“I must say, more and more, I grow to enjoy this body,” she said. “And they call this state of being a curse. Perhaps I should have left the Sanguine Lords intact. Clearly, they weren’t as worthless as so many other gods.”
“I hope you don’t mean me, dear sister,” Bliss said as she swept fully into the room, playfully swerving around the columns.
“You again,” Babrak said to Nesilia, terse. “I think you found the wrong seat.”
Nesilia took another long, indulgent gulp out of the goblet, then swished it around in her mouth. As she did, she reclined to make herself more comfortable.
“I needed to get off my feet,” she said, mouth stained. “Speeding around Pantego all night in this body is… exhausting. And finally giving our cowardly brother the fate he deserved really took it out of me.” She let her head sag back over the armrest and stretched out her legs.
“That throne is not meant for the likes of you,” Babrak said. “Get. Up.”
Nesilia rolled her head to the side, cracking a few vertebrae.
“I said get up!” Babrak roared.
Nesilia sighed. “If you insist.” She swept her legs one after the other and pushed off to her feet. Then, in a flash, she was behind Babrak. She gave him a shove in the back, and he flew forward like he was no bigger than a child. He stumbled over the lip of the Sea Door.
Right as he dropped, Bliss flicked her fingers, and a vine grew from the floor and lashed his ankle. It heaved him back up, and dumped him on the floor, huffing for air.
“You think you can do that to me?” Babrak hissed as he got to his hands and knees. However, all the former bravado was gone.
“I think I just did.” Nesilia strolled by him, taking her time, hips swaying, ankles crossing over one another with each step. “I may have promised you that chair in exchange for helping me, but I didn’t promise you’d be alive when you sit in it,” she said. She kicked Babrak in his belly, and he flipped up, back smashing against the coral throne.
“Now, stay there like a good dog and be quiet.”
Babrak coughed in response.
“And you.” Nesilia whipped around to face Rand. From behind, she was Sigrid. Maybe with white hair and more confidence in her gait, but she was his sister. As those dark eyes locked on him, however, ice shot through his veins.
“M… m… me?” Rand stammered.
She approached him, and he instinctually found himself retreating toward the wall without realizing it. “Impressive work, killing King Pi,” she said. “I would have enjoyed dangling him in front of Sir Torsten, but you did what you could for a puny mortal.”
“I didn’t…” Rand swallowed. “I didn’t kill him.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me,” Bliss said.
“I didn’t.”
“Take credit where credit is due, Rand Langley.” She clapped her hands, and the sound made him leap out of his boots. “Well, if I can’t use the King, I suppose the knight’s friend will have to do.”
“His friend?” Rand asked. “His... who?”
“The scrawny one. I don’t know his name.” She tapped her forehead. “Lucian, or whatever.”
“Lucas,” Rand muttered.
“Yes, that’s it. Torsten seems to care for him. Though, maybe not as much as he seems to care for you.” Her glare hardened, and Rand’s throat felt like he’d swallowed a stone. She leaned in so close he could feel the frost on her breath, smell the blood. “From what I hear, he found you red-handed, lying on the street and left you to live. Now, why would he do that?”
“He left me to suffer.”
“To suffer?”
Rand nodded meekly.
Nesilia stared for a few long moments as if letting the information settle. Then she sneered. “Of course, he did. Everyone must pay for their sins against a god who’s sinned more than any other. What a fool.”
“Why do you care about him?” Rand asked.
“Because he represents everything wrong with this world!” she bellowed. Again, Rand cringed. “Because he believes with all his heart that he can stop what is coming, just as he stopped Redstar. And he would throw you to the wolves to do it, I promise you that.”
“What if I deserve it?”
“Now, now, Rand Langley,” Bliss said, winding her way behind him. “You’re not going soft on us, are you?”
“Have you looked out there?” he asked. “Is that the change you want to bring? Is that your world? Because all I see is the same suffering and death as ever. I can’t believe that Sigrid would want that.”
“The forest burns before it grows.”
“Not if it’s all ashes!” he barked.
He didn’t mean to, the words just came exploding out of him, even seeming to catch Nesilia off guard. He shifted his feet, preparing for her to strike, but she didn’t. Instead, her shoulders hunched, the way Sigrid carried them. Her dark eyes softened to the green Rand had known all his life.
“Stay strong, brother,” she said. The hard dockside accent of his sister returned. Brother. He’d heard her say that word thousands of times. It sounded exactly like her.
“Siggy?” he asked softly. He stepped closer and cocked his head to the side to get a better look at her eyes—at the flecks of green filling the irises. “Is that you?”
“It is.”
He reached for her cheek, and she leaned into it like one would a warm pillow after a harsh winter’s night. “You’re really in there?”
“Always.”
“Sigrid, I’m…”
She pressed a finger to his lips and hushed him. “I’m not angry with ye anymore. I just want ye to stay strong. The world we’ll be makin… it’s gonna be perfect. Simple. Gone with all the complexity and borders, all the things we only think we care about. There’ll be only the people worth carin about.”
Her words went in one ear and out his other. All he could focus on was her accent that he never thought he’d hear again. The same one that the Glass Castle had trained out of him.
He stared, wondering what to say next. What could he say next? And then her eyes reverted to the all-black of Nesilia, and her back straightened.
“No,” Rand said, grasping at her shoulders. “No, I need to talk to her.”
Nesilia swiped him away.
“Please, I’m beggin ye!” Rand pled, his own accent reverting to his lowborn childhood in Dockside.
“Your time with her will come,” Nesilia replied. She backed away and left Rand’s arms dangling, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“For now, it’s time to start the change,” Nesilia continued. “Right now, all our enemies are gathering together in their perfect little city by the mountain I was damned to.”
“Better than a dark, damp forest,” Bliss said.
“Say that again, and I’ll send you right back,” Nesilia hissed.
Bliss bit her lip, then floated away, grumbling.
“I thought so,” Nesilia said. “They gather only to die. And so, enough games. It’s time to oblige them.”
“We’re taking Yarrington?” Babrak asked. Rand had almost forgotten the fat slob was there. He’d made himself comfortable on the throne, though his expression spoke of bitter embarrassment.
“I’m taking Yarrington. Torsten Unger believes that even without a King, he can stop me. Others rally to him because of it. And so, I will break him first. The glass spire will shatter all around him, and he will see that the god he loves is a lie. Iam’s Kingdom will fall.”
“About time, Sister,” Bliss said, swooping back around. “I was beginning to worry you enjoyed toying with them a bit too much. Let me do it. He helped kill me in the Webbed Woods.”
“No, I need you for another. A mystic.”
Bliss chuckled. “Of course.”
“No, for Torsten, my host’s brother will do.” She turned back to Rand. “Go to the dungeons and fetch his friend, Lucas. Take care of him. Keep him fed. I want him healthy for when we drag him in front of the Yarring
ton walls and show Torsten how weak he and the followers of Iam truly are.”
Rand looked around at the others in the room. The three most powerful beings in Pantego and they all seemed to be salivating over taking Yarrington. He imagined its peoples’ screams, and so instead, he forced himself to remember the creaking of the ropes he’d slung over the walls. And he imagined those walls falling, crumbling like they so deserved.
“What are you going to do with Torsten?” he asked.
Nesilia grinned. “You’ll see.”
XXVII
The Thief
Whitney stood atop a large, hollow box. He’d made it down the rope, and his hands weren’t going to thank him for it. They were raw and bloody in places, rope burns on his arms and legs, but what choice did he have? There was no other way out of the dwarven King’s treasure room.
Aquira stood beside him, and they both looked down about fifteen feet through a small gap where the wooden box and the stone shaft containing it failed to meet each other. It appeared to be exactly what Whitney thought it was—a very large dumb waiter. He remembered using Darkings’ system so long ago, but this was massive in scale. It made sense considering its intended use—hauling big loads of treasure to be stored for whatever it was dwarves stored treasure for. They were like dragons of old, rumored to horde gold because they liked how it sparkled.
Whitney supposed he couldn’t be one to cast judgment. He’d stolen and buried priceless items all over Pantego with little intention of ever digging them up unless he absolutely needed them. But then he had, and though the mystic robe got destroyed, it proved that he hadn’t been stupid.
Presently, he snuck up to the edge of the box and laid down, then dragged himself as far as he dared. Four clanbreakers stood guard, just like they did at the other entrance to the Iron Bank within the throne room.
“What to do, what to do,” he whispered.
Aquira made a little sound and slinked up closer.
Whitney glanced her way, then backed up.
“There’s barely enough room to squeeze through there,” he said. “And even then—four spiky metal dwarves against you and me? I don’t think we’d stand much of a chance.”
Aquira puffed, her form of acquiescence.
“Well, we have to do something.”
He looked up, back where he’d come from. There was no way of getting back up there, even if he did chicken out. Side to side was nothing but solid stone. Up was just black as far as he could see.
He peered over the ledge again. Down was a definite no-go. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d be dead in an instant if those clanbreakers saw him.
“Unwanteds usually just get thrown in the dungeons until we got time to execute em.”
Whitney swallowed hard upon recalling the dwarven guard’s words.
He thought about sending Aquira out first as a distraction, but that wasn’t fair to her. For all he knew, there would be dwarven archers posted along the many tiers, waiting to unleash deadly projectiles.
“What are we going to do, Aquira?” he asked. “Sora is waiting for us somewhere—I hope.”
He couldn’t shake the thought that Sora had been discovered as the culprit behind the attack in the throne room. Maybe that shog-brained Gargamane had warned the King of the would-be trespassers. All Whitney knew was that he had the Brike Stone, and now they needed to find Nesilia and hope it actually worked like the bar guai had. He was no expert on the magical power required to bind a goddess.
Yet another trinket that may or may not be worth the sweat it took to get.
He felt the box shake beneath him, then heard a slight whimper.
“Aquira,” he said without turning around. “What are you doing? Aquira?”
When no response came, he spun and nearly slipped off the edge from surprise. A small, green, humanoid creature wearing a bone mask of a long-beaked bird stared back at him, holding a squirming Aquira. Sickly yellow eyes pierced through the shadows cast by the mask, never leaving Whitney even as the goblin struggled with the wyvern.
“You let her go,” Whitney said, pulling his daggers.
Another goblin dropped beside the first, followed by yet another. Soon, four of them stood shoulder to shoulder, and when Whitney dared to look up, he could see the glinting eyes of a dozen more.
“Shog in a—“
A goblin thrust a spear at Whitney, and he narrowly avoided its tip, slapping it down with his dagger. The creature pulled it back and tried again, but still, Whitney was faster.
“What do you want?” Whitney asked as if the thing would respond.
It did respond, but in the form of more violence as it whipped the spear shaft horizontally. The wood cracked against Whitney’s arm, and it sounded like broken bone until he looked down and saw half the weapon on the floor.
“What’s goin on in there?” came a shout from below.
“Help!” Whitney shouted, not caring if he was discovered. He’d take his chances with the clanbreakers if it meant escaping the goblins alive.
“What are ye doin?” the voice called again. “How’d ye get in there?”
The same goblin charged Whitney while another one yelped.
“Never mind that!” he shouted back. “Goblins!”
Aquira was finally free and clawing at her former captor’s mask. The goblin went down under her weight, but Whitney didn’t have time to see the outcome. His own battle raged as a second goblin joined in. Whitney struck out with his dagger and felt resistance as the blade dug into scaly flesh. He felt warmth as a black ichor cascaded over his hand and wrist. Its scream was accompanied by mechanical grinding sound and the feeling of movement.
The box beneath them was moving.
They rose within the shaft. It shifted sporadically, sending Whitney staggering. Whitney was surefooted, but the goblins were more so, and now had another advantage.
The rest of them had reached the platform, and Whitney found himself facing six foes on his own. Aquira had her struggles with nearly as many, but she made quicker work of them, zipping and breathing contained streams of fiery death. The smell of burning meat was sickeningly sweet, like something Franny would have cooked the Pompare Troupe.
Whitney dodged one goblin, tossing it into the wall behind him. It made a satisfying thunk and dropped through the gap. He glanced up at another goblin chewing on the dumb waiter’s rope.
“Cut that out!” Whitey shouted, but he immediately regretted the distraction. The next attack landed, a goblin’s fist catching him in the throat. He gasped, feeling like his windpipe had collapsed. His vision went blurry and could only see Aquira in front of him and feel the heat of her flames.
There was a time when he believed goblins to be cute little Wildland-dwelling reptiles—little more than pests for travelers crossing Pantego. Now, he saw them for what they were… savages. They truly were fit to serve Nesilia’s evil will.
Arms wrapped him from behind, wrenching him back and forth. He fought, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult. He saw darkness creep into his periphery, and his chest heaved. A sudden flood of air inflated his lungs. It burned, but he sucked in, letting the oxygen do its work. Still struggling to see, he threw a leg backward and kicked his assailant’s kneecap. Its grip weakened, but it didn’t let go.
Then, something sharp dug into Whitney’s shoulder, and instinctively, he threw his head back. It definitely connected with a goblin skull, but in doing, caused the creature to tear a chunk of flesh from his shoulder with its needle-like teeth.
Whitney let out an agonized cry. More and more goblins were upon them now, as if attracted to the blood. It was chaos, and he could barely tell what was happening until suddenly, there was a snap and the ground fell away beneath him.
They were free-falling, all of them.
An explosive boom sounded, and pain coursed through Whitney’s back and legs. Splinters tore through him; larger chunks even downed a few of the goblins, but Aquira still hovered, untouched, above.
Whitney, however, lay on his back, staring up at a hole, wood shards stabbing out in all directions. Somewhere in the distance, there were more screams, but all that mattered was getting away from these goblins.
Aquira screeched, swooped, sliced. Whitney tried to stand but felt like he’d been stampeded by a zhulong herd. Then, a synchronized roar brought hope as spiky, metal blobs rolled in around Whitney. His head swiveled, frantically watching the group of clanbreakers tear into the goblin horde. They worked as a single unit, shredding the enemy to bits.
“Op! Op! Op!” one called.
“Ep! Ep!” shouted another.
They flopped around like fish out of water and let their spikes do the dirty work. Black blood and green flesh showered down, and Whitney covered his face.
It went this way for less than a minute before the entire interior of the box—what was left of it—was filled with dead goblins and ichor.
While the clanbreakers were distracted watching the remaining goblins scurry up the shaft, Whitney pushed himself to his feet and made a break for it. He raised a hand to signal to Aquira, but pain radiated from his shoulder.
No wonder I’m light-headed, he thought as he looked down to see his own blood pouring down his neck like a gurgling fountain.
“Aquira!” he shouted instead, and she zipped behind him.
Soon, they were within eyesight of the main city. It was pandemonium, dwarves everywhere, goblins, too. Something had happened.
The Brike Stone?
It was the only thing that made sense. He stole the Brike Stone, the ground shook, and goblins showed up.
It didn’t matter. He needed to find Sora and the others.
“Let’s go!” Whitney shouted to Aquira as he ran through the crowd. Each step was torture as even the slightest bounce made his shoulder throb. But he pushed through the pain until a goblin charged into him, full speed. Whitney hit the ground hard, he lay there, groaning. The wily little creature was about to pounce when Aquira intervened with a long blast of flames that charred the goblin like meat on a spit.
“Thanks,” Whitney said, struggling to rise.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 143