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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Now, come, let us put aside this foolishness and return to the safety of home. Shavi is making zhulong stew, and it smelled wonderful.” Muskigo motioned to one of his other men, Impili—she hated Impili most of all with his broken front teeth and neck scar. Impili grasped her bow and spare arrows. She glowered at him, hoping his hand got cut on the arrows’ barbs, but their eyes never met.

  “Someday,” Muskigo said, “Saujibar will need you.”

  Mahraveh wasn’t sure why her mind was drawn to that moment, which was just one of so many times she was forced back home, but she was. Perhaps if her father had let her go out on her own even once in her life, she might’ve been more prepared for things now that he was the one in need of saving.

  Presently, she stood at the base of Caleef Sidar Rakun’s golden throne. Surrounding her were frightening men. Scarred, tattooed, and calloused men. Shesaitju afhems and their closest advisors, arms flailing as they shouted at one another.

  Serpent Guards lined the walls like armored statues, still as stone. They held no affiliation to any afhem, only to the Caleef. They were trained from birth by the masters of the Tal’du Dromesh to be his personal guard after—as mere children—their tongues were taken. Solid gold masks covered the top halves of their faces, scales and ridges forming the visage of a snake. Each one was a physical specimen, corded muscles and rock-hard abdominals like they could have been chipped from the Pikeback Mountains. After the Caleef was taken prisoner by King Pi of the Glass, some had broken ranks and gone with her father, Muskigo, to fight to free their Caleef. The rest stayed behind in the Boiling Keep.

  Nigh’jels painted the room in green light, coruscating off the golden walls, reflecting across the hall like poison moonlight. Shavi, the head handmaiden of the Ayerabi house, used fire for cooking, and Mahraveh always wondered why her people didn’t use simple torches instead of luminescent jellyfish in glass and bone cages. Her father, Muskigo, told her when she was much younger, he preferred the product of the Boiling Waters to the creation of man. That they were a gift of the God of Sand and Sea. Mahraveh still thought fire would be brighter and warmer.

  On a relief sculpture along the back wall, above the throne, a Shesaitju sand snake wrapped itself around a zhulong. The grooves were old; black but not tarnished. Each scale of both snake and zhulong was meticulously carved—each one the pride of her people. The zhulong were powerful and loyal, but not a beast to be crossed. The snakes were vicious, sure death to any who were unfortunate enough to stumble upon one—just like the Shesaitju, at least, how they used to be before the Glassmen made them bend the knee.

  Mahraveh crossed the room, disinterested in the complaints of men who were grown enough not to be acting like children. She’d only been to the capital city of Latiapur one other time—in the arms of her father—but she’d never been in the throne room. She’d heard stories of the gaping maw in the center of the floor, an open door gazing down into the choppy Boiling Waters far below.

  As she inched closer, the sound of the wind and waves grew louder. Her knees shook, but she pulled it together.

  You are the snake, she told herself.

  There was no ledge, no wall separating the sturdy golden floor from certain death, just a massive round hole. And below, she could imagine dorsal fins swarming in the waters.

  Without a second thought, she backed up and felt a hand against the small of her back.

  “Mahi, you should not be so close.”

  She turned to see the handsome face of her father’s right hand, Farhan. He’d only recently returned to Latiapur after a brutal loss in Winde Port that sent Muskigo and his rebel army into retreat. They were now surrounded by the Glass Army in Nahanab, under siege, while her father begged for other powerful afhems to heed the call of rebellion and come to his aid.

  Farhan had snuck out to carry his message and fight in the upcoming Afhemate Trials after the tragic passing of Afhem al-Tariq when a storm struck his ship out at sea. The man commanded a sizable fleet but kept to fishing around his island in the Boiling Waters after a critical loss to Liam shamed him and his afhemate.

  Mahraveh harrumphed and stepped back toward the mass of arguing afhems.

  “Do you propose we stand before the waves and petition the Lord for a new vessel while ours yet lives?” one afhem said.

  “I propose we do something instead of wait around while our land is further destroyed,” said another.

  “Our lands are in far better shape than that of the Glass,” Farhan said, stepping into the fray. “And our waters are rife with fish to keep our bellies full. What we must do is assemble our respective armies and march to Afhem Muskigo’s aid before the Glass take that too.”

  “What you are calling for, Commander, is open war against a new king,” Afhem Babrak Trisps’I spat the word commander as if there were spoiled zhulong stew upon his tongue. He was not nearly as physically fit as Mahraveh’s father, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in sheer mass. Mahraveh had always detested the man, whose late father’s rivalry with her own was well-known, but he commanded the largest fleet in the Black Sands. Without his support, it would be difficult to gain any from the other afhems.

  “Their ‘king’ is a baby,” Farhan said, bending two fingers on each hand with the word king. “Liam the Conqueror is dead. His mighty sword earned our respect and loyalty. It is our way. But should we kneel to a son who has won nothing? Muskigo saw this coming and refused to bow to weakness. Thousands rallied to his call and rode out to earn freedom for our people while you would all stand here arguing.”

  “Muskigo raised an army of fools who believed in the legend of the man and not the man himself,” Babrak said.

  “He acted on his own,” added another afhem. “And his actions led to the capture of our Caleef and so many dead in Winde Port. He blocked our tribute to the Glass for years of his own volition as well. If the Caleef were here, he’d throw him through the Sea Door for his insolence!” the afhem pointed to the opening in the floor, and merely the thought of her father near it made Mahraveh cringe.

  “But he is not here,” Farhan said. “Perhaps you are right, and Muskigo acted out of line, but it was Liam’s son who locked up the Caleef, regardless. And it was he who was so weak he allowed Caleef Rakun to escape into the wild.”

  “And do we know for sure these aren’t rumors spread by the Glass?” Babrak asked. “To root out unloyal afhems and further weaken us?”

  “Because he was there!” Farhan pointed to the gaunt-faced Glassman seated in the corner. “He set our Caleef free and saved my afhem’s life at Winde Port.”

  “Bah,” Babrak bellowed. “More Glassman games. This Yuri Darkings claims to have helped free the Caleef, yet the Caleef is not here.”

  Yuri stood to his full height, staring down at all of them over his hawkish nose. His form-fitting tunic was threaded with gold, and he wore more jeweled rings than any man ought to. Ever since he’d arrived alongside Farhan, his presence made Mahi’s skin crawl. He was like a ghost, from his pale skin to his smooth, gliding gate. He seemed to represent everything her father had taught her not to trust.

  “I did what I could under the circumstances,” Yuri said. “Perhaps you think it easy to betray a Nothhelm, even an inferior one. I told you, your Caleef is being escorted as we speak. If you want to send men out to search for them, that is your choice. I have done all that I can.”

  “So we should trust a man who’d betray his own people?” one of the afhems said.

  “I served Liam because I respected him,” Yuri responded, voice filled with accusation. “Just as your people bent your knee.”

  “You will watch your tone Glassman!” an afhem barked.

  “History is already written, my friend. Neither you nor I can change it. But Liam’s greatness died with him. His wife would have hung me over a wall like dried meat for speaking my mind. And their son?” he scoffed. “He’s crazy as a sick boar. Betray my people? I’m saving them from a generation of madness.” />
  “So you say,” Babrak said.

  Yuri stalked right up to him. Their figures couldn’t have contrasted any more. Except for their height. It wasn’t often a Glassman stood so tall. “Do you think I enjoy helping you people kill my own? I thought the Child-King would die and end this rotting dynasty, and then he rose from the dead, or so they say. I would have killed him myself if I could’ve gotten close enough, but now, the more the Glass unravels, the clearer my people will see that the time for a new line of kings has come. They’ll do it for me.”

  “I am certain the pile of gold and shoreside villa Muskigo offered you doesn’t hurt either,” Babrak said, pointedly turning his back to the Glassman.

  “Villa?” Yuri scoffed. “I gave up more wealth than you’ll see in a lifetime to help him. My family, beyond my son, will be ostracized. Besides, I’d hardly call a home by an oasis ‘shoreside.’”

  Babrak turned back to face Yuri.

  “Had I thought Muskigo’s peers would rather squabble like fat lords,” Yuri continued, patting Babrak’s bulbous stomach with the back of his many-ringed hand, “perhaps I would have backed a Panpingese rebellion.”

  Babrak stomped forward, his bulging gut pushing Yuri back. “Perhaps if you were an afhem, you could lead an army yourself. The tournament to find a new one to rule the al-Tariq Isle nears. I’d give you a minute lasting on the sands.”

  “You gray men,” Yuri clicked his tongue. “I’ve been on the Royal Council since before many of you were a twinkle in your father’s eye. You’ve grown soft. For generations, all the Shesaitju ever cared about was fighting, and now that you can, you’d rather let one of your own die because he didn’t ask permission.”

  “Do not presume to know our ways. Muskigo brought war and suffering to more than his afhemate... without our knowledge or the Caleef’s. That betrayal cannot be tolerated.”

  “Or maybe all of you fear what might happen when you lose all the wealth and food serving the Glass brings. The annihilation of the Ayerabi afhemate leaves ample room for others to grow in power.”

  “Muskigo made his choice. I take no pleasure in it.”

  “I’ve read stories about Shesaitju bravery. So far I’ve seen one brave man amongst a sea of cowards.”

  Babrak lashed out and grabbed Yuri by the arm. His hands shook. “You are lucky it is a bad omen to kill invited guests. If what you say about your new king is true, then why should we sacrifice thousands when they’ll destroy themselves?” He released Yuri and turned back to his people.

  “Every corner of this land is filled with fools,” Yuri spat, then stormed down the long golden hall and out of the room. He passed Mahi on his way by, and they made eye contact for a moment before he studied her from head to toe. It gave her a shiver.

  Farhan cleared his throat and said, “If we do not heed Muskigo’s call, what will we do?”

  “We should keep our heads down and wait until this blows over,” Babrak said. “If Caleef Rakun escaped the clutches of the Glass, he will return to us.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Farhan said.

  “Then the God of Sand and Sea will claim a new host from the depths to guide us.” The big man took several steps forward, placing himself in the center of the afhems. “Who are you, Commander Farhan Uki’a? You are no afhem. Lord Darkings was invited, but do you even have a place in these halls?”

  The others murmured in agreement.

  “I am here representing the Ayerabi afhemate, as is custom when an Afhem cannot be present,” Farhan said. “Surely, I do not need to recite to you our customs?”

  “I thought that’s why the girl was here?” Babrak pointed at Mahi, who tried to look like she belonged.

  Farhan’s shoulders dropped ever-so-slightly, but he quickly straightened and said, “When was the last time you swung a sword, Babrak?”

  Mahraveh was impressed. Farhan was both handsome and brave. All her childhood, he’d helped keep her from exploring the dunes, hunting on her own. She’d never realized he wasn’t much older than she, and whatever had happened in Winde Port had changed him. She could see it in his eyes. It was said a Shesaitju boy wasn’t a man until he gripped a blade in battle, and Farhan was clearly now a man.

  “When was the last time any of you wielded your blade against someone without gray skin?” Farhan said, looking around the room. “We’ve been pissing on each other so long, we’ve forgotten we are all slaves to the Glass.”

  “We are slaves to no one!” shouted a tall afhem, every inch of his bald head covered in tattoos like Muskigo’s.

  “We are slaves to anyone who wishes us to be!” Farhan snapped. “Yuri was right. When was the last time free men paid tribute to a king not their own? Look out that window,” he said, pointing. “How many Eyes of Iam do you see in those streets? Is Iam our God? No! But we are forced to endure his temples within our city walls, all so the men in this room can grow richer and fatter. Meanwhile, our God is absent from our people, his chosen vessel dead for all we know.”

  “Caleef Rakun is not dead,” a sultry voice suddenly spoke from behind Mahraveh. She’d appeared out of nothing and nowhere. She stepped forward, hips swaying, causing the strings of shells and seaweed draped across her naked body to rattle.

  Mahraveh had no idea one of the Sirens would be present. She’d never seen one of the strange, ageless women so close. They lived alone on the far islands of the Boiling Waters, listening to the waters for guidance. They usually stayed in their far-off homes until a new Caleef needed to be drawn from the sea, but with Sidar Rakun missing, there were rumors they’d begun to make their presence known again.

  The woman’s hair was knotted, discolored—green, as if she’d spent her life in the salt water. Her gray skin was creased, not the way old skin wrinkled, however, but smooth furrows like driftwood, small bits of coral growing from the cracks. Her beauty was unquestionable, and her eyes were bright as Celeste hanging in a pitch-dark sky.

  And Mahraveh knew she was deadlier than any warrior within these walls.

  The Siren cleared her throat. “Do you not know that the very stars would fall from the sky upon the death of Sidar Rakun, calling us home to shore?”

  Mahraveh had never seen anyone capture the attention of a room like the Siren had. Secretly, she’d always fantasized of being one. To be free to travel as they pleased until the God of Sand and Sea summoned their souls back to him. Little more was known about them, and Mahraveh loved the mysterious.

  “The oceans would roar and tumble,” the Siren continued. “Their froth billowing, rising so high this room would fill from the Sea Door. The sun would fail to rise, and the moons would go black. I assure you, our Caleef yet lives.”

  “Then tell us, voice of the deep sea, what we should do?” Babrak said.

  She closed her eyes, eyelids flickering. “We should be patient. The Caleef returns to us in the hands of Glass traitors. Twin towers made of steel with crimson beards. We mustn’t act without his blessing, unlike one of you whose death is now secured.” Without so much as another word, the oracle dissipated into sand. Her essence flowed through the open Sea Door and caught on the wind.

  The men murmured, but Mahraveh stared. Stories of the Sirens claimed many things, but seeing one in person turn to black sand on the wind was entirely different.

  “Even the Sirens see the folly of Muskigo’s ways,” an afhem said, addressing Farhan.

  “Would you ignore their sage advice now as well?” Babrak asked. “Muskigo made his selfish play for power, and we all pay for it dearly.”

  Another afhem shouted, and the arguing began again. Farhan didn’t back down, and his deep gray skin went a shade darker as he waged war with his tongue. These sorts of arguments usually led to conflict between afhemates, like the one long ago which claimed Mahraveh’s mother when her father loved whom he shouldn’t have and won a war he should never have fought.

  Mahraveh took a staggering step forward. Her heart felt like it was in her throat, and she was sure th
e words wouldn’t make it past the lump.

  “My father,” she began, then cleared her throat. “Afhem Muskigo is off fighting a war you were all too fearful to fight.”

  Babrak spun to face her, scowling. “Enough of this! Your father is a rebel against both Crowns. He has acted of his own volition to bring our time of peace and rebuilding after Liam to an end.”

  “Peace?” Hearing the word emboldened her. She stepped up the first gilded dais of the empty throne, bringing herself eye level with Babrak. There were a few inhalations at the sight of not only a non-afhem, but a woman at that, sullying the dais of their god-king, but most listened with rapt attention. “Since when do we care of peace? Yuri spoke the truth. You’ve grown soft as your belly, Babrak.”

  The other afhems laughed, and she gained more confidence.

  “These ancient lands have been home to our people for generations longer than those pasty-faced pink men have been away from the tundra,” she said.

  “And they should have stayed there!” one of the afhems cried out.

  “Be that as it may,” Mahraveh continued, “they did not. And they were not content to stay beside their mountain.”

  “They will be put in their place,” Farhan agreed. “Our fathers may have failed to defeat them, but we can.”

  “Who? This slob?” Mahraveh knew she might be pushing it, but Babrak just continued staring at her. They could disagree with her father all they wanted, but she knew they respected and feared him. He who had never lost a battle in any feud amongst their people or otherwise… until Winde Port—who’d claimed the Ayerabi afhemate in the Tal’du Dromesh after King Liam killed his predecessor.

  “Are you too afraid to step outside these gilded walls?” she questioned. “My father—”

  She felt the sudden sting of Babrak’s hand on her cheek and then hit the cold, golden floor. Blinking twice, she rolled to her back. Cries of protest arose, Farhan’s voice loudest amongst them all.