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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Stay back, Commander,” Babrak warned, drawing his warhammer. “Or you will join her. This is a place for men to discuss war, not for pampered children to exercise their voices.”

  “That is the daughter of an afhem,” Farhan said, rushing to Mahraveh’s side to help her up. “When her father returns from Nahanab, victorious, you will answer for this, and you know what Muskigo is capable of. Or do you not remember your last feud?”

  “Muskigo’s victory amongst our people was a fluke,” Babrak said. “If that sandstorm hadn’t hit, he would’ve been food for the gulls.”

  “The God of Sand and Sea favors him,” Mahraveh bristled as she stood. “He defeated you to claim my mother, outnumbered four to one. Do you dare believe the Glassmen are stronger?”

  “Pazradi was to be my wife! He had no right to her, just like he had no right to start a war. Can’t you all see how that man believes he can do whatever he wishes?”

  “At least he isn’t blind.”

  “The Siren has spoken,” Babrak said. “Muskigo’s favor with the Sands is lost. We must wait for the guidance of Caleef Rakun.”

  “Afhem Babrak,” Farhan said. “This war can be won. Don’t be a coward.”

  “Perhaps one day soon it will be, but it will not be by him. He is the coward who turned his back on this circle, and so we shall do the same.” Most of the afhems grumbled in agreement, though a few remained silent—Afhem Tingur of the Jalurahbak numbered among them. Mahraveh took note of each. “Now, take this impudent child and run back to your master, little Farhan. And watch out for sand snakes. We wouldn’t want Pazradi’s beautiful child to suffer the same unfortunate fate as she herself.”

  Babrak shoved Farhan, smiling. Mahraveh couldn’t stomach the disrespect any longer. She punched the fat man without thinking twice, but her hand recessed into his belly like it was made of sand. He shoved her down again and walked away, skirting around the Sea Door and the waters beneath.

  Mahraveh was the first to rise again, but she froze upon seeing what Farhan did next. He rushed toward Afhem Babrak like a rabid zhulong.

  “Farhan, stop!” she cried, and as she did, Babrak turned to see Farhan charging him. He stepped to the side, grabbed Farhan by the tunic and launched him through the portal into the violent, shark-infested waters.

  “No!” Mahraveh screamed, but it was too late. Nobody could survive that fall lest they be named Caleef. “Farhan!”

  She’d come so far, and now, she was left all alone amongst the real snakes.

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten spread his hands across the parchment, feeling every wrinkle, the subtle bumps of dried ink. The message had only just arrived by galler bird from the front lines where Sir Nikserof, the Wearer of White, battled to put down the Shesaitju rebellion led by Afhem Muskigo Ayerabi.

  Torsten remembered that day in Winde Port when the winds of war shifted, the fire, the blood—his duel with the afhem which almost claimed his life. He’d never felt as helpless as when he’d cracked through the ice into the cold waters of Winde Port’s grand canal. He’d never felt as broken as when Muskigo beat him. He remembered how Redstar used that failure to climb and manipulate; to take the Glass Kingdom for his own.

  Worse even than the day Liam had finally passed, the worst day of Torsten’s life, yet he longed to return to it. Because on that day, he could see, which meant on that day, he could fight; he could serve his kingdom the best way he knew how.

  “Lucas, what does it say?” Torsten asked, flapping the letter to his right. Torsten scratched the tender skin around his eyes as he listened to the young man flatten the parchment across the heavy oaken desk in his quarters.

  “It’s addressed from Sir Nikserof, dated Freefrost, twenty,” Lucas said. A period of silence passed between them.

  “Do you plan on finishing the rest, or having me guess?” Torsten asked.

  “I… uh, sorry, sir. He writes to inform you and the King that, and I quote, ‘News of Redstar’s fate allowed us to get the jump on Dradinengor Mak in their sleep and ravage the united Drav Cra horde. It left our position in the South weaker and exposed the Wildlands to what’s left of Mak and their raiders, but with the Glass army at my command, and the ships quickly dispatched from Crowfall thanks to Lord Jolly taking command, I have surrounded Afhem Muskigo in Nahanab and have him under siege. Spies in Latiapur inform me that other powerful afhems hesitate to throw their support behind Muskigo, whom they believe acted outside the best interest of their people. When Muskigo is defeated, I feel that peace will be within our grasp. Many of the Shesaitju blame him for what happened with the Caleef; that he pushed us too far.’ End quote.”

  “This could have all ended at Winde Port,” Torsten interrupted. “Cut the head off the snake. I hope he can do what I failed to.”

  “Sir, there’s a postscript,” Lucas said. “Would you like me to continue?”

  Torsten nodded.

  “’I heard what happened to you, Sir,’” Lucas read. “’I hope the heathen suffered when he died. And know that I never wanted to wear this helm. Upon my return, it’s yours. If you want it back. You don’t need eyes to lead; you only need to see.’ End quote.”

  Lucas rerolled the letter. “That’s it, but for the seal of the Wearer of White,” he added.

  Torsten’s fingers squeezed the edge of his desk. He could feel the wood beginning to divide as his grip hardened. More than anything, he wished he could be there with the men he’d neglected for so long. He didn’t care about leading them, only standing at their side in battle. It was where he belonged. Now, he’d merely weaken the Shield.

  “Sir, shall I draft a response?” Lucas asked.

  Torsten drew a slow, grating breath, then released his grip. “Tell him to push Muskigo to the brink. The Shesaitju respect only martial prowess. It was how—”

  “Sorry, sir. I need a moment.”

  Torsten grumbled under his breath as Lucas gathered supplies. The young man fumbled through a drawer, then Torsten heard a clattering followed by a curse.

  “Sorry, Sir. Spilled the ink. Just a—yes, there we go.”

  The moment Torsten was released from the physicians, Shield Taskmaster Lars brought him a new pool of Shieldsmen recruits from which to choose an aide. Lucas was a member of the city guard who hailed from Dockside and was there when the Buried Goddess cultists rioted. He had luckily been stationed by the city’s southern gates that night and ignored orders not to open the portcullis in fear of losing the Caleef permanently. Hundreds were able to escape fire and death thanks to his deed. And after, he went down to the street to help direct scared citizens to the opening when smoke and night had clouded their vision. A handful even claimed he’d saved them from cultists, killing three with his own blade.

  All the while, his parents lived and worked in a Dockside bakery. They’d, luckily, survived by hiding in a cellar, but the shop suffered much damage. Lucas could have abandoned his post like so many others had that chaotic night, choosing instead to help them, but he didn’t.

  Torsten wasn’t exactly sure why he selected the boy over any of the others. After all, no matter what happened, Lucas had ignored orders that could have allowed the Caleef to escape Yarrington. But war and the Drav Cra insurrection had weakened the Order, so there were many angling for positions. Humble origins in the poorest part of South Corner, parents with nothing left, the ability to see what was right despite orders—Torsten had a soft spot for men like Lucas.

  “I’m so sorry, Sir.” Lucas gathered everything, and Torsten heard the thud of the supplies scattering atop the table.

  “I hope you’re not this nervous on the battlefield,” Torsten said.

  “I… I won’t be.”

  “They all say that until they’re there. You hesitated the other day at the execution. It isn’t always as easy as cultists slaughtering the helpless. And time is rarely on the Shieldsman’s side.”

  Torsten turned in the direction of the young man’s breathing. At first, atop Mt
. Lister, he could see blurred shapes and shades, but now there was nothing. He remained blind as a priest of Iam. A knight who couldn’t wield a sword… useless.

  “Now, where were we?” Torsten said.

  “’The Shesaitju respect only martial prowess,’” Lucas recited to the tune of a quill scratching across parchment.

  “Yes.” Torsten continued, speaking slowly so the boy could jot it all down. “That was how the late King Liam got them to kneel to our sovereignty. It is why so many of them cower now after their loss at Winde Port.”

  “It is why so many of them…” Lucas repeated under his breath.

  “Beat Muskigo down,” Torsten said after a moment to allow his squire to catch up, “no matter what it takes, and this will end. Allow him no quarter and be ruthless in your siege. Only through strength shall the bonds of peace with the Black Sands be reforged.”

  Torsten cleared his throat. “Regarding your postscript, I am in no need of sympathy or charity. I embrace the will of Iam, and it is clear he wishes for you to wear the white helm. For your prowess at the battle of Winde Port, there is no man more qualified to lead our army through this difficult time. I will support your efforts from the capital as any good knight would. The King’s mind is clear now, and with you away, I have his ear as Master of Warfare. Whatever you might need to support this campaign, ask, and I will do what I can. Iam guide you.”

  “Is that all?” Lucas asked.

  “Yes. Bring it to the Master of Rolls, and he’ll have it sent with our fastest galler.”

  “Sir, apologies, but who is the Master of Rolls now?”

  Torsten exhaled. It was a reasonable question. The Council seemed to rise and fall as quickly as the sun and moons.

  “Master Caspar Brosch. He’s a good man. A bit eccentric. And hurry. In war, haste of communication is everything. It was a lack of it which led to our defeat at Fort Marimount.”

  “The men say it was ‘Redstar the Deceivers’ fault,” Lucas said while sealing the letter.

  “It is good to hear him bear a name other than ‘hero’ or ‘savior,’ but fault never lies in a single pair of hands. We all missed what was right before our eyes.”

  “But, Sir, how could you have known—”

  “I’m not wallowing, Lucas,” Torsten said. “I’m instructing. You will take the vows of a Shieldsman one day. A man from South Corner, just like me.”

  “With all due respect, Dockside makes the rest of South Corner seem like paradise.”

  Torsten let a chuckle slip out. “That may be so. And if men from either wretched place learn anything, it is how to do so from failure.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Taskmaster Lars Kesselman tells me that while your marks in your studies are exceptional, your swordsmanship lacks.”

  “I’m trying, Sir. I’ve been in plenty of scraps back home, but they’re less refined. I’m used to the street and the dirt.”

  “You handled those cultists well enough.”

  “They weren’t trained to fight and I… I was so angry that night, Sir. I honestly can’t remember much of what I’d done until they were all dead.”

  Torsten reached out, and it took a few seconds for him to find the young man’s shoulder. “I understand. We aren’t brawlers though. We are a shield, and if a rivet in the wall of metal fails, so shall the wall itself. Worry less about me, and more about yourself. They say the Shesaitju Serpent Guard are the greatest warriors in our world, but I hope to prove them wrong once again.”

  Torsten stood, nearly tripping on the leg of his chair. He caught himself on the desk and straightened his back.

  “Here you are, Sir,” Lucas said. Torsten felt a cane placed into his hand—just like Wren the Holy used to use before he too died thanks to the heathen, Redstar.

  Torsten snatched it away. “I told you to worry about me less.”

  “I was given strict instructions to help you around the castle.”

  “Help yourself. That’s an order.” Torsten extended the cane and tapped it along the wall to find his way. He remained living in the old Wearer’s Chambers which Redstar had sullied so. New quarters for Sir Nikserof and the future Wearers had been established at the other end of the castle, nearer to the Shield Hall this time, but without the man’s presence in Yarrington, they had remained empty.

  Torsten could have stayed anywhere else. However, he preferred the reminder of what happens when evil is allowed to fester. He couldn’t see the bloodstains from Redstar’s wicked rituals or the cracks on the walls where Oleander suffered at the Arch Warlock’s hand, but he could still smell the copper tinge of blood. Feel the taint on the air.

  He tapped along the carpet and stone walls to find his way to the Western Tower. Soft footsteps tracked behind him.

  He stopped. “Were my orders not clear, Lucas?” he said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the young man replied. “Sorry, sir. Oh, and my father intends to seek audience today, if you remember. A rival stole a shipment of flour, and the Dockside captain is too busy to hear about it. They have their shop up and running again thanks to some help from friends, but supplies remain slim.”

  “Right, I remember.” He scratched his upper cheek. “Well, we’ll hear their claim like any other. No special treatment.”

  “Of course, yes. I… Thank you, Sir.”

  He scurried away in the other direction, and Torsten couldn’t help but smirk. He was young, eager like Torsten had been after Liam first brought him on as a squire. Eating food that wasn’t spoiled, turning a corner without getting a whiff of shog—a chance to live anywhere but grimy South Corner had seemed like Iam’s greatest blessing back then. Probably even more so now that the cultists of Nesilia had ravaged the district so.

  If there was one reason he was glad to have lost his sight, it was that he didn’t have to witness that gruesome affair. While he thwarted Redstar and the Drav Cra’s plans to revive the Buried Goddess, the cultists Redstar emboldened threw the poorer districts of the city into chaos. They made the Drav Cra seem civilized as they burned and slaughtered—women, children… anyone who got in their path. With the Drav Cra sent home, they too were dispelled and forced back underground where cultists belong, but the damage was done.

  Young Lucas Danvels emerged from that chaos, and would soon learn the pressures that came with serving a higher calling. Training for the Shield would either grind a man down and spit him back from whence he came or mold him into one of worth. He’d handled his first crisis with Freydis well enough, but that was nothing compared to what the kingdom had seen. One Shieldsman died—Iam comfort his soul, another a near mortal wound to the chest, and Sir Mulliner suffered a gash on his arm that would take some weeks to heal.

  All Torsten could do was vow to be there for Lucas and all the other recruits if they needed guidance. For any Shieldsman, really. To help turn the order back into something to aspire to, something above reproach. Warriors forged from honor and duty to King and Iam.

  Torsten tapped the first step up to the highest level of the tower, then found footing. He leaned on the rail with his other hand, then climbed the spiral stairs. He went until his cane pushed out and found no opposition.

  “Sir Unger, let me help you,” spoke the familiar voice of Sir Austun Milliner. No Shieldsman had seen Torsten’s failure in greater clarity than he had, riding to Torsten’s aid atop Mount Lister because it was the right thing to do. But Torsten didn’t deserve Sir Mulliner’s forgiveness for what he’d done. Yet there he was, like so many others, offering a helping hand to the poor, blind former Wearer of White.

  “I’ve got it,” Torsten said, brushing Austun’s hand away, feeling the sling on his arm. Torsten tapped the cane a few more times, then found balance. Austun quickly wrapped his healthy arm through Torsten’s to guide him.

  “I said I’m fine.” Torsten brushed him off again, then tapped the side of the arched portal leading into the Royal Avenue.

  “There’s no need to be stubborn,” Lord Kaviel Jolly
said, apparently at Mulliner’s side. “The slayer of Redstar ‘The Deceiver’ shouldn’t need to struggle.”

  “We can all do to struggle a little more,” Torsten replied. “Even you, my Lord.”

  Lord Jolly chuckled. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “His Highness sent me to retrieve you both,” Mulliner said.

  “You should be resting,” Torsten said.

  “It’s only a scratch. I’m just ashamed we couldn’t put that witch down. We should’ve thrown her off that mountain.”

  “She was Redstar’s hound, that’s all. She can’t harm us any longer.”

  “Tell that to Drad Mak and his raiders, running wild in the east.”

  Torsten twisted his lip, then nodded. “Is the King prepared for the public audience?” Torsten asked.

  “More than. He seems eager, really.”

  “He won’t be after dealing with the mob of terrified citizens concerned about the black magic they’ve just witnessed,” Lord Jolly said. “We’re used to it in the North. Damn warlocks.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t all move south,” Mulliner said.

  “Home is home, but, alas, the Crown calls and here am I. I can’t let my brother be the only one to have died with glory after all.”

  Torsten’s heart sank at the memory of his brother. And he was not surprised to find a bit of anger rise at the casual way Wardric’s own brother spoke of the event. Perhaps he hadn’t seen Wardric cut open and left to bleed by the traitorous Darkings’, but it was his brother nonetheless.

  At least Lord Kaviel had called it glory but was hardly the word for it. Torsten wished the hard-nosed Shieldsman was still here. Wardric wouldn’t have babied him for not being able to see.

  “Can you both inform King Pi that I’ll meet him at the throne shortly?” Torsten asked, changing a subject which Lord Jolly often so flippantly brought up.

  “She’s not going to come,” Lord Kaviel said. “I was just with her. I think I snuck one laugh out of her. Progress.” He gave Mulliner a playful jab in the arm, probably too self-absorbed to remember the Shieldsman was injured. Sir Wardric Jolly, the man was not.