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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “It’s not the Caleef!” Rand snapped, clutching Whitney by the collar. “Trust me, you don’t want anything to do with this. So just worry about your own people.”

  “Iam’s shog in a barrel, fine.” Whitney pulled free and straightened his shirt. “I’m just trying to make conversation. So, you won’t mind if I have words with Darkings then?”

  “Go crazy. He’s half the reason I’m in this situation.”

  Whitney grinned and rubbed his hands together. “In that case, we’re in luck.” He nodded toward the top of the low hill. In the light of the coming dawn, they could now see the Drav Cra they were tracking.

  They were pulled over on the side of the road, the zhulong eating muddy grasses. Two dire wolves played tug-of-war with a chunk of meat. Whitney shuddered to imagine what kind of meat it was. All he knew was a few Drav Cra warriors stood nearby, chuckling, exchanging trinkets as if they were betting on which of the beasts would win the meal.

  Inside the rearmost wagon, Barty Darkings sat, face pressed against the bars. The corner of Whitney’s lip curled up at the sight of him. He saw his mouth moving, begging the savages; claiming his wealth. Whitney couldn’t think of a better man to suffer so. A part of him considered joining the band of Northmen just to make sure they treated the Darkings with “proper care.”

  Beside the former constable, a dozen more from Fettingborough were stuffed into the wagon whose names Whitney might never know. And in the carts ahead, he knew were more townsfolk, as well as the friends he cared about.

  Dawn’s light bloomed across the plains, and the rain started up again. Whitney could see where the wagons were headed. Where there were only twenty or so Northmen in Fettingborough, that was just a small raiding party. A couple hundred warriors had set up camp in a low valley. Fur-covered tents, more beasts of burden, and covered campfires dotted the countryside.

  “Shog, that’s a lot of heathens,” Whitney said, dropping down into a prone position. Rand joined him.

  “Heathens? Maybe you really are friends with Sir Torsten?” Rand commented.

  “Best friends.”

  “Looks like they’re tearing down camp,” Rand said. “But why? A low, guarded position out here in the plains, hidden from lightning, they could go on raiding for months before the Glass has the men to end this.

  “You’d have thought they’d’ve just settled down Fettingborough,” Whitney argued. “Nice beds. Roofs.”

  “After what happened to them in Yarrington and outside Nahanab, I doubt they’re eager to settle down in more Glassmen homes.”

  “Look over there,” Whitney said. To the east, buried behind a veil of rolling fog, separated from the others, two Drav Cra stood, apparently taking a leak. “Thin the herd?”

  “I don’t think killing two out of two hundred will matter much,” Rand said.

  “Two less trying to kill us,” Whitney said. “We can steal their furs. Might come in handy sneaking in.”

  “Yeah, because we’re both towering, pale savages.”

  “Trust me. People never look close enough until it’s too late. Everybody sees what they want to see, even them.”

  Rand lowered his hand to his longsword. “It can’t hurt, I suppose. But we aren’t going any farther without a proper plan.”

  “You’re killing me, ex-Shieldsman,” Whitney sighed. “I’ll get the ugly one.” Then he laughed softly. “Both ugly. The one with the big… uh… codpiece?”

  “Just get the one on the right. We can hide behind those bushes and wait ’til they turn around and head back toward the wagons.”

  At that moment, Whitney felt something large press against the back of his neck, and the ground pulled away from him—or rather, he rose from the ground. With the force of one of the zhulong, Whitney was thrust around to face the biggest, nastiest Drav Cra he’d ever seen. His hair came to a sharp point in the front and was pulled into one long braid. Across his neck, he wore a grisly scar. The giant Northman glanced back and forth between Whitney and Rand, who he similarly held by the scruff of the neck. Whitney felt as if he was going to black out and couldn’t even manage to find a weapon his hands were so preoccupied with trying to pry the man’s hand off.

  “Looky, looky,” the beast of a man said. “Look what Drad Mak found.” Without warning, he pistoned his arms outward and sent them both flying through the air.

  Whitney’s stomach did flips. It felt like he soared an eternity, and his whole body clenched in preparation for impact. He landed a long way down the hill, bounced several times and then rolled to a stop only a few meters from a grouping of warriors. Whitney coughed, chest heaving, lungs looking for air.

  “We have to run,” Rand said, also breathless. He yanked on Whitney’s cloak, but it was no use. He barely got to his knees before they were seized once more by Drav Cra warriors.

  One said something in Drav Crava, then laughed.

  “Time to join friends,” said another, accent harsh as the Latiapur summer sun.

  Rand drew his longsword and gripped it with both hands. “Stay back!” he shouted as he swung it in a broad arc.

  “Put that puny thing away,” Mak said, stomping down the hill, battle axe still on his back and laughing like Rand was merely an amusement. Good thing, as his battle axe had a socket made out of a skull and blades the size of a giant’s thumb. Anyone with a weapon like that knew how to kill with it, and took themselves too seriously.

  To the big Northman, the sword Rand wielded must have been like being attacked with a sewing needle. Mak kept walking until its tip neared his chest. Whitney could have sworn the metal bent under the pressure. Mak slapped it away with the back of his free hand. Rand seemed too exhausted from the fall to hold it. The sword splashed into the mud, and Rand slipped to join it.

  Whitney glanced from side to side. He could make a break for it, but warriors waited in every direction. And while one of the dire wolves enjoyed the meal it had won, the other stalked nearer, its massive paw stretching over a small round stone, flaunting drooling fangs as long as Whitney’s fingers.

  “I think you have the wrong people,” Whitney said, coughing. He rose to his hands and knees but promptly earned a boot to his gut. He rolled over, the air knocked out of him.

  “You don’t realize the mistake you’re making,” Rand wheezed. “Do you know who I am? The Glass will wipe you away.”

  Mak clutched Rand by the collar and heaved him off his feet. “They already tried,” he growled.

  “Do you think we’re alone? We’re scouts for the Glass army. Villages, way stations, fine, but now that you hit a place big as Fettingborough they’ll come for you.”

  “Let them send their best then.”

  “Who’s that?” one of the Drav Cra stationed by the wagons asked.

  “You don’t recognize this one?” Mak said, holding Rand a little higher. “Wearer of White for a moon.”

  Rand punched at Mak, even hitting him in the face a couple of times. The Northman hardly reacted.

  “Thought I didn’t recognize you?” Mak asked as he cast Rand aside like a spent sack of flour.

  Rand landed near two pairs of furred boots, and the warriors they belonged to wasted no time snatching him, one at each arm.

  “And this one.” Mak turned and stalked toward Whitney. He knelt before him and poked him in the center of the forehead, knocking him back onto his rump. “Who are you?”

  “Do you want the long answer or the short one?” Whitney said. All the strength he’d gained in Elsewhere worked amongst the strongest of the Glintish, but the Drav Cra were a different breed.

  “Fierstown!” Barty screamed from within his cage, grabbing the bars. His outburst was met with the flat of a sword cracking against his knuckles. Mak then slapped Whitney across the face with the back of his hand.

  “Hey! There’s no need to be rough,” Whitney said, spitting up blood.

  “Leave him be in the name of the King!” Rand demanded.

  “Long way from home for a failed
Shieldsman. Keo’lzt mech far.”

  By now, the whole of the heathen army was looming, watching the show. Even the Fettingborough citizens peered through the bars of their prisons. As two parted, Whitney noticed Gentry huddled in the corner of one, crying. Aquira was next to him. Her mouth was muzzled, and she wore a metal, spiked necklace like you’d see being used to force someone to the gallows. That explained why she hadn’t torched them all.

  “What are you going to do with all these people?” Whitney asked. Suddenly, his natural inclination to try and get under the Drav Cra leader’s skin faded. He knew he had to be careful, for their sakes. It wasn’t only his neck on the line.

  Mak reached through the bars and grabbed hold of Talwyn’s hair. He smiled and said, “Each one will serve a… unique purpose.”

  Talwyn whimpered, and Lucindur said something in Glintish. But it was Conmonoc who sprang to action. One booted foot lurched out and smacked against Mak’s massive forearm, crushing it against the metal bars. Mak roared, rage painting his pale face pink as a sunset. He shook the bars so hard the wheels lifted on one side and the zhulong took a few steps forward out of trepidation.

  “You dare lay hands on me, filth?” Mak reached through the bars, grabbed Conmonoc’s neck, and with the force of a god, bashed the man’s head into the metal.

  Whitney cringed, the girls shrieked, and Gentry sobbed louder, but it was Benon’s agonized cry that stirred the Wildlands to silence as Conmonoc’s face exploded into a misty gore, dead in a second. The guy might have been a pile of day-old shog, but even Whitney wouldn’t have wished such a fate for him.

  Aquira lunged at Mak’s arm, but the chains holding her in place snapped tight. The spiked collar dug into her scales, her blackish blood running down through the gaps between them. Her squeal made Whitney’s heart plummet even more.

  “No!” Benon screamed. “No! No! No!” The cage rattled under Benon’s kicks, and his screams turned into low moans.

  Mak laughed, shaking out his arm.

  “Why are you villains always such sociopaths?” Whitney asked. A few of the Drav Cra stood around, but none touched him as if waiting for the command of their leader first. That was when Whitney again noticed the dire wolves pacing just beyond the wagons. The second, larger one, had finished its meal now and licked its chops. A scar ran down one half of its long snout from the nostril and up to a half-missing ear.

  “Did you think you and the Mad Queen’s hangman would show up and save the day?” Mak asked Whitney. “Maybe the pretty one might fondle you a bit in thanks? All you southerners are pitiful with your women. Those of us who didn’t choose the warmth of the south take what we need to keep us warm.”

  “You know, no one’s stopping you from going back,” Whitney said.

  Mak glared Whitney’s way. “Bring that one here,” he told his compatriots, still looking at Whitney but pointing at Rand.

  They complied, dragging Rand. He didn’t budge without a fight, but the two easily overpowered him.

  “You will all suffer for the mistake your former-Wearer made in killing our Arch Warlock and ending our alliance.” Mak closed his fist around a patch of Rand’s hair and wrapped his bicep under his chin. Rand’s face turned purple.

  “That’s what this is about?” Whitney asked. “Redmoon? All this over him?”

  “Redstar!” Mak snarled, jerking Rand’s neck. Rand struggled, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Not now, Whitney,” Rand gurgled.

  “So, you just want revenge?” Whitney said, ignoring Rand. He was talking fast, watching Rand’s eyes lose life under Mak’s grip. “You think killing or enslaving all these innocent people will somehow make up for Torsten killing Redstar? That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you just go after Torsten?”

  “The Glass Castle is the most secure place in the realm,” Mak replied. “When we take control over the White Bridge, those responsible for murdering Redstar and slaughtering my men in the south like ants will come to me!”

  Whitney floundered for a lie, something to make the Drad ease up on Rand. Drav Cra closed in around him, all of them, eager to tear into another southern flower-picker.

  “Why make things harder? I can get you into the Glass Castle,” Whitney said. I’ve done it before.”

  Mak eyed Whitney curiously, eyes narrowing just a bit. His men, however, didn’t stop nearing. Whitney could smell their foul breath—raw meat or blood or whatever it was savages ate.

  “Do you know who I am?” Whitney said. “Whitney Fierstown, World’s Greatest Thief and the first to be acknowledged by the Glass Kingdom itself—at your service. Just let up a little. Let the whelp breathe.”

  Mak’s arm loosened up just a bit, and Rand pulled in a sharp breath. “Why would you…”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Barty yelled. “He’s a liar and a thief.”

  “A fact he just willfully shared,” Mak said. “If you speak again, you will lose your tongue.”

  “You can keep that one. He’s the son of the former Master of Coin. Worth a lot dead or alive—but the rest of these people are worthless to you,” Whitney continued. “If Torsten Unger comes out here, he brings an army with him. But if you go to him… you can take the castle with hardly any effort, even if it’s just you and me. As you know, most of Torsten’s army is out dealing with the uprising in the south.”

  Mak appeared to consider Whitney’s words before saying, “That ingrate is right about one thing. You are a liar. All these people, they will help draw Torsten to me. He will watch his people suffer as mine have.”

  “I don’t know if ‘watch’ is the best term…” Whitney muttered.

  “Throw them in with the rest of them and start packing up! We leave shortly.”

  “Drad Mak, my men are tired,” said the Drav Cra with the long mustache Whitney had seen in Fettingborough.

  “Drad Ugosah… Are your men so weak?” Mak said. “Tell them they can sleep when they visit the bosom of the Buried Goddess.” He shoved Rand at the man. “Let’s go.”

  Fur-clad savages nudged Whitney and Rand toward the wagon with Bartholomew Darkings in it. Whitney couldn’t help but smile. Maybe he didn’t have a plan to escape this—yet—but an afternoon with old Barty was worth the diversion.

  “What are you grinning at, pretty boy?” Whitney’s escort asked, prodding him with one of his sausage fingers.

  “Nervous twitch,” Whitney said.

  “Whitney, what do we do!” Gentry shouted from the troupe’s prison. Whitney saw the small boy’s tear-streaked face, Aquira clutched under his elbow. Whitney had never seen such sorrow in her big, yellow eyes. Talwyn and Lucindur were behind them, and they leaned forward upon noticing him as well.

  Whitney stuttered for a response. The Drav Cra guarding their wagon promptly silenced them all with a bang on the bars with his hammer.

  Then the door for Whitney’s own cage swung open, and the men stuffed him in. Rand put his legs up and fought it.

  Once a stubborn Shieldsman, always a stubborn Shieldsman, Whitney thought.

  “Just get in,” Whitney whispered, defeated. He gave Rand’s ankle a whack and broke his balance. He flew into the cage and smashed shoulder first against the bars. Right next to Barty, who was visibly shaken, but tried to act cool.

  “Fierstown,” he said. “I’d hoped we’d never see each other again after I spared you in Winde Port.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Whitney said. “You won’t be alive to see me for very long.”

  “Mister Langley, how is it you allowed this ingrate to travel at your side?”

  “I’ll give you ingrate.” Whitney charged—or rather crawled as the cage was so confined—for Bartholomew, but Rand recovered and restrained him. Whitney stretched his leg as far as it would go and kicked the former constable.

  “Enough,” Rand said, seething.

  “We are both caged like Panpingese servants,” Barty said. “Can we dispense with the childish threats?”

  “I’ve been ask
ing all the gods to put me in a cage with you, you shog-eating bastard,” Whitney said. “Do you know what you did to me!” Whitney only stopped resisting when a dire wolf propped up on the side of the cage and growled. Slobber sprayed onto the side of Whitney’s face.

  “I said, settle down, both of you!” Rand ordered. He shoved by a woman and positioned himself between Whitney and Bartholomew. “It’s bad enough we’re all here, but if we want any hope of getting out, we’ll need to work together.

  Whitney drew a deep breath, then unballed his fists. He hadn’t even realized he’d been squeezing them so tight. Seeing Barty up close, in all his grotesque, plump glory, it brought back memories of the years in Elsewhere, real as ever.

  “That’s a good boy,” Barty said.

  “This isn’t over,” Whitney retorted. “You’re going to wish that Kazimir got to me before Torsten did.”

  “Never trust a foreigner to do a Glassman’s work. This time, your luck has run out.”

  Whitney bit his lip in frustration, glaring at Darkings, who glared back. Now, Whitney regretted not asking Kazimir to put a blood pact or whatever it was back on Barty before they left Elsewhere—or, whatever happened to the upyr.

  “Where’s that insufferable dwarf?” Barty asked.

  “Ran away like a coward,” Rand said.

  “Now Rand, don’t be like that,” Whitney reprimanded. “I’m not sure anyone could call what Grint did running. It was more of a… a waddle.”

  “You still haven’t learned to shut up, have you, Blisslayer?” Bartholomew asked.

  “I take pride in never learning,” Whitney said.

  “Any idea where they’re taking us?” Rand questioned.

  “Yes, they told me personally while they imprisoned me,” Barty replied.

  “Mak said something about the White Bridge while you were face down in the mud, Rand,” Whitney answered, not taking his eyes off Darkings.

  “That place is the gateway to the kingdom,” Rand said. “North through the mountains is treacherous, and not every dwarven kingdom remain loyal allies. The southern waters, well… we all know. But the tower is fortified. It would be suicide for a force this small.”