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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Brouben took another long moment of reflection, then nodded firmly. “If this be what it takes, then I say, find her. We dwarves are built for fightin. Let her monsters come, and we’ll show them the might of the Dragon’s Tail.”

  “Perfect,” Sora said.

  “Are you sure?” Lucindur asked.

  “Ye keep forgettin, I saw what Nesilia can do,” Brouben said. “Only reason I’m back here is to warn me father, and he threw me out like the trash. We’ve gotta stop her, no matter what it takes. We either fight today or die tomorrow.”

  Tum Tum slapped Brouben on the back. “Glad to be back by yer side, brother!”

  “Glad to have ye back. Just wish it were under different circumstances.”

  Lucindur shook her head. “I don’t know. We should wait until we were in a more defensible position before showing our cards. Until we have the stone, at least.”

  “I’d think in a mountain like this, surrounded by warriors like these dwarves,” Sora said, eyeing Brouben, “we won’t find a more defensible position.”

  “She ain’t wrong there,” Tum Tum said.

  “Nope,” Brouben agreed.

  “Be that as it may, my magic only works if I have something that belongs to the one we seek,” Lucindur said. “Being as how she is a goddess, I doubt she left one of her possessions lying around.”

  Sora’s stomach turned over. That’s exactly what Nesilia had done. Sora was her possession, and she’d left her, empty and alone. What other choice did she have, but this? She didn’t know how to access their link to each other or the implications of doing so. She couldn’t even be sure if the vision Nesilia last gave her of Yaolin was actually just a dream. Or even if Nesilia was showing her lies. This time, they had to be entirely sure, and Lucindur’s powers would allow that.

  “Me,” Sora said, low.

  “What?” Tum Tum and Lucindur replied together.

  “She possessed me, mind and body. If you can’t use me to find her, you won’t be able to use anything.”

  “That seems dangerous,” Tum Tum said.

  “And what isn’t dangerous?” Sora asked. “We are talking about gods and goddesses and the end of all life. Brouben is risking his own people for us. This is it. This is our chance. It’s now or never.”

  “What about Whitney?” Lucindur asked.

  “If he don’t get that stone, we are all dead anyway,” Tum Tum reminded them.

  “He’s right,” Sora offered. “And maybe Whitney needs our help for once. We give him a real distraction. If he can’t get out with the stone during this, then what kind of thief is he?”

  “She’s right,” Tum Tum returned, grinning.

  “So, it’s settled. We find Nesilia, we find Whitney, and cause chaos in the city enough for us all to escape.”

  “What if she comes herself?” Lucindur asked.

  It was a question Sora hadn’t considered. Until then, she figured it would just be more goblins and the like.

  “Let’s not think about that,” Lucindur answered herself, beating Sora to it. “It’s a fine plan as any.”

  “Only one we got,” Tum Tum said. “Whitney would be proud.”

  “Right. Okay, so how do we do this?” Sora asked.

  Lucindur looked nervous. “Tum Tum, we need quiet and privacy.”

  It was a simple request said with kindness, and Tum Tum took the hint, rose, and grabbed Brouben by the arm. “C’mon, me old friend. Let’s go stand guard. Tell me everythin about yer fight with the goddess, and I’ll tell ye mine.”

  Brouben looked around nervously, then conceded. Together, they moved into an adjacent room.

  “Maybe me father’s got some of his old weapons still in here. I could use a new hammer,” Tum Tum said as he closed the door.

  When they were gone, Lucindur said, “My gift. Lightmancery… Have you ever seen it in practice?”

  She hadn’t. However, Wetzel’s lessons, although not comprehensive, were sufficient. She’d learned about all kinds of magics from all over Pantego, both old and timely. There hadn’t been much about the Glintish folk in his books, but enough to know what Lightmancing entailed.

  Sora shook her head. “No, but I’ve read of it.”

  “Right. Well, in practice, it can be… jarring.”

  “I used to cut my hands and arms. I understand the risks, Lucy.” Using the name Whitney had given her provided slight comfort. It was silly, but Sora would accept all the comfort she could. “But what choice do we have?”

  Lucindur nodded. “Right you are. Okay, now, I want you to close your eyes and relax.”

  After a long, deep breath, Sora closed her eyes, and panic overwhelmed her. Darkness had been taunting her for as long as she could recall since the Citadel. It was almost like she could feel Nesilia reaching out for her mind, teasing her, in control. Her eyelids shot open, and she was breathing heavily.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just need a second.” She didn’t want to let Nesilia in again, didn’t want to give her that power, even if it would help accomplish the same goals as Lucindur’s magic. They needed to be on the offense this time. Nesilia couldn’t be given a chance to deceive.

  “Take your time,” Lucindur said, tuning her salfio.

  After a few deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, Sora nodded. “I’m ready.”

  “Keep breathing and clear your mind,” Lucindur told her.

  Lucindur strummed her salfio. The notes were beautiful, reminding Sora of the sounds which echoed through the streets of Glinthaven. Actually, it reminded her so much of Fabian “Feel Good” Saravia, her favorite bard that would frequent Troborough’s Twilight Manor.

  This time, she didn’t close her eyes but watched as little dots of light sped through the air around them. It was gorgeous and mesmerizing. Faintly, she heard Lucindur singing, but the words hardly mattered.

  The next instant, Sora witnessed bright, colorful light swirling all around her. She had the sensation of falling, but it wasn’t scary at all. It was relaxing, wonderful, beautiful. Over the years, she’d experienced many things magical—fire from her hands, mending wounds, and far darker things while under Nesilia’s control. She’d been to Elsewhere and back again, but nothing felt quite like this.

  A moment later, she stood in the middle of a boundless plain full of tall grasses and wildflowers. It was chilly, but not cold. A gentle wind sent her hair and kimono flapping, but it was nice. Before her stood nothing but greens and yellows, browns and oranges—a serene landscape where birds and animals could live harmoniously, swooping in and out, leaping from stalk to stalk.

  But there were no animals. Nothing living, as if all had been terrified of what was to come.

  A lone tree stood, tall and proud. Even in summer, it had no leaves, but the trunk was thick as a zhulong.

  Her breath caught when, beyond the tree, she noticed a plume of black smoke billowing. It was a sight she’d seen far too many times—a village in flames. Then, she heard it—the shouts of the villagers, cries of anguish as their loved ones burned or bled to death in the streets. She thought back to all those she’d known and lost in Troborough at the hands of the Black Sandsmen.

  It was amazing how quickly the threat of the Shesaitju disintegrated when something as violent and capricious as the Buried Goddess was at large.

  Without delay, she started toward the village, unsure if she was seeing the past, present, or even future in this vision created by Lucindur’s magic.

  A dark shadow cast itself over the prairie some distance off, and Sora looked above and beyond to find its source. A gasp, stifled by her hand over her mouth, echoed. It was no shadow but an army. She ducked low, letting the tall grass hide her, then slid behind the tree and waited.

  Her breath came in, stunted and sharp. This was a familiar feeling, a familiar fear. She didn’t even need to look to know what she would see.

  Nesilia, the Buried Goddess, would be at the head of that army like a king off to battle in the w
arm days of spring.

  She didn’t know if she could die in one of these magical visions, but she wasn’t keen on finding out. She tried to steady her breathing. Peering around the tree, she saw two faces she knew intimately. Nesilia and Aihara Na. In truth, it was the Spider Queen Bliss, Nesilia’s sister and the One Who Remained. Once enemies, now they led an army of creatures so vile it brought the taste of vomit to Sora’s tongue.

  Spiders by the thousands gathered around Aihara Na, rolling over the grasses like waves in the sea. Goblins, grimaurs, and even more monsters followed behind them—things Sora didn’t recognize. Though, what horrified her more than any of it were the legions of humans serving them, their eyes entirely black and wrapped in pulsing, black veins. And not only them, but wolves as well, the possession twisting them into something hellish.

  Sora swore. They were heading right for her, and she wasn’t convinced a simple cover like the tree or grass would hide her, and it certainly wouldn’t mask her scent from the beasts.

  “Stay calm,” she said, but couldn’t heed her own advice.

  The worst part was that she’d located Nesilia, but what good did it do?

  If only she knew which village they’d just razed. Were they in the North near Westvale?

  The weather hinted that they were farther south, perhaps where Lilith’s Mill used to be? Had they continued the work across the great plains that the Shesaitju had started? There was just no telling.

  Sora’s own thoughts made her sick. In that village, so many people would be dead and injured, their homes and businesses gone, and she thought of it so flippantly.

  No, she had to tell herself. There’s nothing you can do about saving this village, but you can still save the world.

  Save the world. As if that were such a simple task.

  The sounds of the army were now upon her. With her back to the tree, she was still well-hidden, and as long as they kept to the other side, at least they wouldn’t see her, but it was only a matter of time before one of the hounds smelled her.

  But could they smell her? She wasn’t really there, was she? The body produced a smell, but what of the spirit? Was she corporeal there? If only she’d taken the time to ask Lucindur questions instead of relying on fuzzy memories.

  Whitney had been corporeal to her when he found her in Nowhere, but Nowhere was a realm of the spirit. This… this appeared to be Pantego in its natural state.

  Once again, looking beyond the treetrunk, Sora saw Nesilia, but she couldn’t hear her words even though her mouth moved. Sora had to get closer. She’d trained with Whitney long enough to know how to move unheard, but would it work here?

  She shook her head, trying to dispense of all negative thinking. She had one shot at this. One chance to find Nesilia, to learn of her plan, and to get the Brike Stone—which she could only pray and hope Whitney had found—to wherever they might be able to stop this once and for all.

  Before she could change her mind, Sora slipped out from behind the safety of her hiding place and snuck toward the mass of evil that was Nesilia’s army. Through the grasses she went until, finally, she found herself flanking Nesilia. Her heart beat in her throat.

  “I want to devour them,” Bliss said. “Eviscerate them, one by one, while the others watch.”

  “Anger only causes mistakes,” Nesilia said. “You must learn to exact revenge cooly, and calmly.”

  “For a thousand years, I’ve inhabited a body vaguely like this one.” She extended her arm, where an oversized spider crawled up toward her hand. “We are always calm as we spin our meals.”

  Nesilia snickered. “When we get to Yarrington, there will be plenty to eat.”

  “Yes. Iam’s followers are soft and ripe. I wish you’d let me have a taste of the one we’ve captured.”

  “He has his role to play, as does my host’s brother.”

  Yarrington? Sora thought, focusing on the one word in their discussion that mattered.

  Sora was crouching and walking, keeping pace with the army. Then, her foot found a hole in the soil, and she tripped. She was careful to make no noise, but when she rose, she was staring directly into Nesilia’s eyes.

  The Buried Goddess didn’t charge. She merely sneered and whispered, “I see you.”

  XXVI

  The Traitor

  Rand Langley walked the streets of Latiapur. What was left of it, at least. After the stampeding zhulong and the raging wianu, it looked like it’d been struck by a tidal wave as tall as Mount Lister. A roar echoed from the water-filled arena. Rand winced. Even all these days later, a line of Shesaitju warriors marched from it, bound at the wrists. One by one, they were fed to the beasts if they refused to bow before the warlord called Babrak. And the women and children? Their fates were far less swift.

  Rand could barely stomach the sounds of Babrak’s army ravaging the survivors. The Shesaitju weren’t known for their kindness to those they defeated. Pi was lucky he died when he did.

  Nobody here is lucky, Rand told himself.

  A scream reminded him of that, and his face screwed up as he climbed the first step up the palace.

  “Come along, little human, she’s here,” the mystic Bliss summoned, wagging her finger as she soared a circle around him. Then, she soared up, the bottom of her frayed robe wriggling like tendrils of fire.

  “I’m coming,” Rand grumbled. At my own yigging speed, he thought. The mystic may have breathed life back into him, but his body felt as battered as ever, and his legs like anchors dragging him down upon each step.

  He tried not to look at the two warriors on the ridge to his right, arguing and playing tug-o-war over a women’s dress, her still in it. He tried to ignore the fresh blood marking the polished stone of the steps slick, seeping into all the elaborate carvings along its surfaces.

  I told them to run, he reminded himself. And the small voice at the back of his mind replied, it was already too late.

  “Smile little Glassman,” Babrak said to him. The big man stood atop the stairs, hands folded behind his head as he stretched his full belly. Flaking black paint coated every inch of his skin. It was an odd thing, and something Rand wasn’t sure the former afhem even realized, how he’d painted over history—all of his many tattoos representing his tribe, his family, his Kingdom… all of it was gone.

  Rand wanted to smack the satisfied expression right off his face. He, the conqueror who had done nothing, who now enjoyed the fruits of the Boiling Keep. Without Sigrid and Nesilia, he’d still be in his little corner of the desert complaining that a woman took the position he coveted.

  “Why in Elsewhere would she choose to help you?” Rand spat.

  “Excuse me?” Babrak answered, his features drooping into a deep scowl. Rand only then realized that he’d said that out loud and not in his own head.

  “She wants to make a better, new world,” Rand went on, deciding to commit to the jab. “You seem like more of the same.”

  Babrak stopped stretching and lumbered forward. He may not have been fit, but he was massive. Terrifyingly so. At least Rand would go down fighting. Better than being trampled like a coward and a traitor.

  “Who do you think you are, boy?” Babrak sneered.

  “Someone with eyes.”

  Babrak reached out and held his tremendous hand just over the top of Rand’s head. “The witch says you’re untouchable, but I could crush your skull like a rotten bellot.”

  Rand sucked in a breath. His blood boiled. “Do it then,” he whispered through his teeth, and he meant it. He’d seen the future and would welcome death.

  Babrak’s brow furrowed as Rand leaned into the giant man’s grip. The tips of his fingers dug into the sides of Rand’s head.

  “It’ll be one less outsider,” Rand went on.

  The lump in Babrak’s throat bobbed. Then, sneering, he pulled his hand away. “You Glassmen have truly lost it. Good work killing the boy-King, though. How very brave of you.” He turned and entered the Keep, his laughter echoing within the
courtyard.

  Rand let out a mouthful of air. He blinked and looked around. For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was, and all the terrors of war surrounding him. A few seconds hearing the screams and cries of the victors sacking a city that was once their capital reminded him.

  He followed Babrak inside, only to find the man absorbing the adoration of the palace sages. Everyone else in the city suffered, but not these ball-less fools. They kowtowed in a line leading to the throne room, foreheads touching the sand.

  “So, now you all see how we have been deceived,” Babrak spoke as he crossed the room, rotating slowly to address them all. “Mahraveh was no Caleef, just a scared little orphan without her daddy. And now, she abandoned all of you here to die. A true Shesaitju would have fought to the death!”

  He unleashed a deeper, heartier chortle, one that made Rand’s blood start to boil. Then, he stopped before one of the bowing sages, knelt with all the great effort it took for a man his size and lifted the baby-faced man’s chin with one finger. The sage trembled.

  “Don’t be afraid, my child,” Babrak said. “The Current is with us. The usurpers are gone.”

  “Do you ever stop blathering?” Bliss asked, appearing from behind a golden column. Her half-spectral being floated around Babrak, and then fluttered to the doors of the throne room.

  Babrak forcefully removed his finger, and the sages chin fell, bouncing on the floor. “I appreciate the help, witch. But I think it’s time that you leave my city. We have a lot of work to do.”

  “That wasn’t the arrangement,” a voice carried. Rand’s heart stuttered upon hearing it. He could never forget that voice, even if it wasn’t exactly Sigrid’s. He pushed by Babrak and found Nesilia lying horizontally across the coral throne with her feet up on the armrest. Then, he stopped.

  The body of a sage lay on the platform before her, throat cut open. Nesilia held a goblet filled with liquid that was dark like wine, but much too red to be. She stirred it once with one of her long fingers, sucked it, then brought the rim to her mouth. Her dark eyes flickered as she sipped, then she licked the remnants from her lips.