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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Whitney froze.

  He spotted a large boulder on the side of the road. To anyone else, it was a red rock, but he recognized it even all these years—months—later and bit back a flood of emotions.

  It was the very spot where he’d hidden while Sora performed her finest solo act as his thieving apprentice. He was stopped in the middle of the road at approximately the location where she’d lain, waiting for that shog-sucking dwarf Grint Strongiron and his mercenary crew. Whitney had convinced her they were rotten so he’d have a chance to steal back his half of King Liam’s old crown.

  “You coming, Mister Fierstown?” Gentry called back.

  Whitney cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. And for the last time, it’s Whitney!”

  “Well, hurry up, Whitney!” Gentry called. “We’re almost to the bridge.”

  “Almost” was far from the truth, but Gentry was right, the bridge could be seen from where they were. It was still a stark white blotch in the distance. The massive stone towers could be made out, reaching up into the sky like the swords of two great warriors.

  This was Whitney’s least favorite part about traveling. He knew that within the hour, he’d be standing before over-confident, puffed-up soldiers like Torsten. They’d want to check each one of them, study all their belongings, make sure nothing untoward was being smuggled into the eastern Wildlands before Panping. Out there, beyond Fettingborough, there were few towns and even fewer guards. This would be the Glass Kingdom’s last chance of ruining anyone’s fun.

  “Coming!” Whitney called and broke into a light jog.

  He tried to put the memory of Sora and Grint Strongiron’s caravan behind him, but it was difficult to shake. How he wished he and Sora hadn’t turned south at this road, and instead, continued east over the bridge. Then Winde Port and Kazimir and all of those unsavory things never would have happened. What was I thinking, taking to the sea? That’s what rushing things gets you… dead.

  “How’s Aquira doing?” Whitney asked Gentry when he’d caught up. The wyvern had taken a peculiar liking to him. Plus, he didn’t have his shoulders weighed down by enough supplies to tire a horse.

  “Fine, I think,” Gentry said. “She really likes these nuts I found in the cellar of the inn.”

  “Peanuts,” Whitney offered.

  “Not very good,” Gentry said, pursing his lips.

  “You have to break the shell away first,” Whitney said, laughing. “They can’t be found just anywhere you know. A bit of a delicacy anywhere but the west. Save some for Panping, you might be able to make a barter or two.”

  Aquira growled as if in protest.

  “Don’t worry, girl. There’s plenty.” Gentry shoved another handful toward Aquira’s snout and the wyvern gobbled them up.

  “Would you two shut up?” Conmonoc said as he trudged by, sacks slung over his shoulders and massive arms. “Listening to you two is going to—”

  “Make you stupider?” Whitney finished for him. The man’s mahogany cheeks went a deep shade of purple, and then Whitney took a hard, aggressive step at him, earning a flinch. After a lifetime of sticking to the shadows to avoid brutes, Whitney couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at joining them.

  “Why you!” Conmonoc threw the bundles off his shoulders and charged Whitney. Whitney ducked under the bear paws Conmonoc called hands, then darted ahead in the line of troupers.

  “Enough, you two,” Lucindur snapped as they passed her horse. The sound of her voice made Whitney’s legs stop instantly. Conmonoc slammed into his back, tripped over a loose rock and he splashed face first into a mud puddle.

  Conmonoc pounded his fist on the ground and judging by his face, planned to fight until Talwyn chuckled. Conmonoc bit his lip, stood, and shoved passed Whitney on his way back to the rear of the troupe.

  “Where did you learn to fight, my savior?” Talwyn asked.

  Whitney’s gaze fell upon her, hair wet and dress see-through. She wore it so naturally. So unashamed of her beauty, unlike cagey western women.

  “That one was an accident,” he said.

  “The accidental warrior. What a song that would be, wouldn’t it mother?”

  “Yes, dear,” Lucindur said, rolling her eyes.

  “I should, uh…” Whitney shook his head and turned his attention up the road toward the great spires framing the White Bridge. The Pompares’ carriage rolled to a stop at the foot of it, and one by one, the line of performers slowed down. “…Probably go up front now. Handling guards happens to be my speci-al-ity.”

  He didn’t get his foot planted before Talwyn spoke again and stopped him in his tracks.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said.

  Whitney choked on his next breath. “What’s that?”

  “The Gorge.”

  Whitney joined her in staring off to the left at the great gash in the earth which cut Pantego in half and made traveling a pain in his ass.

  “Breathtaking,” Whitney said, though he’d never once thought of the massive hole in the ground as beautiful. It was said that ancient gods had created the rift during the God Feud. Of all the ludicrous legends Whitney had ever heard, that one was the most believable. The gods, from Iam to the lowest of them, seemed obsessed with making men’s lives a living Exile.

  “I can’t wait to see Panping,” Talwyn said. “That’s where you’re headed, right?”

  “Supposed to be,” Whitney said.

  “I’ve never been. Have you?” Then before he could answer she said, “And I’m so excited to see it with you.”

  Whitney drew a deep breath. He wanted to be kind to Talwyn. She was a young girl who was clearly smitten with him—and who could blame her considering his new physique to go along with a charming personality? But there was an added sting at the thought of Panping being his and Sora’s destination before everything went south. And the fact that all he had to go on that she was still there, or even still alive, was hope.

  “Yes, yes. We are all together, aren’t we? Even your mum is here!” Whitney flashed a smile to Lucindur, who looked back and stroked her daughter’s hair with pride. As Talwyn nestled against her hand, Whitney jogged a little bit farther ahead until he too stood at the White Bridge.

  Modera and Fadra were being helped out of their carriage by a pair of acrobats in what was quite the ordeal. The floor was so high up since they were parked on a hill, the performers had to cup their hands like stairs. Whitney could see them struggling not to wince in pain as they supported the heavy weight of their benefactors.

  Guards lined the pass, each one bearing a long polearm. Blue and white flags flapped at the tops of the towers on either end, dripping with rain. They stood proud, half-embedded in the rock of the gorge, and what was exposed was made from perfectly cut, white stone. Stained glass at their tops portrayed the Eye of Iam, and at the crests of the pointed spires, glass dust shimmered. On sunny days without rain, they shined bright enough to be seen for miles, a beacon for those who found themselves lost on the winding roads of the gorge.

  “Halt!” one guard said, stepping forward with another from the western tower. “State your name and purpose.”

  “We seek passage east, on our way to our homeland,” Modera said.

  “I wasn’t asking you,” the guard spat.

  “What was that?” Fadra said, a harsh edge creeping into his tone. The chubby man stomped toward the guard, his jowls jiggling. For a Glass soldier who saw more ruffians pass by than anywhere else in the world, it must have been the least threatening thing imaginable. The Glintish were peaceful by nature—Conmonoc excluded, but Whitney was starting to think the brute had some Glassman in him—and Fadra was so big he couldn’t catch a boar with no legs.

  “We mean no trouble, Sir,” Modera said, stepping in front of her husband. “The Pompare Troupe is renowned from Westvale to Brekliodad, sir.”

  “So’s what’s between my legs.” The guard chortled, his partner joining him. “I don’t care who you are, ain’t no
crossing without paying the King’s Tax.”

  “And what’s that?”

  The guard scratched his chin, then craned his neck to examine the size of the troupe, and probably get a peek inside the Pompares’ ornate carriage. “For all you… hmm. Hundred gold’ll do, right, Bover?” He gave his partner a nudge and they exchanged a smirk.

  “That’s preposterous!” Fadra said.

  Modera stuck out her arm to block him again. “That can’t be right, Sir. That’s as much as we earn in a month.”

  The guard shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. War going on in the south, rebuilding Winde Port… Kingdom’s got a lot to pay for and you Glinters are a wealthy bunch.”

  “Streets paved with gold, eh?” the other guard snickered.

  “Nobody is that wealthy,” Fadra said.

  “You’re welcome to head north and try the Dragon’s Tail,” the guard said. “I’ll tell ye though, winter ain’t broke up there and judging by how weak you all look, half of ye will freeze to death.”

  Modera exhaled. She seemed calm, though Whitney could see by the way her jaw tightened that she was anything but. She reached into her autlas pouch.

  Instinct kicked in. Whitney lashed out and grabbed her wrist, which meant that Fadra instantly clenched his. Whitney cleared his throat. If there was one thing he never could abide, it was pig-faced guards who treated people from other lands, like Sora, as if they were less than dirt. Sure, he knew he couldn’t do anything to change that part of how the world worked, but these men were usually of the sort Whitney’d robbed blind before the Webbed Woods.

  “I’ve got this,” he said, braving Fadra’s scowl. The guards didn’t know that the fat man packed a yig of a backhand.

  Whitney didn’t wait for an answer. He strode forward, puffing out his chest. “Sirs, we bring joy and happiness to the kingdom. Surely the king values that over mere taxes.”

  “Rules is rules,” the guard said. “Who’re you, anyway? You don’t belong with this charred lot.”

  “Oh, well that’s a long answer… My name is Whitney Fierstown. Yes, yes, the very same of Westvale fame—”

  “Oh, shut it,” the guard snapped. “You’ll all pay same as anybody else.”

  “In that case, as fact would have it, my troupe and I are seeking reparations for the damages done to our camp by the storm, and we thought you fine men would be able to set things up.”

  “Reparations from whom?” the guard asked.

  “Whom. Oh, how proper! Well, the King, of course!”

  “The King!” The guard laughed. “What did the King have to do with damages to your camp?”

  “It happened in his Kingdom,” Whitney said as if the answer were obvious.

  “You think because the storm occurred within the Glass that somehow the King is responsible to pay for your losses…”

  “Very well. We take payment in the form of silver and gold. Or the Pompares,” Whitney turned around and waved his hand for the Pompares to join him up front, “have a manifest, and itemized inventory. It will clearly outline what we’ve lost. Modera!”

  The guard was preparing a response when Modera and Fadra Pompare stepped forward again. Whitney had never seen their features so bright. So many years of managing a troupe, they’d probably forgotten what it felt like to perform themselves. Whitney too felt his heart racing. In Elsewhere, all he’d ever been was the boring farmhand from Troborough.

  “Modera, you’ll be pleased to hear these fine soldiers are going to provide, from the royal treasury, reparations for what was lost in the storm.” Whitney said.

  “Now, listen here—” the guard began.

  “That is great news!” Modera said.

  “Fine news, indeed.” Fadra clapped his hands.

  Whitney grinned but the guard’s face turned red. “You are not being compensated by the King for your loses!” he snapped. “This foolishness is wasting my time. If you aim to pass through the Gorge, then pay what’s owed or turn around.”

  “Oh, well.” Whitney shrugged at the Pompares. “Misunderstanding I suppose. How about we pay… say… fifteen gold autlas, and call it even.”

  “Fifteen?” The guard laughed. “One more smart remark and I’m throwing you in a cell, is that clear?” He stalked forward, his fully armored, towering figure meant to make Whitney and any other passer shrink. Only, Whitney had a problem with backing down.

  “Man, the kingdom has gone downhill since Liam died,” Whitney said. Fadra grunted in agreement. “Fifteen. It’s my final offer.”

  “Your final offer? That’s it—”

  “Take it, or I’ll head back to Yarrington and have a talk with my friend Torsten Unger.”

  The guard froze. “The Slayer of Redstar?”

  “The very one. Happens to be a very close friend of mine.”

  The guard bit his lip, then started laughing hysterically with his partner. “Yeah, and I’m the King’s uncle.”

  “All right, I guess I’ll have a talk with him.” Whitney spun on his heels and headed back the other way, flashing Modera and Fadra a wink. He also didn’t realize that the entire Troupe had gathered behind them, watching, dumbfounded. His gaze met Talwyn’s for a moment and he lost his train of thought. The last person who’d stared at him like that was Sora.

  “How do you know him?” the guard asked.

  Whitney gathered himself, then whistled. Aquira leaped from Gentry and soared to Whitney and flew alongside him. He spun back toward the guards.

  “Old Torsten?” Whitney said. “You heard the story of how he braved the Webbed Woods and the monstrous Spider Queen Bliss to help break the curse on King Pi?”

  “Who hasn’t?” the guard said, nervously eying Aquira now. “Brought Redstar right back to Yarrington to face justice too, where the dastardly warlock cursed everyone. Caused—”

  “And killed him there,” Whitney pointed out. “Saved the kingdom and all that. Well, he didn’t survive the Webbed Woods alone. Lord Whitney Blisslayer helped him, which just so happens to be one of my many monikers.”

  “Yeah right,” the guard scoffed. “He did it all alone.”

  “I heard he used a master thief,” the other guard chimed in. “Had him steal Redstar from right under Bliss’s nose.”

  “Bullocks.”

  It took all Whitney’s willpower to hold back his glee. He knew from the road with Sora that hundreds of stories about the Webbed Woods had come out after they returned, all telling a different tale. Some that Redstar bewitched Torsten there so he could rise to power. Others still, said Torsten was in cahoots with Redstar. He hadn’t, however, heard one which talked of the master thief who’d helped Torsten.

  His name included in the tale or not, Whitney found it hard to complain. Men like him rarely made it into legends as anything but the villain.

  “Your friend there heard the truth,” Whitney said. “It was I who helped defeat Bliss and bring Redstar to justice the first time. Saved Torsten’s life a few times too.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Whitney strutted forward. He felt like he was walking on air. “Perhaps,” he whispered. He sauntered in front of the guard who’d heard the more preferable—and accurate—version of the legend. Aquira gave a snarl for good measure, as if reading the situation and joining in on the performance. “Then again, maybe not,” Whitney said. “You know, Torsten’s Glintish like these folk, isn’t he? The most famous in the kingdom I reckon. I wonder what he’ll think of a king’s soldier treating his people like this.”

  The rude guard stumbled over a few words, then tugged on his partners sleeve and pulled him aside. They exchanged some heated whispers, then the leader sighed. “Fine, fifteen will do.”

  Whitney turned and reached into Modera’s pouch himself. The scowl he earned from her gave him chills. Haven’t earned that much favor yet. He removed his hand, and she placed fifteen gold autlas into his palm.

  “Ten,” Whitney said. He plucked out ten and shoved them in the guards gut. “Be
cause you really upset me.”

  The man gritted his teeth. Whitney had passed the bridge many times before. The tax was reasonable when people weren’t being taken advantage of. A few silver autlas usually, maybe a gold in times of war. King Liam did want to unite the world after all—though his subjects never seemed to care.

  Finally, the guard took the gold. He and the others were making a tidy profit exploiting foreigners anyway.

  “Move along,” the guard said, waving the troupe forward. “And keep an eye out for raiders in the Wildlands. I hear Redstar’s savages are running rampant out there after their defeat, pillaging, killing.” His gaze turned toward Talwyn and her mother. “Raping the pretty ones.” Then to the Pompares. “Ugly ones too.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Fadra said with no small amount of venom in his voice.

  The guard looked back to Whitney. “I wouldn’t want a hero such as yourself to wind up skinned like a doe.”

  “I faced Bliss herself, how bad could some savages be? You just worry about your bridge.” He patted the man on the cheek, then continued on across without waiting for a response.

  “You’re full of surprises,” Modera remarked as she and Fadra waddled by, not bothering with getting back into their carriage yet. Her husband even offered a nod of approval.

  “Is all of that true?” Gentry whispered as he went by.

  “Maybe,” Whitney said softly. “And maybe not.” He winked at the boy, and clicked his tongue to coax Aquira over again.

  Gentry returned the wink, though his expression revealed his confusion. Reading between the lines wasn’t one of his strengths. Instead, he started whistling a tune the troupe had played around the fire last night and tossed a peanut up for Aquira.

  “Well done,” Lucindur said as their horse clopped alongside Whitney. “A performance for the ages.”

  “Right, a performance…” Whitney said.