The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “And cross the Great Expanse?” asked Acacia.

  “There are ways,” Nimlesh insisted. “Kilnish warriors train at outposts in the deep desert, and nomads traverse the border, even venturing farther inland. There is a rumor that some nomads trade with the Fomorri.”

  Acacia shook her head. “A journey like that would take time.”

  “Aye,” Oenghus rumbled. “The Scarecrow drew us this map. We stick to it. Your task, Captain Carvil, is to find the mouth of the last inlet. Marsais will be up and moving soon enough. He can tell us more when he wakes.”

  “And what of this place that Fomorri fear? Does the Trickster expect us to sail the Squall into the inlet?” the Windtalker asked.

  No one had an answer.

  “If so, I will not allow it,” the woman said.

  Carvil inclined his head in deference. “As you command, and with my agreement. This inlet is narrower than the others. The tides around it are treacherous, unstable. The longboats will have to do. May Nereus bless the backs of the rowers.”

  All eyes focused on the crooked little X that marked an unknown fear. But then so much was unknown in Fyrsta. Isiilde had spent countless hours studying the maps in Marsais’ study. There were stretches of uncharted terrain—penciled borders that faded to shadow and then tired out altogether, leaving bare parchment. The maps had always looked bashful, because really, a map ought to know. That was a map’s job; unfortunately, explorers who tried to fill in the blanks were usually never seen again.

  “Well, whatever the Void it is, we have one thing that the Fomorri don’t.” Oenghus said.

  “What is that?” asked Nimlesh.

  Oenghus cracked his knuckles. “Me.”

  Acacia snorted. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Morigan frowned at the Wise One. He was gagged and tied, not with weaves but sturdy ropes and binds. She put a name to the face: Fallon Able. He had an ample gut and a penchant for scullery maids and errand boys. At the moment, his eyes bulged like a toad’s, and his face was mottled with bruises and swelling. One finger had been bent at a painful angle.

  “Never liked ‘im anyway,” Eldred said as if reading her thoughts. The dwarf sat in a chair off to the side. He looked as pale and stretched as she felt. “The man has never done anything unless coin was involved.”

  Brinehilde gave a sharp laugh. “Same could be said of most Wise Ones.”

  “Aye, well not all of us are greedy bastards.”

  “Only short,” the priestess retorted.

  “And you’re too tall.”

  “The better to stuff your hide into a chest.”

  “I’d have had to toss your hide out the window.”

  “As if you could lift me,” Brinehilde scoffed.

  “Give me a bit to get my feet back under me, and I’ll prove it.”

  Morigan interrupted the two. “If you’re feeling up to lifting a Nuthaanian, then go help Greta and Simon.”

  Eldred clicked his mouth shut and grumbled at the healer.

  Her infirmary was in shambles, and Morigan tried not to focus on it. The novice, Hamish, had suffered wounds while fighting the guard, and he now lay bandaged in a bed. So the care was left to Greta and Simon. But there were far too many wounded for two healers to manage.

  Morigan swallowed the urge to join them. She had other work to do. As long as Tharios lived, more would die; therefore, she needed to stop the disease at its root.

  “Right, to work.” Brinehilde looked at Fallon and cracked her knuckles. “Why don’t you tell Morigan what you told me. I’m more than willing to have another go at your fingers.” Her words were emphasized when she waggled her own recently chopped off digits—courtesy of Tharios’ lackeys.

  Morigan removed Fallon’s gag, and smiled. From the look on his face, her smile hadn’t inspired reassurance. She offered him water, and when he nodded, she tilted the flask to his lips.

  “I heard you were planning to kill my patients and staff.”

  He licked his lips, and shook his head. “I wasn’t.”

  “The guards were,” she stated.

  “I was ordered to escort them.”

  “By whom?”

  “The Archlord.”

  “Where did he move my healers?”

  “Somewhere safer—away from the traitors and this fog.”

  “Where?”

  Fallon’s eyes flickered to Brinehilde. “In the lower levels. The tunnel barracks.”

  “Why would Tharios move an entire infirmary down there? It’s too far from the main gates to be of any use during an attack. Was he expecting visitors from the tunnels?”

  “I don’t know. Orders are orders.”

  Morigan crossed her arms. She knew the man’s reputation well. Fallon had spent his life trying to wiggle out of responsibility. “I know you’re one of his Unspoken.”

  “I am not.”

  “Do you know how I know?” She did not give him a chance to answer. “No Wise One, orders or no, would kill wounded in their beds.”

  “I’m not an Unspoken, Morigan. That’s insanity.”

  “But likely profitable. Not only does a cabal of Bloodmagi put coin in your coffers, but they also create a city devoid of laws.” She leant forward, placing her hands on his armrests, looking him straight in the eye. “An ideal place for one such as you.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Maybe so, but remember, I know every nerve and muscle—every bone and fiber in a body. I know what hurts, Fallon. The spots that stab your brain and set the world ablaze. And even better, I can heal you, and start all over again.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “You were going to slaughter my patients.” Morigan was calm. So frightfully so. “You and yours accused my kinsman, my once Oathbound, of Bloodmagic, and you serve a man who slaughters women and children in pens like cattle. What do you think I’ll do, Fallon?”

  The man stared back at her, but she was as unwavering as a rock. The threat in the cold calm loosened his tongue. “It doesn’t matter if I tell you. The whole realm will know soon enough. It’s not as if you can stop him.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “So what would a few words from your tongue hurt? It might scare us into leaving.”

  Fallon swallowed. “Tharios has been searching the tunnels underneath the castle. It’s been going on for awhile, and now he’s found something. He’s been making people dig.”

  “Why?”

  “Karbonek. Tharios is going to bring Karbonek into these realms, and we will be his faithful few.”

  His words chilled her blood—not in fright but rage. “And what of this fog?”

  “A taste of his power.”

  “And what power is that?”

  There was hesitation in his eyes. “Fear.”

  “You don’t know, do you? But of course you don’t. Tharios had to send his guards out with a Wise One as escort. He can’t even make this fog friendly to his own allies.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters greatly, but not for you. Let me show you what control is.” Morigan placed her hand on the man’s chest. The Lore leapt to her lips and she nudged that clog—that little gathering of fat in his heart. The artery sucked up the clot and he seized. She withdrew her focus, and watched as his own heart killed him. Fallon couldn’t even scream. He frothed and choked and slumped back dead.

  “Well,” Brinehilde exhaled. “I hope we didn’t need him for anything.”

  Morigan turned away from the man and walked over to a mirror. She had glanced into that mirror many mornings, whether to tame a stray strand of hair or wipe blood from her cheek. Today, she plucked out what was left of her pins and watched her hair fall over her shoulders. It had been a long while since Morigan Freyr had plaited her hair into a warrior’s braid. Years ago, her dark hair had been rich with threads of copper; now, it was streaked with grey. But her fingers had not forgotten the rhythm and weave.

  “So
who is this Karbonek?” Brinehilde asked.

  “The god of the Fomorri and the Unspoken.”

  “Blood and ashes.”

  “This will never work.”

  Morigan looked at her companion. Despite having an ample supply of Isle livery on hand in the infirmary, they had been hard pressed to find a uniform that fit the priestess. The chain and tabard were stretched over her breasts. The helm, at least, fit.

  Morigan wore her own armor, lifted from a trunk in the corner of her rooms by the infirmary. A bearded axe hung from her belt loop. It was her own as well, its grip worn and familiar to her hand. The weapon had not seen the light of day for some years. Regrettably, her targe was too recognizable, so she held a shield of the Isle, and wore a tabard of the guard.

  “Don’t strut,” she warned.

  “I’m not strutting; I’m bloody limping,” the priestess replied. But she made an effort to shorten her steps. Instead of a limping strut, she took on a lop-sided swagger.

  Morigan sighed. It would have to do. “Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “These bloody phantoms can’t hurt us.”

  Morigan gave the woman a stern look. It deflated Brinehilde to a more sensible quiet. But then Brinehilde had not experienced anything like the things Morigan had. Only vague visions and laughable threats. Either Brinehilde was protected in some way, or Morigan had been singled out.

  Perhaps the Keening had worn away her natural resistance to such things. She shook the thought away, and focused on the corridor. Morigan could find her way to the infirmary, and most everywhere in the castle, blindfolded, but she had never had much reason to venture into the Underneath—the honeycomb of passages that riddled the castle’s foundations.

  A beat of footsteps, fractured and indistinct, warned of others. Morigan glanced at her kinswoman, and Brinehilde quickly draped a heavy arm around the shorter woman’s shoulder, pressing a hand to the slice on her ribs. Morigan grunted at the weight, and dropped her weave. Mist rushed in, and whispers hissed of vile things, but mostly cackled with amusement.

  The mist parted in the narrow corridors as a squad of soldiers rounded the corner. Swords bristled, and Morigan tilted her arm, displaying the crimson armband.

  “We’ve lost our way,” she explained without a hint of an accent. There was a chance that she’d be recognized, but she was counting on the fact that Tharios had brought in a fair amount of new faces over the past weeks. The castle had been transformed from a tight-knit community to the obscurity of a city.

  The Wise One playing escort to the troop was a woman whom Morigan had seen before, one who usually kept to Drivel. “You’ll have to get there yourselves,” the woman said, barely glancing at the pair.

  “Which way?” Morigan called.

  Before the mist swallowed the troop, one of the rear guards thrust an arm out, pointing down a corridor. She waited until their footsteps faded, and murmured the Lore, tracing a quick air rune to fan the mist from their faces. The whispers snickered.

  “Do you hear all that, Hilde?” Morigan asked.

  The priestess straightened. “Aye, the lot of these phantoms are a bunch of blowhards.”

  For now, thought Morigan. The dead did not always stay dead.

  A chill pricked her senses. A ward. She pulled Brinehilde to the side, and traced a spirit eye. Runes pulsed like fireflies in the gloom, revealing a solid wall of air runes. Not strong, but enough. Morigan let her own weave drop and stepped through. A breeze stirred her hair, and then it did not. The hallway beyond was clear, and the air stale. Four guards lined the corridor, horns held ready in their hands.

  Brinehilde walked through on her heels and quickly staggered for effect, keeping up their ruse. Morigan caught her.

  “We need a healer,” she said.

  The guards glanced at their armbands, and motioned them past. As they rounded the corner, Brinehilde kept up the facade. The passages widened out, becoming increasingly more populated, eventually opening to a great hall. In one corner, she spotted cots and injured, and her blue-robed healers. But the makeshift infirmary only filled up a small portion of the barracks that stretched farther, taking up multiple rooms, and possessing all the trappings of a war camp.

  Morigan staggered into the infirmary, and deposited the priestess on an empty cot. She was happy to be rid of Brinehilde’s weight. A healer rushed over—it was Leiman, her once apprentice and now friend. Leiman’s eyes widened when he saw Brinehilde, and then he looked to her. Morigan gave the young man a stern look, and he quickly reined in his joy. He bent over Brinehilde, and began unbuckling her armor as if she were wounded.

  “Is Tharios here?” Morigan whispered.

  Leiman did not look at her, but focused on his patient. “Yes, down in the mines. He’s brought people from Drivel and Coven and has them digging. I’m not sure all of them came willingly.”

  “Have you seen a boy by the name of Zoshi? From Drivel?” She described his appearance, but Leiman shook his head.

  “Careful,” Brinehilde hissed. Leiman blinked in surprise. He had not realized she was actually wounded. He took more care, and finally examined the cut to her ribs. Greta had bandaged it but it needed changing.

  “I need to have a look at those tunnels and we need to get all of you out of here.”

  “And put a blade through the Archlord’s heart,” Brinehilde added.

  “But the fog...” Leiman trailed off. His eyes were haunted. It was the nightmare under the bed; a person’s worst fears brought to life. Not many would willingly walk back into that.

  “A simple air weave will keep it at bay.”

  “I can’t weave that,” he reminded.

  Each Wise One had distinct talents and limitations. Leiman had very little skill with the Gift, but he knew his herbs, and his heart was in the healing arts. That’s why Morigan valued the man.

  “We’ll worry about all that when the time comes,” she soothed. “But I want a look.”

  “We’re escorted into the tunnels when there’s an injury. There’s an awful lot—cave-ins and such. I don’t think safety is of concern.”

  “Are you escorted by the same guards?”

  Leiman nodded.

  A plan started to form in her mind, but if it would have worked, she’d never know. Two women walked across the hall, and Morigan sat heavily on a cot, feigning an injury. She watched the arrivals out of the corner of her eye.

  The first was an elegant woman with a bandage around her neck. Yasimina. She had survived the fight after all. The second woman trailed on her heels. This one was not elegant, but horribly scarred and hairless. Zianna had not fared well after Isiilde’s combustion in the library.

  Seeing Zianna now, with the Bloodmagi, made her cold with anger. Morigan regretted saving the apprentice. During the arena duel, she had stayed with Zianna, and fought to save her from her burns. If she’d let her die and attended the duel, Morigan might have prevented whatever had befallen Oenghus and Isiilde.

  A spiky-haired gnome met the two halfway. And then Tharios himself appeared, garbed in a crimson half-robe that displayed a tattoo-covered torso. The tattoos never seemed to be in the same place twice.

  The four bent their heads together. The Archlord tensed, and his slim muscles flexed. He issued a sharp order to Kreem, and the Quartermaster immediately bellowed a call to arms.

  “Void,” Morigan spat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Air swirled around the trio, pushing back the murk. It felt like Rashk drifted in another realm. She touched a crenellation, reassuring herself that she stood on the rampart tower. There was no sign of the sea, no sight of Coven huddled in the bay, the looming Spine, or even night or day. All was sickly grey.

  Rashk wondered if time moved differently here. Without sun or moon, she could not be sure of the day or hour. It skewed her hunter’s instincts and played havoc with her mind. Shaking off unease, she focused on the task.

  “This won’t work,” Tulipin stated.

  “C
oward,” Rashk hissed at the little man. It made him bristle, but before he could explode, Thira interrupted.

  “We have been over this from every angle. We must try.” The enchanter, potion master, and summoner had scouted and sneaked around, testing boundaries. In theory, the castle wards should have kept the fog inside the Spine, but there were holes in the shield, patchy, threadbare parts that had decayed over millennia.

  The gnome shook his head, most emphatically. “We need to leave. We should go to the Chapterhouse in Drivel.”

  “We informed the Inquisitor before we confronted Tharios in the council chamber,” Thira said.

  “Then we should...” Tulipin faltered at the glare burning from the woman’s eyes. “Check and see if they’re waiting outside the gates.”

  “Tulipin, do it. Now.”

  At the click of teeth, Tulipin dropped a full inch, but he quickly restored his levitation weave.

  “We will guard you,” Rashk offered, spinning her blades for emphasis.

  The trio left the tower top, and walked down the stairway, emerging on the lower rampart. Rashk could not see the steep drop-off that she knew was there, only a narrow, misty walkway. A snatch of shadow moved ahead, and Rashk rocked on the balls of her feet, ready to spring. Her black lip curled with distaste. These fleshless phantoms mocked and toyed, offering no challenge—only cowardly taunts.

  “Here,” Thira said.

  Tulipin took a deep breath, and looked to the fog, towards what Rashk hoped was the inner bailey and the Storm Gates. It was hard to tell. The fog swirled, throwing snatches of noise: errant screams, mad ramblings, and disconnected crashes. But mostly, whispers.

  The gnome let his weave unravel, drifting down to the stone. He closed his eyes, and seemed to grow. A high-pitched voice added to the dissonance. His chant quivered, and then took flight.

  Tulipin’s long fingers traced a weave of air runes. His feet left the ground, and he crossed his legs, levitating in the center of this new complexity. As the runes grew and swirled, his voice took on purpose. With each added rune, the air churned.