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

by Rhett C. Bruno

Jumaat ran to the bodies of his family and fell over them, weeping. Mahraveh scoured every corner of the town, searching for Shavi and shouting her name. She was nowhere to be found. Nor were the Glassmen Mahi had killed, probably taken so there’d be no proof they’d done this horrid act. With no survivors, they probably hoped to turn the afhemates against one another, pitting afhem against afhem and causing further unrest.

  Mahraveh grew faint and had to lean on her father’s house. The Shesaitju may not have been strangers to death, but no one could’ve prepared for this.

  “Mahi…” a woman groaned.

  “Shavi?” She ran toward the sound and found Branethra beneath a cart. She’d lost so much blood the sand beneath her was purple. Mahraveh pushed the cart off her and cradled her.

  “Nobody spoke of you,” Branethra rasped. “We stood brave as your father taught us.”

  “How could they do this?”

  “Because we are Ayerabi, and we are strong.” She coughed up a gob of blood.

  Mahraveh pulled her close. “Did you see Shavi? Is she alive?”

  “They believed what she said and took her… Think’s she’s his mother—your grandmother. I heard them say they were going to use her to help break Muskigo. They might have gone after you if she hadn’t… ungh!” She clenched her jaw.

  Tears filled Mahraveh’s eyes, but she knew what she had to do. Many women learned the healing arts; what herbs and insects to put in wounds. Mahraveh left that to Shavi while she learned to fight. If only she’d done what she was supposed to, she might have been able to help Branethra.

  “Just look at me, Branethra.” Mahraveh laid her head back in the sand and stared into her eyes. With one hand, she brushed her hair. “They will pay for this, I swear it.”

  She moaned. “My daughter. Is she?”

  “She’ll never have to suffer again.” Mahraveh stabbed an arrow into the woman’s heart. Branethra embraced her and squeezed until all the life fled her arms and she fell slack. A breeze blew a light cloud of sand over her face.

  “May the Eternal Current carry you,” Mahraveh whispered, then closed the woman’s eyes.

  She stood and returned to Jumaat, who’d closed the eyes of all his family. He sat beside his mother, head hanging.

  “I…” he swallowed back tears. “I should be with them.”

  “Then you’d be dead,” Mahraveh said.

  “Better than being a coward.” She watched as he rose and crossed the village to his home. After a moment, she followed. Giving him distance, she waited outside but heard him rifling through things, throwing other belongings aside.

  “Jumaat,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t hear.

  Finally, he returned carrying a scimitar and a suit of leather armor still too large for him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What does it look like? I am going to fight like my father and his father. I am going to kill them all.” He went to walk by, but she grabbed his arm.

  “All by yourself?”

  “If that is what it takes. Today is my birthday, or did you forget? I always figured you were counting down the days until I was a real man. I’m supposed to fight.”

  “Jumaat…”

  “You can come with me or not. It is up to you.”

  “Would you stop! I…” She took his hand. “You think I don’t want revenge? They took Shavi. They’re going to torture her. But she gave herself up so they’d stop looking for me. I won’t lose you for nothing too.”

  He looked to the ground. “Then what? Where do we go?”

  Good question. She turned and stared out at the devastation filling the place where she’d spent most of her life. It was no sprawling city, but the oasis had been a good home filled with kind, loyal people. If those in Muskigo’s army all died as well, there’d be nothing left. A broken afhemate… left just as it had been before Muskigo took it over by winning in the Tal’du Dromesh and brought it to such heights.

  “We fight as my father did,” Mahraveh said.

  “What? I just said—”

  “You’re of age, and Farhan was supposed to fight in the tournament, but now our afhemate has no representative.”

  “Mahi, I am man enough to admit I am not man enough for the arena.”

  “Well, we don’t have a choice.” She groaned. “I wish I’d thought of it while we were still in Latiapur. The al-Tariq Afhemate boasts enough ships to break the blockade and give my father a way out.”

  “Mahi, you know I cannot win. You just said you do not wish to lose me.”

  “Well, I can’t fight!” She whipped around, panting. “I would if I could. I may be of age now, but a woman has never taken to the sands. They won’t allow it, especially not for my father. We don’t have long, but I can teach you everything I know.”

  She saw all the bravado Jumaat had only just boasted fade. His cheeks went nearly as pale as a Glassman’s.

  “You said you wanted to fight,” Mahraveh said.

  “I did. I do.”

  “Then this is the way.” She approached him and took both of his hands. “You may think yourself a coward, but I know you’re not. We can change everything. I’ll help you. Father taught me, and he’s better than all of them.”

  His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything, but he slowly nodded. She threw her arms around him and pulled him close.

  “We can do this. My father was nobody too… until he won. Gather everything we need. We have to go before it’s too late.”

  She backed away, and his thousand-meter-gaze aimed toward the oasis, near where most of the killing had occurred. The water was darkened as blood spilled across it. Gallers and other carrion cawed overhead.

  “What about them?” he said. “Will they receive a proper burial in the sea?”

  “We can’t…”

  “They’re my family.”

  “Then let us honor them,” Mahraveh said solemnly.

  “By allowing them to rot in the sun. What will happen to their spirits? What happens to those who are not returned to the sea?” Jumaat asked.

  “They will aimlessly roam the sands until they stumble upon the waters. Jumaat, I promise… we’ll tell people at Latiapur what happened so they can send carts for the dead. And if they refuse, when you win that fleet, we’ll ship them out ourselves. But we need to go.”

  A few more beats passed in silence, then he eyed her and said, “I’ll see if any zhulong survived.”

  “I’ll gather supplies.” He started walking, but she called out his name to stop him. “Thank you.”

  XVIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten breathed in the warm air as he listened to the recruits for the King’s Shield training in the castle bastion. He couldn’t remember the last time he was able to stand outside without wearing long sleeves—the past winter felt like an eternity.

  Sir Mulliner led them, and his injury at the hands of Freydis had him extra ornery. He guided them through stances and formatting techniques, often breaking to berate one of them. It was no surprise considering how raw they were. The order remained desperate for numbers to ensure snakes like Redstar and Valin Tehr could be kept down.

  “Lucas Danvels!” Sir Mulliner barked as he stomped across the grass. “We never break rank without word from the commander!”

  “I… I didn’t break,” Lucas stammered.

  “Our shield is only a wall if we stand together. A half-step too far is breaking. It reveals a chink in our armor, and that is what our enemies will use, be it Sandsman or another. Tell me, soldier, do you want to die?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then quit acting like it and show your kingdom what you’re worth!”

  Torsten heard the clang of Sir Mulliner ripping the shield out of Lucas’s hands and slamming it on the ground.

  “Ease up, Sir Mulliner,” Torsten said.

  “Ah, Master Unger, I wasn’t aware you’d be watching today,” Sir Mulliner said.

  “Listening, my friend.” T
orsten stood and approached the men, using his cane to push aside any stray stones or weapons. He stopped where he’d last heard Sir Mulliner. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Sir Mulliner grumbled, stepping aside.

  “Listen up boys,” one of the recruits at the back of the formation whispered, with a haughty accent that spoke of Old Yarrington royalty. “He’ll teach us how to catch a whiff of our enemy’s shog.” A few of his mates snickered.

  “Quiet,” Lucas snapped. “He killed Redstar the Deceiver, or did you forget?”

  “He let him in too,” the other recruit countered, voice getting louder. “Or did you forget that while you strolled him around helping him piss?”

  “I’ll show you piss!” Lucas warned.

  Torsten stuck out his cane, holding Lucas back before he could do anything stupid.

  “You will watch how you speak to our Master of Warfare, Marcos!” Sir Mulliner growled. He and Torsten had never been close, but the man was a fierce defender of the Order.

  “It’s okay, he’s right,” Torsten said. It wasn’t the first time Torsten heard how many people still perceived him. He knew Mulliner shared many of the same feelings. Despite putting an end to Redstar, he knew if he’d been stronger at the start, none of what the Drav Cra had done would’ve been possible. None of those who’d died could ever be brought back.

  “I have made mistakes and paid dearly for them, as I’m sure all of you will,” Torsten said. “I let my faith be shaken, and our Order suffered for it. Because it is not only on the battlefield that we must be as one. We lost that. We let heathens cloud our judgment and invited a wolf into our midst.

  “As Wearer, that was my failure. But it will not happen again. Look to your brother on your right and your left. Protect them. And know that they will protect you, too. Trust. That is the essence of the Shield.” Torsten tapped the ground a few times with his cane until he heard a metallic clink of Lucas’s heater shield. He groaned as he bent to lift it and hand it over.

  “Now, form ranks,” Torsten said. “And remember that instruction from Sir Mulliner is the same as instruction from any Shieldsman.” Torsten turned in Sir Mulliner’s direction and nodded.

  “Shield wall!” Sir Mulliner shouted, each word succinct and echoing across the courtyard.

  Torsten listened to the chorus of banging metal as the men did as he asked. He could picture it in his mind, the shields coming together in front, not a finger’s span between them. The second row, longswords and spears at the ready to stab through and repel the enemy. He could picture himself in so many battles as just another cog in the wheel, and then in Winde Port when Muskigo’s treachery broke the wall. Broke him.

  He inhaled slowly and paced across the formation, head low, so his ear was aligned with the top center of the shields. He wasn’t sure what he was listening for until he heard it. The clamor from the other end of the bastion was louder through the right side of the formation, where Lucas stood.

  Torsten extended his cane under the shield and drew a line until it bumped into Lucas’s left foot first. It was so close to the recruit beside him that when Torsten pushed and disturbed Lucas’s balance, they knocked each other.

  “Watch it!” the other recruit snapped.

  Torsten reeled in his cane. “You favor your left side, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I suppose,” Lucas said. “Always helped my father kneed the dough on that side.”

  “Soft-fingers,” the recruit called Marcos muttered under his breath.

  “Iam makes us all differently,” Torsten said. “The trick isn’t molding into the wall. It’s finding your place in it. If you must favor that side, I suggest moving to the other end of the formation where your footwork won’t be as obtrusive.”

  “You heard him!” Sir Mulliner shouted. “Move.”

  Torsten backed away just in time for Lucas to rush by and switch positions with someone else. He whispered, “Thank you” on the way.

  “Thank you, Sir Unger, for your wisdom,” Mulliner said. “Marcos, Yulniz, Bali, come to the front. I want you to give this wall everything you’ve got. Break them, and you’ll get extra rations today. Everyone else, fail to hold the line, and you’ll be out here until Iam’s light fades!”

  Torsten smirked as he walked back toward the castle, remembering his days in training, back when Sir Uriah and old Taskmaster Lars put them through Elsewhere and back to forge them into warriors worthy of leading King Liam’s armies. He wondered when things changed for the worse, and everyone grew lax. Probably when Liam got sick.

  No longer.

  “Sir Unger!” a small, eager voice shouted for him at nearly the moment he entered the castle’s Great Hall. “Sir Unger, there you are.”

  “Your Grace, is everything all right?” Torsten asked.

  Pi stopped before Torsten, panting. Torsten heard the clamor of armor as the two King’s Shieldsmen watching over Pi came to a halt a short distance behind him.

  “Yes.” Pi drew a deep breath. “I just had a question.”

  “Did you try asking your mother?” Torsten said. He’d been pushing Pi to visit her as much as possible, knowing he was the only thing in Pantego she gave a real damn about. If anybody could get her to leave her room and be the Queen Mother Torsten knew she could be, it was him.

  “Lord Jolly is with her.”

  “Doing what?” Torsten asked, cursing himself inward for how that news made his heart momentarily sink. When no answer came, he said, “Did you shrug? Remember, Your Grace, I cannot see.”

  “Sorry… I’m not sure. Just talking, I think. I don’t like him.”

  “Did he say something to you?” Torsten asked.

  “No, he’s just… He’s always grumpy. Like father used to be.”

  “Men from the North usually are. They’ve lived harder lives than us.”

  “Then they should all move down here,” Pi said innocently.

  “Indeed.” Torsten chuckled and rustled Pi’s hair. His thumb caught a point of his crown and drew blood, but he didn’t let the pain show on his face. “So, Your Grace, what was your question?”

  “You’re of Glintish descent, aren’t you?” Pi asked, though his voice and footsteps were now a bit distant. The child had a knack for moving along without telling Torsten first and leaving him scrambling with his cane to keep up.

  “I am,” Torsten said. “Why?”

  “I’ve been reading the tomes about my father’s conquests. Is it true they’re the only people who didn’t even try to fight back at first before they surrendered.”

  “From what I hear.”

  “Weren’t you there?” Pi asked.

  “I was still a boy living on the streets of South Corner when the Glintish Alliance was forged.”

  “Oh…”

  “But I’ve heard many tales of it. How King Liam strode alone into their capital, right up to their swinlars—their equivalent of a king or queen, I suppose, but there are many of them. Maybe more like a council of sorts—but not like the Panpingese…”

  “Yes, I read of it.”

  “Ah, of course. Well, the story goes that your father went in alone, unafraid, and convinced them to lay down their arms in exchange for peace in the name of Iam.” Torsten felt the kiss of brisk, morning air, and the sudden chirping of robins come to roost in the castle’s western courtyard. Water from the dragon fountain transplanted to Yarrington from a square in Yaolin City trickled as the pipes within thawed.

  “Why do you ask?” Torsten said. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying the military exploits of your father? If you grow up as strong and wise as him, we’ll never have to deal with another rebellion.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “You don’t?” Torsten’s cane found a bench leg, and he tapped along it to find the seat. “Sorry, may we sit? You’re getting harder and harder to keep pace with. Growing inches by the day, it seems.”

  “I’m sorry Sir Unger,” Pi said as he hopped up onto the bench beside
Torsten. “I’ve just always enjoyed the spring.”

  “Me too, Your Grace. Iam’s light may not shine brightest in the months after the Dawning, but the warmth it brings is unlike any other.” Torsten shifted his position to face the boy. “So, why do you think rebellion will come regardless?”

  “Well, it’s just… after my father inherited the crown from my grandfather, the Glass Kingdom was at war for so long. He conquered other kingdoms in the name of Iam, made alliances, and since he started, every single one of them has taken part in some sort of rebellion or betrayal. Even if only in small groupings like this Afhem Muskigo.”

  “There has been much peace in Panping—“ Torsten started.

  “Yes, but with them being so cut off from the rest of the Glass, it’s only a matter of time before Governor Nantby loses control.”

  “They are not cut off, Your Grace,” Torsten argued.

  “Call it what you will. Once they realize there’s very little keeping them from reverting to their past way of life. They will. It seems history often repeats itself.”

  “People are rarely pleased with what they have in life. They can’t see how much worse life would be without the light we bring. Take the Shesaitju, for example, they have a history of warring amongst each other, slaughtering entire towns, women and children alike. Regardless of what they believe about the glory of battle, since they bent the knee, their population has grown vastly. It’s what has allowed them to now fight us so effectively.”

  “Not Glinthaven.”

  “What do you mean?” Torsten asked.

  “Of all the places father brought under our banner, they’ve never bred rebels. They’ve never been late on a payment of tribute, even after Masters of Coin denied them better terms, like they currently ask for through our duke.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I had the new Master of Rolls bring me all of Yuri Darkings’ records of our dealings with them.”

  “You read through all of it so fast?” Torsten said, incredulous.

  “Father and Mother were always busy when I was little. Sir Davies had to deal with the city. I spent a lot of time teaching mother’s handmaiden, Tessa, to read. I think I got good at it.”