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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “That is Haral, Dradengor of the Dagson clan,” Nesilia informed Sora. “She is Kotlkel’s mother, and one of the greatest warriors in all the tundra. Why do you fight us? Here, a woman can be anything… even king. Better than being forgotten.”

  “Quiet!” Sora whispered to herself, earning a few confused glares from those nearby.

  “Let him go,” Rathgorah said. “He will cool down before the Earthmoot, or he will be the first to breathe in the dirt and enter into death. Either way, the Lady will have spoken.”

  “If she even speaks at all,” said one of the warlocks eliciting several grunts of agreement.

  “On this, the day marking when her Lady gave her life only to be forgotten beneath the holy soil, you dare question her?” Freydis said.

  “It is okay,” Sora said, once again doing her best to mimic Nesilia’s tone and cadence. “They will learn the truth.”

  Oracle Rathgorah stepped forward and placed his hand on Freydis’ shoulder. “Freydis, go. Prepare yourself with the others. You’re right. I buried you here when it was your time to siphon the Lady’ power from the earth into your blood. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. We all should have. Don’t make a fool of us.”

  “I won’t, Oracle,” Freydis said. “But what of her?” She nodded toward Sora.

  “I will be bound,” Nesilia said out loud. Sora was so focused on figuring out her surroundings, she hadn’t even noticed Nesilia had gained control again. Sora pushed but failed. “If you do not rise,” she said to Freydis, “they will crucify me just as they would any other foreign intruder.”

  Sora screamed, “No!” but Nesilia’s smirk had already returned. Her voice never emerged, echoing endlessly in Nowhere. Sora’s heart sank. She knew Nesilia’s heart, and now it was clear. Nesilia had never intended to kill Rathgorah, the keeper of legend in the Buried Forest. She teased Sora with control, merely to show her how out of control she truly was.

  Freydis’ turned to Rathgorah for an answer.

  “She speaks the truth. She will be bound, and if you fail, she will join the Glassmen in Exile. Her blood shall wet the earth, feeding our new warlocks. Her power will become our power.”

  Freydis glanced back at Nesilia. Concern twisted her features.

  “Any of them can suffocate down there,” Sora said within. “She can die.”

  “Not if she’s worthy,” Nesilia replied to Sora alone. “You think I don’t want this body? I assure you, my dear. There’s nothing I do without reason. Freydis is nothing compared to you, daughter of Kings and Ancients.

  Rathgorah turned back to his stone table and hunched over it. He seemed exhausted from all the arguing. “Whether this Panpingese woman truly is touched by our Lady is yet to be determined,” he said to Freydis without looking back, “but one thing is true: she believes in you.”

  XXI

  THE DAUGHTER

  Thankfully, the Glassmen hadn’t bothered with the zhulong tied up in the town stables, having only killed Jumaat’s and a few others who hadn’t yet been put away for the night. Mahraveh rode Honey and Jumaat, another beast whose owner would no longer have use for.

  It was discouraging for Mahraveh to be back on the road to Latiapur, especially since the word “road” held no true meaning. It was one dune after another followed by yet another. The endless sea of black sand constantly shifted with the wind.

  It was a few days ride, and every time they had to take a break, they trained. In the beating sun of daylight, in the cold winds of night. Jumaat was small, like her, so she could teach him to fight the same way.

  “Ouch!” he yelped as Mahraveh accidentally sliced his hand. His spear dropped to the sand.

  “Pis’truda!” Mahraveh yelled. “You have to keep your guard up, Jumaat.”

  “I am trying,” Jumaat groaned.

  She clenched her jaw. “I know.” She kicked the spear toward him. “Again.”

  He groaned again as he bent to lift it. As soon as he got his hands around the grip, she struck, forcing him to act quickly.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I was told. ‘You’re small, and you always will be compared to your opponent,’” she said as they stood in lock.

  “Who said that?” he asked.

  “My father the first time he gave me a spear.” She whipped around, and he got his shaft up just in time to parry. She followed the blow with a flurry of strikes, which he blocked, but the final knocked him off balance. She didn’t finish the move.

  “Use their weight against them, she said. “Deflect, evade, and strike when they least expect it. Be the sand snake.”

  Jumaat swung at her, but his hips revealed his movement before his hands did, and she ducked. Her leg swept his legs out from under him. His back hit the sand, and her spear tip aimed at his neck, but she felt something poking the inside of her calf—Jumaat’s spear.

  He grinned, at least until she stomped on the blade to wrench it from his grip. “Better.”

  “Better? We’ve been traveling for two days, and the best I can do is stab you in the leg!” Jumaat stood and walked over a dune, staring into the distance. Green specks of nigh’jel lanterns hung from posts throughout the sands like a giant fan pointing toward Latiapur and the seat of the Caleef. Wayfarers left them so the Shesaitju could always find the Boiling Waters.

  “The other men have trained all of their lives for this,” he said. “I am going to die the second I step in. I will fail everybody.”

  “You won’t,” Mahraveh said. “Every warrior in there is going to ignore you.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “I mean, they won’t think you’re a threat. You don’t need to fight every combatant to win; you only need to survive long enough to take out a handful. You may not be strong Jumaat, but I’ve seen you run. You’re fast.”

  “Great. I will hide from them to death.” He turned back. “It should be you, Mahi. They would not stand a chance. Is there any law against it?”

  “Those men are arrogant fools who don’t give a zhulong’s dangle for what is or isn’t law. They care only about their pride, and pride would dictate there being no positive outcome for them by allowing a woman to participate in the arena.”

  “If they were to lose to a woman,” Jumaat said, realizing what Mahi meant, “live or die, they would wish for death for all the ridicule they’d suffer.”

  “Winning would be even worse!” Mahi said. “Imagine being known as the afhem who could only win because he faced a ‘weak, puny’ woman in the arena?”

  “How about your father, being the man who won in front of King Liam and threatened him, only to be left to die for keeping true to his words?”

  Mahraveh closed her eyes and nodded. “Nothing’s fair. But I saw it, Babrak has all the others on leashes. He won’t risk looking bad, whether I was to win, or lose in the first round. It has to be you.” She extended her spear. “Now, again. And remember, we aren’t the zhulong. We are the snake.”

  The morning sun was hot. Jumaat was so exhausted from training she had to waste a bit of their water on his face to wake him. Latiapur was a hazy blotch in the distance sticking above the sand, beginning to take shape.

  “I can practically hear the sounds of the Boiling Waters,” Jumaat said, breathing in.

  “I can nearly taste salted fish,” Mahi said.

  “I’m starved. Is there any more dried bellot?” He reached for their bag.

  “No food until after you fight!” She fired an arrow right in front of his face. It startled his zhulong, which shook him off. She leaped off hers and swung down at him, but he rolled out of the way, using the beast to create a buffer.

  “Smart,” she said. “Use the entire arena to your advantage. Every rock.”

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  She came at him again before he could grab his spear from its hook strapped over his zhulong’s back. “They all will be.”

  “I’m unarmed!”

  “Then you’d better get armed.”
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  She’d learned enough from her father to be able to determine her opponents’ advantages and weaknesses. Jumaat had many of the latter, but of the former, he was skinny. That made him faster and harder to hit. Judging by the size of Babrak’s champion, the warriors he faced would tower over him. And he was agile. Working on the nigh’jel harvester ships wasn’t easy. Not only were the creatures faster than most fish, but they were easily startled. It took small, one-or-two man vessels to sneak up on a grouping enough to trawl. That meant working the boom, the rudder—everything by oneself.

  “Nothing trains you for war more than life,” Muskigo had once told her. That a man could spend a lifetime training, but a true warrior fights in every breath. Seeks perfection in everything they do.

  “Watch it!” Jumaat shouted as Mahraveh swung at him, with as much reckless abandon as his opponents would. He rolled over Honey’s back, but Mahi didn’t relent. High, low, she came at him from every angle, and without a weapon, all he could do was dodge. Her father would have made an attempt to disarm, and so did she, but Jumaat kept evading until Mahi stopped for a break. She too hadn’t eaten yet.

  “Good,” she said, panting, and lowering her weapon.

  He went to approach her, then hesitated.

  “Sorry, I’m done,” Mahi said.

  “By the God of Sand and Sea, was Muskigo this hard on you growing up?” Jumaat asked.

  “Not until I begged him to be.”

  “I think you might be insane.” Hints of a smile betrayed his words.

  “I just want to give you a chance.”

  “And in two days I already have a much better one than I did when you got me to agree to this. But I still might fail. Then what?”

  “If we think like that, you’ve already lost,” Mahraveh said.

  “I am serious, Mahi.”

  “I don’t know, okay?” She threw up her arms in frustration and walked back toward Honey. “I’ll gut Babrak in the streets if I have to. Maybe then someone will listen to reason. Or maybe I’ll marry him since, apparently, that’s all someone like me is good for.”

  Jumaat’s hand fell upon her shoulder. She leaned toward it, nestling for a moment before controlling herself.

  “Then I will not lose, Mahi,” he said.

  “Good. Then eat.” She pulled a bit of dried fruit from the pouch slung over Honey’s back and laid it in his hand.

  “What a treat, Master.”

  She brushed her hair across her face to hide her grin, then took some for herself. She wasn’t sure why, but as she watched him walk by, sweat glistening off muscles she’d never realized he had, she felt a tiny flicker of hope that their crazy idea might work.

  Mahraveh and Jumaat stopped before the gates of Latiapur. The sun hovered at its zenith, beating down on her shoulders. The stench of death which hung over them was masked only by their sweat.

  “You’re sure you still want to do this?” Mahraveh asked. She turned and noticed him staring at a group of warriors, covered in scars.

  “No,” Jumaat said, “but what choice do we have?”

  “You’re as strong as any of them,” she said.

  “You should not lie to your students.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “They’re not fighting for anything. Only for power, always power.”

  “And what do I have to fight for?”

  “You’ll figure that out.” They exchanged a smirk, then Mahraveh urged Honey onward through the main gate.

  With so many people, it was difficult to push their way into the city. All the talk was of the coming tournament, and it appeared people had journeyed from every afhemate in the Black Sands to participate in the festivities—except Nahanab. Mahi forced every distracting thought from her mind and pressed on.

  Traders flowed in and out, mostly women and old men who couldn’t wield the sword any longer. Warriors from different afhemates traveled with them, letting Muskigo lose while they enjoyed a tournament, though it was their leaders Mahraveh blamed.

  Then there were the inhabitants of Latiapur who affiliated with no afhemate and instead helped to build the wealth and resources of their people. Some called them the markless, others, the Caleef’s afhemate, though in truth he had none. Mahraveh couldn’t imagine drifting without a group to call family, without being bound by honor, in peace or war to serve her afhem—even though it was her father. The Glass invasion had left more markless than ever as they dreamed of a life like their conquerors.

  They were the worst of all. Barely Shesaitju. Spineless. Any of them could have decided to heft a weapon and fight.

  She turned to the magnificent palace built into an arched outcrop of rock—the Boiling Keep. The last time Mahraveh had traveled to Latiapur, just a few days ago, her mood was brighter. She’d been convinced that she, Farhan, and Yuri Darkings would’ve been able to convince at least one of the afhems to aid her father in Nahanab before Farhan took to the tournament to try and become an afhem himself. Now, she was absolutely sure they were all cowards. There was only one way to ensure both revenge for what was done to Saujibar and reinforcements against the Glassmen at Nahanab.

  “What is wrong?” Jumaat asked. Mahraveh didn’t know her face revealed so much. Her anger must’ve been written upon it like ink on parchment.

  “While my father fights for his life and their freedom, these pis’trudas revel, and party.”

  “Familiar customs are always easiest to follow in dark times.”

  “Easy for them,” Mahi said. “They haven’t lost anything yet. Their family, their homes.” Mahraveh peered over and saw tears welling in the corner of Jumaat’s eyes. She urged Honey closer and lay her hand over his thigh. “Sorry… our fathers… They still live at least.”

  “Yours does. I have not heard a word from mine.” He stopped and scanned the colorful Latiapur marketplace. “We came here all the time on the way to the shore—stopped at that stand for palm root juice. I suppose he should have taught me more about fighting instead.”

  “That’s why you have me.”

  “I hope he is dead,” Jumaat said at the same time. Mahraveh’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Why would you say that?” Mahraveh asked.

  “How am I supposed to tell him that I let them all die? That I hid in the cellar like a coward.”

  “You’ll tell him at the head of a fleet,” she said. “While we’re saving their lives. There is nothing either of us could have done against those men.”

  Jumaat sniveled, then wiped his nose. “How are you so strong?”

  “I’m just a good actor. Come.” She gave his foot a kick and guided Honey through the bazaar. Once they passed, shoving through the crowd became a more straightforward task, their zhulong doing most of the work.

  The Tal’du Dromesh loomed below them. In only a couple days, the tournament would be held for one member of every afhemate to battle for the right to rule over the al-Tariq Afhemate. The tournament would also serve as an official funeral for Afhem Awn’al al’Tariq. It wouldn’t be a grand thing like those for afhems who’d died in battle, but, unlike her own people, he’d be properly drowned and sent off to the seabed with his ancestors. Then, his city on a small island chain out in the Boiling Waters, which boasted a rather sizable naval fleet, would be fought for by any who stepped forth to claim it by sword or fist.

  “Stable master!” she called to the same shop-owner from the other day.

  “You!” he barked. The man was angry and had every right, but Mahi raised her palm, pushing the air forward as if to beckon him to calm down.

  “I apologize for yesterday. Here.”

  When she raised her other hand, it held a small pit lizard skin pouch and jingled when bounced. The man’s face contorted into something more pleasant. She’d taken it from her father’s room before they left. He wouldn’t mind.

  “It contains payment for my time in your stables as well as a gift from House Ayerabi for your distress,” she said. “There will be another when my father re
turns.”

  She tossed the pouch to the man, who greedily opened it and began counting.

  “Is that enough?” she asked.

  “More than, my lady,” he said. “More than!”

  “I know you are busy today,” Mahraveh started.

  “Yes, busy, busy. The whole city is busy.” He spoke but never looked up from his treasure.

  “I was hoping you’d have room for Honey here and my friend’s zhulong?” She pointed toward Jumaat.

  The stable master nodded his head. “For the daughter of an afhem, we will make room.”

  Mahraveh waved Jumaat over, and they waited while the man tied the zhulongs with a loose rope to the stables. Mahraveh patted Honey, whispered a goodbye into the beast’s ear and turned to thank the stable master.

  Jumaat patted the zhulong.

  “Does he have a name?” the stable master inquired.

  “A name?” Jumaat repeated.

  “Yes, your zhulong. Does he have a name?”

  “Morkesh,” he said after a short pause. “My father’s name.”

  The stable master gave him an odd look, then said, “You two have a fine afternoon. I will take care of your mounts.”

  Jumaat bowed to the stable master. Always respectful, Jumaat was. It made Mahraveh smile. When she looked back toward the arena, her smile faded. Packs of huge men gathered outside every archway.

  “Those are the other challengers and their supporters,” Jumaat said, having attended one such event as a small boy. Mahi hadn’t been there when Afhem Qui’sili died. Her father hadn’t permitted her to join him. She’d stayed with Shavi while her father went off to attend. He said Qui’sili’s land was a pile of zhulong droppings and would be better off cast into the sea.

  The thought brought back the sickening memory of Shavi, missing from amongst the headless bodies in Saujibar. If that was their fate, what would ‘Muskigo’s mother’ earn at the hands of the pink-skinned monsters?

  “Well, I guess we will have the smallest of them,” Mahraveh said. “Just you and me.”