“Thank you for breaking this city for me,” Nesilia said.
“Sister… what…” Bliss moaned, her spirit form slowly separating from the Aihara Na’s body. Nesilia clutched her throat as if to bind them together just a bit longer.
“Did you really think I’d let you see your vengeance?” Nesilia hissed. She pointed toward Mount Lister. “This is where you buried me. Right there!”
She twisted the knife, even as magical elements slashed out from Bliss’ fingers. Nesilia’s upyr body resisted them, even seeming to be strengthened by them.
“Now, I will bury you there. The One Who Remained.” She scoffed. “You will watch for all eternity as I claim my world. No longer am I the Buried Goddess. I will gladly relinquish that title to you, sister of mine.” Nesilia glanced up, straight at Torsten, and bared Sigrid’s upyr fangs. “Enjoying yourself, Torsten? I’ll be right back.”
“Sister, no,” Bliss groaned. “You can’t—“
Nesilia winked, then vanished in a haze of dust, dragging Bliss with her. The spiders continued their shrill cries, legs spasming in agony. The rest of the horde, however, remained, with Rand left in their lead.
“You see what she is now, Rand!” Torsten shouted. “She’s no liberator. She is rage, and vengeance, and hate.”
Rand looked up but said nothing. The horde stormed around him. Torsten and his legion braced themselves for the crash of iron, tooth, and talon. They were dug in now, fighting to hold out as long as they could while the endless masses flooded the city.
The ground trembled, and Bliss’ distant cry echoing from the north squelched even the clatter of war.
Torsten had to buy Sora as much time as possible to find a way to take down Freydis. To find a way to draw in the Goddess who he now knew held grudges for thousands of years.
XLI
The Thief
Whitney felt helpless in the Throne Room, listening to the distant rumblings of war. He’d been sequestered there with Tum Tum, told to protect the Brike Stone, and keep Lucindur safe until the time was right. To him, it felt like they were being punished, made to sit in time-out while all the real warriors fought the battle. He knew it wasn’t true, but at the same time, he resented it.
The Throne Room was empty save for them. The castle, although filled with Shieldsmen and Serpent Guards, watching every entrance and dark hallway, felt equally abandoned. Just empty rooms and haunting memories. He could recall the first time he’d been there, under much more joyful circumstances.
He, Sora, and Torsten had just returned from the Webbed Woods where they’d killed a goddess, stopped Redstar, and saved the world. That was the day he became Whitney Blisslayer, and in light of current events, it all felt like a sham.
No one had killed Bliss. No one had stopped Redstar, and they sure as Exile hadn’t saved the world. If anything, they’d set off a chain reaction, which all led to this moment. Bliss was right outside, slaughtering people—in a new body, sure, but it was her.
Whitney fought back the feeling of despair, threatening to bury him. He had to do something.
“You know what we are, right?” he asked. “We are the children during family workday who are told by their father that he’s got ‘a very important task’ for us to do. They just don’t want us to get in the way.”
“Speak for yerself,” Tum Tum said, spinning his warhammer. “They be savin the best for last.”
“Whatever.”
It really did feel like a complete farce. Of the three of them who’d been in the Woods that day, Torsten went blind, but still, he’d killed Redstar on the Dawning, and he walked away with enchanted-yigging-sight. Sora had been possessed by the Buried Goddess, but she would still have the chance to kill her, and she’d come away from it with godlike powers.
What did Whitney get?
Not only had he not killed Bliss, but that meant he didn’t truly earn his ennobled name. And to top it all off, he got to spend six years wallowing in Elsewhere.
Whitney grumbled as he climbed the dais. There was a time his head would have rolled before his boot even hit the step. But now, there wasn’t a soul in the place to care. Like the throne meant nothing at all.
No King. No Kingdom. Just live or die.
He plopped down on the Glass Throne, looking around skeptically like the Shieldsmen posted beyond the doors might come pouring in at any moment. No one did. Not even Lucindur or Tum Tum said a word about it.
“Even this doesn’t feel remotely like I’d expected it to,” he said, knocking on the armrest with his knuckles. “Hard as a stone and slippery.” He groaned and theatrically slid down the seat until he was slumped on the floor.
“This was partially your plan, you know?” Lucindur said, calm as ever, from her perch on one of the Royal Council chairs, hands folded in her lap, salfio on the seat next to her.
Whitney let out a sigh. On his back, staring at the beautifully painted, vaulted ceiling telling grand tales of old, he let his fingers play over the Brike Stone in his pocket. As much as he hated to admit it, Lucy was right. This was how it had to be. But, while they waited there, listening to the echoes of walls crumbling, men dying, and gods laughing, Sora was out there in the thick of it, hunting an Arch Warlock. He had no way of knowing if she were safe or even alive.
“You weren’t there, in the Webbed Woods,” Whitney said. “We were so stupid to think that would be the end of anything. It was the beginning. We awoke the gods.”
“Are ye admitting to doin somethin stupid?” Tum Tum asked, chuckling. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Sounds more like he’s taking credit for all of this to me,” Lucindur said.
“Sora was brilliant,” Whitney said, ignoring them both. “You should’ve seen her. She turned that dumb Redstar into a blubbering fool. Torsten sliced Bliss from neck to navel. It was disgusting, all those little spiders pouring out. And me… I got wrapped up in her web like an idiot.”
“I thought ye killed the bitch?” Tum Tum said, snickering.
“Forgive me for interrupting your reminiscence, Whitney, but what’s this all about?” Lucindur asked.
“You should’ve seen us coming home,” Whitney said, still ignoring her. “Our smiles were falling off our faces. ‘We killed Queen Bliss. We stopped Redstar.’”
“To be fair, from what I hear, ye would’ve done just that if Torsten would’ve killed the bastard,” Tum Tum said. “Damn knights and their honor.”
“That’s the point though. It was three of us versus two of them. Now, it’s what—us versus a bunch of goddesses and their armies? You think we have a chance?” Whitney asked as yet another growl echoed from the battlefield, followed by the floor quaking. Little rocks and dust fell from the ceiling. “I’ve spent the last six years… well—whatever—bragging about killing a goddess who is right out there, right now, destroying a city that has never even been attacked.”
Lucindur rose and approached Whitney. He didn’t see her, but he heard her footfalls.
“Get up,” she said, kicking him.
“Hey!” Whitney complained and rolled a bit.
She kicked him again and again. “Get up!”
Whitney scrambled down the dais, finding his footing. “Fine, fine! I’m up. I’m up.”
Lucindur followed him down the stairs. She moved a hand toward his shoulder, and he flinched.
“My daughter is three thousand kilometers away, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again,” she said. “You may not have killed Bliss or stopped anything, but you didn’t have an angry, protective mother on your side last time.”
“But—“
“No buts. We will win this thing.”
“How do you know?” Whitney asked.
“Because I will see Talwyn again,” she said. Then, she whispered, “I have to.”
“And ye didn’t have a dwarf with nothin left to lose, neither.” Tum Tum grinned a big toothy grin as he stepped up beside them.
Another boom filtered in th
rough the walls. Whitney winced.
“I need to go out there,” he said. “Sora might be in trouble.”
“And she might not be,” Lucindur added. “She is more powerful than any of us. If she is in trouble, we all are. You cannot save her this time, Whitney Fierstown.”
“Maybe not. But I can try.”
Lucindur grabbed his arm. “You cannot stop this on your own.”
“We’ll have our chance, lad,” Tum Tum said. “In the end, it’ll all come down to us.”
“And if it ends with the castle coming down on us?” Whitney asked.
Tum Tum shrugged.
“We should at least be in the crypt,” Whitney said.
“Sure,” Tum Tum said, laughing, “let’s go to the mountain where the last God Feud took place, surrounded by dead kings, somewhere south of where Nesilia was buried. That sounds safe.”
“You’re right,” Whitney said. “That’s exactly what we shou—“
The ground shook and sent Whitney sprawling against the stairs. He got to his hands and knees just as another tremor rocked the castle.
“Shog in a barrel. That’s it.” He knew where he needed to be, and it wasn’t hiding in the castle.
He rose, dug his hand into his pocket, and grasping the Brike Stone, fought against the feeling that his soul and body were going to be torn away from each other. As he pulled it out, all the room’s light seemed to evaporate like rainwater on a hot day.
He tossed it to Tum Tum. “Hold onto this. I’ll be back,” he said.
The dwarf was left with no choice but to catch it. The moment he did, he froze, gawking at it silently, like his brain had stopped working.
Lucindur strode forward and whisper-shouted as if the big bad army might overhear her, “Where are you going?”
Whitney stopped at the side entrance, the place where the Royal Council was meant to enter.
“If a castle full of the best soldiers this place has to offer can’t keep you safe, an exaggerative thief won’t do much better,” Whitney said. Then, without another word, he cleared the threshold and tore off to the only place in the castle he knew he’d be able to get a glimpse of what was happening on the outside.
He passed many guards who objected to his leaving the Throne Room, but who were under strict orders not to leave their post. They were there to keep people out, not in.
It took focus to remember where the Shield Hall was in such a labyrinth. Still, familiar landmarks told Whitney he was headed in the right direction. After a few more turns, he finally burst through the war room’s door.
He was met by a Shieldsman, sword extended outward.
“Mister Fierstown,” the soldier said. “What are you doing here?”
Mister? Whitney thought. When had he ever been called anything other than ‘thief,’ or ‘hey, you!’ in this damnable castle.
He cleared his throat. “Just doing my part, Sir…”
“Hystad, sir. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Just keep… uh... keeping the keep safe,” Whitney said.
Sir Hystad finally sheathed his sword and returned to his post beside the large window.
Whitney took two steps forward until he stood beside the massive planning table upon which sat many carved figurines spelling out the precise plan Torsten and the Shesaitju princess—or whatever she was—had devised. As Whitney pored over it, he wasn’t even sure it was a good plan, but it was the best they had.
He looked around at the statues of so many Wearers of White, wondering if Torsten’s visage would be represented there someday. Then, he found himself hoping it wouldn’t be too soon.
“What do you think of Torsten?” Whitney asked the Shieldsman.
“Sir Unger?” Sir Hystad repeated. “Best there is.”
“We’re all about to die, Sir Hystad,” Whitney reminded him. “There’s no better time for the truth.”
Sir Hystad laughed nervously. “Well, hah. He’s… he’s a bit of a grump sometimes.” Then, he stood tall and said, “But still, the best there is.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Whitney said.
Whitney walked just a bit more, and there, directly in front of him, was a statue he hadn’t noticed when they’d been planning. Sir Uriah Davies—the face Redstar had stolen in the dwarven ruins and the Webbed Woods. For Whitney, it felt like so long ago that he and Torsten embarked upon that grand adventure, getting captured at Oxgate. Eventually, they both escaped, albeit at different times. Whitney was shocked Torsten had ever forgiven him for that.
Under his breath, Whitney echoed Sir Hystad’s sentiments. “Best there is.”
His attention returned to Sir Uriah Davies’ sculpture. The sight disgusted Whitney. To think that the memory of such a valiant warrior had been so stained by evil…
“Yigging Exile,” Whitney said, almost a whisper, “what am I, some kind of hero?”
Then, he turned and started toward the balcony overlooking the Northern Mason’s district to his right and Mount Lister to his left.
“Yeah, maybe I am,” he said.
“Sir?” the soldier said.
Whitney ignored him.
Far below the balcony, the city’s northern fortifications still stood, doing what little it could to protect against the enemy’s various magics and brute force. As soon as they broke through, it was just a shallow strip of homes, then up the sharp hill Old Yarrington was built upon, and they would be at the rear of the castle.
It was then that Whitney considered the incredible arrogance of whoever had built the castle. To leave such a wide opening on the exterior of the fortress showed how sure they were that no one would ever breach the city. Looking to his right, where the Drav Cra’s gargantuan, hairy mounts slammed over and over again into the wall, Whitney doubted the Glass Kingdom’s intelligence.
He leaned out, hoping to catch sight of Sora, but only saw the vast army and what could’ve been remnants of Sora’s magic flame petering out in the muddy fields. The rumbling appeared to have come from catapults. The fields north of the city were strewn with boulders.
Everything shook as the Drav Cra used their chekt like battering rams, with barely enough archers posted in the area to make more than a display of defense. Not that they could’ve accomplished much. Freydis and other warlocks outside flung balls of flame and exploding ice, keeping many from aiming—incinerating others.
All while each chekt caused clouds of dust, and drove the Glassmen upon the ramparts to their knees. Whitney’s eyes combed the ranks but still didn’t see Sora anywhere. He did, however, recognize Sir Mulliner, barking orders for his men to retreat down the stairs and prepare the city ambush. Then, just as they’d cleared the parapets, the wall came tumbling down with a sound like thunder. However, it was precisely part of the plan, in the exact location the dwarves had been working so hard to compromise. It was just what Torsten had expected.
The opening led the Drav Cra army into a funnel where the shield-bearing ranks of Mulliner’s men made quick work of them. At the same time, archers waiting in windows unleashed barrage after barrage. Wherever Sora was, she unleashed fire upon them, and Whitney even spotted tiny Aquira zipping around blowing more flames.
It was a blood bath and every Drav Cra who entered died just as quickly. The one thing Torsten hadn’t accounted for were their giant mounts.
Massive vines grew out of the ground and pulled the breach in the wall wider, allowing one chekt to squeeze through. It stomped across the left side of Mulliner’s ranks like a boulder through a barley field. Men were flattened beneath their hairy feet. A building full of archers came down as its tusks raked across the first floor. That was when Whitney finally saw Sora. She leaped across a rooftop, her fire lashing out like a whip around the beast’s throat. She jumped to the street, slamming the thing down face-first where it could be killed by many blades.
But the damage had been done.
Just like that, the northern defenses were partially breached, and Drav Cra filtere
d through the ambush. Mulliner and Sora still had the upper hand, but the enemy had the numbers, and the warlocks continued to use their magic vines to widen the entry. Eventually, they’d be overwhelmed.
Whitney swore again.
Sir Hystad shifted uncomfortably behind him, obviously having witnessed the same thing.
“Aren’t you going to go help them?” Whitney asked.
“I have my orders.”
“Yeah, well, some orders aren’t worth keeping,” Whitney said, turning his attention back to the foothills of Mount Lister just behind where the bulk of Freydis’ army was positioned. According to Torsten, that was where the crypt had split open when Pi was resurrected and possessed by Nesilia. Whitney had been in the city during that time, just before setting off with the Pompare Troupe. He had a vague recollection of the upturned earth, thinking it would have been best to fill it in with stone and forget about it altogether.
However, that was before he and Sora went down there to visit Liam. Dwarves were supposed to be the best, but Whitney had witnessed their shoddy craftsmanship. At the time, he didn’t know what it meant or why he should care, but now…
He took off at a sprint, knowing precisely what role he was going to play in this thing. He checked his new daggers as he ran. Whitney knew they were laced with silver, prepared in case he was the one to drive a crippling blow to Nesilia in her upyr form. For now, it was just another blade for which to kill humans and monsters—and Whitney didn’t like killing.
The dungeon stairs passed beneath him three at a time, and he didn’t bother to stop when he got to the bottom, just allowing his momentum to carry him into the iron bars of the first cell. He pushed off and ran in darkness, knowing there would be nothing but a straight hall. He swiped at spider webs that covered him and passed by only a few occupied cells. Their inhabitants grasped for him, all saying the same words that had Sora so freaked out on their previous visit.
“I see you.”
Whitney just continued by, still unsure if they were possessed like the men he’d seen in Panping, or just mad loons not even fit to help in the fight. It didn’t matter. The dungeon soon opened up into the Royal Crypt. He didn’t know why, but he felt such a strong sense of urgency that his stomach roiled. Seeing those great beasts breaching the walls, even though it was part of the plan, had Whitney uncomfortable. Sure, they were supposed to break through, but they weren’t supposed to slaughter the whole of the front lines in a matter of minutes. Knowing Sora was down there didn’t give him any comfort either. Freydis wasn’t charging. She was being smart, remaining at a distance, and using her magic to benefit her army, rather than driving the attack.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 162
