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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Holy Siren, if I may—” Babrak began.

  “I said, silence!” Her voice thundered. Mahraveh couldn’t tell if it was herself shrieking, or the crowd. “But a vow was broken, as the waves against the cliffs, and the God of Sand and Sea doesn’t abide weakness.” The Siren reappeared directly in front of Mahraveh and stared at her. Her dark eyes churned the deepest blue like the Boiling Waters during a typhoon.

  “Mahraveh al’Tariq, she will be,” the Siren said, floating in a circle around Mahraveh. She could hear Babrak’s groan of disapproval along with his gaggle of sycophants. “But the sea will have its payment.”

  The Siren vanished again, and Mahraveh spun, following a trail of black sand floating to the center of the arena. When the tempest calmed, Mahraveh saw that Jumaat stood in front of her, stripped bare.

  He searched from side to side, face contorted by terror. Then his gaze froze on Mahraveh.

  “No!” she screamed.

  His eyes were glued to Mahi’s as the Siren pressed her lips against his. The gray drained from his face until it was white, his veins popping out like the strands of a spider web. His cheeks shriveled, eyes, still on Mahi’s, bulging. When the Siren backed away, his desiccated corpse turned to ash and fell in a pile to the ground.

  Mahraveh did the same, sliding on her knees as she cried out. The Siren faced her, then the crowd. “The sand and sea are just,” she said. “But they are not merciless.” Then, as quickly as she’d appeared, the Siren was gone, black dust dithering around where she’d been.

  All noise in Tal’du Dromesh stopped. Mahraveh crawled to the gray mound of ash that was Jumaat. She lifted her hands, dust sifting through her fingers. Then, looking upward, she let out a cry of anguish. The only sound in the whole arena.

  XXXVI

  THE DESERTER

  It’s time you choose, Rand,” Fierstown said. “All these people, or your sister.”

  Rand felt his heart drop as the words reached his ears. He’d gone so far for her already. Sided with men who may as well have been devils, all to free her from the fear of savages like the ones about to murder these innocent people—Whitney Fierstown and Bartholomew Darkings excluded.

  Before he could respond, Fierstown opened the cage and slipped out.

  “Langley,” Bartholomew said. “Rand.”

  Rand ignored him. “Iam, help me,” he whispered to the sky, though he didn’t imagine that after all he’d done, Iam would care to listen at all. Then he followed Fierstown out onto the bridge, staying low. The Drav Cra were busy handling the Caleef while Mak and Sir Reginald played their game of who wants to die first?

  Rand Langley’s heart raced. He’d been in battles before, but never with such dismal chances of survival. Never this outnumbered. It didn’t help that he was following a mad fool who only seemed out for himself.

  What did I do to deserve this? He remembered the bodies swinging in the dry, cold air thanks to Queen Oleander’s cruelty. He remembered running as masked cultists turned the city where he’d grown up into a nightmare. He remembered his own disgust when he discovered that Valin Tehr had Sidar Rakun in his clutches, before signing up to deliver the Caleef home to the Black Sands.

  Rand knew what he deserved.

  The thief paused by the two zhulong pulling the other wagon. “Fierstown,” Rand whispered, but heard no answer. Rand’s gaze darted back toward the Caleef. The savages had him upright and dragged him along toward Mak. That gray man was everything, the key to Sigrid’s life. And the savages didn’t even care that he wasn’t a Glassman, as covered in mud as the prisoners were, it was hard to even tell the color of his skin.

  Barty was at the back of the cage, fingers wrapped around the bars and staring with that haughty expression he so often wore. Nothing would’ve made Rand happier than finishing this quest and never having to see the traitorous lech again.

  “Fierstown,” Rand repeated, harsher this time. When he turned back, he saw the thief in the wagon’s driver’s seat, holding the reins. Goose pimples coated Rand’s arms in a flash. A dire wolf gnashed at Fierstown, ready to tear his head off in a single snap.

  Rand rushed to help, pushing his boots off the stone as hard as he could, but Fierstown smacked the reins, and the zhulong pulled. The canine beast’s razor-sharp teeth tore a chunk out of the side of the wagon before the heavy wheels knocked it aside.

  Rand was certain Whitney didn’t plan it, but chaos ensued. The growling wolf and the cracking reins frightened the zhulong, and they took off at full speed, crushing whatever stood in their way. The Drav Cra panicked and attacked. The Glassmen did the same.

  Arrows and spears soared while armor and shields clanked. Rand might’ve panicked too. However, he could lose all his titles, all his self-respect, but nothing could take away his Shieldsman training.

  He spun back in the Caleef’s direction. The savage had tossed him aside like spoiled meat and drew his axe. In Rand’s peripheral, he saw a warlock pull a knife and slash open his hand. Rand shot forward and barreled into the man just as he summoned a fireball to launch at one of the defense towers. The brilliant, orange orb of death sailed harmlessly over the bridge as Rand stole the knife and plunged it straight through the heathen’s painted forehead.

  He’d learned what they were capable of using blood magic, so an instant kill was the only option.

  A screeching drew Rand’s attention. Behind him, the thief had turned the wagon hard to head back east into the Wildlands—Iam knows why—and it nearly tipped over before slamming down. Then, shooting forward behind the power of two frightened zhulong, it crushed a dozen men.

  Rand also saw the Caleef rob one of his captors of a boot dagger and ram it into his back. The frail god-king didn’t even knock him over, and the savage whipped around, smacking the Caleef in the face and kicking him to the ground. Then he brandished his axe, and stalked toward the fallen Caleef.

  Fierstown’s wagon raced along the path Rand needed to take to save Sidar Rakun. Meanwhile, Bartholomew Darkings had climbed out of the other cart and crawled like a beggar looking for crumbs. An arrow clattered next to him, and he looked like he was going to shog himself. The other prisoners wisely stayed in the cage where they were safe from arrows.

  “Stay strong, Sigrid,” Rand said under his breath. Then, ignoring Darkings, he bolted toward the Caleef. The thief’s wagon swerved, just missing him. Rand could feel the wind of it rushing by against the back of his wet neck.

  “Forget him, Langley!” Fierstown called out.

  Rand glanced back to see the dastardly thief taking one hand off the reins to salute before scrambling to grab it again. In that second, Rand realized that Bartholomew wasn’t far off the path. He wasn’t exactly sure why the thief hated him so—though it wasn’t hard to imagine. With only the slightest veering of the cart, Fierstown could’ve flattened him. Only, he didn’t.

  The heartless bastard who plucked the Glass Crown right off the head of a dying King Liam turned down vengeance to keep his friends safe. After all that happened, Rand was having a difficult time keeping faith. As he, Grint, and Bartholomew traveled across Pantego with their royal quarry, stopping in taverns and hearing citizens bemoaning the kingdom and war, it was more difficult every day having faith in anything. More and more, it seemed that monsters like Valin Tehr were primed to take over, that the time of honor and nobility was crumbling in the hands of queens like Oleander.

  The sight buoyed Rand’s spirits as he turned back toward his mission and slammed into the Drav Cra warrior just before the man’s axe split the Caleef’s skull. The weapon clattered out of his grasp, and Rand tangled with him on the ground. The hulk of muscle flipped Rand over and drove a fist into his cheek. Rand absorbed the beating and stretched his hand, clawing with fingers, bloody and hurting, until they found the axe’s shaft.

  He could only brush it with the tip of his index finger until the Caleef managed to compose himself and kick it closer. An instant later, the blade sank in and out the savage’s sk
ull, and Rand rolled free, now armed.

  “Sidar, get to me!” he shouted.

  The terrified Caleef remained on the ground, eyes wide and white as Loutis. He’d probably never seen so much blood, let alone been in a battle—pampered his whole life. The entire journey, every time they heard a wolf howl in the night or a galler caw, the man would flinch like an explosion went off.

  Rand hurried to him. One of the Glass soldiers who’d been hiding under the bridge leaped out. Rand ducked left, a longsword humming by his head.

  “I’m not—” he said, but the man took another slash and Rand hopped back, getting his axe up just in time to parry the next strike. With a horrifying snarl, a dire wolf crashed into the Glassman’s side and sent him hurtling off the bridge. An arrow from the towers struck the beast as it glared over the side, barely piercing its thick hide. Its head turned, yellow eyes and blood-stained fangs like something out of a nightmare.

  “Let’s go!” Rand grabbed the Caleef’s hand, heaved him to his feet, and pulled him along into the fray, heading east off the White Bridge. Arrows continued clacking down from above and thunking into flesh. Drav Cra dropped like so many flies. Rand understood the strategy. He hated it, but he understood. The Glassmen on the bridge were fodder to keep the Drav Cra occupied while arrows tore the Northmen apart. Sir Unger was never so cruel as to sacrifice lesser soldiers, but Torsten was no longer in charge.

  The Caleef yelped, then yanked so hard on Rand’s wrist that Rand went down too. As he dropped, the dire wolf leaped over them, its massive body blotting out Celeste for a moment.

  The wolf’s claws shot up sparks as it skidded to a stop and reared back, sights set on the two of them.

  “S… S… Sir Langley,” the Caleef stammered.

  Rand squeezed the axe until his knuckles throbbed, rose to his heels, and prepared to take the beast on. From the side, a Glassman thrust a spear into the dire wolf’s belly and garnered its attention. The roar pierced through all other sounds, and a mighty swipe left four massive gashes across the soldier’s chest.

  “C’mon!” Rand lifted the Caleef again and ran. The wagon was ahead of them now, the prisoners crying, terrified. One got too scared and tried to run, but was immediately struck in the throat by a stray arrow. One of the zhulong drawing the wagon had been riddled with arrows and collapsed in front of the other which struggled to try and drag the wagon forward over its corpse.

  “Help us!” the prisoners inside yelled.

  Rand and the Caleef raced by it, and then he heard Whitney Fierstown’s voice in the back of his mind. It’s time you choose, Rand.

  Rand cursed, stopped, and yanked the Caleef toward the cart. He shoved him down, under cover of one of the wheels, then turned and sliced the yoke free from the dead zhulong and rammed the other with his shoulder. The beast was dumb, and he needed it to stop struggling to climb the corpse of the other and go around.

  Rand shouted at it to move as he pushed to try and free it. It was no use. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then noticed Bartholomew, lying beneath the corpse of a Drav Cra warrior, furs stretched to help hide him.

  “Help me!” Rand yelled.

  The cowardly traitor held his finger to his lips then shooed him away.

  “Darkings, you bloody, yigging coward!”

  Rand cursed again, louder this time, then continued to push the zhulong to help free it. He was about to give up when Javaud, the man Rand had caught sneaking manaroot, appeared at his side and pushed with him. The zhulong backed up a bit with their combined strength.

  “Just a little more,” Rand strained to say through his teeth.

  “Thank y—” Javaud’s response was cut short when an arrow jammed straight into the center of his back. Javaud fell flat against the side of the zhulong. An onslaught of arrows, more than any time earlier in the ambush, filled the sky like a swarm of angry bees.

  “Take them down!” Sir Reginald yelled from somewhere.

  “No!” Rand screamed. He turned to cover Javaud, then saw why the Glassmen had unleashed such a barrage. In the center of the bridge, four warlocks stood in a circle, blood draining from their wrists so fast they wouldn’t survive long. Flame wreathed them, turning every arrow aimed at them to ash before they struck.

  “Now!” Mak the Mountainous thundered.

  “The Buried Goddess watches from below,” the warlocks all chanted in sync. Their voices carried on the air, ripples of distortion making every word echo.

  “The eyes of all the world shall fall upon the White Bridge,” one voice said, louder than all the rest. “Your sacrifice here shall not be in vain.”

  In one smooth motion, the warlocks threw up their blood-covered arms. Flame consumed them, swirling about their bodies and coating their skin. They became the fire itself, and then like four snakes they shot forward toward the towers on either side of the White Bridge. The tops of each tower exploded. Glassmen flew off, into the Jarein Gorge and on the bridge.

  The deafening bangs were enough to startle the zhulong more than arrows or clanging steel could. It pushed free of the corpse, knocking Rand and Javaud’s body free as well. One of the wagon’s back wheels hit the tusk of the dead animal and snapped off, bouncing over the edge of the bridge. The other cracked in half.

  The wagon nearly tipped, but the zhulong, so filled with adrenaline, dragged it along even with the back wheels broken. Rand didn’t have long to come to grips with the fact that their one ride to safety was now destroyed, or that all those poor souls in the cage might have lost a chance at survival.

  Stone and other material rained down in every direction, pelting Rand’s back as he continued to cover Javaud’s body. All that was left where the warlocks stood chanting was a circle of bones. Their ash filled the air like heavy snow, concealing the light of the moons.

  “Slaughter them all!” Mak roared.

  Rand tried to stand, but his ears rang from the explosion. The smog of smoke, soot, and ash made it impossible to see clearly. He could feel the heat in his lungs. He could taste the warlocks’ disgusting flesh. The sounds of battle amplified, and though he couldn’t tell who was screaming or grunting, he knew that the warlocks’ blood magic had turned the tide.

  Someone coughed beside him. Rand squinted down and saw the Caleef, almost invisible with all the ash matching his skin tone.

  “Sir Langley…” he wheezed. “What now?”

  “When I say run, you run,” Rand replied. “Don’t stop for anything. I didn’t go through all of this for you to die on this Iam-forsaken bridge.”

  The Caleef nodded.

  Several seconds passed while Rand watched for an opening. “Run!” Rand lifted the Caleef, and they took off through the smog. All he could see was shapes and motion; sparks as metal collided. But the arrows had stopped flying, which provided an opening.

  An axe swung at Rand’s head. He evaded it, ducking and punching up at the wielder’s face. Then he brought up his blade and slashed the man across the chest. He tossed him aside and continued running, the Caleef right beside him.

  Another Drav Cra warrior charged through the smog at the Caleef. Rand veered to intervene and was about to spear the man with his shoulder when someone yelled, “Langley, help me!”

  A hand snagged Rand’s ankle. He tripped and was only able to gash the Caleef’s attacker on the leg with his still-drawn blade. The warrior lost his footing and smashed into the Caleef at full speed, knocking him off balance.

  Rand glanced back and saw Bartholomew, still huddled beneath furs and so soot-coated he looked like a Shesaitju himself. Darkings grasped frantically at Rand’s ankle again, completely overwrought with fear like a drowning man pushing down on heads to survive. Desperate.

  Rand kicked Darkings in the jaw and broke free, lurching forward and narrowly avoiding losing his head to the injured warrior’s axe. Instead, the thick blade scraped Rand’s shoulder as Rand slammed the Drav Cra’s head against the stone on his way back to his feet.

  “Sida
r!” he yelled, coughing on the acrid air. “Sidar!” Rand spun and saw a pair of gray hands gripping the bridge’s railing to his right. The Caleef angled over the gorge, a hundred meters above the rapids which emptied into Trader’s Bay farther south.

  Rand lunged forward and grabbed the Caleef’s forearm just as his fingers gave out. He heaved the god-king up, safely draping his torso over the railing until the brunt of his weight was on the bridge.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another weapon rushing at him, this one a longsword belonging to a Glassman. He left the Caleef where he was and got his dagger up to deflect the strike. Then he swung in a wide arc to build distance between himself and the attacker. Only, another attack never came.

  “R… Rand Langley?” the man said. Rand squinted to see clearer and realized that it was Sir Reginald. They’d trained together, what seemed like a lifetime ago. A few times, the Shieldsman had even joined him and the other trainees where Sigrid worked at Maiden’s Mugs. Rand didn’t know him well, but he didn’t have to. The bond of Shieldsmen ran deep.

  “Sir Reginald,” Rand said, breathless. “Sir Reginald, please, you have to help us get off this bridge.”

  “They say you saved Sir Unger, they…” His eyes darted over to the Caleef who was busy pulling himself the rest of the way over the railing. Shieldsmen were trained to look deeper, to see the world. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Sir Reginald had likely been there, months ago when the Caleef visited the Glass Castle for King Pi’s coronation and was subsequently imprisoned.

  “Is that…” Reginald said, now equally breathless. “That word you were yelling. ‘Sidar…’”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Rand said. “Please, just listen to me.”

  “It was you. Traitor!” Sir Reginald screamed and charged. Rand barely had time to defend himself. Killing Drav Cra in the name of saving his sister was easy, but a Shieldsman was a different story. He slid left, pinned Reginald’s sword with the forearm, kicked, and then pushed him away.