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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Huh?” Gentry said.

  “Nothing. There used to be a garden here,” Whitney said, looking at a spot on the wood floor. “Trees. Flowerbeds, tall grasses. Just over the edge, where that uhm… gilded naked mermaid statue is, there was a cave entrance. It was narrow and looked like an animal burrow carved into the side of the cliff face, but you wouldn’t believe what was inside.

  “What was it?” Gentry asked. His eyes were saucer-wide and even in the darkness, sparkled with intrigue.

  “Well, it was… uh… a big cave. It’s not important what it was as much as how out of place it was. I’m sure no one had been there before or since. Spanned the whole underground of this side of Panping like some kind of secret city.”

  “It was empty?”

  “As far as I could tell at the time. I’d explored, but it was beyond huge. Looked like the perfect place to hide something valuable.”

  “I still do not understand why you would steal these things just to hide them.”

  “Anyone can obtain stuff, Gentry. And anyone can get rich doing it. This was about the thrill.”

  “But it helps nobody underground.”

  “It’s helping us now, isn’t it? I’ve sold plenty, trust me. Some men like to lock their treasures up in a vault. I prefer to spread mine out so nobody can rob me back. Anyway, I don’t need to justify myself to a kid. Life is all about experiences. I thought the Glintish knew this.”

  “I suppose,” Gentry said.

  Whitney surveyed the room. He could estimate that the statue indeed rested upon the ledge, but a wood paneled floor now covered it.

  “Staircase,” Whitney said. “There’s got to be one. Split up and look around.”

  It was difficult to focus on locating a staircase with so many amazing things lining the walls. Inside, the place reminded Whitney of Gold Grin’s ship even more than the exterior had. Elaborate wooden cornice joined the walls to the tall ceiling above, complete with golden brackets. The balcony of the upper floor, too, was intricately carved from what appeared to be a single piece of wood on each side.

  “Over here!” Gentry called. “Stairs!”

  Whitney tore his focus away long enough to see the boy at the far end of the room. Joining him, they stared down into darkness below.

  “Wait,” Gentry said as Whitney started down. "We cannot just go in there. What if something dangerous is down there?”

  “In the cellar?” Whitney laughed, then turned.

  “Seriously, Mr. Fierstown.”

  Whitney exhaled slowly, then crossed the room and dragged a chair back to the wall. He let it make a long, groaning sound just to accentuate the action. Stepping up, he reached out and snagged a short sword on display, stepped down, moved the chair again, and grabbed a short bow and a quiver of arrows. Finally, he snatched two crossed daggers from plaques on the walls. The daggers appeared Breklian in design, dark metal with sweeping blades like dragon teeth. The sword was gilded, almost like it was only ornamental, but the weight felt right.

  It felt good to have daggers again. With all that had been going on, Whitney had been forced to leave the few weapons they'd brought with them at the city gates. Apparently, the Glass Kingdom’s Governor had grown strict since the Shesaitju rebellion began. Yaolin had been a peaceful city last time Whitney visited, with remarkably little crime. Now, only sworn Glass Soldiers were permitted to openly carry blades in the city.

  He couldn’t complain, seeing the beauties he now had his hands on. A part of him considered leaving right then and there with more of the weapons on display, but if Lucindur was right about the value of her salfio strings, he’d need a lot more. A chest of gold and jewels even. Besides, he didn’t crave that thrill anymore. Selling a dozen weapons plucked out of a public place was surer to get him caught than one extremely rare item. He wouldn’t do Sora any good locked up again.

  “Are they real?” Gentry asked. “Not just decoration?”

  “I think so. Sharp as any I’ve held,” Whitney said, handing Gentry the short sword. “Good?”

  Gentry waved the blade in the air a bit and nodded.

  After slinging the bow and quiver over his shoulder, Whitney tucked the daggers into his belt and said, “Are we ready now?” He didn’t wait for a reply before descending.

  Darkness hit him like a fist, momentarily sending him back into the place he’d just been—souls screaming to him from Elsewhere. The feeling passed much quicker this time. He’d been out of Elsewhere for so long now, he wondered why he was now being affected so much by it.

  C’mon Whitney, he told himself. Just buckle down and save her, or you’ll never hear the end of it when you both reach Elsewhere.

  As they descended, the only light was Celeste’s bright light which poured in through more portholes, painting the stairwell orange, then even that was absent.

  “We should have brought Aquira,” Gentry whispered.

  “And who else would be around to protect Lucy and Talwyn?” Whitney replied, inwardly cursing himself that the boy was right, but things were easier in a city under watch without a wyvern on your shoulder. Plus, she hadn’t been herself ever since the Drav Cra muzzled her. She’d been listless, jaded, and Whitney was damned if he allowed Sora’s favorite pet to get taken away from him if they were caught.

  “Still, how are we supposed to see?” Gentry said, his tone betrayed the tremble of fear.

  “What are you, afraid of the dark? Torches get thieves caught.”

  “You said it’s empty.”

  “I said it was empty.”

  Gentry gave him a pleading look.

  Whitney stifled a groan. “Wait here.” He crept back upstairs to the bar, broke a nigh’jel lantern off the wall, and hurried back down. “There, happy?”

  He noticed Gentry nod out of the corner of his vision.

  “Always a cheap solution around the corner,” Whitney said. “Let’s go.”

  The lower level was like any other in the realm. It reminded Whitney of the Twilight Manor’s storeroom, or even the cellar where he and Gentry had stayed in Grambling. There was nothing intricate or elaborate, just raw wood walls and dust. Lots of dust.

  Pushing past crates, barrels, and other supplies, they reached the back wall. The wood construction butted right up against the cliff face and there, in the center of it all, was a boarded-up hole that Whitney knew very well.

  “Ah-hah!” Whitney exclaimed. “As I said.” He then dug his fingers under the planks and pulled, but nothing happened. Then he took a step back and appraised the situation.

  Whitney put down the lantern. “Back up and give me your sword.”

  “What are you going to do? You can’t just—”

  Gentry’s objection was disturbed by Whitney snatching the sword from his grip. Then, the loud thunk of the pommel against wood.

  “Wow, that’s solid.” Whitney lifted and tried again, to no avail. On the third strike, he heard a small crack. It took a dozen more strikes before the pommel broke through. He shoved the blade through, held it longways, and used it like a pry bar to snap the wood further.

  “Help me,” he panted.

  Gentry shoved his fingers through and pulled another plank. Then another. Soon they stared into a deep, cavernous hole. If the cellar appeared dark, this was the abyss. Whitney glanced down at Gentry, eyes wide with fright. He returned the sword to him, knowing how much safer it always made him feel, having a weapon to defend himself. Gentry took it back gratefully.

  “You know, us bringing weapons all but guarantees we’ll have to use them,” Whitney said. “It’s sort of how the world works.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fierstown,” Gentry answered, his voice small and quavering.

  “All right, then in we go.”

  Gentry carried the green lantern. It was a good thing too because, without it, they wouldn’t have been able to see anything inside the caverns. The passages weren’t wide, though not claustrophobia-inducing, yet. They curved up into a natural arch above them. Thick st
alactites hung beyond it, many times reaching the floor like columns.

  Whitney followed close behind, squeezing between one such pillar and the wall. Wet, dirty perspiration coated his back as he dragged it along the stone. Cold and damp, it reminded Whitney of Bliss’s lair. A frozen finger traced the length of his spine.

  Come on, Whit. Get it together. Things had been simpler back before he'd seen all the horrors of the world and beyond it. So much simpler.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Fierstown?” Gentry whispered. His voice wavered slightly, but Whitney didn’t know if it was still from fear or the air, growing more frigid with each step.

  “Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Just fine. Watch out for that puddle.” A long line of water seeped in through a crack above like a tiny river. It reflected the light of the lantern, momentarily illuminating the area brighter than before. Specks in the rock bounced the light as well, creating a prism of color that cut through the green nigh’jel wash.

  They left the steady drip behind them and cut a turn to the right. It was one of several they’d taken, and it all looked relatively the same.

  “How do you know where we’re going?” Gentry asked

  Whitney pointed to his head. “Mind like a steel trap. It really shouldn’t be much farther.”

  They ducked into a hole, which now did threaten to bring on the panic of being enclosed in a tight space. The last time Whitney had done something like this, there were sticky webs and soft, red blisters filled with transparent little spider babies.

  Whitney cleared his throat and his mind and said, “Do you miss them?” His voice echoed within the tunnel.

  “Who?” Gentry replied.

  “The Pompares,” Whitney said. He was the last person on Pantego to offer wisdom regarding parental figures, but the question had been ignored for so long. Someone ought to ask.

  “Do I miss the back of Fadra’s hand?” Gentry scoffed. There was a bite in his words that Whitney found all too familiar.

  He’d spent years using that precise tone when discussing Rocco’s effect on his life. As far as Whitney had removed himself from them, their real deaths, dying from the sullied water supply, had had a more profound impact than he was willing to admit out loud. He now realized he blamed himself, though he didn’t exactly know why. Chances are, he’d have died from the same thing had he stayed in Troborough, but after taking care of his fake mother for so long in Elsewhere, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could’ve made a difference.

  But above everyone he left in Fake Troborough, the face that stuck with him, the moment that burned itself into his mind, was when Young Whitney broke Sora’s heart by leaving.

  “She loved you,” Whitney said, wondering if he was telling himself that or Gentry.

  A moment passed between them, splashes and trickles filling the silence before Gentry said, “I do not want to talk about this.”

  Whitney knew he was pushing it. Who did he think he was, anyway? You tell jokes. Leave the mushy stuff to someone who isn’t an emotional carriage wreck. “Okay, fine. Yeah. You’re right. Look, up there. That’s the turn, I think.”

  The light from the lantern bounced as Gentry crawled behind Whitney, making it difficult for him to see his hand placement. It didn’t really matter anymore; they were both already soaked and dripping from the many puddles.

  Finally, the tunnel opened into a cylindrical, vertical shaft, taller than it was wide. Whitney groaned as he rose, making a vain attempt to brush off his pants. Light filtered in through a grate that opened up into Panping. Once, Whitney tried to figure out where it led, but the best he could track it was to a large temple that had once been for Ghenuah, the Panpingese God of Dark Nights. It was said he was the patron god of thieves, murderers, and debauchers of all kinds.

  Of all the gods and goddesses Whitney had met, why couldn’t Ghenuah have been among them?

  There’s still time, Whitney mused.

  The ground was covered in feathers. Thanks to the lantern, they only appeared green, but Whitney thought he could see the subtle shimmer of a familiar liquid on them.

  “Is that blood?” Gentry asked.

  “Just chicken blood, I think.Feathers too.” Many of the temples within the city were known for fowl sacrifices. As Whitney said it, they heard echoing voices jabbering in Panpingese. A second later, they were hit with buckets of liquid. Whitney looked up just in time to get splattered in the face. He wiped away the iron-tinged substance from his eyes and was met with a load of feathers floating down.

  “Gross,” he said, flapping his hands to dismiss some of the blood. He looked at Gentry, who had a bright white feather hanging from his nose. Whitney snickered, and they both collapsed into a fit of laughter. Then Whitney realized someone above might hear and said, “Shhhh.”

  He motioned to a ledge and a small alcove not ten feet above them. No ladders were leading there, but it was an easy climb after Whitney boosted Gentry up. He made for the back of the alcove, then patted through a pile of loose rock and dirt, found something soft, and grinned.

  “Ah, my child,” Whitney said airily.

  “That’s it? It’s just a… a what?”

  “This, young Gentry, is an enchanted robe belonging to a council member of the Mystic Order.” He flapped the fabric to reveal a yellow robe with bright ornamental markings, radiant even in the darkness. If only Sora could have seen him now. He knew every time he brought up one of his hidden treasures, she thought him exaggerating. Or everyone else who’d ever said to him, “If you have that, where is it?” or, “Why not sell it?”

  This is why! My own personal bank, stored around the world.

  “That’s going to be worth enough for Lucindur to restring her salfio?” Gentry asked, clearly unimpressed with what appeared, on the outside, to be only an overly extravagant robe. Whitney wasn’t sure what it did, or how it worked, but he knew it was legitimate; plucked from the private vault beneath the mansion of a family with mystics dating back centuries.

  “To the right buyer,” Whitney said, still marveling at the enchanted robe.

  “How will we find the right buyer?”

  “Glassmen love their trinkets from defeated cultures. We’ll be able to hold an auction for this thing if we wanted.”

  “That sounds more than a little bit dangerous,” Gentry said. “What if someone just tries to… take it?”

  Whitney draped the robe over his shoulder and let his hand fall to one of his new daggers. “Just you let them.” He grinned. “Alright, now let’s get on.”

  A low rumble rose just beneath the pitter-patter trickle of poultry blood still dripping through the metal grate above.

  Whitney stopped at the edge, turning away from the vertical shaft and said, “Hungry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your stomach is growling. I should've remembered food. It won’t be lon—”

  “That wasn’t my stomach,” Gentry interrupted.

  A dozen sharp snarls drew Whitney’s attention back to the feather-laden cavern. From the tunnel they’d entered, came a veritable army of hawk-faced beasts. They appeared to be half-man, half-bird, and wet-looking feathers glistened in the lantern’s glow.

  “Shog in a barrel.” He’d seen grimaurs in person, but only ever in cages owned by curiosities dealers. They were considered rare, frightened of men, and deadly when cornered.

  “M-M-Mr. Wh-Wh-Whitney,” Gentry stuttered. “G-Grimaurs.”

  Of course, Gentry knew what they were. They hailed from the mountains surrounding his homeland and were way too far south—and in way too big a grouping. Whitney had never heard of more than a handful being spotted in the ridges of the Pikebacks by hunters after their down feathers and other rare body parts. They weren’t known to gather.

  Each one had a long, sharp beak extending from their predatory faces. Their feathered wings doubled as arms, almost like Aquira, and their legs and arms ended in razor-sharp talons the length of a man’s forearm even though they were each only half Whitne
y’s height.

  “Get your sword ready,” Whitney told Gentry as he pulled out his new short bow.

  “What do they want?” Gentry asked, all his nerves from earlier seeming to have returned in full force.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out either.”

  They stared up at Whitney with narrow yellow eyes. One let out an ear-piercing shriek, like a dying galler bird, and the others joined in. As Whitney watched, he neglected to consider the space above them. A grimaur’s head lowered right into his field of view. Without even a second thought, as if he’d trained for it his whole life, Whitney snatched an arrow from his quiver, nocked the bow, and let the missile go. It caught the beast right through the eye and its corpse careened down and into the mass below.

  The hoard protested with high-pitched vehemence. They made their way as one, clambering over one another to reach the alcove. With what Whitney knew of the creatures, none of it added up. These ones, the look in their eyes, they seemed rabid.

  “Ready?” Whitney asked.

  “I’m scared,” Gentry replied.

  “Me too.”

  Whitney fired down, one arrow after another. Most of them maimed or killed the smaller grimaurs, providing a bit of extra time, but the sheer number of them spelled out death. One, large and ugly, screeched toward him and sliced the bow in two with a fierce talon swipe. Whitney bashed it in the head with one of the bow halves, then drew both saw-toothed daggers, and planted his feet.

  A grimaur peeked over the ledge and Gentry stabbed forward. It didn’t die, but it fell backward, knocking a few more down with it.

  “Good strike!” Whitney celebrated. “Try and hit it next time.”

  Another popped up, and Whitney drove his boot into its beak, it went down, but another grabbed his ankle and yanked. Whitney slipped, falling to his rear and bouncing before getting dragged forward. He kicked with his other foot, desperate to relieve himself of the thing’s grip. Whitney closed his eyes, screamed, and slashed like a madman with his weapons.

  An exasperated wheeze sounded, and hot blood sprayed his face. He stopped moving. When he opened his eyes, he saw Gentry removing his short sword from where it was buried hilt-deep in the grimaur’s skull.