I cannot break tradition—not in front of my men. This man will have to do.”

  Elam’s smile faltered when he saw the master-at-arms uncoil the whip. Realization dawned. The boy threw himself at the whip-wielding man, but Acacia caught Elam’s arm, and pulled him back. His sister was oblivious to the commotion. She held a red feather, mesmerized by its facets, unperturbed by her little brother’s screaming.

  “Calm down, boy. It’s only eighty lashes.” At Oenghus’ reassuring growl, Elam stopped struggling, but kept glaring at the man with the whip.

  A Windtalker stepped forward. The trinkets in her hair chimed, and in the flowing tongue of the seafarers, she began to speak. Rivan translated for the benefit of the others. “We humbly beg forgiveness of the Sea. Grant these two souls passage over your waters. We ask with blood and sweat and pain for the privilege of touching the wind.” As the Windtalker spoke, she splashed saltwater on Elam and Kasja, just as she had done when the rest of the group had boarded the ship. Kasja did not notice. The wild woman seemed to be in a trance.

  When the ceremony was complete, the Windtalker nodded, and a single note on a drum propelled the master-at-arms’ whip. Leather struck skin. Rivan flinched. And Oenghus snorted. “What was that—a tickle?”

  Battle scars marred his back and shoulders, but the only recent mark was a series of fingernail scratches trailing over muscle. The master-at-arms frowned, brought back his whip, and struck again. Nothing. Oenghus laughed. And the whipping continued.

  When the master-at-arms grew fatigued, he surrendered his whip to a fresh arm who took up the count. The larger man threw his entire body into the strike. A slight, red weal appeared, more like a slap than a whip slash.

  Rivan gawked. Then reason returned. The slap. Marsais had patted his friend on the back. The Wise One’s stoneskin weave was powerful. It had saved Rivan’s life more than once in the past month. But if no blood were drawn by the end of the flogging—the ship would be cursed.

  Pushing his way through the grim crew, Rivan searched for Marsais on deck. All the while the berserker’s laughter rumbled over the ship. There was nothing humorous in the situation, not to the Mearcentians at any rate—no more than if the ancients had pissed on Zahra’s Sacred Sun. The devout paladin pushed that thought out of his head. From what he had observed of Marsais and Oenghus, chances were they had already desecrated every holy symbol in the realm.

  He found Marsais and Kasja midship. The seer had his head under a tarp, rummaging through a longboat.

  “Marsais,” Rivan whispered frantically. “Blood must be drawn or the ship will be cursed. You have to remove the armor weave.”

  “I am familiar with Mearcentian customs,” Marsais’ voice drifted from the depths of the boat. “Aha!” The seer tried to straighten, hit the tarp, and wrestled with it until he extrac
ted himself. He held up his prize. A small leather pouch dangled on a leather thong. The ancient beamed at Kasja. It was the first hint of joy that had entered his eyes since the Ardmoor attacked the Lome city.

  Marsais reached for the shrouds, swung easily onto the rail and around, and began to climb the ratlines as swift and sure as any seafarer. As Marsais climbed towards the tops, Rivan hurried back to his captain’s side. There was nothing to do but pray that the leather cut the berserker’s flesh.

  “Seventy-eight!” The whip cracked. “Seventy-nine!” Oenghus’ back was a maze of fine red welts, but none of them bled. He flexed his arms, leaning his weight against the shrouds as if he planned to tear the rigging from the pins out of sheer boredom. “Eighty!” The whip tore flesh.

  “Finally,” Oenghus grunted. “You nipped me.” He flexed, breaking the rope binds around his wrists.

  Rivan blinked. The seer had either timed his armor weave to perfection, or luck had had a heavy hand.

  Chapter Eight

  The parrot perched on the topsail yardarm. Her beak was turned towards the sun, feathers smooth as she basked in the heat. Marsais climbed out and swung himself onto the maintop. He whistled at the bird—a soft, friendly trill. The bird cocked her head, but did not look. He tried again, a more complex call. This time, his efforts were rewarded: the parrot pinned him with an emerald eye.

  Five days without her token. Would there be anything left of her?

  Marsais shoved the thought aside. A life as a parrot would be far preferable to the fate that he had worked and maneuvered so delicately to avoid. Despite his every effort—his sacrifices—here she was. His schemes had failed.

  Marsais held out the leather pouch he had found, letting it sway like a pendulum. The parrot tensed.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “You recognize this, don’t you?”

  As if his words were carried by a weave, the bird sidestepped her way along the yard. A shout bellowed from deck, sending the bird flapping with irritation and sauntering back to the yardarm.

  Marsais started to search his pockets, but his hand stopped on his chest. It was bare. He looked down, cringing at what he feared he wouldn’t find, but he had remembered to dress. Partially, at any rate. A pair of linen breeches sagged on his bony hips. Relief washed over him. Unfortunately, there were still no pockets.