Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  WAY OF GODS

  ©2019 RHETT C. BRUNO & JAIME CASTLE

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Fabian Saravia. Cartography by Bret Duley.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.

  All rights reserved.

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING:

  "Fantastic world building and masterful prose. Definitely a must read for Epic Fantasy fans.”—Brian D. Anderson, bestselling author of The Godling Chronicles

  "An interesting and exciting… series. I'm looking forward to reading what the authors come up with next!”—Dakota Krout, author of the Divine Dungeon Series and winner of Audible Top 5 Fantasy of 2017.

  "A gritty, dark fantasy disguised as a lighthearted epic... Creativity and twists were wielded as effectively as swords and daggers. The diverse cast of characters are perfectly imperfect, which made them easy to cheer for. I am looking forward to the sequel!"—David Estes, bestselling author of Fatemarked

  “Bruno and Castle built an epic fantasy world that captivates the imagination and brings the reading on a thrilling adventure that will leave the devotees of fantasy eager for the next tale.”—Jason Anspach, Bestselling author of the Galaxy's Edge Series

  "Rich developed characters meet vivid descriptions and a twisted plot that keeps you turning the pages...an enthralling start to a promising series!”—J.T. Williams, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Half-Elf Chronicles

  "Imaginative world-building... complex politics with a variety of nations and influences... I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys adventure fantasy.”—By Rite of Word

  ALSO IN THE SERIES

  Web of Eyes

  Winds of War

  Will of Fire

  Way of Gods

  The Saga So Far

  COMING SOON:

  War of Men

  Word of Truth

  The Bruno/Castle parental units respectively—Thanks for all the love and support and for not being as terrible as all the parents in this series.

  PROLOGUE

  Drad Mak the Mountainous, of the Fyortentek clan, swung his mighty battle-axe, cleaving the tusk of a zhulong as it slipped on a strip of sand turned to ice by a warlock. The vibrations of the blow made Mak’s hands sting, but he held firm, and the force sent the beast to the ground. Its rider, legs crushed beneath the zhulong’s weight, raised his hands in surrender as Mak hefted his axe high. The blade ignored the dying gray man’s pleas and sunk into his chest.

  Mak’s father had given him the axe, and his father before him, and so on. A thick human skull served as the socket for the dual blades and dated back so many generations, none could remember to whom it belonged. All Mak knew was that brothers feuded over the dradinengor title of his clan and the winner got the axe. Stories claimed the weapon thirsted for blood as an upyr of Breklian lore. If that were true, this day, the axe was fully sated on Shesaitju blood.

  “Drad Mak!” someone shouted.

  Mak spun around and looked into the eyes of a Shesaitju warrior. The man had his fauchard raised, ready to plunge it into Mak’s back, but collapsed and dropped the weapon instead. Sir Nikserof, King’s Shieldsman and co-Wearer of White stood behind the attacker, his white helm covered in blood. Mak wore a matching helm, signaling that he was a joint-leader of this allied army, although his wasn’t made from glaruium as Nikserof’s was. Before following King Pi’s orders to end the Black Sand’s rebellion once and for all, Hovom Nitebrittle, the Glassmen’s lead Smith, had quickly and crudely fashioned the helmet to fit the mammoth man’s head.

  Mak and Nikserof exchanged a nod, then Nikserof returned to a wall of shields and his advancing forces. The campaign into the Black Sands had been a success thus far. Even the infamous Afhem Muskigo Ayerabi, “the Scythe,” didn’t know how to handle the Glass Army and Drav Cra working together, and many of the Shesaitju people refused to join him, including any afhems and their substantial naval forces. Nikserof and his flower pickers hid behind shields and spears while Mak’s men, hardened by lifetimes of bitter cold, slaughtered Muskigo’s ground troops.

  “Retreat!” Shesaitju voices carried on the hot air. “Fall back!”

  Mak crushed a corpse beneath his boot and watched as Muskigo’s army responded to the command to fall back behind the high walls of Nahanab. The rebellious afhem himself was the last to heed the command. From atop his zhulong, he slashed down and gashed a Drav Cra warrior. Then another. A nearby warlock sliced her palm and sent a fireball hurtling at Muskigo, but he deflected it with his blade, embers and sparks bathing him in harsh orange light. Then, he grabbed a spear from the chest cavity of a fallen soldier, and launched it through the warlock’s heart.

  Muskigo glared across the haze of heat, blood, and sand straight at Mak and Nikserof. His eyes were dark, full of rage. Mak’s grip tightened on his axe. For a moment, Mak thought the rebel might charge, that, finally, he may face a foe worthy of staining his axe. Then one of Muskigo’s commanders grabbed him and convinced him to retreat.

  “The cowards fall behind walls!” Mak exclaimed, thrusting his axe into the air. “Tonight, we shall feast in the name of the Buried Goddess!”

  Night was a relief for Mak and his people in this arid region. They camped at the edge of the M’stafu Desert, where the Wildlands gave way to black sand. The heat was unbearable under the beating daytime sun, even with warlocks summoning ice to keep them cool while they marched. But at night, a chill ran on the south-bearing breeze, as if Nesilia’s loving embrace arrived to comfort them. The Glassmen sat around their fires and huddled in blankets, but Mak’s men needed none of it. They welcomed the cold.

  Drums beat in celebration. Warlocks sat in a circle, mounds of bone in the center upon which a goat lay—a sacrifice in the name of their Lady.

  “Louder, my people!” Mak laughed as he downed a horn filled with southern ale. The stuff was weak, but he planned on drinking deep into the night. “Celebrate. While the grey men cower behind walls, we will strike fear into their hearts. Louder!”

  Soft green nigh’jel light from within Nahanab glowed on the horizon. It was a highly defensible city, surrounded on two sides by the black stone cliffs bordering the Wildlands, and on the other, Trader’s Bay. A wall stretched between the eastern cliffs and the bay, with a single gate—the only entry from land. And Mak knew well the skill of Shesaitju archers. Despite how far they’d been beaten back, the blackwood barbed arrows had claimed more of Mak’s people than anything while the Glassmen hid behind their shields painted with the Eye of Iam.

  A siege was in order.

  In the same manner Mak’s raiders would leave Northern Glassmen to shroud themselves beneath the shadow of tall cathedrals, they would take Nahanab. In the North, the Drav Cra raiders could easily ride in and slaughter them all, but instead, they take joy in watching as the flower pickers stew in fear until they willingly surrender anything of value. Only this time, Mak had no interest in val
uables. After the Shesaitju starve themselves out, the Drav Cra and Glassmen will enter, steal the heads from Shesaitju shoulders and claim Nahanab as their own.

  Sir Nikserof had called for a new wave of warships to moor off-coast and block Afhem Muskigo and his men from retreating into the bay. Drav Cra longboats, already dispatched from what was left of Winde Port, had initiated the blockade. All while the army cut off all trade to the land.

  Within Nahanab, Muskigo and his rebels would, indeed, starve in time. And they would know that the might of the Drav Cra couldn’t be resisted. And soon, Prime Minister Redstar would command the ear of the Glass Kingdom’s boy-king, and the Buried Goddess’ will would fall upon Pantego before anyone could stop it.

  Mak grinned and raised his horn in cheers as Nikserof and a handful of Shieldsmen strolled by. The Glassman returned a reticent nod. He and his ilk were fine warriors, but in time, only one would wear the White Helm, and Mak knew who that would be.

  “Join me for a drink, Shieldsman!” Mak shouted.

  Nikserof stopped. He firmly gripped a piece of parchment, a letter probably freshly delivered by one of their galler birds. The soft fools. Still taking orders from far-off kings and advisers. Once a Drav Cra force was dispatched, they were trusted to do what was asked of them. “Defeat the rebels and bring glory to our Lady’s name,” was all that Redstar, the Arch Warlock needed to ask.

  “I would love to, but I have a siege to prepare,” Nikserof replied. “Care to join us?”

  Mak scoffed. “All these talks and plans. Today is a time for celebration. The Buried Goddess carries us to victory! Perhaps, she truly did lay with your Iam, eh? We make quite a pair.” The others seated with Mak chortled.

  Nikserof bit his lip but didn’t give in to the goading. Ever since setting out from Yarrington, the Shieldsman hadn’t been much fun. “Then at least try and keep it down so we can focus,” he said. “It is time to rest. Victory is not yet won. Muskigo has proven time and again to be full of surprises.”

  “Where can they go! Their fleet can’t stand against what’s coming, and the rest of their people have refused to aid them in breaking the blockade. They’re titrats in a cage now, waiting to be squashed.”

  Warlocks interrupted them, chanting in Drav Crava as blood leaked from the goat’s throat and into bowls carved from human skulls. Nikserof winced and averted his gaze, soft man that he was.

  Iam’s favored weaklings.

  “Have a good night,” Nikserof said, then he and his men clattered off in their heavy armor, wrapped in Drav Cra furs as if a chilly desert night was something to fear.

  Mak extended his horn, and one of his men filled it before he commanded it. Once full, Mak tipped some over the edge to feed the earth before bringing it to his lips.

  Mak’s eyes shot open. He saw the shape of a face above him, then felt cold all over. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t breathe, and the man gripped a short sword covered in blood. Mak’s blood.

  Mak lashed out and seized the assailant’s skull, crushing and twisting, breaking the man’s neck in an instant. Mak then grabbed his own throat. The man had cut it, but Mak’s neck was so thick with muscle the blade hadn’t gone too deep. Still, blood leaked from between his fingers even as he applied pressure.

  His blurry eyes darted. All over, tents burned with men both in and around them. It was early morning, the light of sunrise just beginning to touch the horizon. At first, Mak thought Muskigo had gotten the jump on them, then he realized that fire only rose from the Drav Cra portion of the camp. Fully-armored Glassmen stood above his people, slitting their throats as they slept. Simple arrows rained down upon them from all sides as well.

  Mak attempted to shout orders, but he couldn’t. A Shieldsman charged him through the smoke and Mak pawed for his axe. He found it and swung it upward, catching the man beneath the jaw and killing him instantly.

  Mak then tore the furs off his shoulder and wrapped his neck tight to stem the bleeding. He stood, legs woozy from the loss of blood and a night of drinking. He wouldn’t last long in such a state.

  “The Glassmen betray us!” voices of his men shouted in Drav Crava all around him, lost amongst the yowls of the dying. Warlocks were killed quickly, not allowed to bleed out, but one held on, consuming Glassmen in magical fire and vines even as he died.

  Nikserof was smart, hitting them first, but he couldn’t get all of them.

  A handful survived and chanted in a circle. Great waves of fire crashed down in a large swathe, guarding Mak and a portion of his army from the Glassmen’s advance. Arrows crumbled to ash as they neared. Those caught outside of the flaming wreath were slaughtered like pigs—their screams like a cruel symphony. Most didn’t even have a chance to raise their weapons.

  “Drad Mak!” Drad Ugosah, shouted. “Sir Nikserof has betrayed us.”

  Mak gurgled in response. Just speaking sent him to his knees. Blood had turned the furs around his neck deep crimson, almost black. He just stared up at the mustached dradinengor, eyes growing bleary.

  Drad Ugosah barked orders at one of the warlocks. While the others kept the Glass army at bay, one of the remaining warlocks knelt at Mak’s side. Mak could barely hear now, and tendrils of darkness closed in around his vision.

  “You must survive,” the warlock said, only her voice wasn’t her own. It was deep, ephemeral as if the Buried Goddess herself spoke through her lips. Her eyes rolled back and showed only the whites. “Your work is not yet done.”

  The warlock slit her own throat, and as she bled, she placed a hand over Mak’s throat. The next thing he knew, the warlock was a shriveled husk at his side, and all that remained of his wound was a grisly scar.

  Ugosah tried to help Mak stand, but received a shove as Mak grabbed his battle-axe and shouted, “I’ll kill them all!”

  “You heard our Lady’s command,” Drad Ugosah said.

  Mak glared through the blaze, seeing the silhouettes of Glassmen, ready to slaughter them all. Only a few hundred of his men might have survived their cowardly betrayal, each of them ready to die in battle, backed into a tight circle. Sir Nikserof and his army stood beyond the flames, staring back at Mak. Mak couldn’t help but wish Muskigo had charged the day before. At least then all these brave Drav Cra warriors might not have died at the hands of traitorous cowards.

  Mak grunted and shoved Ugosah toward their mounts. “Retreat!” he shouted. It pained him to his very soul to say it. “Fall back in the name of the Buried Goddess, and we will slaughter these cowards another day!”

  The warlocks’ fire shield had managed to protect the zhulong stables filled with the giant creatures they’d stolen from the Black Sands. Beastmasters commanded the caged dire wolves with them to feast, and beasts chased beasts as the warlocks lifted the veil of fire.

  Mak and the survivors charged through the Glass ranks, heading north. Mak grabbed the fur of his own dire wolf, Trite, pushing him forward as Mak mounted one of the zhulong. Smoke and ember singed his brow, sweat poured down his back, but he charged ahead, his axe carving a bloody line through the cowards.

  By the time Mak reached the ridge looking down upon the camp and escaped the smog of smoke, he glanced back and saw that the Glassmen didn’t give chase. Instead, they cheered, raising spears and swords in the air as if they’d won a great victory. A few even continued firing arrows to keep the Drav Cra running.

  Mak yanked on the zhulong’s thick, orange mane to stop its retreat and watched as his people rushed by. Bloody, exhausted, terrified… he’d seen his warriors be many things, but terrified was never one of them. Even the few warlocks who’d survived looked as though they’d seen Skorravik, his people’s eternal plane of rest, and Nesilia wasn’t there. They rode on the backs of hard-scaled zhulong, slouched, drained of too much blood and on the precipice of death. They’d need water, food, and all their supplies were burned.

  From so high up, Mak could see beyond Nahanab into the shallow cove where it was located. The longboats his people had lent to
the war effort were full of activity. Some burned, others flipped, and he could see the shadows of his own people being tossed overboard. Betrayed.

  The very sight sent a chill up Mak’s spine like never before. He wanted to roar and crack open the earth. Glass warships were on the way, and now, in the night, they’d stolen Mak’s ships so they could keep up the blockade on Nahanab. As if theDrav Cra had never been a part of it.

  A piece of parchment blew by, signed on the bottom and still spitting ash. Mak snatched it. He couldn’t read the Glassmen’s language too well, and the top half of the message was missing, but he put things together.

  REDSTAR HAS BEEN PROVEN A DECEIVER AND SLAIN... THE DRAV CRA ARE EXPELLED FROM YARRINGTON… THE ALLIANCE IS BROKEN… CLAIM THEM BEFORE THEY CLAIM YOU.

  —SIR TORSTEN UNGER, MASTER OF WARFARE.

  An arrow soared across the sky and stuck into Mak’s shoulder, blood spattering the parchment. He barely flinched, just gritted his teeth, snapped it in half, and then crumped the letter, throwing it on the ground where Trite sniffed at it.

  “Drad Mak, we must go!” Ugosah ordered from atop a zhulong of his own.

  All those Glass townsfolk he’d spared in the Far North… now Mak wished he’d butchered them all. The Arch Warlock was dead, murdered by fools who prayed to a foolish god who had forgotten them. Forgotten everyone.

  Mak reached up, tore the white helm from his head and stared at it. He thought about slamming it down but instead placed it in his lap. He’d worn it in the name of an alliance Redstar promised would be fruitful. No longer. Now, the man who’d caused so many of his brothers to die, floundering and afraid, would pay. Mak would force the helm upon Torsten Unger’s head, and crush his skull within it. Every coward who worshipped Iam would die screaming… in the name of the Buried Goddess.