NESILIA’S WAR
©2019-2020 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.
Contents
Book Four
PROLOGUE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
EPILOGUE
Book FIVE
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
Epilogue
Book Six
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
XLVIII
XLIX
L
LI
LII
Epilogue
Join The King’s Shield
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Thank You!
Book Four
Way of Gods
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 sank 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 M’stafu Desert, 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 valuables. 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 Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 1
