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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “There is no King’s Shield any longer,” Torsten said, voice shaking. “For there is no King to shield. We failed in our duty, and as Wearer of White, named by the late King Pi, I will disband the Order.”

  He could hear the gasps of shock from the soldiers outside the Throne Room. Some even started to trickle in, kicking etiquette to the curb.

  “We have no advantages in this coming war,” Torsten said. “No glaruium armor or weapons. No Order of legendary warriors. All we have is each other. And if we stand together, we can beat back this darkness.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected in reaction to that, but it wasn’t what happened. The people in the entry hall gasped again and parted. Torsten and the Royal Council looked on in confusion.

  Then, a horse raced through them, right into the Throne Room, it’s fur-covered hooves indicating it was northern breed. The sigil on its rider’s boiled leather armor and his thick beard revealed the same.

  The horse skidded to a stop on the slippery surface, and the man dismounted so fast he fell onto his side. Blood stained his sleeve and the horse’s neck. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which were completely bloodshot. Men rushed to help him, but he pushed them out of the way and scrambled toward the throne.

  He barely made it before his legs gave out and he fell to his hands and knees. There, he remained, trying to speak but unable to catch his breath.

  Lord Jolly pushed everyone out of his way and grabbed the man by the collar with his only arm. “What is it?” he asked. “Speak!”

  “It’s…” the man huffed. They waited patiently. “It’s Crowfall, my Lord. The Drav Cra they… I don’t know what happened. But they took the city.”

  Torsten sank back onto the dais. He stared, forlorn, at the paintings filling the vaulted ceiling, telling stories from the origin of the Glass Kingdom after the God Feud to now. All the great kings and their legendary victories. And he wondered if there would be another victory to paint up there, or if it’d all come crumbling down.

  “Sir Unger, what do we do?” one of the councilmen asked. It didn’t matter who. The same question seemed to echo off all their lips.

  “We prepare,” Torsten said, sitting up, gaze flitting toward Jolly, who was now on his knees, running his one hand through his hair. “For our war has already begun.”

  XXXII

  The Servant

  Freydis stood at the bow of a Drav Cra longboat, squinting against the wind and the driving snow. She’d sailed these waters many times, but this time was different.

  This time, she was Arch Warlock.

  This time, she was Nesilia’s first in command.

  And she wouldn’t waste time with trivialities like Redstar always had. Sowing fear into the minds of his enemies. Playing games. Seeking relics.

  No, Freydis sailed as her people were meant to—as a conqueror. With all the tribes united under her command by word of the Goddess herself, expanding the fleet so her entire army could cross the strait was easy.

  Many grumbled, afraid to head back south into the warmth of summer, into the lands where they’d been betrayed, losing Mak and so many others. Those who grumbled loudest earned vines around their hearts.

  Then none complained.

  “Do you see, Redstar?” she sneered to herself. “All it took was faith in her. All you cared about was yourself.”

  “Crowfall nears!” one of her scouts shouted from the crow’s nest.

  Freydis dragged her hand hard across the rail, tearing it open on the rough wood. She drew on the fresh blood, digging deep into the connection to Elsewhere. Nesilia said it was emptied of souls, and Freydis could feel it. There was so much latent power for her to draw upon.

  She waved a bloody hand in front of her, forcing the snow and the fog to the side, giving her a clear view. And there it was, the dark stone walls of Crowfall. Built onto a series of sharp hills like a crow’s talon, the low points gave the city an added natural defense thanks to high positions for archers.

  Only the most foolish dradinengors in history had attempted to raid the city proper, each of them dying. Nearby towns and villages—even the outskirts of the city—fell prey to the Drav Cra all the time, but Crowfall’s walls had never been breached. The Jollys had kept the place safe for generations.

  No longer.

  Freydis reached again into the reserves of Elsewhere and launched a ball of flame up into the white sky. The men rowing at her back stopped, and all around her, the Drav Cra longboats followed their example, forming a line across the calm water.

  Bells chimed. Glassmen scurried around their city like ants. Archers gathered atop the parapets of the tall walls. What little was left of their fleet after the war in the south sprang to action, letting down their sails and loading in soldiers for defenses.

  “Sacrifice as many as it takes,” Nesilia had told her. “They must learn that the North is ours.”

  Freydis listened to the bated breaths of the warriors filling the ship behind her. They were eager to raid, chomping at the bit like the dire wolves caged up beside them, ready to kill those who thought themselves superior.

  She lifted her sliced hand, the blood dripping down her pale arm, and then let it fall forward. All at once, shouting in Drav Crava sounded from the dradinengors on the other ships.

  Young men and women walked to the bows, all of them, faces painted red and white. They were a new wave of warlocks, recently indwelled. Some were weaker than others. Some were nearly worthless in this new flock, but all together for the first time, they would be unstoppable.

  Freydis drew her jagged knife, lifted her unscathed palm, and sliced it straight across. All the other warlocks throughout the fleet followed her lead—three to a ship, with one on each giving their own lives by stabbing themselves through the chest while the other two cut their hands. A worthy sacrifice.

  And as their blood poured out, so too did the power of Freydis and those left living. As one, they raised their bloody palms toward Crowfall and drew on Elsewhere. The bells continued to chime as the waters before them started to ripple.

  Freydis smirked. So much power. It was as if she could feel the weight of the sea in her fingertips. Lone chunks of ice floating about, leftover from winter, broke apart from the vibrations. Her ship rocked violently, all the warriors forced to hold onto whatever they could.

  She didn’t.

  Now, the water yanked on her like a magnetic force. Her heart raced, blood pumping through her limbs as fast as it could. In her peripherals, she could see some of the young warlocks falling to their knees, unable to handle the magic flowing through them.

  Black started to close in on her vision, but she held firm. The sea didn’t just ripple now, it raged. Spiky waves rose and fell, running on opposing currents that could never occur naturally. One of their longboats was caught on it and pulled up ahead before being capsized.

  Still, Freydis held. Blood now gushed out of her hand, making her entire arm numb up to the shoulder. Her legs grew weak, shaky. One of her men must have noticed because she felt hands on her back, struggling to keep her upright.

  And then, the sea budged. Freydis collapsed to her knees and released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Gasping for air, she watched as the water before their ships rose into a tidal wave as tall as the walls of Crowfall itself and raced toward the city. Freydis’ fleet was drawn along in the undertow at speeds beyond what rowers might be capable of.

  Terrified shouts from Crowfall’s commanders echoed. The bells grew louder. Freydis could see none of it over the wave, only imagine. Imagine the water ripping through their oversized ships that compensated for their lack of magical ability. Imagine the drowning soldiers, burdened down by too much expensive armor to breathe. Imagine the fortifications crumbled to dust and detritus by the sea itself.

  And that’s exactly what happened. Portions of the wall broke apart, flooding the lower sections of the city. The wave ravaged their ships, and her longboats finished them off at
ramming speeds.

  She was too exhausted to move, but she remained kneeling on the ship’s bow, even after it scraped onto the docks along with the dozens of others. The Drav Cra army charged off. What remained of the Glass archers picked off many from above, but not nearly enough. The dire wolves were let loose and clambered up the rubble to tear them to pieces.

  Without the walls, the Northern Glassmen were too compromised to resist. Her people swarmed them, even with all the city’s defensible high points. And her army wasn’t alone.

  While they charged, Wvenweigard finally arrived from the east with a throng of chekt. It was a long route around and through the mountains, and it looked like some of his forces didn’t make it, but there were enough.

  The warlock charged out in front atop one of the great beasts, flinging fireballs at any Glassmen in their path. A horde of grimaurs flew with them, dicing up the archer’s positions on that side of the city.

  Crowfall had stood in the hands of the Glass Kingdom since their first King—that feckless coward who’d abandoned the Drav Cra for weakness and warmth—sent men north to defend it against people who had once been family, now proclaimed by them to be worthless savages.

  That great city, once untouchable, now, in mere minutes, had fallen. Exhaustion tugged at Freydis, but she watched and listened with a smirk on her lips… until the screams stopped, the bells stopped tolling, and all that was left were the screeching grimaurs.

  XXXIII

  The Thief

  Sunlight refracted through the glass spire, blinding Whitney even at such a distance. He’d never found Yarrington to be all that impressive—not after seeing places like Myen Elnoir and Brekliodad—but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be beautiful.

  He hadn’t been back to the Glass capital since that crazy battle atop Mount Lister, where Torsten had lost his sight, and Whitney had lost Sora. He’d met Lucindur soon after when the Pompare Troupe’s juggler died during Nesilia’s cultists’ rioting. It astounded Whitney the way events tended to strike one another like flint, the sparks bouncing from one thing to the next, setting flame to unintended targets.

  More and more, he felt like a pawn in someone else’s game. Gods and goddesses, no less. Like he was nothing, just an insignificant speck on a world so vast, not even he had seen half of it.

  If he followed the trail from his imprisonment for stealing the Glass Crown, he’d find Sora, lose Sora, find Sora again, then lose her and find her all over. He wasn’t even sure that was it if he counted seeing her in Nowhere. Enough to make his head spin off his shoulders. That job had sparked so many things, and it had all led them to this place.

  They’d been walking for a few days after having found carriage rides through Westvale and further south to some of the fringe towns, stopping only to resupply. It hadn’t been a comfortable journey, but it was better than being in the far North, frozen to the bone, and chilled to the core.

  “My feet are killing me,” Whitney complained. He couldn’t help himself.

  “We heard ye the first dozen times,” Tum Tum said. “Ye wonder why we call ye flower-pickers.”

  “I don’t wonder, and I still don’t think it’s insulting.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  They kept walking through colorful hills, and Whitney fought every desire to actually pick Tum Tum a flower, snickering to himself and then wiping his face of the smile every time the raven-haired dwarf peered upward.

  “It’s nice to see the city,” Sora said. She stopped to dig through her bag and passed around a water skin. “Despite all the horrors that have taken place there.”

  “That old place?” Whitney said, taking a swig and giving it to Lucindur.

  “So, this be Yarrington?” Tum Tum said. “Ain’t impressed.”

  “You’re just trying to get me back for thinking Balonhearth was a rubble pile,” Whitney said. “Won’t work. I don’t like this shog hole, either.”

  Yarrington stood on the horizon like a beacon of hope, or bastion of despair, all depending upon one’s name and status. Acres of farmland surrounded its tall, stone fortifications. Within, was a blanket of thatch homes that slowly became more substantially built the closer they got to the castle. At the base of the mountain, Old Yarrington and its many mansions threatened to give the castle a run for its money. In the north and west, the city butted up to the Torrential Sea and Mount Lister, respectively. Natural defenses. Dockside alone should have dissuaded attackers—no one in their right mind would want to go to that sewage dump, and to think, that used to be the nice part of town.

  “Ah, yes. The place where the high and mighty look down upon the lowly, eyes filled with Iam’s grace,” Whitney said, circling his eyes. “Good to be back.”

  “You love it,” Sora said.

  Whitney shrugged. “Beats Troborough.”

  He’d never admit it out loud, but he missed that little farm town and hope that someday, he’d return.

  “I still don’t know exactly what we are supposed to do when we get there,” Lucindur said.

  It was an excellent question, and Whitney had been mulling it over for as long as they’d been on the road. Sure, they had the Brike Stone—horrifying little thing—but they honestly didn’t know what to do with the Brike Stone beyond repeating what they’d done in the Citadel with the bar guai. Typically, Whitney would have a portion of a plan, and fate, or whatever power, would develop the rest of it on the spot. This time, however, with the Buried Goddess looming over them and threatening all of existence, Whitney felt a smidgeon of concern.

  “First, we’ll find Torsten,” he said, making believe he had it all thought out. “Besides being thrilled to see me, there’s plenty he needs to know.” Whitney gave Sora a knowing glance, and she lowered her head.

  He drew close and nudged her with his elbow. “It’s going to be fine. Remember, this is Torsten.”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t think it’ll be fine,” she said. “Perhaps you don’t remember our time spent with him. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. ‘Witch,’ I believe, was the term he used.”

  “Torsten loves you.”

  They crested a hill that looked down into the Haskwood Thicket, and all Whitney could think of was himself bound up and being dragged down the road by Torsten on their way to slay their first goddess in the Webbed Woods. That gave him hope that they could do it again.

  The Glass Road pierced through trees and farmland, and they followed it through the hills until they reached the fields outside the Eastern Gate. And there, Whitney found something new to a city he thought he knew every nook and cranny of—a dark mass milling around.

  “What in Meungor’s shiny, bald arse be that?” Tum Tum said.

  “Are those… people?” Whitney asked.

  There could be no doubt about it. Thousands of people filled the pasturelands just outside of Yarrington, suffocating crops. They didn’t appear to be hostile or any of Nesilia’s forces, just good, hard-working farmers and merchants.

  As the party got closer, the sound grew deafening. Tents were like tiny arrowheads sticking up from the ground. Campfires burned, sending up puffs of smoke. Above, Aquira screeched, then soared ahead a bit to try to get a better view.

  “Don’t go far!” Sora shouted.

  “She’ll be fine,” Whitney said, knowing the wyvern was more than capable of handling herself. They had a new respect for each other after the Iron Bank. At least, he did, and he hoped she did too.

  “What do you think that’s all about?” Sora asked.

  “Beats me,” Whitney answered. “Let’s find out.”

  The city looked closer than it was, and Whitney did his share of complaining along the way, but eventually, they stood at the outskirts of the still-growing crowd. Blankets of travelers poured in through the Thicket, from the east and south.

  “There’re so many,” Lucindur said. “Are they… homeless?”

  “It’s almost like a pilgrimage,” Sora said.

  “For what, though?”
Tum Tum asked.

  “Hey… is that,” Whitney said, standing on the balls of his feet. “It is! Hamm!”

  Before she could protest, Whitney grabbed hold of Sora’s hand and dragged her through the throng toward some of the newcomers.

  “Hamm!” he called.

  “Whitney, slow down,” Sora said, but he didn’t listen.

  He did, however, hesitate when he saw who was with Hamm. Alless—but not the Alless Whitney had spent so long with in Fake Troborough. No, this was the Alless he’d grown up pining after, who was now twice his age and looked it. Still, her eyes were kind and inviting.

  “What’s wrong?” Sora asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. C’mon.”

  After shoving their way through irritated mobs, Whitney tapped the Twilight Manor’s big bartender on the shoulder.

  “Aye?” Hamm said, turning to them. Then, his eyes locked onto Sora.

  “Sora?” he said in utter disbelief. He waited a moment for Sora to respond, and when she smiled, he gave her a big hug. “Sora, it is you! You look to be doing well!”

  Whitney almost scoffed out loud. If Hamm only knew.

  “And you,” Sora said.

  “And who’s this you’re with?” he asked her.

  Whitney’s mouth almost won the race with his heart to the bottom of his stomach. Hamm, however, didn’t let the joke go too far.

  “I’m kidding! Whitney Fierstown again! Get in here,” he said, pulling Whitney into a bear hug. “It’s been a while. Fancy meeting you out here of all places. I thought you’d have been back to the Manor by now. Seen what we’ve done with the place after those gray skins burned her down. And now we’re supposed to shake their hands like nothing happened?”

  Whitney put a hand through his hair. “I saw it not too long ago while I was traveling with my troupe. Was uh—keeping a bit of a low profile, you understand—was still new with the troupe. It looked great though!”

  “I see,” Hamm said, the disappointment on his face palpable. “Well, you remember Alless.”