“Who are you yelling at?”
Kazimir spun back around, drew a knife and had it at the speaker’s throat in less than a second. The man didn’t back away or startle. He stood, grinning from ear to ear as only Whitney Fierstown could.
“You,” Kazimir snarled.
“Me,” Whitney replied. “Not very nice getting snuck up on like that, is it?”
Kazimir lowered the blade. “Well if you’re here, at least it isn’t Elsewhere again.”
“Or did we never leave?” Whitney taunted.
Kazimir pursed his lips, then blew out and walked the other way “I don’t have time for this.”
“No, wait. Please.” Whitney ran and threw himself in front of Kazimir, hands palm out.
“What do you want, thief?”
Whitney Fierstown shifted in his stance, then released a nervous chuckle. “Kazzy, old friend. We need to talk.”
END
The Buried Goddess Saga will continue in War of Men coming Summer 2019.
Book FIVE
War of Men
Prologue
The golden stew boiled within one of many cauldrons, bubbling, wafting up a mouth-watering aroma, inviting Kari Kahoru to sneak just a small taste. She moaned as the broth hit her tongue. Perfect. The recipe had been passed down to her by her mother, and her mother before that, and it went on like this back to even before Panping was called Panping. Now, that glorious stew simmered in her kitchen.
The Innbetween, as her inn had always been called, stood west of Yaolin City and east of the Wildlands. It was a lone beacon on the Glass Road, providing respite for weary travelers. From all over Pantego they would come, and more than a few of them had tried to steal the recipe as they swept through, and just as many had been sent packing to find somewhere else to sleep—something Kari knew they wouldn’t find. Not without days of walking. The secret was locked in her mind, and nowhere else. It would only leave that vault when it was passed down to her daughter one day.
As if trying to earn it, Winimoto stirred the pot rigorously. “Like this?" her young daughter asked, barely tall enough to see over the pot’s rim.
"No," Kari said. She gently slapped Winimoto’s arm, then wrapped her own hands around her daughter’s. "You have to tilt the spoon. Just like this. Then you properly fold in the spices. Good.” Kari took another pinch of her special mixture and sprinkled the spices in while they stirred.
"What are those?"
“Ah-ah-ah, you won't trick me so easy." Kari poked Winimoto in the center of the forehead. "Only when you are old enough to be trusted with such a grand secret."
"It's just stew, Momma..." her daughter groaned.
"Just stew? Just stew?" Kari threw up her hands. Then she stabbed the air toward a booth just beyond the opening looking out into the dining hall. "I'll have you know that King Liam himself sat right there with Philippi Nantby the day he was named Governor of the eastern regions.” She pointed again. “In the western corner, with the King's Shield all around them, the Slayer of Redstar, himself, stood guard!”
“What does that have to do with the stew?”
“Would you have said, ‘It’s just King Liam, Momma?’” Kari asked. “I sure hope not.”
“I dunno,” Winimoto said quietly. “He’s just a man.”
“Just a man!” Kari was laughing, but there was no humor in it. “Wini, we owe him everything. When I was a child—your age—all any Panpingese man or woman was concerned with was magic. Magic this. Magic that. Never a care for practical things, like… you know, feeding our people. From all over, they visited the Red Tower to see if they have the gift, which, of course, so few do. Some of the fools even offered their services to the mystics only to be near them. Perhaps they’d hoped some magic would rub off while they scrubbed their robes.”
That got her daughter’s attention. She stopped stirring and looked up, eyes bulging. "Did you ever go?"
"And what, have the old Council test me?" Kari dismissed the very notion with a wave of her hand. “It was all playing games to them. What need do we have for that nonsense, when we have this place? What do I always say?"
Winimoto rolled her eyes. "'The open road isn't safe, except The Innbetween,'" she droned, as she’d done countless times before.
"Precisely. We're the first thing travelers see at the border of Panping. Long before Yaolin City or even Jangat. The Gateway to our people, our culture, our everything! And that… just stew? It's a taste of what Panping is truly capable of when we are not worried about magic tricks."
"They aren't tricks, Momma. Hadaoto said when he visited Panping with his parents, he saw a young woman who could wield fire with her hands! And a wyvern. A real one." Her daughter swept her free hand in front of her, accidentally slapping the top of the spoon and sending a bit of stew soaring onto the counter.
Kari ran her finger through the spill, then brought it to her mouth, sucking through her teeth. "If it can't feed us, it's a trick," she said, then gently pushed her daughter’s hand aside and took control of the spoon. Winimoto slinked back in shame. "Now, go and fetch the bowls. We have hungry guests."
She watched as her precious Wini crossed the room and collected clay bowls, stacking one inside another until the tower threatened to topple.
“That’s enough,” Kari said.
Wini whispered something under her breath.
“I heard that!” Kari scolded, absentmindedly stirring. The perfect technique came second nature to her now. The back of her grandmother's spoon made sure of that.
Her daughter came waddling back to the table, carrying a stack still far too tall for her stature.
"There you go," Kari said. "Hard work, not miracles. That's what makes us strong. Liam woke us up to that truth, and now the farms of Panping provide more food for Pantego than any region we know of. And food, my dear, is the wheel that keeps civilization going. Without a pot to cook in, we may as well be savages."
"Or knife-ears…" Winimoto muttered as she leaned up on the balls of her feet to place the bowls down.
Kari's hand shot out and grasped her wrist. The bowls fell with a clatter, but Kari didn’t even watch them bounce and roll along the floor. "Why would you say something like that?"
"I heard it... from one of the men out there drinking."
"What did he say?" Kari asked through clenched teeth, squeezing her daughter’s wrist without meaning to.
“Momma, that hurts,” Wini complained.
Kari let go. “What did he say?”
"Just that he wishes I was around back during the third war, and he'd have shown me what a pretty little knife-ear deserves."
"He said that about you—a child?"
“Uh-huh. Then his friends laughed and groused about ‘too many laws these days.’" She reached up and rubbed the pointed tip of her ears between her thumb and forefinger. "I guess they are like knives. I never really noticed."
"They aren't—" Kari took a deep, measured breath. She didn't even realize she had the spoon in her hand and out of the stew, knuckles white like she was going to beat somebody with it. She might. She'd been hesitant to let her daughter start helping on the inn floor, and, apparently, rightly so. Most travelers were just exhausted, looking for the delights of a good meal and sound sleep. But some, Kari wanted nowhere near her paradise, or her kin.
She stormed out of the kitchen and around the bar. The Innbetween was as quaint as it was entirely Panpingese. A red-leafed acer tree grew from an island on a pool in the room’s center, rising toward the peak of the sweeping roof. The water around it was dotted with white lilies that filled the whole dining area with a sweet aroma. Paper walls, painted with scenes of the old gods, offered privacy to some tables in the corners. The rest were laid out in a perfect grid, made from sturdy bamboo that had been there since well before Kari was born.
"Who would dare say that to a child!" she barked. Her cheeks were hot from boiling blood. However, she stopped the moment she got a look around the room. It was utt
erly empty even though the last time she’d checked, there were at least a dozen guests. The lute-player was gone, stool vacant. Her beloved husband tending the bar, vanished.
All gone.
“Hello?” she called, voice carrying. Never in her life had she heard the place echo around supper time. Ever since Liam’s war opened trade between the east and west, bringing riches to both sides, there were always travelers on the road.
Kari slowly crossed the room, a few of the old floorboards creaking, reminding her of the task she’d been meaning to issue her husband. Stopping at the stairs, she called up to the rooms, got no answer. She didn’t even hear footsteps. Walking past tables, she saw unfinished plates, undrained mugs, and worst of all, no autlas to pay for any of it.
“Momma, what’s going on?” Winimoto asked, standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding the swinging door open. A chunk of meat on the corner of her lip betrayed her sampling of the stew without asking. Kari let it go this time, far too concerned with other things.
“Stay there,” she told her daughter.
“But—”
“I said, stay.”
Kari moved back across the room, and a subtle, orange glow started to filter through the shaded front windows. It grew brighter, and flickered, like the flames in the spherical, paper lanterns hanging over the tables. Hurrying to the front door, she slid it open. The sweet scents of her garden usually awaited her there, but instead, there was something else. It smelled of cooked spices and sweetmeat.
That is not my stew, she thought to herself, but it smells delicious.
Spanning in either direction toward the darkening sky, the fine, squared stones of the Glass Road were a testament to the workmanship of her people. The Glass Road was always empty at this time of day, but in light of the events, something seemed especially off.
Where was everyone?
“Shinmen!” she called her husband’s name. “Shinmen, this isn’t funny!” No answer.
A gust of hot air drew her to the left, and she followed it around to the side of the inn where she heard whispers.
“Shi shi?” she said, but the words barely escaped her lips. She cleared her throat and said it in common, “Hello?”
The only reply was the steadily growing whispers. When she’d put the inn behind her, she could see her beloved herb garden, which helped produced flavors that’d delighted travelers for generations. However, beyond the thyme, lemongrass, and cardamom, she saw it.
People in long, red hooded robes stood in a wide circle around a crackling bonfire. They were speaking something but, from such a distance, Kari couldn’t understand. She moved closer.
“Buried, not dead,” they said, over and over. Each had a hand raised, with a dagger in the other already having sliced open their palms.
Kari gasped involuntarily, and every shrouded figured turned toward her, still chanting.
“Buried, not dead,” they said, only now louder. Their faces weren’t only veiled by their hoods, but hidden behind pure white, porcelain masks, expressionless and with a single red tear dripping from one of the eye holes. All identical. All horrifying.
They slowly approached her, robes dragging through her garden and disturbing the soil, their feet crushing her precious plants. Fear had her completely frozen, and once the circle broke, she saw that within the fire, other secrets were kept. The bodies of all those who’d been inside the inn, eating, drinking, enjoying the soft sounds of music, were arranged on the ground in the shape of a triangle within a circle. Their limbs were stretched to leave no breaks between them, their throats cut open, and each of them burned, the fire spreading into her garden now.
Kari’s spoon clanked against the cobblestones.
“No…no…no…” she stammered as she recognized the nearest body, forming a point of the triangle with another. Her husband’s eyes were frozen open and glassy, aimed right at her, the fire slowly charring his cheek.
She threw up, wiped her face, then threw up again. She tried to run but tripped on the step of the inn’s porch. She tried to crawl, but fear had her pinned, shaking. The masked killers neared, their voices growing louder.
“Buried, not dead.”
“Buried, not dead.”
“Buried, not dead.”
The Goddess
The Far North was bleak, white, stark, void of all life, but Nesilia could feel all of existence beneath her feet, from the halls of the Boiling Keep to the golden arches of Glinthaven and beyond. Directly below her, the squirming, writhing, and scurrying of dwarves in the many tunnels tickled her bare toes—Sora’s toes. Never had she cared for Meungor's pets—the furry rodents burrowing through the rock, with no greater ambitions than gold and mead. Such short-sightedness wasn’t tolerated in her own followers.
For as far as she could see, in all directions, those followers marched with her, clad in furs and painted with the blood of man and beasts. Dire wolves hobbled along beside them, starved. Some rode atop great, duel-tusked, hairy, mammoths they called chekt which only roamed the furthest reaches of the Drav Cra. The gods had another name for them, a name that, like she, had been buried and forgotten.
Five of Drav Cra’s most impressive dradinengors led their little armies, all declaring loyalty to her and Freydis after what they’d all witnessed at the Earthmoot in the Buried Hollow. The rest waited in Drav Cra, preparing for the great raid to come. Despite the bitter cold tundra north of Winter’s Thumb that the Drav Cra called home, a burning fire coursed through their veins, unwilling to be stifled. The world—Iam’s world—would feel their flames. The Buried Goddess would be avenged, and she’d use those deemed ‘savages’ to do it.
Freydis rode on the bare back of a gray dire wolf along one side of her, blood coating her eyes and lips, dripping down from the center of her mouth, over her chin and down into the cleavage of her breasts. She was pure power, concentrated into a lithe and beautiful form. Dark hair hung over her shoulders in mottled clumps, dotted with trinkets designed to channel the presence of their lady. In reality, they were useless, all of them, but the Drav Cra devotion to Nesilia was admirable, and thus, rewarded.
“My Lady,” Freydis said. “Do you think it wise that we left Wvenweigard to train the children? Should I not be there to help them indwell?”
“Do you now doubt me, too?” Nesilia asked. She knew it wasn’t what the woman meant, but mortals so needed the reminder.
“That’s not it at all,” Freydis said. “I’m sorry. I just—I simply—”
“You fault me for sparing his life.” It wasn’t a question. “You think I should have punished him with the other warlocks who refused to see me?”
“You did not know him, my Lady,” Freydis said. “He followed Redstar—”
“Did you not follow Redstar? Here I was, believing you to be his second in command. Was I mistaken about that as well?”
Freydis opened her mouth to speak.
“You say I didn’t know him—Wvenweigard… Which is it, dear Freydis—am I Nesilia, the Buried Goddess of Earth, or am I a fraud?”
Nesilia could see the flood of emotion washing over Freydis’ features.
“I’m sorry, my Lady,” the warlock said. “I just wonder what would have happened had Redstar stayed behind and left the fighting, conniving, and meddling to someone else.”
“What would have happened,” Nesilia said, “is that you would not be Arch Warlock, and you would not be by my side. You do wish to be by my side, do you not?”
“More than anything, my Lady.”
“Good. I need you here. This is the work of divinity we embark upon. Wvenweigard has proven himself loyal, just as you have. Those he chooses to indwell while we’re gone, will do so in your name. Arch Warlock Freydis. You like the sound, yes?”
“I…” Freydis started, but quickly settled for, “Yes, my Lady. You’re right.”
“Always,” Nesilia said with a smile.
She had been left behind, forgotten beneath a mountain for centuri
es, while Iam did as he pleased. She would not see Freydis suffer the same fate. It wasn’t that she held any real esteem for Freydis—but too long had men ruled under the Eye of Iam. No more.
While they marched across Winter’s Thumb, another worthy ally—so far as mortals can be worthy—Aihara Na, the one these fools called Ancient One, remained in Yaolin City to oversee the training of a new batch of mystics. As her first act within Sora’s body, Nesilia had dispatched of the old, set-in-their-ways Mystic Order.
Wvenweigard in the North. Aihara Na in the East. Both building an army of new and devoted soldiers.
Ancient One, Nesilia thought derisively. Nesilia had experienced festivals which lasted longer than this creature’s whole existence. But that was before the feud. That was before she and Iam set forth to create men and call into fruition the destruction of all she’d known and loved.
Love…
She shook away the thought, because with it, her host began to stir. Sora, daughter of the human King Liam and another Ancient One who’d died so easily… it sickened Nesilia to feel the meager emotions these beings considered to be love. They had no sense or scope for its true meaning. The flittering feeling in their bellies, goose pimples, swollen cocks, and erect nipples—these physical manifestations within their quickly dying bodies were not to be compared with eons of companionship.
Internally, she cursed both Iam and herself. Why had they even set forth to make these things. They are pitiful, weak. And she hated how much she needed them. Even in trying to bury the thoughts, they only grew, along with the taste of bile in the back of her throat.
She took a deep breath of the frigid air, pulling her to the present. As Nesilia looked around at the Drav Cra, she considered their mortality. Flesh and blood, protected by little more than animal skin and hard wood.
Aihara Na … now that was power. The old mystic may have been barely corporeal, but she had untold power. She feasted upon Elsewhere—drawing strength from the very gods which Nesilia had played a part in banishing. With neither body to slay nor blood to spill, who could kill such a thing? Though a mere child in terms of age, they were like unto gods, themselves, or as close as creation had known for these many centuries.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 59