The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Chapter Sixteen

  The seer juggled for a night and a day. When the sun set on the second day, mist rose from the sea, spreading a chill over the deck. Marsais collapsed and curled into a long-limbed ball, trembling with exhaustion.

  Isiilde rushed to his side, took off her own cloak, and wrapped it around his shoulders. Oenghus arrived a second later. He put a supporting hand under the man’s head, and pressed a waterskin to his lips.

  Carvil shouted orders, for sails to be trimmed, and others furled. With Marsais’ weave gone, the wind lessened, but did not die altogether. Whatever hold Nereus had had on the sea, it seemed he had either lost interest, or his domain did not stretch to Fomorri.

  Isiilde watched Marsais gulp down the water like a parched man. Some Wise Ones were swept away by the powerful currents of the Gift, but Marsais had thrown himself into the river long ago. He might be in the river of power, but that didn’t mean it was always gentle. Marsais pushed himself up, and slumped forward. His gaze traveled past the rails. He was listening for something.

  The Squall drifted into a murky realm of fog. Isiilde searched the haze for a sign of land, but it was useless; the heavens were shrouded and the air was thick.

  Silence gave way to something else—a distant wailing. The nymph froze. The sound was inhuman, torn from some unholy pit. Every fiber in her body recoiled.

  Oenghus slowly rose, positioning himself in front of the two like a protective bear, his eyes fixed on a distant, unseen point.

  When Acacia strode out of the fog, Isiilde looked up at her in question. “What is making that sound?”

  “The Wailing Wall,” the Knight Captain whispered. “It is the screaming of Fomorri captives.”

  Isiilde felt sick.

  Oenghus gazed at his daughter. “It gets worse,” he said. “Much worse.”

  “I’m not leaving.” She placed a possessive hand on Marsais’ shoulder.

  Oenghus looked as though he wanted to hit her over the head and send her back in chains. With a grunt, he unslung his targe and walked towards the fore, disappearing into a swirl of grey.

  The leadsman dropped a knotted rope over the rail. The weight hit the water with a splash, it sank, and then the sailor hoisted it back up whispering out the depth. As the Squall drifted forward, he repeated the process as fast as he could read the line.

  The lead line echoed and bounced over the water with alarming sharpness. Rigging creaked, and shifted as the cutter drifted through the mist. Isiilde felt as if the ship were about to sail over the edge of the world.

  She turned to Rivan. “Can you help me get him below deck?”

  Between the two of them, and Marsais’ unwilling legs, they hoisted his arms over their shoulders and half-dragged the seer below deck. Kasja and Elam followed, eager to be away from the constant wailing.

  Together, the four managed to get Marsais into his cabin. He collapsed onto the berth, and Kasja pressed bread into his shaking hands. He met Isiilde’s eyes briefly. She wished that their bond were intact, so she might give him strength.

  “I need to rest,” he said. His voice was raw from chanting.

  The nymph ushered the others outside. Leaving her cloak on him, she pulled another blanket over his long body. She sat on the berth at his side, and reached out, but stopped. Hesitation reared its head. But only for a moment.

  She brushed the white hair from his eyes, and bent over him, touching her lips softly to his own. A part of her feared to find the fiend on his lips, but it was only Marsais; he tasted like the sea, only this time, she was the sun.

  “You’re not playing fairly. You waited until I was vulnerable,” he murmured against her lips.

  “I always cheat. Are you still angry with me?”

  “Terribly.”

  “Good.”

  He buried his fingers in her hair, and drew her near, kissing her deeply. For a moment, she was lost. But she was not the only one who cheated at King’s Folly. Isiilde pulled away. This, it seemed, would be their dance—two cheaters conning each other through life.

  “You could bring a man back from the grave.”

  “That was my hope.”

  “I’ll try my best,” he promised.

  She removed his hand and kissed his knuckles, before tucking his arm under the blanket. “You had better.” Fearing her resolve would falter, she left, closing the door softly but firmly. Isiilde slumped against the wood, closed her eyes, and exhaled. Her blood burned, hot with desire. If she rekindled their bond, would he order her back to Mearcentia? She could not risk her freedom again. She would not.

  Isiilde opened her eyes. Rivan was standing off to the side, waiting, while Kasja was pacing like an anxious dog.

  “Isiilde,” Rivan whispered, glancing at the two Lome. He stopped short of grabbing her arm. “We can’t let Kasja and Elam go to Fomorri. You must take them back to Mearcentia.”

  “Only if you come too,” she said.

  “If that is what it takes to see them safe, then so be it.”

  She regarded him for a moment. “I always know when you’re plotting during King’s Folly—you get an overly noble look about you.”

  Rivan opened his mouth to deny it, but lying was frowned upon in the Blessed Order, so he closed it.

  “Marsais needs me. I can’t leave.”

  “I feel the same about my captain and lieutenant, but...” he glanced at the two Lome. “They have no idea what is happening.”

  Isiilde frowned at the feral woman, an augur, dressed in a mangle of salvaged nets, canvas sacks, and bobbles in her hair. She was a matted mess. Elam could not be more than ten, and he worshipped Oenghus, even fancied himself a warrior.

  She eyed the knife and sling hanging from the boy’s belt. “I don’t know,” she said. “Kasja and Elam survived in Vaylin’s wilderness for years. Looks can be deceiving.”

  Rivan regarded her, and she was suddenly conscious of how close he stood. The tips of her ears barely reached his shoulders.

  A month ago, she had been helpless and utterly clueless. Now she knew too much. The fire in her whispered of the ways in which she could turn the man into a blackened crisp. That whisper no longer frightened her. It was beautiful and fearsome; light and dark, delivering both life and death. But for now, she let it sing, let it flow through her veins, waiting at the tips of her fingers. And if the man should reach for her, she’d let her fire roar.

  “I’m sure Oenghus has made plans for them,” she admitted. “And likely me. I do not plan on eating any food other than what I’ve brought.”

  “Do you think the captain would do the same to me?”

  She waited, patiently.

  Rivan sighed.

  “I’ve brought plenty of food. An entire larder worth. I’ll share.”

  “Where?”

  She tapped the pouch that hung at her side. Rivan scratched the cleft in his square chin. There was a question on the tip of his tongue, but before he could ask if Marsais had rubbed off on her mental state, she pulled a strawberry from the pouch and offered it to him.

  His eyes lit up. “Is that one of those enchanted bags that is bigger on the inside?”

  “Yes. I made a very large one.”

  “Are you sure I can have one of your berries?”

  “Of course.”

  Rivan plucked the fruit from her fingers, and hesitated. “You wouldn’t try to leave me behind, would you?”

  Isiilde did not answer.

  “I’m trusting you.”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. If you don’t come along, then I’ll be surrounded by a squad of veteran soldiers who know exactly what they are doing. You make me look better.”

  Rivan flashed his white teeth. One was chipped, marring the perfection, and she found it strangely reassuring. “I don’t mind playing the fool.” He carefully removed the stem and leaves, before popping the berry in his mouth. His expression sobered. “Strawberries always taste like home to me.” Joy and sadness mingled in his deep brown
eyes. “I don’t want to be that child cowering under a corpse again. I would never forgive myself if they left me behind.”

  “Me either.”

  Isiilde peeked in on Marsais, and when she saw that he was sleeping, she climbed the companionway stairs and emerged on deck. The ship crept through the fog, too frightened to stir the bleakness. Voices were hushed, and the leadsman continued his rhythmic work—the plunk of water, the scrape of rope, and the dark water line that could signal danger at any moment.

  Lucas Cutter stood at the rail, looking drawn. His face was turned towards the constant, skin-crawling wail. He did not stir when she approached.

  “Are we near shore?”

  “There is no such thing in Fomorri, Nymph.”

  Isiilde ignored his gruffness. For all the paladin’s hostility, they shared the same goal, and out of everyone, Lucas Cutter did not seem to care if she set foot on Fomorri soil. She searched the mist, wishing for moon and stars—some beacon in the dreariness to anchor her in place.

  Lucas spoke without prompt, which startled her. “There are cliffs, and narrow passages that cut into the land. Nothing but rock and treacherous waves to tear ships apart. The few safe harbors to be found are riddled with Fomorri war camps.”

  “How will we land, then?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at her, his dark eyes flat. “The seer,” he twisted the word as he always did, “has not told us.”

  For once she understood his frustration. Her eyes followed the constant wailing, as if it were a thing that could be seen rather than heard. A flicker of fire caught her attention. Her ears stiffened, listening, as she searched the fog. Higher and higher her gaze traveled, until the flame took shape.

  “Fire,” she blurted out.

  “Where?”

  Isiilde pointed. “Is it a lighthouse?”

  Lucas squinted at the dim, but whatever had mangled his body had left his eyes damaged too. “Are you sure there’s something there?”

  “Yes. There are two pinpricks, like glowing eyes. I’m sure of it.” She closed her eyes, and focused, reaching out with her mind. Isiilde could feel the flames: hungry, ravenous, and gleeful. It was not a friendly fire. Not the kind she would curl up to on a cold night.

  Lucas left her side, and hurried across the deck to the captain’s cabin. He poked his head inside. Acacia and Oenghus emerged a moment later, and all three joined her at the rail.

  “Where, Sprite?”

  “Can’t you see it? It’s very bright, even through the fog.” She looked at the squinting humans, and frowned.

  All three shook their heads. Captain Carvil and the willowy Windtalker added their eyes to the search.

  “I’m not making it up.” It was an old claim, one Oenghus had heard throughout her childhood. And truth be told, the nymph had spun more tales than she could remember. She had not been the easiest nymphling to manage.

  “I know you’re not,” her father said. And although he might not have believed all her numerous claims in the past—he did now.

  She reached out a hand. “I can feel the fire.”

  Oenghus pushed her arm back down. “Leave it where it is.” He turned towards the captain. “I think Isiilde is sensing one of the brazen bulls.”

  She cocked her head, waiting for an explanation. But no one offered one.

  “We can’t be that close,” Carvil said.

  “Isiilde has a connection with fire and sharp eyes that far surpasses our own,” Acacia explained. “But still, we may be closer than we like.”

  The four turned, and after Carvil issued orders, the group walked back to the captain’s cabin.

  “What is a brazen bull?” Isiilde asked Lucas.

  “Your washroom,” the paladin spat. He marched away, disappearing below deck.

  Mention of her past, the washroom and her attacker, was like a cold lump of metal in her gut. It traveled down her legs, freezing her to the deck. She swallowed, and reached for her fire. It burned away feeling, leaving a smoldering rage that warmed her from the inside out. As long as she held onto that flame, nothing could touch her.

  The fog swirled and sizzled around her, roiling back, fleeing from her flesh. She focused on the distant fire, whispered its name, and called across the sea with a thrumming song, feeding all her rage into the slow burn. The eyes of flame surged, and a distant column of fire roared into the sky. As swiftly as it exploded, it died.

  Shouts of alarm rippled from the tops. Carvil, Oenghus, and Acacia hurried back out of the cabin.

  “I saw fire, off in the distance, an explosion,” a sailor reported.

  Oenghus made for his daughter, and stopped short, three feet away. He looked at her warily. “What’d you do, Isiilde?”

  “What is a brazen bull?”

  “The source of the wailing—a torture device that slowly cooks its victims.”

  Lucas had returned to deck. He stared towards the silence, and then looked at the nymph. She met his gaze, and no longer wondered what had caused the paladin’s horrible scars.

  “I don’t think it’s still standing,” she said, without emotion.

  “Would you have had anything to do with that?” Oenghus asked. “Because as hot as you are, I’m about to douse you with a bucket.”

  She blinked, and looked down at her hand. It glowed like a coal. Isiilde whispered its name, and a flame sprang to life in her palm—a small, dancing orange flicker of light. The sight of the flameling made her smile. “I’m perfectly fine, Oen.” She closed her palm, and the flame dove back into her skin.

  He shifted. “Course you are, Sprite.” Slowly, he stepped forward, and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. He looked relieved when he discovered that her skin had cooled. “Why don’t you come into the cabin with us.”

  When the commotion died down, and no immediate threat presented itself, Isiilde squeezed into the captain’s cabin with the others. Nimlesh, the Elite Sergeant, was there too. There wasn’t much room, not with the expansive table of charts.

  Isiilde wedged herself between Acacia and Oenghus, who had to slouch under the low ceiling. Surprisingly, no one objected to her presence. She wondered if King Syre’s love of nymphs had changed the Mearcentian’s view of faerie. Had her kind been elevated from animals to something more—not quite human—but sacred?

  Isiilde studied the expansive sea charts. The details captivated her. There was hardly a blank area to be found. Lines intersected with dots, and cryptic scrawl covered the map. Interwoven into the charting were notations of reefs, pirate activities, shoals, and sea-creatures. Off to the side, keeping a corner of the map pinned, a stone floated in a bowl of water. It reminded her of the purifying ritual that Rivan had performed in Vaylin. The slender stone pointed north.

  It was said that a Mearcentian seafarer conversed with the clouds, the moon and stars, and even the sun. That the water itself spoke to the seafarers, like signs on a road, pointing the way in darkness or fog. While Isiilde didn’t doubt that claim, she also suspected that detailed maps, such as this one, had a good deal to do with their success.

  But the humans were not studying the map. Everyone was looking at a piece of parchment sitting in the middle of the table. She recognized Marsais’ scrawl instantly. It was a hasty sketch of the Fomorri coastline. Five peninsulas stretched into the sea like fingers. It was known as the Taloned Coast. One X marked a spot on the fourth peninsula, on the side that faced the fifth. Another X had been drawn farther inland, to the northeast. Marsais’ spidery handwriting named it Finnow’s Spire: the mythical resting place of the Unicorn’s Horn—a direct link to the ol’River.

  At every festival, Hawkers waved scrolls at the crowd, proclaiming that their map would point the way to the legendary artifact. For a price, of course. Isiilde had never seen one of the maps—she wasn’t that gullible—but she was sure that the fakes would be more detailed than what Marsais had produced.

  His map was not very reassuring. It lacked details of any kind, and Marsais’ sense of dir
ection was worrisome at best. On the Isle, she had watched him scratch out directions for lost Wise Ones who could not find a particular room in the Spine. Inevitably, his directions only caused more confusion.

  Oenghus glowered at the scrap of paper. Sapphire eyes flickered to her, and he grunted in agreement. It looked like a typical Marsais map, but neither one voiced their concern.

  “There are no known passages in the fifth talon,” Nimlesh noted. “Only here: the bay, and the inlet between the first and second talon.” The man jabbed a finger at the two jutting peninsulas. “Both are riddled with Fomorri encampments. Heavily guarded bridges span talons two, three, and four, so the creatures can move quickly along the coast.” He traced a dotted line that spanned the talons. “We have seen Fomorri raiders use pulleys to scale the cliffs from their boats on the outer coast along the Wailing Wall, but we have never followed any raiders to the fifth talon. As far as we know, they do not sail between the fourth and fifth.”

  “Maybe there’s something there that they fear,” Oenghus said.

  The elite sergeant laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fomorri fear nothing.”

  “Only the dead have no fear,” Oenghus returned.

  Acacia frowned, absently tracing a scar on her arm. “Fomorri fear the Blight. It destroys their grafts.”

  “Some welcome it,” Sergeant Nimlesh countered.

  “Could it be Forsaken?” inquired Carvil.

  Isiilde shivered at the name. Her skin crawled at the thought of the drifting spirits. Neither living nor dead, their spirits were eternally cut off from the ol’River. Never to be reborn; never to find rest. She still felt the knife that N’Jalss had held to her throat in the Spine—a blade that separated spirit from flesh.

  “I don’t know, but if there is something there that the Fomorri fear, then we do not want to tread there,” Nimlesh stated. “We’d have better luck capturing one of their raiding ships and using the pulley to climb the cliff.”

  “Why not sail to Kiln?” the Windtalker asked. “You could enter Fomorri from the north.” Understandably, the chieftess did not want to risk her ship based on a madman’s scrawled X.