The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (most life changing books .txt) 📗

of research. Bred from a Raveller, Herald of the Black Iron Gods, Saint of Knives… they make the most fascinating things in Guerdon. But I’ll be patient. I’ll wait until you’re dead first.”

Cari looks at the blasted, withered, spell-wracked woman opposite her and laughs. “Yeah, I think I’m safe there.”

Despite her weariness, Cari can’t sleep. It might be excitement at the thought of nearly reaching Khebesh, or the stress and terror of the last few days catching up with her, but, honestly, it’s mostly the fish. She decides to try the aethergraph again, now that they’re clear of the blasted region on the other side of the mountains. Maybe there’s some sort of divine interference blocking the messages. It’s worth a shot.

She leaves Myri sleeping by the warmth of the brazier, the Fucking Book still propped up like a sentinel, and slips out of the longhouse. Some impulse catches her, and she brushes her hand against a mostly erased carving of the Lord of Waters just inside the door. The rough wood is pleasant to the touch, but it puts her in mind of other half-erased carvings. In the Seamarket back in Guerdon, she remembers carvings of the Black Iron Gods. Worn smooth by centuries, hidden away, but still there. Like the gods they depicted.

Gods cannot die. Except when I shoot ’em, she thinks, then they stay dead.

She walks through the silent village, the moon bright enough to make out a path. Off to the west, godlights flicker beyond the mountains. If anyone else is still awake, they stay indoors in their huts. She wanders down to the little strand, walks barefoot on the sands, the lamps of the village far behind her. Her gown glimmers in the moonlight, despite the caked mud. Tomorrow, I’m going to spend another fucking emerald on something sensible to wear.

The waves brush quietly against the shore. One fishing boat rocks softly against its neighbour. Cari finds a rock to sit upon, looks out at that black expanse of water. I’m facing east, so – that way, beyond the mountains, is Ilbarin. And that way is Khebesh. She looks one way, then the other, but the vistas are identical. A voyage across darkness.

Almost identical. A light shines on the horizon. A ship.

And – with the addition of a lot of shit – these waters are the same as Guerdon’s harbour. That anonymity of the sea goes both ways. The sea’s bigger than the names and charts mortals try to put on it. The sea’s bigger than gods. No sea-god, Captain Hawse once told her, can claim the whole ocean.

He’d settled down with one god, though, in the end.

Cari wriggles forward, dips her toes in the water. Spar, she thinks, are you there?

The same water, after all, washes against the seawall of the New City. She’s as close to him now as she was there, right? Spar, can you hear me?

Nothing. She sits down with the aethergraph set and opens the case. The moonlight’s too dim for her for her to make out the details, but she can feel the letters embossed on the keys, the unnatural chill of the glass tube. She touches the activation stud.

Nothing. The set’s dead. She shoves it aside, angrily, embarrassed at her foolishness. She’s dragged the stupid thing all the way from Ilbarin, and for nothing! She stands back up, ready to throw it into the water—

And sees the light.

That light out there – it’s getting brighter. Getting closer. Moving against the wind, against the tide.

It’s the Moonchild. Artolo’s ship. It’s coming right towards her, descending on her like the dragon did. There’s nowhere else it could be going – barren mountains to the north, salt flats and more wastelands south. It’s heading for Yhandis. Even if they don’t know Cari’s here, they’ll stop to take on water, supplies. Fucking dried fucking fish is going to get her killed.

Run, screams every instinct.

She dashes through the surf, water splashing underfoot. In her mind’s eye, Artolo’s already here, grown gigantic and distended in his hatred. Tentacles thrashing, razor-sharp, murdering everyone in Yhandis to get to her. They’ll kill Myri, too. Just like she brought Artolo down on Hawse, on Adro and Ren. Just like she brought ruin on Guerdon.

Just like she got Spar killed.

Don’t let it happen again, she thinks, and that sounds like Spar.

Her hands shove one of the fishing boats out into the water. She follows it out, wading, water cold against her thighs, her midriff. Throws the stupid aethergraph in, and then she hauls herself on board. Not thinking, just acting, a reflex. Run.

The breeze blows from the south. She tacks into it, and the sails fill, carrying her north. Aiming for the narrowing gap between Moonchild and the mountains. If she can slip past the approaching freighter, if she can make it out into open sea, maybe she can lose them in the darkness. And Moonchild’s slow to turn. There’s a brief, brief window in which she can make her escape, but she has to go now.

Something bumps against the hull. A rock? She doesn’t know this shitty harbour at all, she’s sailing blind. But her stolen boat isn’t impeded – if anything, it picks up speed.

“Carillon? What are you doing?”

Myri’s on the shore, dwindling as Cari sails away.

“It’s Artolo!” shouts Cari back. “Get away!”

Myri shouts a reply, but it’s lost in the wind.

“Take the book! Get to Khebesh!” Cari bites her lip, then shouts, “And then you owe me! Tell the masters to do something!” All that power, locked up behind the Ghost Walls while the Godswar breaks the world. They have to do something.

Like she’s doing something. Only in her case, it’s something stupid.

Her boat suddenly accelerates, the jolt nearly knocking Cari overboard as the wind redoubles, concentrates, a gale blowing at her back. It’s Myri, casting one last spell, giving her the wind.

A searchlight stabs out from Moonchild, a ghastly beam like a finger, probing at the darkness. Crawling and jumping across the