The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “I’m a stubborn bastard.” He did not tell her the truth—that he wished he had died in that pit.

  His daughter stilled and grew quiet. The flame flickered and disappeared. It was always a sure sign that she was thinking hard. And that always worried him greatly. There was no telling what that mind of hers would come up with next.

  A Wisp buzzed around his ear, and he carefully waved the fluttering faerie away. It zipped over to Isiilde and started playing in her hair. The nymph didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you remember much of your other lives?” she asked.

  “What has that ol’bastard been filling your head with?”

  “Pyrderi said your name,” she reminded. She loosened the strings of her enchanted pouch and reached in for a strawberry.

  “My name is Oenghus.” He sucked on his pipe, and blew out a long line of smoke. “There’s a saying in Nuthaan: leave the past where it belongs. It’s best not to speak of such things.”

  “Ignoring something won’t make it go away,” she pointed out. “It’s like a cobweb in a corner; it only gets larger.”

  Oenghus grumbled.

  “Did Ulfhidhin really abduct the Sylph?”

  He shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “He hit her over the head and carried her off for her own good.”

  Isiilde blinked at him. “That was very... forward of you.”

  “I’m a forward man.”

  Isiilde chewed thoughtfully on her strawberry, and then reached for another. She offered him one. Oenghus took it, remembering he had his pipe in his mouth. With a curse, he plucked the pipe out and stuffed the berry in one-handed. It worked. Progress, he thought, trying not to think of all that Morigan had helped him with that morning. She had wrapped his kilt and tied his boots, all without him asking. But then that’s what healers did for cripples.

  “Was my mother a nymph?”

  “What the Void did Marsais tell you?”

  “Nothing. I do have a mind, Oen. And the ol’bastard, as you call him, left me with more questions than answers.”

  Oenghus grunted. “You mother told me she was a nymph.”

  “She told you.”

  “Aye.”

  Isiilde plucked another strawberry from the pouch, and turned it towards the light. “Do you know that I have not had to add strawberries to my pouch since I packed a few bowls in Mearcentia?”

  “Imagine that.” He touched his sacred flask.

  “Hmm.”

  He looked sharply at her.

  There was a glint in those emerald eyes. “That answers that,” she said.

  “What?”

  “A great many things.” Isiilde popped the strawberry into her mouth. “Every single one of these strawberries is perfection. Imagine that.”

  “Aye.” He winked at her, and she grinned.

  “Marsais doesn’t want me to bond with him again unless I agree to his terms.”

  “What are his terms?”

  “That if he tells me to run when he’s in danger, I run.”

  “Did he now?”

  “What do you think of that?”

  “I think he’s a fool.”

  Her ears drooped with confusion. “You do?”

  “You can take care of yourself, Isiilde. As much as any of us.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’d want you at my back in a fight.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “‘Course I am. But we all die sooner or later. Charging death is as about as dangerous as running from her.” He lifted a broad shoulder, his left one, and instantly regretted it. The muscles were still weak from the dislocation. It wasn’t the pain that got to him, it was the reminder. “If it helps any, the ol’bastard is always trying to protect those he loves. Myself included. There’s a lot of hurt in that heart of his. A whole sea of pain. And each drop breaks a bit more of him.”

  She smiled, sadly, and he would have severed his other arm to take the grief from her eyes. “I don’t want to cause him more pain,” she whispered.

  “Now you’re being the fool.”

  She cocked her head, waiting.

  “You’re both already hurting, Sprite,” he explained, nodding towards his arm. “If I could get my arm back, even for a week, you think I’d say no, even knowing it’d be gone at the end?”

  Her gaze drifted to his bandaged stump. “It will get better, Oen.”

  “I can’t grow my arm back, Sprite.”

  She slipped her arm through his good one, hugging it tightly. “You’ll make do.”

  “‘Course I will. I have you,” he rumbled. She sat for a time, and then stood, saying she’d burn the paladins if she waited any longer. He watched her leave, and knew she needed some time to think.

  Two boys, one shorter than the other, raced across the bailey, weaving through wagons and bumping into soldiers, making a sword’s edge towards the berserker. They skidded to a stop. Elam started waving his hands and chatting in his tongue while Zoshi grinned from ear to ear.

  “Gah, calm down, the both of you. And Zoshi, watch it with that eye. Your sense of depth is all off.”

  The boy shrugged. “It’s fine.” He plucked at his new eyepatch, and flashed the hollow socket. Elam leaned in too, squinting at the ruin. He gave Oenghus a thumbs up.

  “Aye, it’s healing good,” Oenghus agreed.

  “Morigan said I’m a pirate now,” said Zoshi. “On account of all the treasure I found down in that mine. And the one eye.”

  “Zoshi One-Eye,” Oenghus said around his pipe. “Sounds fearsome.” The boy was cleaner than he’d ever seen. Scrubbed from crown to toe, and dressed in fine clothes straight out of Iilenshar. The clerics had taken excellent care of the boys.

  “But my mum says I can’t actually plunder any ships. I’m not sure that makes me much of a pirate.”

  “You’ve got your treasure. Time to retire.”

  “Not sure about all that, sir. But Elam and I’ve polished it all good.”

  “You teaching him common?”

  “Yes, sir, and he’s teaching me Lome.” Zoshi said something in the Lome language, a single trilling note that sent the older boy laughing. “I’m workin’ on it.”

  “That’s a start. Sorry about losing the warhammer you found.”

  Zoshi shook his head. “It wasn’t mine.”

  Oenghus mussed the boy’s hair. “How is your mum?”

  “The Wraith Guards brought her from Drivel for me. She had a rough time in the fog, but the twins are fine.”

  “Glad to hear.”

  “A cleric, he had funny eyes, all silver, said we could go to Iilenshar to live if we liked.”

  “Did he now?” Oenghus looked thoughtfully at the door flanked by the paladins. “Both of you?” He pointed at Elam, and then to Zoshi, and the older boy nodded enthusiastically, throwing his arm over the smaller boy’s shoulder.

  “Brothers,” Elam said proudly.

  Oenghus smiled at the two, not a baring of teeth, but a curve of his lips. His heart felt lighter. “Aye, you’ll both do well with each to watch the other’s back. Will you go?”

  Zoshi shrugged. A shadow entered his joy, and he glanced nervously back at the frozen ruin. “I’m not sure I should.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “This whole mess is my fault,” the boy whispered.

  Oenghus felt a pang deep in his chest. “That’s a lot of mess for someone so little. How’d you manage to bring down the Spine?”

  “I didn’t exactly, but I helped, didn’t I? I took the spear out of the Fey.”

  Oenghus scratched at his beard. “Did you know Pyrderi would come alive?”

  “Course not.” Zoshi looked at his new boots and shifted. “That fellow, the cleric with silver eyes, he explained what happened. That the Fey spirit possessed Crumpet in the throne room. That’s what happened when I got slammed by the light, and then when I woke up, the bird’s wing was healed. I sh
ould have known.”

  “I’m not sure I’d have known,” Oenghus admitted. Some lies were worthwhile, and this was one of them. “Strange things happen in these realms. How many dogs do you know that turn into a mammoth and a crow?”

  “Maybe so, but it’s still my fault.”

  Oenghus placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You know what’s your fault?”

  “Everything?”

  Oenghus shook his head. “Morigan being alive.” He squeezed the bony shoulder. “Even if you tore that bloody tower down, stone by stone with your own bare hands, you saving her would erase all that. You saved the woman I love, and I’m in your debt, Zoshi One-Eye.”

  Zoshi stood a little straighter. “You and her saved me plenty in the past.”

  “So what of it? Are you headed to Iilenshar?”

  “The Isle is my home, but now, there’s a lot of bad things here. I don’t much like thinking about it all.” Zoshi glanced at the older boy. “And I think Elam feels the same.”

  “Me either,” Oenghus admitted.

  “Even as big as you are?”

  Oenghus tapped the boy’s skull. “We have the same size brain. If you ask Morigan, she’d say you have the larger one, though.”

  The smile returned.

  “Just remember who’s still standing. You. And when those shadows start creeping over your mind, turn your back on them, lift up your kilt, and tell them to kiss your arse.”

  Zoshi looked dubious, but Elam snickered.

  “It’s a Nuthaanian thing,” Oenghus explained.

  The smaller boy wrinkled his nose. “I’ll try it.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  The door to the makeshift temple opened, and Acacia stepped out. She looked dazed, and a little stunned. She wore tunic and trousers, and looked lost without her armor. When she caught sight of the trio, she walked over.

  Oenghus climbed to his feet, and Zoshi hugged her, asking if she’d come meet his mum. When she agreed, both boys darted off, and the one-eyed lad promptly ran into the side of a tent, fell on his backside, and bounced right back up, continuing on undaunted. Elam burst with laughter, and grabbed his hand, pulling him along. If the boy could get used to one eye, then Oenghus decided he could live with one arm just fine.

  “You still have all your arms and legs attached,” Oenghus rumbled.

  “I do.”

  “How’d the Scarecrow fair? You throw him under the wagon?”

  Acacia arched a brow. “I tried.”

  Oenghus bared his teeth.

  “He’s talking with a erm... Cleric of Chaim.”

  “Oh, right, the Guardian.”

  Acacia blinked. “You knew?”

  “About him and Chaim? Course I do. Never met the bastard though.”

  She winced at his use of words, but made no effort to correct his form of address.

  “Chaim helped Marsais when he was in a bad way. Long time ago, a few hundred years after the Shattering.”

  “That explains some of it.” She glanced back at the door.

  “Why do you look like you’ve seen a Forsaken?”

  Acacia took a breath. “Truth is a hard potion to swallow.”

  Oenghus grunted his agreement. “There’s a lot of lies in this realm.”

  “Yes, but necessary ones.”

  “Maybe.”

  “How’s Morigan?”

  “Same as me—limping around like a stubborn stump.”

  Acacia smiled. “Good.”

  “Thank you... for staying with her. And for helping Isiilde.”

  “I’d have wanted the same for someone I loved.”

  “Aye well, I wasn’t quite myself.”

  Acacia eyed his beard and kilt. “I think you are precisely who you are. The stone... the hammer. Honestly, I’m relieved. When Pyrderi said your name, it answered a lot. You’re like some page out of a legend that is larger than life.”

  “Most women say that about my cock.”

  Amusement lightened her eyes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You sure? Mori loves to shove me off on other women. Says it’s the only time she gets a rest.”

  Acacia shook her head. “I will never understand Nuthaanian culture.”

  “We live each day like it’s our last. That’s all.”

  “My idea of living is a cup of tea, a good book, and a warm fire at the end of the day.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “I do get out, far too often. That’s why I dream of comfort,” she said.

  “Is that what you plan on doing now? Spending the rest of your years by a warm fire?”

  She shook her head. “I’m headed to Iilenshar. Chaim has asked for my help.”

  Oenghus tugged on a braid. “You watch yourself.”

  “He’s told me of the dangers.”

  “I mean on Iilenshar. I’ve never had much use for the Guardians.”

  “You’re Nuthaanian, and... more.” She shifted. “Speaking of which, do you have any idea how one goes about serving the Sylph?”

  “I know how I serve her.” The suggestion in his voice brought color to the woman’s cheeks.

  Acacia felt the heat in her face. “I haven’t blushed in years.”

  “Like I said, you should get out more.”

  “Noted. What does the Sylph expect of me?”

  “If you’re expecting one of those bloody tomes of Law that the Blessed Order is fond of, you won’t find it.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Listen, Acacia.” Oenghus bent closer. “The Sylph needs help. She doesn’t need another mindless devotee asking for direction at every turn. She needs a friend to watch her back like you watched mine. Someone to help her guard this realm. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  Another revelation; another lie revealed: the gods were not all powerful. He could see that hard truth dawn in her eyes. Oenghus held out his hand. “You’re not bad for a paladin.”

  “You’re not bad for a berserker,” she replied. Acacia clasped his forearm, and he gripped hers in the custom of warriors.

  Chapter Seventy

  Isiilde stared at the door. Her thoughts spun as she gripped a furry bundle under her arm. The feel of the pelt brought memories of a happier time. And of a dark one. She had sat on this rug after Stievin raped her. That day had colored every day before and every one after. It tainted her memories, and no matter how she tried she could not wash the taint from her mind. It was a part of her now. As were her own dark deeds. Blood stained her hands, and she could not go back—only forward.

  Isiilde raised her fist to the door. It jerked open before she could knock. With a squeak of surprise, fire flared around her fist, surging towards the man in the doorway. He twisted to the side.

  The nymph froze. With a muttered curse, she quickly shook out her flame.

  “Isiilde,” he said.

  “Marsais.”

  The two stood on either side of the threshold, both at a loss where to start.

  Isiilde breached the silence first. “A guard found this stuffed into a storage room. I came to give it to you.” She held out the frost bear pelt that used to be in his study.

  Marsais awkwardly took the bundle with one hand, and dropped it on the floor. “I was on my way to see you.”

  She looked from the discarded pelt to his person. Water dripped from his hair onto his bare chest. “In your small clothes?”

  Marsais glanced down. “It would appear so,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Everything about the man spoke of determination, from the steel in his eyes to the set of his shoulders. She had seen that look before, in the days leading up to a prolonged absence, when he would leave to stretch his legs. She didn’t want to hear the words that he had for her—that he was leaving. She wanted time to stop, to stay in the present and not go forward or back.

  “Would you care to walk with me?”

  His manner was courtly, and for a moment she forgot he was half-n
aked. “It’s snowing outside, Marsais.”

  “Yes, of course. One moment.” He stepped inside his room, and she followed.

  “I’d rather wait in here, unless you don’t want to be alone with me, temptress that I am.”

  The edge of his mouth quirked. “I’ll try to control myself.”

  “A pity.”

  Clothes had been flung around the small room, and a wet cloth and bandages lay on the floor by the washbasin. She could not decide if he was absentminded or restless.

  “Have your visions started again?”

  “No.”

  Isiilde frowned at the man. His left arm hung limp at his side. The sword wound was still raw and ringed with deep bruises. She doubted the healers would approve of his arm out of bandages.

  “It’s freezing outside,” she said, handing him trousers. “We can talk in here. If you are going to leave, I’d at least like a final game of King’s Folly.” Tears threatened at the last, and she quickly turned towards the discarded pelt. As clothes rustled, she shook out the pelt, laying it on his bed. Her heart felt like it was climbing out of her throat.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Isiilde,” he said softly. His voice was close, right behind her, and she turned to him, burying her face against his unlaced shirt. An arm came around her, fingers buried in her hair. He smelled of the sea, and a faint, lingering scent of herbs. She arched her neck, catching his eyes.

  “Why are you insisting that I leave you to your enemies?” There was anger in her voice.

  He cupped the side of her face. “I will not put you in danger.”

  “It’s because of my mother, isn’t it?”

  Surprise widened his eyes a fraction. She opened her mouth to say more, but he cut her off with a gesture. With quick fingers, he traced an Orb of Silence.

  “Is someone listening?”

  “One never knows. Your bloodline must remain a secret.”

  His grave tone stole some of her anger. “Oen didn’t exactly tell me, but it wasn’t hard to put two and two together after I found out that he was Ulfhidhin. You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t know until after we bonded,” he said. “Oenghus kept your lineage a secret, even from me.”

  “You didn’t think to tell me afterwards?”