The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Who’s there?” Shavi called. She popped around the corner of another room. “It’s pretty late to come calling—oh, Mahi!” The old lady’s wrinkles deepened as she smiled. “Welcome home. Where’s Farhan?”

  Shavi’s lips straightened, likely at the sight of Mahi’s own. “Snake?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” Mahraveh answered.

  “Babrak killed him in cold blood,” Jumaat interjected.

  “Pis’truda!” Shavi said. “Sit down. Sit down. I will get you something to eat, then you can tell me about it.” She swore again as she shuffled into the next room. “He’s never forgiven your father, that wretched man.”

  Jumaat helped Mahraveh with the pack on her shoulders and set it down next to the door. Then, he turned, and she did the same for him. He unbuckled his sword from his belt, and she tossed her short bow and arrows into the corner. Maybe women weren’t supposed to fight, but she never traveled the Black Sands without it.

  Mahraveh rubbed her sore neck and then her backside. Honey made the trek without a problem, but she was still young and didn’t have the smooth gait more experienced zhulong had.

  They sat down on a plush, brown cushion and Mahraveh sank into it, letting out a long breath.

  “So, what next?” Jumaat asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I know what you are thinking, but there is not an afhem of worth left to beseech on his behalf.”

  “You don’t know that,” Mahi said, louder than she’d meant to.

  “My father is there as well, in case you forgot.”

  She hadn’t forgotten, and she hated when anger entered his tone. Before she could respond, Shavi returned with a tray of food and set it down on the table before taking a seat herself.

  “Tell me what the coward did,” she said.

  Mahraveh told the story, including how he’d approached her by the arena.

  “I’ll kill him,” Jumaat said, having heard the full story for the first time himself.

  “No, you will not,” Shavi said. “But Muskigo probably will when he returns.”

  “Do you think he will be okay?” Mahraveh asked.

  “Do you think I am too stupid to know you are planning to make sure of it?” Shavi asked with a smile.

  “I—”

  “It’s okay, Mahi. I would expect nothing less. Just know this: your father is perfectly capable of handling this. He’s the only one who is.”

  “Then why did he need to go to that despicable Glassman, Darkings?”

  “I was there in Winde Port,” Shavi started. “I can tell you; your father wouldn’t have survived the attack without that man’s help.”

  “That’s not comforting,” Mahraveh said.

  “It should be. It tells me that he is not only the fiercest warrior our people have ever known, but he is wily, and the God of Sand and Sea is with him.”

  “The God of Sand and Sea is either locked up in a dungeon somewhere in the Glass,” Mahi argued, “or roaming the planes like Yuri, and the others claim.”

  “Do you think us so stupid that we would serve a God who can be so easily locked up?”

  “But the Caleef—”

  “Is little more than an ornament at the end of a hilt. He is not the blade, sand mouse. Your father, he is the blade. He is the Scythe.”

  “Shavi,” Jumaat whispered, “that is blasphemous.”

  “How old do you think I am?” Shavi asked.

  “I… I do not feel comfortable answering that question,” Jumaat said.

  “Smart boy,” Shavi said, turning to Mahi. Mahraveh sniggered. “I am old enough to have seen three Caleefs come and go. I watched as my own father thrust himself into the Boiling Waters in hopes that our God would choose him. Do you know what happened at the drowning?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “He, along with two hundred other healthy men did just that… drowned.”

  “You don’t believe the God of Sand and Sea chooses the Caleef?” Mahraveh asked.

  “I did not say that,” Shavi answered, taking a sip of tea from a cup on the table. “But after three Caleefs, I’ve never seen a single one of them raise a sword in defense of our people. Your father, on the other hand, battles for our freedom. Which of these two men would you believe our God supports?”

  Mahraveh remained quiet, watching the gentle coruscation of nigh’jel light against the far wall.

  “I can promise this,” Shavi said. “When your father is through, the Glass will beg to stay alive long enough to lick his boots. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You’ve had a long day.”

  “Yes, Shavi,” Mahi said.

  With that, Jumaat took his leave, and Mahi retired to her quarters with a lot to consider. Unfortunately, she’d have to do so another day, for she’d no sooner fallen back onto her bed than exhaustion from travel caused her to fall asleep.

  Mahraveh’s father walked so fluidly it looked as if he were floating. The spray of the sea spattered against his face and corded muscles, glistening on his gray skin. The sky was so dark—shades of red, crimson, and sometimes violet. The sea beneath him mirrored the hue, but the waters were smooth as glass.

  He walked along steadily as purple hands reached up from beneath the surface, scratching and clawing at his ankles and calves. The skin was torn away, nearly to the bone, but if he noticed, his face didn’t show it. Soft moans emanated from below.

  His sickle-blade was drawn, swinging at his side in steady rhythm. A flick of his wrist occasionally sent it twirling.

  From all directions, Glassmen charged, breaking the peacefulness of the serene sea. Like puddles, the ocean splashed beneath their feet, but they made no noise. There were so many that a massive, rolling wave began to form behind them. But still, Muskigo pressed on.

  A giant, winged creature descended upon the mass of Glassmen, spewing flames from its maw and turning them all to ash on the wind. It swooped back up and out of sight, and the scene was calm once more.

  Muskigo smiled, although his legs were now raw to the bone.

  The surface roiled before him, and it rose like a bubble then fell, revealing a familiar, yet putrid looking face.

  Farhan Uki’a emerged, skin melting from his body like hot wax. Seaweed and barnacles covered his arms and legs, and there were open, bloody sores like a thousand tiny fish had made a feast of his flesh.

  But it was as if Muskigo didn’t even see him.

  From the air, like magic, Farhan pulled a blade and drew it out in a slicing motion. The tip found Muskigo’s throat, and his lifeblood spilled out into the salty sea.

  Mahraveh awoke screaming, sweat pouring off of her like fountains. She caught her breath.

  Her bedroom curtain swung open, and Shavi stood there, bathed in green light. Mahi wasn’t sure how long she’d been sleeping when she heard the cry sounding from outside her window.

  “Attack!” Shavi whispered. “We are under attack!”

  XIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Cobblestones scattered like frightened ants beneath Torsten’s cane. Lucas walked at his side, occasionally taking his arm when they reached a turn or a carriage blocking passage, only to be shaken away. Eyes or not, Torsten knew these streets—he’d grown up on them.

  “Watch out, my Lord,” Lucas said. The tip of Torsten’s boot caught on a bit of debris and would have sent him to the ground if Lucas hadn’t been there to catch him. Torsten steadied himself and drew a deep breath.

  “Perhaps I don’t know this place as well as I thought,” Torsten said.

  “It isn’t your fault, my Lord,” Lucas said. “South Corner has changed much recently.”

  That was true enough. In every direction, Torsten could hear hammers pounding away and lumber being sawed. The scent of burning wood still lingered in the air, even a month after those Nesilia-and-Redstar-worshipping-cultists had done their damage to the district. If there was any benefit to the riot, it was that it made the stench of shog less preva
lent.

  “How bad is it?” Torsten asked, allowing Lucas to hold his arm and lead him along without protest. The embarrassment of having an escort was far more preferable to the humiliation of falling face first into a pile of shog.

  “Better than yesterday,” Lucas replied. “Valin hasn’t wasted any time living up to his promise. Streets are being swept. His men hand out food from storefronts and taverns.”

  “Fronts for something more devious, no doubt. We’ve been so worried about threats from the outside, I fear we’re letting one fester in our own backyard.”

  “You really think Valin is a threat to the Crown after all this time?” Lucas asked.

  “I think Valin Tehr is a weed. Growing under the cracks. Pulled here and there, so nobody notices the infestation, but never exterminated until one day, the floor is so feeble it breaks.”

  “Why hasn’t the King’s Shield thrown him behind bars then?”

  “Because he makes things easier for us here,” Torsten admitted. “And we’re fools.”

  “Sir?”

  “One crime lord of Dockside is better than twelve greedy bastards fighting over scraps. Valin keeps the southern harbor operating efficiently and the Crown happy. But he’s up to something now, I know it. All this aid will extend his influence across all of South Corner. He’ll have all the other Yarrington gangs lapping at his feet.”

  “Sir Knight, please, some autlas to spare?” a woman said suddenly. Torsten felt a tug on his hand.

  “Back away, ma’am,” Lucas ordered.

  “Please, I beg you. I’ll do anything.”

  “I said away!”

  Lucas released his grip on Torsten to deal with her, but she refused to do the same. She yanked as hard as she could, and Torsten fell to one knee.

  “My children, they’re starving, please!” she implored.

  “Away from the Shieldsman you worthless skag!” Torsten heard the clattering of a city guard jogging over. “Be gone!”

  The man tore her away then sent the woman sliding across the street. The sound of children crying accompanied her own after she slammed against something hard. Torsten winced.

  “So sorry, Lord Unger,” the guard said as he and Lucas helped Torsten back to his feet. “Docksiders, never happy with their lot in life. As if that madness could have happened anywhere else in the city.”

  Without thinking, Torsten lashed out and grabbed the man by the throat. He pulled him close. “That is not how men of the Glass treat our citizens!”

  “Better than hanging,” the man said, barely audible.

  “What was that?” Torsten’s grip tightened until the man gagged. In the castle, people treated him like a delicate flower. It almost made Torsten forget the reason he’d been imprisoned by Redstar—or rather, the reason he’d deserved it. How he’d been driven to kill another Shieldsman outside Winde Port after Redstar the Deceiver drove him to rage.

  “N… noth… ing,” the guard rasped. Torsten could feel the man’s windpipe beginning to collapse beneath his massive hand before he pushed the guard away. The man coughed a few times, then spat.

  “By Iam,” he groaned. “We’re all on the same side.”

  Turning to Lucas, Torsten said, “Lucas, Help her up.”

  “Lucas?” the guard said. “Lucas Danvels? Is that you?”

  “It is, Captain,” Lucas replied as he helped the woman up, whispered to ask if she was all right.

  “Well paint the shog gold,” he swore. “Personal aide to the Master of Warfare himself? Ignoring orders sure does have its benefits, don’t it? I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you, Captain Henry, I… Thank you.”

  “A captain?” Torsten said. “You’d do well to set a better example for your men.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, we’re walking targets out here,” Captain Henry said. “I do what I must to keep the peace.”

  “Do better, Captain. You can start by taking this woman and her children to the market and buying them a loaf of bread.”

  “Generous, my Lord,” Captain Henry said, voice still hoarse. “Unfortunately, I have to meet my men down at the docks for a routine inspection. A few traders just arrived from Crowfall.”

  “I gave an order.”

  “Which I’m happy to carry out if you insist,” Henry said. “But we can’t be too careful these days, what with warlocks vanishing midair. Surely, you’d rather me make sure there aren’t Drav Cra smuggled aboard, or something worse. You want to help her, they give out food to sorry sacks like them at the Vineyard this time every day.”

  “Valin Tehr does?” Torsten asked.

  “Someone has to.”

  Torsten gritted his teeth then sighed. “Go.”

  Captain Henry’s armor jostled as he saluted. “With haste, Sir. And Lucas, give your parents my best. Man, I miss those pies.”

  Lucas muttered an inaudible response. Torsten listened to Captain Henry leave, barking for another beggar to clear the street like he took joy in it. He wasn’t used to such insubordination, but a lifetime in Dockside made most men crass.

  “You served under him while you were here, did you?” Torsten asked. Lucas didn’t answer at first, so Torsten nudged him to get his attention.

  “I—yeah, I did,” Lucas said. “He gave me a good scolding for opening that gate against orders. He’s a real piece of shog.”

  “When you get a chance, start preparing a list of worthwhile replacements.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “You know the guards in this place better than me. Who’s loyal and who’s locked away in some crime lord’s pocket. We have to do better. We keep treating people here like shog, they’ll never stop thinking they are.”

  “I’d be honored, sir.”

  Torsten turned in the direction of the beggar woman’s heavy breathing and still-rattled children. “Now, ma’am, the captain said something about Valin Tehr giving out food?”

  “Aye, down at the Vineyard,” she said. “Line runs down toward the Grove Street Church midday, every day. Sometimes past it. They won’t be servin’ by the time we get over there today.”

  “He’s not a man to be relied on,” Torsten said. “Lucas, you said your parent’s bakery was up and running again?”

  “For the most part,” Lucas replied.

  “Where is it?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “Take us there,” Torsten said.

  “Sir?”

  “Take us.”

  His young aide didn’t protest further. He led them around to the next street. An enchanting aroma immediately greeted Torsten’s nostrils. He wasn’t experienced with his olfactory sense enough to know what it was but found it as delightful as the white cake occasionally served to King Pi.

  “This way,” Lucas said.

  He pushed through a door, and the smell overwhelmed Torsten. It was almost enough for him not to notice that the bakery was without customers.

  “Mum. Dad!” Lucas hollered.

  “Lucas, honey,” his mom said, opening a door.

  “What are ye—” Four sets of knees hit the floor. “Lord Unger, by Iam, what an honor,” his father said.

  Torsten traced his eye sockets with his fingers. “The honor is all mine.”

  “Please, let me fetch you something. Supplies are limited, but there’s a new sweet I’ve been working on that will delight your taste buds.”

  “Dad, we’re not—” Lucas started, before his mother cut him off.

  “Oh, quiet, son,” his mother said. “It’s not often the man who saved Yarrington pays a visit.”

  Torsten raised an open hand. “Please, madame, it’s fine. I’m not hungry, but I’m hoping you might consider offering something to this poor family?”

  Lucas’ parents whispered between themselves. Then his father said, “I’m so sorry, Sir, but things the way they are, we can’t afford to give anything away. Customers are… few and far between.”

  “My Lord, it’s quite all right,” the
woman said. “We’ll eat tomorrow.”

  “But I’m hungry…” one of her children whined.

  “Shh. We’ll queue up at the Vineyard before sunrise.”

  “Stop.” Torsten reached into the satchel on his belt and removed a few gold autlas. It was far more than the cost of a loaf of bread or pie, enough to cover their earnings for the day at least, but Torsten realized that he never had to pay to eat. The castle provided. “Lucas, please give this to your parents.”

  Lucas hesitated.

  “Please,” Torsten insisted. “It should cover the cost of feeding them and anyone else who comes by today.” He turned toward the woman and her children. “Eat and know that the Crown does not forget you, milady,” he said.

  “Iam bless you, Sir Shieldsman,” the woman said. “Blessings. My family, we will never forget.”

  Finally, someone took Torsten’s hand and closed his fingers back on the coin. “This is too generous, Sir Unger,” Lucas’ mother said.

  “I apologize we couldn’t do more about what was stolen,” Torsten said, opening his palm and ensuring she took the money this time. “But places like this are what makes Dockside special.”

  “Ye are too generous. At least stay then, my husband will whip up something.” She took Torsten’s arm and led him forcefully toward a table.

  “That’s quite all right.” Torsten struggled to pull himself free.

  “I insist. And Lucas, dear. You look famished.”

  “Mum, we’re fine,” Lucas snapped under his breath.

  “Lucas, listen to your mother,” his dad said, voice stern and proper. “The man paid good money, and you know I don’t believe in handouts. Someone has to eat for it.”

  “Unfortunately, your son is right.” Torsten was finally able to slip free of her unexpectedly strong grip. Baker’s hands, from kneading dough, he imagined. “As much as I would love to stay, we have business in which to attend. Feed this family twice for us if you must.”