The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  She knew him well enough, intimately, to sense that he had already seen the outcome—the mutilated bodies and harvested limbs of children on the Isle. One path in many, a multitude of horrors stretching beneath his foresight.

  “I wish this realm had been destroyed during the Shattering,” she stated.

  “Gods no, please, my... Isiilde,” he corrected. His eyes were pleading, and his hand encompassed hers, beseeching. “This realm is all that stands between the Nine Halls. Without Fyrsta, all life will turn to this.”

  She tilted her head. “How do you know?”

  For the first time, in what seemed a very long time, a twinkle entered his eyes. “I’ll not spoil that puzzle for you.” Marsais stood, and her hand slipped from his. He walked away, leaving her with the grim reminder of what the future held if they should fail.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Step, scoot, step; Zoshi paused to shake out his tired arms. His ankle throbbed, and his backside hurt from scooting down the long stairway. He didn’t dare wobble down in the dark.

  Crumpet clicked his disapproval.

  “I need to rest. I don’t have wings like you.”

  Zoshi didn’t know how long he had been scooting down the spiraling stairs. The boy had slept and woken in darkness. And done it all over again. His provisions were nearly gone.

  Time was always strange in the dark, and distance was not to be trusted. When he had crossed his hut at night, picking his way over his siblings, it had always seemed to take a long time. Zoshi felt like that now. The boy wished he could count, because if he could, he would have been keeping track of the stairs. No matter. He was where he was and wasn’t anywhere else. No use worrying about it.

  Zoshi unwound the bloodied bandages on his hands. The skin had been scraped raw on the rough stone, and he flexed his fingers, letting air cool the hurt. He fished around his pockets, and found a dried crust of bread. It was like a rock. With no more water in his skin, eating it would likely be an ordeal. He thrust the crust back in his pocket.

  A flutter of wings alerted him to Crumpet’s return. The bird landed by his side, carrying a fresh piece of moss. While Zoshi exchanged this new one for his old, the bird pecked at the dim bit of moss, and then stopped.

  “Can I eat it?”

  The bird croaked out a yes. Zoshi made a face. The sound of trickling water saved him from sampling the moss. It brushed his ear like a feather, and he perked up, listening hard; it was not his imagination. A thrill washed away his fatigue.

  Taking care with his swollen ankle, he gathered his things and scooted down the steps, listening for the noise. When it was at its loudest, he touched the wall. Cool water dripped over his fingertips. Zoshi put his lips to the stream, and slurped at the rivulets.

  It took awhile, but he drank his fill, and then pressed the mouth of his waterskin to the wall. It didn’t matter how long it took, as long as he had water.

  As far as Zoshi could tell, the stairway curved, around and around. There were no landings or corners, just an endless swirl. However, there must be an end, because the crow kept bringing back moss, and so far, he hadn’t seen a hint of it. That thought heartened him. He soaked his crust with water, and ate every last crumb.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Morigan stared at the wide eyes of her kinswoman. A thin layer of snow covered Brinehilde like a white veil for the dead. The bailey was littered with such mounds.

  Footsteps approached, soft and careful, and a hissing rasp pierced her gloom. “She died with the hunt in her blood.”

  Morigan did not answer.

  The Rahuatl limped to the other side, favoring her bandaged leg. With a hiss of pain, she crouched, so she might look Morigan in the eye. The top of Rashk’s right ear was missing, along with a number of piercings. The sword slice had continued across her face, only narrowly missing an eye.

  Morigan did not have the energy or will to offer a healing. Her helm lay on the ground along with her axe. Both were covered and caked with gore. Such a contrast to the new snow that had fallen in the lull of battle. The winds of war snuffed lives, and the earth strived to clean the mess.

  “The priestess struck Tharios,” Rashk said into the silence. “Foolish but brave. Her sacrifice put fire in the warriors’ hearts.”

  Morigan tore her eyes from Brinehilde, and looked over the field at the countless dead. All brave; all foolish. Courage stank like piss and desperation. And she loathed the stench of it. Urged by her words, so many had fought, and paid with their lives, but not Eiji, and not Tharios. The two had fled like rats to their holes—only the Spine was a large, fortified and warded hole, with rot in its bowels.

  Rashk could not crouch long, so she dropped into the snow, betraying her pain. “Your Whisper saved us, Morigan. As did Brinehilde’s attack. Thira and I would not be here without you both. And seeing you fight on the battlefield... I did not know you were a warrior.”

  Morigan met the Rahuatl’s slitted gaze. “When I go to the ol’River, I do not want to be known as a butcher; only a healer.”

  At the intensity of those words, Rashk shifted, turning a paler shade. She dipped her chin. “What can I do to help, Healer?”

  “Help me carry Brinehilde on her shield.” Morigan climbed to her feet, and when she straightened, she swayed. She did not care about the blood that seeped from her wounds. Her heart bled far more. “Brinehilde should be buried in her grove.” The journey would be a daunting one. Drivel was hours away, and the battle not yet won. A foolish notion, but grief clouded reason, and she was too tired to fight it.

  “There is an old oak in Coven,” Rashk offered. “Its leaves sing and its roots go deep.”

  Morigan closed her eyes, and nodded. A useless waste for the dead, but sometimes such gestures were needed for the living, and Morigan needed to bury her kinswoman.

  Rashk saved her once again. “I’ll find a cart.”

  Morigan trudged through the snow, dragging the cart while Rashk kept it steady, slowing its descent on the slippery road. At this time of day, the snow on the road should have been trampled by other travelers, but the snowdrifts were high, and Coven looked to be abandoned.

  At the edge of town, Morigan stopped under a twisted old oak. Mounds of snow littered the main road. The Fog, it appeared, had stretched its sickly fingers to the coast and left the dead in its wake. The fact that no one had cleared the bodies set her on edge. She set down the cart, reached for her axe, and began walking down the middle of the road.

  “If anyone is still alive, now’s the time to show yourselves,” Morigan called. “The Fog is gone.”

  No answer.

  “It’s Morigan Freyr,” she added.

  A door to the pleasure house cracked, and a big man with a shock of blond hair poked his head outside. “Morigan?”

  “Aye, Breeman,” she said, walking to the steps. The Nuthaanian stared at her, mouth slightly agape. Save for Oenghus, no one on the Isle had ever seen the kindly healer armed and armored. “Are your ladies alright?”

  The big man stepped out, eyes darting right and left. He held an axe in his hand. “Scared witless, but we’re better off than the ones who couldn’t make it inside.” His gaze strayed to the bodies, and his broad shoulders slumped. “Wasn’t much of an enemy to fight.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Are there wounded?”

  “Don’t know. We’ve all kept inside.” He joined her on the road, and gripped her shoulder in greeting. “What happened in the castle? You look dead on your feet.”

  “Tharios is a Bloodmagi. There’s a whole cabal of them holed up in the Spine, and they have a mind to invite a fiendish god into the realm.”

  “Void.”

  “Aye.”

  “Does this have to do with Oenghus and Marsais disappearing?”

  “It does.”

  “Before the Fog came, I was throwin’ out every fool who claimed they were a part of that vermin.”

  As their voices carried, doors opened, and a few brave sou
ls edged out of their shelter. All were pale and worn, and had a haunted look about them. But two armed Nuthaanians standing in the open gave them courage, and soon enough, Morigan was surrounded by townsfolk and questions. She looked to a man whom she recognized as the reeve. “Knock on every door, and take the injured to Isadora’s. I’ll send a healer from the castle.” Before the reeve could pass her order onto someone else, she elbowed her way out of the crowd, walking swiftly towards the oak tree.

  Breeman followed on her heels. “What do you need of me?”

  In answer, she stopped at the cart, and yanked back the tarp, exposing Brinehilde to the winter day.

  The sight of her was like a kick to the large man’s gut. “Blood and ashes.”

  “Help me bury her, Breeman. The battle isn’t over.”

  As Morigan stabbed her spade into near-frozen earth, the world swayed and lost focus.

  “Mori,” a voice rumbled. “You’re about to keel over. Leave this to me.” For a moment, she thought it was Oenghus, and a weight lifted from her heart. But when she looked over at the man, the shock of blond hair and a trim beard shattered her hope. In answer, she tossed a spade full of earth out of the shallow grave.

  Breeman muttered, but kept digging. His powerful shoulders made quick work of the ground. Rashk had run off to summon a healer, and with work to be done, a semblance of normality had returned to Coven.

  “If Oenghus was ‘ere, he’d sit you down on your lovely arse and hold you down ’til you slept.”

  “He’s not here,” she said, jabbing the spade into the earth. Thoughts of the man led to worry and ache. By the gods, Oen was irksome.

  “Aye, but if anything happens to you, he’ll have my hide.”

  Morigan straightened and looked at the man. “If you try anything so foolish Breeman Mchamish, I will set your bollocks to boiling so thoroughly that you’ll wish your tender bits were buried in ice.”

  He paled, and promptly concerned himself with digging.

  When the ground was deep and her muscles numb, the two Nuthaanians lowered Brinehilde into her cradle. She lay on her shield.

  “Piss in the ol’River, Hilde,” Breeman said with a sniff. Both Nuthaanians spat.

  Morigan placed a hand on the oak. “May she give life to many.” The roots shifted and wood rasped as vines erupted from the earth, wrapping the priestess in a cocoon. Breeman gasped, and took a step back, but Morigan held her ground, watching the earth swallow her kinswoman.

  “Zemoch’s bollocks,” Breeman breathed. “Did you do that?”

  Morigan shook her head, and started shoveling the dirt back into the empty grave. When it was flat and black against the white snow, Morigan set her spade aside.

  “Come in for a drink,” Breeman said. “I’ll warm you up if you like.”

  “I’ve a mind to sit and be for a bit.”

  Breeman looked at the freshly churned earth, and sighed. “I’ll miss her.”

  “So will I.”

  Breeman tugged his cloak from a branch and draped it over her shoulders. “Whatever you need, Morigan, my shield stands ready for you.” He walked away, and when he’d disappeared around a curve in the road, the strength left her legs. She slid down the trunk of the oak and hit the ground.

  Morigan let her head fall against the bark. Her gaze traveled up, through a tangle of branches, to the darkening sky. She closed her eyes for what she thought was a moment, but when she opened them night had fallen, and the Keeper’s moon was casting its ruddy light over the earth.

  She felt eyes on her. Morigan reached for her axe, and stood.

  “The fog seems to ‘ave cleared.” It was a deep, velvety voice, and it came from behind. She spun, but could only make out shadows. Then her gaze traveled up, and she saw a small figure sitting on a branch. He looked like a child wearing a broad-brimmed hat.

  Shadows shifted, and a woman stepped into the moonlight. “I told you not to startle her.” The woman’s voice was pleasant, but her eyes were hard. Her curly black hair was pulled back, exposing pointed ears that marked her as Kamberian. The woman smiled, a slash of white across her dark skin.

  Morigan took a few steps back. “Can I help you two? It’s been a long day of killing and I’ve just buried my shield-sister.”

  The gnome in the tree fell back, and flipped off the branch, landing easily on both feet. He swept off his hat and bowed with a flourish. “My condolences, m’lady. And apologies for startling you. The name is Bram, and this here is my lovely Evie.”

  “We’re looking for a healer by the name of Morigan Freyr,” said the woman.

  Morigan eyed the two strangers. The gnome had blades on his person, and the woman wore leather armor. A bow was slung on her back, and a quiver rested against her thigh. She moved like Rashk, a snake coiling for the strike.

  “I am that healer.”

  Evie’s gaze swept over Morigan’s armor and axe. She looked surprised, but Bram only smirked. “Ah, I told you, Evie. Didn’t I say?”

  Evie looked at her nails. “I didn’t hear your squeak.”

  “Like a purring panther, isn’t that what you always say?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. Amusement had melted the hard edge of her gaze. “We’re here to help. The Guardian of Life—Chaim himself sent us.”

  Morigan snorted. “That’s a high story that needs more proof than words.”

  “We’re never believed,” the gnome sighed.

  “You don’t look much like a Wraith Guard, love,” the woman soothed.

  “As if you do—all supple and lovely, and delicious as chocolate,” Bram shot back. The little man did sound like a purring cat.

  “That’s because I’m not,” Evie explained to Morigan. “I’m a Valkyrie, not a Guard, and really, love, you’re more of a scout.”

  “Am I now?”

  “More rogue, even.”

  “Iilenshar requires all,” he said, grandly.

  “More words,” Morigan growled, knocking the two on track. She had no patience tonight.

  Evie smiled, and here her eyes held kindness. “A seer by the name of Marsais told the man himself that we could trust you,” the Valkyrie explained. “The Fog delayed us—nasty that—and from what we’ve heard, this Marsais and Oenghus got tossed to Vaylin.”

  “Vaylin,” Morigan breathed, closing her eyes. Vaylin wasn’t close, but at least it wasn’t another realm. The fact that Marsais had gotten word to Iilenshar gave her hope. The Isle of Wise Ones was no longer alone. She could have hugged the two, but instead she shuddered with relief.

  “I think some food, ale and a good talk by a warm fire are in order,” Bram said gently.

  Morigan did not argue.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wagons and soldiers flowed through the gates. It might have been a normal day in the castle if the wagons had not been laden with dead. Morigan stopped in front of the main gates, and gazed over the harsh hillside, to the long line of pyres waiting to be lit.

  War snuffed lives like a wind crushed a candle’s light. Foolishness, indeed.

  “That it is,” a voice agreed.

  Morigan had not realized she’d said it aloud. She looked at the curly-haired woman. “I’ll never understand the thirst that drives men and women to madness,” said Morigan.

  “The Void does it,” Evie said.

  “And boredom,” added Bram.

  They both shrugged.

  Morigan agreed. Puzzling over power-mad fools was a road to insanity. She turned, and walked through the open gates, nodding to the guards.

  Thira had not been idle. The lower bailey bustled with activity. Tents had been erected, cooking fires lit, and a long line of horses stood by the ramparts. The Blessed Order had arrived.

  “Let’s keep our arrival under our hats, shall we?” Bram had said the night before.

  “And best to leave out the ‘sent from Chaim’ part,” added Evie.

  “Why?”

  “No one ever believes us,” the gnome had sighed.
>
  “And the man Marsais, from what we hear, is wanted—unjustly—by the Blessed Order.” Morigan had smiled at the woman. In her time she had met Valkyrie and Wraith Guard and, in her experience, they could be as rigid as the Blessed Order. But not these two, it seemed.

  “And before you think,” Bram continued, “that all Himself sent was a scrawny gnome and a charming woman—we’re not alone.”

  “Did you bring an army?” Morigan had asked with hope.

  “Er... no.” Bram blushed.

  “Twelve Wraith Guards,” Evie had supplied. “We thought we were sneaking into an open castle, not one under siege with a mad Bloodmagi in charge.”

  Still, twelve Wraith Guards were better than none. Their reputation as warriors was formidable.

  Presently, Morigan was leading her companions across the field and through the long tunnel that led to the outer bailey. Workers were busy at the Fire Gates. The castle had been designed to defend against attackers from the outside, not the inside.

  Eldred was there, barking orders at the men. He nodded to Morigan. “Thira’s in the Vulture’s tower with his Holiness, the most Righteous prick.”

  The trio walked towards the tall tower. In contrast to the lower bailey, the outer bailey, where the battle had raged, was empty save for a line of guards on the ground, keeping watch on the closed bailey gates. They stood out of bow range. From this angle, the walls were formidable. It was little wonder that no force had ever made it past the bailey gates.

  Raised voices echoed from a second-story window in the Vulture’s tower. Morigan sighed. Although she had slept, her body was battered and bruised, and the long walk to the castle had left her thinking of a warm bed. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with High Inquisitor Multist.

  Morigan bullied her way past a pair of paladins at the entrance, and marched up the stairs. The High Inquisitor was in a high temper.

  “...the lot of you! If you had allowed the Blessed Order a Chapterhouse inside the walls, this would have never happened.” His round face was red with exertion, and a rail-thin woman with a ramrod spine was the recipient of his fervor. Thira took a bored sip of her tea.