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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  All he heard before a mass of fists and boots beat him unconscious was gurgling. All he tasted was blood, his own, and that of a traitor.

  XXXII

  THE THIEF

  Whitney’s cheeks went hot. His head rolled back on his shoulders, then slipped by Rand on his hands and knees and punched the Caleef straight in the nose. Blood poured down, people gasped, and the Caleef grabbed his face, but he didn’t protest. He couldn’t protest. Whitney shook out his hand.

  “What the yig are you doing!” Rand demanded. He grabbed Whitney and threw him back against the bars.

  “That gray bastard was responsible for the murdering of hundreds, including my own hometown,” Whitney said. Hometown. Before Elsewhere, Whitney barely cared, but after building a new life there, the thought of it hit harder. It was like his timeline had been reversed. All thanks to Bartholomew Darkings, the Caleef, Grint, the list went on.

  “He had nothing to do with that,” Rand said. “This is not the Caleef.”

  “Tell yourself whatever you need. I know what I see. Swear it. Swear to Iam on your sister’s life it isn’t him.”

  “I wouldn’t dare use our Lord’s name in vain,” Rand said softly, unsure.

  “Because it’s him!”

  “You’ve really done it this time. Langley,” Barty groaned.

  “The Caleef,” someone said. “Here?”

  “Trying to sneak through these lands,” spoke someone else.

  “You monster!” The man who shouted that had a foreign look to him, like a mix between Sora and Torsten. He lunged at the Caleef and clasped his hands around the skinny man’s throat. “My brother died at Winde Port!”

  “Get off him!” Rand delivered a blow to the attacker’s gut and sent him reeling.

  Chaos erupted. There were nearly twenty terrified people stuffed into the low cage, and all of them smelled blood. Fists and legs thrashed. The Caleef shuffled into the corner, cowering. There were no more god powers in him than the bars at his back. He was a lie.

  Darkings shoved a woman in front of himself for protection and joined the Caleef in being a weakling. Whitney felt his blood boiling. He’d spent a lifetime never getting close to anyone or anything, even enemies. Now, he was surrounded by people he hated or wanted to hurt. Rand, who robbed him of his greatest triumph, the Caleef, his childhood home, and innocence—until that day in Troborough, Whitney had stolen from many, but that was the first time he’d ever killed. And Darkings… oh, Darkings. That man’s transgressions were too many to count.

  While Rand was occupied holding back the wave of angry, confused Fettingboroughites, Whitney sprang for Darkings. He got a few licks in on the man’s pudgy face before the entire cage rattled.

  “Enough!” Drad Mak roared. He threw open the cage, grabbed the oldish man nearest inside and flung him out onto the sodden grass. Dire wolves immediately circled him, drooling and baring sharp fangs.

  The fighting in the wagon stopped. Even Whitney couldn’t send another fist into Darkings’ face. They all froze and watched as the wolves circled closer, then tore into the poor soul. Everyone turned away, unable to watch. Whitney wanted to tear his ears from his head just so he wouldn’t hear the screams as they echoed across the plains. Soon, the screams stopped, and the awful sounds of flesh rending and bone crunching was all that could be heard.

  Instead, he just stared through the bars in the opposite direction. All the Northmen were packing up, and some had even started marching already. Furs and leather armor with bone trinkets covered them all along with metal piercings so painful looking they made Whitney’s skin crawl. It was an army more frightening than the demons of Elsewhere. A handful even had their faces painted white—dark bars across their eyes and lips, red dripping from their eyes, fresh blood staining the mess of sewn furs draped over their shoulders. Warlocks.

  Whitney swore inwardly. He’d seen what they were capable of and this time, Sora wasn’t there to save them all.

  “I can’t taunt the Glass if you all kill each other first,” Mak said.

  “You’ll kill us anyway!” the strange-looking man who’d started the fight said.

  Mak chortled and lifted his oversized axe onto his oversized shoulder. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But at least you won’t die like that.” He nodded his head toward the two wolves, tearing at what little remained of their victim.

  One of the warlocks stopped nearby, kneeled and brought a finger covered in the poor man’s blood to his lips. He looked up at Mak, and his eyes turned white and rolled into the back of his head.

  “The Lady says it is time to move,” he said, eyes still all white. “She wants all eyes on the lands of grass and trees, and away from the ice.” The warlock’s eyes lowered back into place, and he gasped for air as if he hadn’t been breathing. He didn’t stand either, and when the other two warlocks helped lift him, his legs appeared weak.

  “Let’s move!” Mak roared to his men. “The Buried Goddess doesn’t wait.”

  The wagon started moving. Everyone, Whitney included, winced at the sound of wheels cranking. Altogether, four giant zhulong trudged along through the mud, pulling the two carts with ease.

  “Get off of me!” Barty shouted. Whitney totally forgot he still had him pinned until the plump man’s weak arms pushed at him.

  Whitney was so exhausted, mind and body, he couldn’t even fight it. He let off the slob and leaned back against the other end of the cage. He exhaled through his teeth—quite possibly the only part of him that didn’t burn with pain.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Barty sneered as he rose back up. “You shog-licking excuse for a—”

  “He won’t,” Rand said and shoved him back down. “Sounds to me like you had a lot worse coming to you.”

  “How dare you lay your hands on me,” Barty spat at Rand.

  “You’re lucky we have a deal, or I’d gut you myself for all you’ve done.”

  “Says another traitor.”

  “Being a traitor is one thing,” Rand said. “Being a sniveling, backstabbing, coward is another. Now, sit back, shut your mouth, and let us figure this out.”

  “What he said,” Whitney agreed.

  Barty’s face went the color of one of Farmer Branson’s plums, then he sank back down. Like always, he was all talk until someone tougher got in his face. And Rand may have been many things, but he was the most intimidating person around, Drav Cra monsters excluded.

  A lengthy silence passed through the cage until finally the Caleef leaned forward and said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your home.” His voice was soft, weak, nothing like what one would expect for a god-king.

  “Congratulations,” Whitney remarked.

  The Caleef’s lip twisted. His dark eyes appeared earnest, but Whitney was tired of the affairs of nobles and kings making the world a mess—especially since he was done thieving, it helped nobody.

  “I swear to you this: I had nothing to do with the rebellion,” the Caleef went on. “I wanted, and still want, peace. Ever since Liam showed us that fighting for our space on the Great Shores didn’t mean us ravaging each other, I wanted it. Not all of my people agree, and so I am sorry. But these men can help me change that.”

  “Bah, that ain’t the real Caleef,” one of the prisoners said.

  “About as godly as my grandmother,” said another.

  The skinny, gray-skinned man seemed almost ready to cry as the entirety of the prisoners dismissed him as a fraud. A man like him probably wasn’t used to even being talked to, let alone talked down to. That very fact gave Whitney a sense of satisfaction.

  “Look, Fierstown, this isn’t where any of us wanted to be today,” Rand said after another long bout of silence. “But for all of our sakes, we need to find a way out of this.”

  “Ain’t no way out of this, boy.” the man with the foreign appearance said as he hastily shoved something toward his mouth.

  “What is that?” Rand asked.

  “None of your business,” he said, chewing.
>
  Rand grabbed the man’s wrist and shook. Manaroot fell to the carriage floor, and the man scratched desperately for it. Although a sensory amplifier, the plant—more like a drug—was highly addictive, and made the user a danger to those around him. Rand snatched it from the ground.

  “Give it here!”

  “Stop this, friend! We’re going to get through this,” Rand said. “All of us. We just need to stay focused.”

  “You can keep lying to yourself,” the man said. “I hope you’ve said all your prayers. I know I have.”

  Whitney rolled his eyes. He’d had enough talk of gods for one lifetime.

  Rand, however, turned his head toward the man. “It’s going to be okay…”

  “Javaud,” the man offered.

  “Javaud… a strong name. Your mother was Glintish. Father Panpingese?”

  “How’d you know?” Javaud asked.

  “Your skin tone… amber like someone from Panping, but your ears… Excuse me, but no one will be calling you a knife-ear. Your hair… tight, curled. If your father was of the Glass, it would be straighter.”

  Javaud smiled.

  The wagon rumbled as it reached the top of the low hill Whitney and Rand had been caught upon. Whitney noticed the large footprints in the mud leading up behind them, no idea how the giant Mak managed to sneak up on them.

  I’m losing my touch.

  “And you…” Rand turned to another prisoner. “I saw you in town. You run the… what was the name of the tavern?”

  “The Five Round Trousers.” She was the server who’d taken to Whitney that night. Without as much ale in him, he realized she was a lot older than he’d previously thought—gray hair, but still pretty in her own right.

  Rand went on to talk to someone else, and Whitney recognized what he was up to, stupid as he thought it was. Rand was trying to give hope to these people. But he wasn’t going to do that by talking to them about what… where they were from? Where they worked? What he needed to do was give them some real hope.

  “Let me tell you all something,” Whitney started, standing as tall as the squat cage would allow. He stumbled a bit as the wagon rocked and bounced, then smiled.

  “What are you doing?” Rand whispered.

  “I’ve been locked up in the Glass Castle,” he tilted his head as if thinking, “twice… maybe three times. I’ve lost count. I’ve been imprisoned in a dwarven ruin by Redstar ‘the Deceiver’ himself. You know that name, right? He leads these ugly ice lovers… or, led, I suppose.”

  One of the Drav Cra glanced over but stayed silent.

  “Shortly after, I was tied up in the web of a massive spider queen. Some call her Bliss, some the One Who Remained. You people want to discuss gods and goddesses? That was the closest thing any of us have seen to a deity, I can assure you of that.”

  “Oh, sit down,” Barty said. “You’re giving us all a headache.”

  Ignoring him, Whitney continued, kicking Rand’s boot. “I’ve been captured by the King’s Shield, city guards… spit and shog, you name it. There’s some other things you wouldn’t even believe if I told you. Upyr assassins, demons of Elsewhere, and worse.”

  “Please, pray tell,” Bartholomew said. “Why does that matter to any of us?”

  “My point, Barty, is that you are all in the presence of the World’s Greatest Thief, and there’s never been a cage that could keep me locked up.” He expanded his chest, taking in a deep breath.

  “My name is Whitney Fierstown!” Whitney pronounced. “Yes, yes, the same Whitney Fierstown of Westvale fame. He who stole the Sword of Grace from right under Lord Theroy’s nose while the right bugger slept face-down in a puddle of his own spit. Had myself a throw with his lady daughter that evening as well.”

  It had been years since he made this speech, but it rolled off his tongue like only yesterday. He could give it in his sleep.

  “The Mischievous, Master of Mayhem, the very same credited for single-handedly delivering the Splintering Staff out of the hands of the Whispering Wizards,” he went on. “You know them, fine folks of Fettingborough? Whitney Fierstown, dispatcher of Drav Cra heathens. Hope of the hopeless and helpless. Thief of all thieves. The Filcher Fantastic himself. If you think for one second some ice-eating, snow-shoveling, shog-smelling horde of cousin-husbands is going to keep me locked up, get ready for a show.”

  A loud, sharp crack of metal on metal sounded just behind Whitney and the mustached Drav Cra warrior Whitney’d heard called Ugosah shouted, “Shut up in there!”

  Whitney raised his hands in placation, then took his seat again next to Rand.

  “What’s the plan?” Rand whispered, hopeful.

  “Yes, please, enlighten us,” Barty said, rolling his eyes.

  He’s just jealous his home wasn’t included in my finest moments, Whitney thought. Then he shrugged and said. “No idea. Let’s think of something.”

  A collective groan rose from the wagon’s inhabitants.

  “Hey, Don’t worry,” Whitney said. “I didn’t have a plan any of those other times either. Something will come to me.”

  I hope, he thought.

  He glanced out of the wagon, seeing the zhulong which dragged his friends along in their own prison. They were performers, not fighters. None of them deserved this.

  Hours passed, and no plan had presented itself. Whitney was exhausted but found himself unable to rest. Plans usually came quicker to him. Thanks to Grint, he hadn’t had a proper night of sleep to help him think straight.

  Instead, he sat watching Bartholomew with intense focus, waiting for the moments the despicable man started to drift off to sleep before kicking him and jarring him back to consciousness.

  “When we get out of here, you’re finished, you hear me?” Barty said. “I’ll make it my life’s work.”

  “Going to grab another Dom Nohzi?” Whitney asked.

  “Clearly, they’re not all they’re talked up to be. I’ll find something worse, don’t you worry.”

  “Worse than Kazimir?” Whitney paused and pictured the white-haired devil of a man sitting on the well in Elsewhere-Troborough, contemplating life like some murderous philosopher. Like Torsten, he wasn’t so bad when you looked beyond the surface. Whitney had a knack for finding strange friends: a blood mage, an all-too-stubborn knight, and a blood-sucking immortal who pushed the leniency of his deities too far.

  I really need to meet some new people.

  “When I’m done with you, you’ll be wishing for Kazimir,” Darkings threatened.

  “Huh?” Whitney asked. He’d completely lost his train of thought regarding the conversation with Barty. Looking at the wisp of fur above his chapped lips made his stomach roll every time.

  Bartholomew grumbled under his breath, then kicked one of the other weary prisoners. “You, switch with me,” he said. The man barely had a chance to respond before Barty was shoving himself into the other man’s place and out of Whitney’s range.

  Whitney smirked and let his head roll to the side. It was sunset. The eyes of dire wolves stood out like brilliant topazes against the coming darkness from the west.

  “Say, Barty,” Whitney said. “Don’t those eyes remind you of something? Maybe that hideous amulet of your mother’s I stole?”

  “I know what you’re doing, thief, and it won’t work.”

  “Hmm,” Whitney mused.

  Rand sat by the cage’s door, fussing with ways to get it open. The Drav Cra marching around them barely even paid attention any longer, except the occasional banging on the bars to wake everyone, followed by a collective laugh.

  Whitney had taken a crack at the door earlier, but it was no use. They’d wrapped the chains to keep it shut, and used a Shesaitju lock that dangled down near the wheels, far out of reach unless Whitney tried dislocating his shoulder, which even still would have been a stretch. And fiddling might work, but the Drav Cra kept a close enough eye that that wasn’t a real option.

  “You’re never going to cut through the ch
ains,” Whitney said.

  Rand glanced back, frustration twisting his features. He had his belt buckle in one hand and had been quietly grinding it against the chains for over an hour, as if that might work. Maybe if he had a year.

  “I don’t see you coming up with any ideas,” Rand snapped.

  “I don’t come up with ideas,” Whitney said. “They come to me.”

  Only they aren’t, Whitney admitted only to himself.

  He wasn’t sure if it was his time in Elsewhere or his new life of being thought of as a hero by ladies like Talwyn, but he had nothing. Breaking chains was impossible with the tools they had. The lock was out of reach. The Drav Cra were ungoadable. Most didn’t speak more than a few words of common now that Mak and his commanders were way out in front leading the march.

  Whitney’s head fell back against the bars. If he listened carefully, he could hear the sounds of Gentry’s crying, of Aquira’s muffled squeals. Eventually, his heavy eyelids shut. He battled them as best he could, but he was so tired…

  XXXIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten still hadn’t gotten used to waking in total darkness. Every new morning felt like he was floating, formless. He’d panic and nearly fall from his bed. This time was no different. Only, as he groped through the darkness, he realized he wasn’t on his bed. His fingers found the cold, damp stone, moss growing through a series of cracks.

  Valin, he thought, fists clenching as he remembered what had happened.

  He crawled along until he found a wall—more stone. His entire body was sore, making standing a chore. His head rang like church bells on the morning of the Dawning. He skirted along the wall, patting it to keep from falling until eventually, his hands fell through an opening.

  Excitement overtook him. He thrust his entire arm through, but the rest of his body fell against metal bars, somehow even more frigid than the stone. He grabbed for the next bar, then the next, all the way down until he found another stone wall.