“Hmmmmm,” Tum Tum said, finally breaking his silence. He stroked his scraggly black beard, then walked toward the outer wall of the cabin and stared through one of the low, circular windows.
They all looked to him.
“What is it?” Sora asked.
“Might be nothin.”
“Might be everything,” Whitney said. “Spit it out.”
“Well, my people have a legend—might be just that. Tale tells of a stone held by the King of the Three Kingdoms. They call it the Brike Stone, after one of me own. Supposed to be, miner named Brike Sledgeborne made a deal with a dragon. If it helped him dig a new home far from the grasp of humans, it could have all their riches. But he tricked the beast, and it tricked him. Brike didn’t get to live in his new home, and the Dragon got no riches. Instead, they were both damned to see what they wanted for all eternity and never get it, their souls bound to the dragon’s heart. I don’t know, sounds made up, now that I’m sayin it. It’s prolly just a big ol ruby.”
“No,” Lucindur said. “That’s good. I’ve heard the tale, too.”
“The Brike Stone?” Whitney asked. “Sounds like hogwash. I think if such a thing existed, I’d have tried to steal it.”
“I’m sure you haven’t heard of every treasure in Pantego,” Sora said.
Whitney appeared wounded just by the very thought. “I guess that’s possible. Dwarves do tend to talk and sing about nonsense and get me zoning out.” He glanced at Tum Tum. “No offense.”
“None taken. That be very true.”
Lucindur ignored them and lifted her salfio off her back. She started to play and to sing. It wasn’t magical, or at least, didn’t seem to be. But her pretty voice and the pure sound of her strings had Sora instantly absorbed.
Strike, strike, went the pickaxe O’ Brike
Gold, and iron, and silver alike
Piles and piles like never before
Fell at the feet of the youngest Sledgeborne
It was cold, he was tired, but he’d never abate
Beneath miles of stone lay the call of his fate
T’was none of the goodies that he’d mined before
Which fell at the feet of the youngest Sledgeborne
She slowed down and closed her eyes as if deep in thought.
“Aye, that be a classic!” A huge smile appeared on Tum Tum’s lips as he took the lead, bobbing his head and singing the words way out of tune. Lucindur smiled as she went along with him.
Strike, strike, went the pickaxe O’Brike
Gold, and iron, and silver alike
Grumble, grumble, the mountain did rumble
As a monster bore down, Balonhearth crumbled
Outside, far above, where the beasts of air fly
Brike found the source of a terrible cry
The dragon did land; there was no time to warn
So he took up his pickaxe, the youngest Sledgeborne
“I heard your beckon, I heard your call
I’ll give you your home, in exchange for your gold”
The dragon did taunt, and the dragon did spur
He’d never expected what was to occur
Strike, strike, went the pickaxe O’Brike
A home was made, but the home wasn’t right
“I’ll take the home, too,” the dragon did say
“And I’ll keep the gold,” said Brike clear as day
Strike, strike, went the pickaxe O’Brike
The dragon’s heart on the end of a spike
But there was a price; Brike did pay a toll
The cost was steep; the cost was his soul
“That was beautiful,” Sora said.
“Oh, yeah. Splendid. More singing,” Whitney groaned. Then he turned to Tum Tum and asked, “Do you know where it is—this Brike Stone? Or do you just know a dusty old tune?”
“So moody,” Tum Tum said.
“The world’s about to end, and you two are singing songs. I thought at least the salfio would do its little twinkly lights thing.”
“You’re insufferable,” Lucindur said.
“Isn’t he?” Sora added, stifling a snicker.
“It’s why you love me,” Whitney said. “Now, the stone?”
“Well, I never seen it with me own eyes, but I hear King Lorgit Cragrock has it in the Iron Bank—one of his many, but most-prized treasures. Like I said, probably just a big ruby, but it’s heavily guarded by the craziest and fiercest of dwarves. The clanbreakers. Spiky armor, shog-shucking crazy.”
“Sounds scary,” Whitney said. “Nothing more frightening than half-pint men spinning with axes.”
“Watch yer yiggin mouth,” Tum Tum warned.
“Focus. Both of you,” Sora said. “Tum Tum, do you know the way?”
“Wait a second,” Whitney interjected. “We are just going to go off into Dwarfland because of some song? How do we know this stone really exists, and if it does, that it’ll even do anything? I know what you all think of my old profession, and yes, I said profession, but I feel like I’d have heard of this.”
“Or, maybe no thief was dumb enough to go after the Iron Bank,” Tum Tum argued. “It’s never been robbed. Never even been attempted.”
“There’s nothing I’m not dumb enough to do,” Whitney said, probably not realizing it.
“You have a better idea?” Sora asked.
Whitney’s lip twisted. “Well, no—“
“Then this is all we have. We can sit here and do nothing, waiting for Nesilia to send more demons after us, or we can go find something relatively close by that might… might have a chance at stopping her. And if not, we’ll find something else. I won’t stop…” She took a deep, shaky breath. “We can’t stop until she’s gone.”
“Close by?” Whitney scoffed. “It’s halfway across the yigging world.
“Closer than Yarrington,” Sora said. “Closer than a lot of places, at that. Besides, Whitney, we have no other choice. By sea, it won’t be that bad, we’ll be to Yevet Cove sooner than later, and from there, it’s a short walk.”
Whitney stared, incredulous, then ran a hand through his hair. It had grown long since the last time they’d been together. Sora thought she liked it.
“Well, if you were trying to tempt me by saying all that stuff about dumb thieves, it worked. You can get us there?”
“As Sora said, it’s a few days sail across the Covenstan Depths, then a short climb. But the entry ain’t too far away.”
“But, you can get us there?”
“Aye.”
Whitney clapped his hands. “Then, what are we waiting for?
VIII
The Knight
In recent times, Torsten hadn’t imagined approaching the gates of Latiapur except at the lead of an army. It wouldn’t be like last time, serving under King Liam, when the Black Sands were conquered and their former Caleef bent the knee. They hadn’t stayed long then. Not even to watch the tournament hosted in honor of King Liam, where Muskigo’s rise to fame had begun. There’d been too many other, more pressing matters at hand.
Deep down, however, he did always hate the kinship he’d felt with the Shesaitju. How disciplined and strict they were. How dedicated to the art of fighting—and for them, it truly was an art. He hated how he felt more in common with them than most of the nobles in Old Yarrington. More in common with heathens who worshipped the sea than the people he’d grown up around.
When he’d first battled Muskigo, Torsten saw how, if it hadn’t been for Uriah Davies’ guidance, he would have easily become like the afhem—bent on vengeance, without boundaries, and willing to kill innocents in the name of victory. And as he approached the city of their new Caleef, he wondered if those feelings had been what pushed him to despise the man so viciously.
Now, the fate of his entire world hinged on Muskigo’s daughter. A stranger. And the only thing Torsten knew about her was how soundly she’d routed Sir Nikserof’s army before supposedly rising from the dead, chosen by her people’s God of
Sand and Sea.
She’d be another foreign Queen to enter the hallowed halls of the Glass Castle. Only, unlike Oleander, Mahraveh wasn’t merely hard and forceful—she was a warrior. A commander. Liam had the heart to stand up to his betrothed, but Torsten knew Pi well enough to know that he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Mahraveh was all the things Oleander was, and older than him.
To have any hope of defeating Nesilia, they would be handing over the Glass Kingdom itself.
“Are you okay, Sir Unger?” Lucas asked.
“Huh?” Torsten glanced up. They were atop a black dune looking down over Latiapur and a field of stacked clay buildings. Along the back, sharp cliffs rose, topped by a grand, domed palace exceeded only by the Glass Castle in pure magnitude of human engineering.
“You stopped.”
“Oh.” Torsten breathed in a mouthful of the hot, musty air. The desert was unforgiving, and he was a much younger man when last he was there. “Just thinking.”
“About what we saw?” Lucas asked. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about. Their eyes. I’ve never witnessed such evil.”
“Weirdly enough, no. I’ve seen evil. Plenty of it. That was awful, but possession isn’t surprising. It’s so much worse when a man grows impure all on his own..”
“Those people could have been strong enough, faithful enough to resist possession. Like you’d been.”
Torsten chuckled. “I’m beginning to think it’s just stubbornness. But I’ve seen what happens when the boundaries of Elsewhere tear. The mystics often pushed too far in their war against us, and some fell to demons. Even Wren the Holy couldn’t save some of them.”
Lucas seemed to shudder at the thought. He turned his attention back to the impressive Shesaitju capital, with a marketplace so bustling and colorful, it was hard to believe.
“Then what is it, Sir?” Lucas asked. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re troubled.”
“A desire to turn around,” Torsten admitted.
“What?”
“I understand the wisdom of this marriage. Uniting our people in a way that binds blood and fates together. Muskigo wouldn’t have offered it if it wasn’t the right strategic move. He would have hated selling his daughter too much.”
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, Sir.”
“Once they are lawfully joined under the Light of Iam, the Glass Kingdom we know dies,” Torsten said. “Muskigo will get his victory.”
“That’s not the way I see it.”
“Because you’re young, and the only woman you’ve yet loved is your mother. If everything about this Mahraveh is true, and she’s anything like her father, she’ll roll right over King Pi like an avalanche in the Dragon’s Tail.”
“No.” Lucas shook his head emphatically. “You forget who his father was. And his mother for that matter. And you, his chief adviser.”
“Lord Jolly is his chief advisor. I am but a relic.”
“You know that isn’t true, Sir Unger. You are the Master of Warfare and—“
“A title created by a child to make an old, blind man feel needed.”
“That’s enough, Sir,” Sir Danvels said. “I know you outrank me, and you’ve lived longer, but you’re the most respected man alive. Iam’s breath, to most of us, you should be King.”
“Bite your tongue,” Torsten said.
“We need you, Sir Unger.” Lucas trotted his mount closer, lowering his voice as if not wanting to dare Nesilia to overhear him. “You saw what’s coming. If we don’t stand together, she’ll destroy us all…” He swallowed hard and looked toward the ground. “She might either way.”
Torsten lifted his chin. “She won’t. You’re right, Lucas. The time to worry about the Glass Kingdom’s future is after we win. And if it is meant to end in defense of all the world Iam built, then so be it.”
Torsten gave his mare a kick, and it shot down the dune toward the city gates. He couldn’t let pride impede him. Nor his love for a fallen King and Queen. The kingdom of Iam needed him, and that had to mean more than a castle or a crown. Didn’t it?
Latiapur neared, and the first thing Torsten noticed wasn’t the host of golden-clad Serpent Guards lining the gates’ entry. It was the hundred or so Shesaitju warriors leaving. Men armed to the teeth marched and rode zhulong out, turning to head north.
None appeared happy. One in the lead even watched Torsten on approach, seeming to sour the nearer he got. And when Torsten pulled up in the shadow of the gate, the leader spat in his direction. He was bald, and like any afhem, tattooed from head to toe, except right along the back and side of his skull, where the mark of his afhemate had been scraped off to leave a scar just like Muskigo bore.
“They’re leaving?” Lucas asked. “Nobody is supposed to leave. We need them.”
“To face off against a goddess they don’t believe in,” Torsten remarked.
“Don’t believe in? Their own people saw her!”
“War tore the Black Sands apart. Not all their people will approve of this union, just as half the nobles of Yarrington will likely protest. It’s inevitable.”
“Torst… Master Unger, you saw what Nesilia has behind her. We’ll need everyone.”
“Everyone we can get,” Torsten agreed. “Lord Brouben is already hard at work convincing his father to speak with the dwarven kingdoms and summon as large an army as they can muster. King Pi sent a dozen gallers to Brekliodad before departing Yarrington, begging their dukes to put aside any differences and aid. We will have whatever we can get, and many won’t be eager to die for a world beyond their borders.”
“Until she comes for them,” Lucas spat.
“And then it’ll be too late. But I met Nesilia, and I felt her heart. She’ll aim for the Glass first. With everything she has. She’ll come to snuff out Iam’s light, and if we fall, everyone will fall.”
“Then everyone who doesn’t fight with us is a fool,” Lucas said.
“Welcome to Pantego.”
Torsten feigned a grin, then trotted forward into the city. Only weeks ago, the Shesaitju guards might have torn Glassmen like them to pieces for coming so near. Sir Marcos had been on the wrong end of such an interaction—killed for being a messenger.
“Sir Unger, you are finally here!” a gravelly voice exclaimed. A chunky Shesaitju man pushed through the guards, then waddled over, using his hammer-staff as a crutch. It was Tingur Jalurahbak, the former afhem who’d battled Nesilia alongside Torsten and the others at White Bridge. Presently, he had a red-stained bandage over his afhemate markings and a wrap-around both his gut and bad leg courtesy of the Buried Goddess.
“Lord Tingur,” Torsten acknowledged, bowing his head from atop his horse.
“I’m no lord,” he replied.
Tingur promptly shouted at some of his men in Saitjuese, and their equivalent of stable boys hurried out to help with the horses. They assisted Torsten, even doing so much as to cup their hands so he could use them as a step. They buckled under the weight of him, then did the same for Lucas. It was unnecessary, but Torsten felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders at the warm welcome.
Tingur approached him, then slapped his shoulder. Torsten had forgotten how short and stocky the gray man was, and his curling mustache seemed even thicker, but there was no mistaking his expression. He truly was pleased for Torsten to be there. It wasn’t a show.
“Your injuries—“ Torsten began before Tingur cut him off.
“Won’t stop me from fighting that pis’truda. That lot you just saw leave might not believe what’s coming for them, but I know what we saw.”
“Good.” Torsten gestured to Lucas and invited him over. “As my ward here has said a thousand times since we left Panping, we’ll need everyone we can get.”
“Smart kid.”
“Our Shieldsmen always are.”
“King Pi arrived with more than a handful more,” Tingur said. “They’re a little younger than I expected.”
Torsten b
it his lip. He couldn’t believe it was so obvious how green the warriors of the Glass Kingdom’s highest echelon now were. He wondered if, perhaps, they should consider covering their faces like the Serpent Guards. Cutting out their tongues, so they had no voices of their own, was a stretch, but something to maintain the mystique of Liam the Conqueror’s elite.
“How is the King?” Torsten asked.
“Preparing for a feast,” Tingur replied. “Come. I’ll take you.”
Torsten nodded, and two of the Serpent Guards broke off to escort them through the crowded, zigzagging streets of Latiapur. There was barely space to breathe. Markless men and women—those Shesaitju who had never committed to one of their warrior clans and instead inhabited Latiapur—cluttered around like ants, transporting supplies, selling supplies. The Yarrington markets were half the size of theirs, and infinitely less colorful.
Warriors marched on patrols. Not just single guards or even pairs, but full squads in full armor. Serpent Guards monitored every major avenue and structure. Torsten had never seen Latiapur like this before.
A show of force from our new Queen, he realized. He knew that because it was precisely what Muskigo would’ve done. Like hanging bodies off a wall to scare the enemy away from battle.
“So, what is Nesilia planning?” Tingur asked. “How many men will we need?”
“All of them. In the whole world. If we can get them,” Torsten said.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s worse than not good,” Lucas chimed in.
“It seems that Nesilia has done what even the worst mystics in the last age have only attempted,” Torsten said. “She’s torn Elsewhere wide open.”
“The Currentless Realm?” Tingur asked, his eyes going wide.
“Its name is irrelevant. But the demons of the damned who dwell there are not. They have infested the poor souls of Panping. Who knows how many…”
“Ah, those skinny Easterners?” Tingur scoffed. “This’ll be easier than I thought.”
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 121