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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Can they really be so wicked if that’s the case? Torsten wondered, for some reason, drawn to his memories of how he’d treated Whitney’s friend Sora. Could war and hate really be Iam’s will?

  “Torsten, don’t do anything rash right now,” Kaviel Jolly warned in a harsh whisper, eyes fixed on Salvation.

  His voice drew Torsten back to the present, and the blade moved away from the haggard man’s throat. He gasped for air as if he’d been plunged underwater. The plaza remained in stunned silence, layers of it so thick, Torsten’s neck started to itch. These people had never been without a King. Nor their parents, or their parents before that. For millennia, a Nothhelm had sat upon the throne.

  Now, they looked to him for answers, and he had none. He drew a deep breath. “Show them what they should believe,” Liam had said. And right then, Torsten decided he would do the same. But not how Liam would’ve done. Torsten would show them what to believe by giving them the truth.

  “Everything you’ve heard is true,” Torsten said. Not from the fortifications of the Glass Castle, but right among Yarrington’s people. Poor, rich, it didn’t matter. They all gathered here together, desperate for guidance.

  “Our King’s marriage to the new Caleef of Latiapur was a trap.” Immediately, came protestations against the Shesaitju. Torsten held out his palm while Jolly tried and failed to calm them. “But not laid by the Black Sands! Their intent for peace was genuine. No, it was Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. It’s true. She has returned and has now taken Yaolin City as her foothold. Her army is vast and dark and threatens to swallow us all if we don’t stand together.”

  The silence returned. Even the few whispers of shock coruscating through the people seemed like explosions.

  “And in her treachery, the Buried Goddess took the life of our young, generous King,” Torsten continued. His voice cracked a bit, and he seized a moment to gather himself. “He will join his family at the Gate of Light.”

  “Who will be King!” someone shouted.

  “I won’t bow to that Shesaitju whore!” screamed someone else, and raucous cheering followed. The crowd swelled like a wave, making Torsten’s mount nervous.

  “It doesn’t matter who is King or Queen!” Torsten yelled. “Not right now. The Nothhelm dynasty gave us this grand Kingdom. Kept us safe for more years than not.”

  “And where are they when we need them most!” another citizen called out, earning a chorus of cheers.

  Torsten struck his chest. “In our hearts! Always in our hearts. The last of their line gave his life to bring together an army that can face the coming darkness. Pi died a hero, and we mustn’t forget.”

  Rumblings of agreement buoyed Torsten’s spirits, but they were fleeting. The fear settled back in. These weren’t soldiers. They weren’t fighters. They were people told that if they served their Kingdom and lived a good life, King and God would protect them.

  “Iam has abandoned us!” a woman shrieked.

  “Dead with the Nothhelms.”

  “Left us to darkness and closed the gates.”

  “No!” Torsten yelled. He guided his zhulong up the incline of the Royal Avenue so he could face down upon the square. His heart raced. He wasn’t used to giving speeches to these types of people. It was somehow more nerve-racking than thousands of battle-hardened soldiers.

  “Iam is with us,” he continued. “Always with us. And He Himself saved us at the White Bridge only months ago.” Torsten’s hand went to his face, and he rubbed the fabric upon his eyes. It felt dirty and smelled far worse, but he feared what might happen should he clean it.

  “I saw it with the very sight He blessed me with. One last miracle… But He is weak now. It falls to us. We must protect the city, the Kingdom, given to us by Iam and his chosen Kings, or we will not live to see another age. So, I say, let Nesilia come. It doesn’t matter who our King is now, let her bring whatever horrors she can muster.

  “She thinks Yarrington is ripe for the taking, but she doesn’t know its people. My skin may be brown, but this is my city. I suffered here. Lost here. Loved here. And it is here, in the name of Iam and of King Pi the Unifier that we will build a new era upon Nesilia’s corpse!”

  Torsten thrust Salvation into the air, breathless. A complete and utter hush responded to him. It felt like it lasted forever. Then, one of the Glass soldiers by the gate started to cheer. Then another. And another. It was infectious. The crowd erupted, cursing Nesilia, hailing their city, and, most of all, honoring their fallen King. Torsten said no more. He turned his zhulong and headed toward the castle.

  A smirk touched his lips as he heard the hollering on either side of the street. He reached back to pat Pi’s remains.

  “Now, there is a send-off worthy of a King,” Jolly said. “Well done.”

  “It will have to do for now,” Torsten said.

  They only made it one block before Torsten’s heart sank, and his smirk vanished. Did I twist the truth too? he wondered. He believed in everything he said, but there was one part of his speech that irked him. The promising that Iam was still with them. He’d seen no such evidence since White Bridge. Even that feeling in his chest that had stayed with him since he’d found his faith for the very first time felt faint, distant.

  All he had to go on was the fact that his blindfold still had the power to make him see.

  Am I lying to myself?

  The gates of the Glass Castle’s fortifications cranking open ruined any further chance for doubt to seed. Shieldsmen, guards, and workers alike waited eagerly within the forward court, even a young stablehand, barely old enough to lift a sword.

  Not only those, but the entire Royal Council that hadn’t been in Latiapur also stood by the entry. A mixture of young and old, all equally inexperienced. King Lorgit’s son, Alfotdrumlin, even stood among them. Torsten had nearly forgotten about that arrangement, figuring early on, after what happened at White Bridge, that the dwarven king would’ve recalled his youngest son.

  “Sir Unger, Lord Jolly, what’s happening out there?” asked Casper Brosch, the Master of Scrolls.

  “Nothing,” Torsten said.

  “Sir Unger merely provided the people a reason to believe,” Jolly added.

  Brosch’s features darkened. He stepped forward, moving around the side of Torsten’s zhulong, where the truth was clear as day. “By Iam…” he traced his eyes and bowed his head. “I was hoping by the reception that the messages we’d received were false.”

  “Unfortunately, every word was true,” Torsten said. The stablehand ran up to help, unsure how to treat a zhulong. Torsten dismounted on his own, and the beast just stood there, unmoving, as the kid pushed on its hide. The poor creature was probably shell-shocked from its new environment.

  “Nesilia has taken Latiapur after forging an alliance with a usurping afhem named Babrak,” Torsten went on. “Caleef Mahraveh and a bulk of her land forces made it out alive and will arrive soon. Their fleet is… decimated. And our young King fell during the fighting. I saved him once, but I wasn’t strong enough to do it a second time. I… failed.”

  “We were betrayed,” Jolly said over him, so his last statement went unheard. “And we will have our vengeance.”

  Torsten heard a few of the handmaidens weeping. They’d spent most of their time with Oleander, but nobody else in the castle would have spent more time in Pi’s presence, preparing his outfits, cleaning his quarters.

  At the same time, the Royal Council forced their own exaggerated reactions. Master Fenwick, Master of Husbandry, howled toward the setting sun as if he’d been stabbed in the gut. Torsten didn’t blame them. None had known Pi long or well enough to genuinely care for him. They were simply carrying out their jobs all before it sank in that they were now counsel to a Crown without a head to sit on.

  “Master Pymer, under there is the body of our King.” Torsten pointed to the wrap on the back of his zhulong. “He is…” His throat got tight.

  “Do what you can to prepare him to join his famil
y,” Jolly ordered the Royal Physician. “He’ll be laid to rest once more in the grave already dug for him.”

  The man strode over and peeled back the top of the wrappings. Torsten didn’t need to see Pi to know how he likely looked. Abijah Pymer’s retch told enough. “I’ll… uh… do what I can,” he stammered, then whispered a prayer under his breath.

  “Lord Unger… uh… Sir,” spoke a small voice. Torsten glanced left, then down, to see a little face, the stablehand, caked head-to-toe with dirt and shog.

  “Yes?” Torsten asked.

  “Do you think that, maybe… uh… maybe in the same grave, our King might, you know, come back to life again?”

  Torsten sighed and pressed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder, so much larger, his fingers stretched down over his shoulder blades. “I think we’ve truly lost him this time,” Torsten said softly. The boy’s chin fell to his chest. “But who are we to doubt the will of Iam?” Torsten added.

  At that, the boy’s face lit up. “I hope he does. He was nice. He would always drop an extra bronzer after I brought him his horse to ride.”

  “And you should hold onto that memory. Use it. Fight with it.”

  “With all due respect, Sir Unger, he’s just a boy,” said Taskmaster Lars. “He won’t be fighting.” It had been a long time since Torsten had seen the old wretch, roused from the bottom quarters of the castle barracks. His white whiskers were as messy as a rat’s to boot. But he was good at his job. Had been since Torsten was a young man. Keeping track of all the troops’ training schedules, names, retirement benefits—it was a man everybody liked to pretend didn’t exist.

  “Unfortunately, my friend, he might,” Torsten said. “We all might. Make no mistake, I have seen what Nesilia is capable of, and it will take every single one of us to resist.”

  His gaze arced across the faces of the nobles, all immediately changing from feigning sadness to real, intense fear.

  “But, first. We prepare,” Jolly said. “I’m from the far North. We’ve been through far worse.”

  Jolly earned a few reticent chuckles. Torsten watched as soldiers helped the Master Physician remove Pi’s body from his mount. They carried it toward the lower entry into the castle’s undercroft like he was a fragile ceramic vase. As if gentleness mattered any longer.

  Torsten couldn’t help but wonder, as the stableboy had, if maybe this wasn’t the end. Surely, Iam wouldn’t let his chosen line go out like this? But he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the case. The Nothhelms had distilled their bloodline over generations, eliminated rivals, sought perfection. It only made sense that, eventually, the blood ran out.

  Focus, he told himself. It doesn’t matter what comes next if there is no next.

  He shook out his head and started off toward the castle entry. The Royal Council followed along behind him like baby ducks.

  “Has any word come in from his Holiness, Dellbar?” Torsten asked.

  The Master of Scrolls cleared his throat. “He was with the King, was he not?”

  “Damn,” Torsten swore, taking that as a “no.”

  “During the attack, I dispatched him and Lord Jolly to Hornsheim to rally the priesthood and bring them here, but they were separated. Nobody has heard a word from Dellbar since.”

  “He’s fine. I’m sure of it,” Jolly said. “The man’s hardy as an ox. But I’ll send search parties as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Priests?” the dwarven Master of Coins scoffed, from far in the back of the small group. “Yer sayin there’s to be a battle, and yer invitin priests?”

  “We need everyone,” Torsten said.

  “Oh, what a Commute this be turnin out to be,” Al groaned.

  Torsten reached the maw of the Throne Room and stopped. The Glass throne sat across the hall, lonely, no guards lining the long carpet leading to it. What did they have left to defend?

  He turned and pointed to the Master of Scrolls. “Brosch, send gallers to Hornsheim on multiple routes. Nesilia has an army of grimaurs, there’s no telling where they patrol.” He turned to Fenwick. “Then, with the gallers, riders, both, to Westvale and Fort Marimount. They are nearest to us. Any man of fighting age they can spare is to be summoned here, along with all rations and arrows.”

  Torsten reached the throne and paused for a moment. For so long, Liam had sat there, when he was around—even when his mind wasn’t. Then, Pi, the massive chair, making him look so small. A Nothhelm, for all its existence.

  Exhausted from just about everything, Torsten sat on the dais, back to it. Knowing how he’d failed its owners was too distracting, and the Kingdom needed him one last time.

  “Sir Unger, did you hear me?” Master Fenwick asked.

  “Sorry, what was that?” Torsten asked.

  “The Lords of those cities are proud. They’ve long been loyal to the Crown, but sending all their food and defenses when we’re at war? I’m not sure they’d go for that. Especially—“

  “Especially what?” Torsten snapped.

  “Especially when there is no…” The man’s eyes drifted toward the empty throne, then back. “… King…”

  “Tell them that if they don’t comply, they will be stripped of their titles and their holdings,” Lord Jolly proposed.

  Leurevo Messier, Master of Masons and son of Westvale’s presiding governor, stepped forward. “I’m not sure we have the authority to do that.”

  “They’ll listen, or we will all die!” Torsten didn’t mean to shout, but his volume made all the nobles wince except for Jolly, who leaned comfortably against a column. It echoed across the mostly empty hall. Dealing with men like these was the bane of Torsten’s existence. He preferred the battlefield, but with so many others absent, somebody had to do something.

  “And what about Crowfall?” Messier addressed Lord Jolly.

  Kaviel Jolly was the Master of Ships, himself. He took a moment to consider it. “If Nesilia’s army is coming, we have to assume the Drav Cra are with her. Crowfall has stood for hundreds of years, and it will remain. We Jollys are sturdy folk. Crowfall will hold Winter’s Thumb as long as she can, but I’ll request that they send half their food stores by ship.”

  “Half?” asked the Master of Stores. “I’m not sure that’s advisable. They need it all for the harsh winter. And what if there is a siege?”

  “Make no mistake, Master Westerly. Nesilia’s target is Yarrington,” Torsten said. “This is personal for her. Extra supplies in Crowfall help nobody. We will deal with re-distribution after we win.

  “He’s right,” Lord Jolly said. “Besides, if Crowfall lends full support, Westvale will follow. It’s how it’s always been.”

  Master Westerly bowed and backed away, though didn’t look convinced in the slightest. Neither did any of the others.

  Torsten faced the chubby, dwarven Master of Coin. “Lord Alfotdrumlin. Have you spoken with your father? I know our agreement was only for eliminating Drad Mak and defending White Bridge, but we’ll come to a new one. We must get King Lorgit to send us your brother’s army and more.”

  “I’m not for thinkin that’ll happen,” Al replied.

  Torsten punched the polished marble of the dais so hard his knuckles split open. The dwarf winced. “Empty the coffers! Offer the Royal Family’s jewels, their clothes, everything. How do none of you understand that it doesn’t matter what we have now if we lose everything?”

  “It’s uh… not that,” the dwarf stammered. “Me father hasn’t answered a thing since I got here. I hear they shut down the city completely after the battle at White Bridge. No communication.”

  “Typical dwarves, hiding in their holes when things get scary,” Master Brosch said from behind the pack.

  “Say that to me face!” Al barked.

  Torsten’s glower silenced both of them before things escalated.

  “He’d go silent, despite your brother himself witnessing Nesilia’s true power?” Lord Jolly asked.

  The dwarf rolled his stocky shoulders, then blew a raspber
ry. “Me father has left his own son here and locked me out. What do ye think?”

  Torsten cursed under his breath. “Well, keep trying. We could use the help of dwarven engineers to bolster our defenses. For now, use some of the jewelry to ensure the support of our nearest lords. And pay every inn and brothel and place with beds ahead of time to house folk from neighboring towns on the route from White Bridge. Fettingborough, Troborough, Grambling, I want the people here, not feeding Nesilia’s army.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that. I’ll be needin to have the effects appraised first—“

  “There’s no time,” Torsten said. “Jewels are your people’s specialty. By luck and happenstance, you’re stranded here, managing the coffers of a kingless kingdom. Estimate, and get the job done.”

  His beard parted as he opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he nodded.

  “Now, we must begin preparing defenses,” Torsten said. “Lars.” Torsten looked around and didn’t see the Taskmaster anywhere. “Lars!”

  The withering old man appeared across the Throne Room, by the entry, peeking in.

  “Yes?” he croaked.

  “Work with the Royal Blacksmith, Hovom Nitebrittle. Every set of armor, every weapon made of glaruium, toss them into the Torrential Sea. Steel and iron only. Once that’s done, begin outfitting every citizen of Yarrington of age with whatever we have.”

  “I’m sorry, I know defenses are your prerogative, but why would we discard our sturdiest armor?” asked Messier.

  “Because Nesilia was buried in that mountain. She has command over the metal and would use it against us.”

  “That’s absurd,” Messier argued.

  “I’ve seen it—felt it, myself.”

  “But what would the Shieldsmen wear?” Brosch added.

  Torsten bit his lip. Then he stood, looking out over the inexperienced and tiresome Royal Council, and the empty Throne Room. Beyond them in the entry hall, soldiers and Shieldsmen had gathered to try and listen. Most were too young to have armpit hair. Few had seen a battle, and mostly those who had died in Latiapur