Stopping in the mouth of the entrance, Whitney scanned around, seeing the many statues, and a new one built for Liam just across from his casket.
That wasn’t the reason he was there, though. He’d seen something when he and Torsten were arguing. Not many would have noticed it, but Whitney prided himself in being observant. It was the mark of any great thief. He figured out how best to enter and exit every place he ever visited. He needed to know how to get in to reap his reward and escape the guards if they were to interrupt the caper.
Just above Liam’s new statue, a thin seam in the new stone forming a small dome for the altar allowed the tiniest sliver of light. Whitney cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck.
He moved to the statue and peered up. It was three times his size, but there were plenty of crevices for climbing. He tested the handholds on Liam’s stone greaves. Once he was convinced it was sturdy enough, he grasped and pulled himself up. One hand after the other, placing his feet where his hands had just been. Next was the stone belt, and then the cuirass.
Finally, he stood upon Liam’s shoulders, took a moment to consider the metaphorical implications of it, then he started the climb to the crown upon the old King’s head. It was fashioned just like the one Whitney had stolen. Whitney patted the statue.
“Sorry, old man,” he said.
Reaching the top, he stretched his arms only to find he was still an arm’s length away.
“Shog in a…”
He looked around, desperate for something to give him that little bit extra.
Upon his last visit, each of the kings had been holding weapons. But now, most had empty hands, those weapons appropriated by Hovom Nitebrittle to be used in the battle—some of the metal contained within Whitney’s daggers, he figured. One body’s hands, however, weren’t empty. King Liam held a thin, iron pole.
Whitney knew Torsten now used Liam’s old blade, but that was taken long ago when Hovom had the luxury of time. It seemed he’d used that opportunity to give Liam something to rest his hands upon until the sword was returned. Where all the other kings were slumped over and leaning against their caskets, Liam was upright like the proud man he was said to have been.
“Torsten is gonna kill me,” Whitney said, shimmying his way down.
Before he could change his mind, he wrapped his cloak around his elbow and drove it through King Liam’s casket. Glass shattered and splintered, spraying outward. Whitney felt tiny cuts along his cheek and neck but had no time to care. He grabbed the pole and pulled. Unexpectedly, it held in place. Whitney pulled harder, and the pole came free, dragging Liam’s body with it. Whitney leaped out of the way just before the corpse fell upon him.
“Blech,” he said. He sloppily circled one eye with his free hand and backed away.
Then, just as he’d done when leaving the Whispering Wizards’ Tower many moons ago, he placed the pole in his teeth like it was the Splintering Staff, and started his ascent. The staff had been a light wood, and this iron pole, though thin, was far heavier. But Whitney managed. Once at the top, he whispered encouragement to himself and stabbed the new portion of the ceiling.
A few chunks of stone toppled down, bouncing off his arm and the statue below.
“Best masons in the land,” Whitney scoffed. “Are dwarves good at anything?”
He jabbed it again, and more came loose. He continued until he could see the sky beyond. Dirt and grass poured onto his face. He kept at it until there was a hole large enough to pull himself through to the surface, though he was going to have to jump for it.
He looked down and dropped the pole. It took a few seconds before landing with a resonant ping. It was a long way if he missed the leap.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made bigger jumps with longer falls, but if he missed this one, Sora’s life was at stake, too. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way. She was more than capable of handling herself, but something inside of him said they’d vastly underestimated their enemy—if that were even possible.
He closed his eyes, inhaled, then opened them again and pushed off the highest point on Liam’s crown. His fingers found purchase… in loose soil covering the rebuilt sections of the crypt. The dwarves hadn’t even packed it solid.
Immediately, he began slipping. He clawed at the dirt, feeling no stone at all. Scrambling, pulling and scratching, dirt dribbling into his open mouth, he felt an elaborate root system and seized it. Pieces broke off, getting in his eyes, but he was able to get a good enough grip to climb the rest of the way out.
He wiped at his face. Rubbed his eyes. Spit.
He stayed there on the ground for a bit, letting himself breathe. The air felt cold against his sweat-soaked face even though it was summer. And it was dark—way darker than any night other than the Dawning. The moons were just a soft haze in the sky, providing almost no light at all.
He got the impression it was nothing natural. However, Whitney could still see the horde of Drav Cra warriors and dire wolves gathered before the wall, pushing inside little by little. The breach in the wall was now much more significant than planned for, with remaining chekt able to rumble through and level buildings with ease.
Behind them and to the west, Whitney could make out Freydis and other warlocks punishing the city with their magic. Now that the opening no longer needed their prying, they flung elemental projectiles over the walls with no care for who they were hitting—friend, or foe.
The enemy flowed through the breach and broke Sir Mulliner’s ranks in full, leaving a bloody, fiery massacre behind as the melee tore throughout the district. Others used the body of a dead chekt to scale the wall itself and fight for the parapets to claim high ground for their magic missiles.
They’d planned to lure Freydis close by simulating an overwhelming victory. Instead, the opposite had happened. They’d drawn the bulk of her army away from her.
Whitney surveyed the fields for Drav Cra stragglers. A plan was brewing, and he needed some new clothes.
XLII
The Caleef
Mahi had heard her father’s stories about the fleet from Abo’Fasaniyah, the former home of the Babrak Afhemate. However, she’d never seen it in full until now. She wished that were still true. Babrak and his people had always claimed that their naval forces outmatched the al’Tariq afhemate. They were right. Strikingly so. Even before Awn’al al’Tariq’s horrible accident upon the seas, there was no way the fleet of Mahi’s predecessor could have been larger than this. From where she stood, a level above the docks, it looked like a solid wall moving toward them. So much more than was present in Latiapur.
“There are so many,” Bit’rudam said, voicing what everyone was thinking.
“Our defenses will hold,” Lord Jolly said.
“You know that’s not true,” Mahi said, no room for argument in her tone.
“Perhaps,” he said, “but it will buy the others time.”
The vibrations of war had already begun to echo across the city. Things didn’t sound good at the walls, either. The sky was as dark as Mahi’s skin and equally unnatural. Others complained of the cold, uncharacteristic of this time of year, though Mahi couldn’t feel it.
“Right, then,” Lord Jolly said. “It has been a pleasure coming to know you, Caleef Mahraveh. And you, Bit’rudam. My prayer is that Iam sees fit to see us through this battle, but if not, the Gate of Light doesn’t sound so bad. Nor does your Eternal Current. Fight with honor… when you can. But, no matter what…” He stabbed a finger toward Autla’s Inlet. “Kill them first.”
“Yes,” Mahi agreed. “A lovely sentiment.” She bowed her head to the one-armed Glassman and tugged Bit’rudam, leading him by the hand toward a regiment of their archers.
Having fled Latiapur with such haste, they hadn’t had time to gather many barbed arrows, but the Shesaitju were no strangers to the power of fire. They would use the simple arrows Torsten was able to provide, but their tips were wrapped tight in flammable cloth. The ships that managed to break through the in
itial line of defense, and also made it through the barbed chains crisscrossing the inlet and lower Dockside, would be met with flying torches.
The arrows wouldn’t travel the same, and Mahi’s men would be at a disadvantage, but she hoped the sheer number of them would help.
Surveying her army, each of them more fearful than the next, she couldn’t blame them for their trepidation… and they didn’t even know Caliphar was gone, along with the Sirens. They were on their own unless Iam decided to show. In the hands of a god who’d caused her people far too much suffering.
“Are you ready?” Bit’rudam asked her.
“Nesilia offered to have me lead her army. Instead, I am here, fighting alongside strangers we must call friends. To defy a god is to welcome death.”
“I won’t let her touch you.”
“I know you won’t. But, like Lord Jolly said, would the Eternal Current not be welcome, after all of this?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Bit’rudam said. “But I will trust your word.”
Mahi placed her palm against his chest. “Today, trust this. Let it guide you. It is all we have left.”
He raised his hand to cover hers and let it linger for a few seconds. Time seemed to pass slowly as he felt her breathing. Then he whispered, “I hope that’s not the truth.” He stepped back and bowed as if to beckon Mahi to go ahead.
She stepped up to the front of the warriors stationed in the middle of the docks. Each one snapped to attention, longbow to their side, and chin high. From this angle, they looked even more terrified. She looked beyond them, to the Glass forces lined up on Port Street, under the command of Sir Garihad Yuliz. The man was young, as many of the Glass leaders appeared to be, and those they commanded… They weren’t soldiers… not all of them. Many were commoners with weapons they barely knew how to hold. But these were their allies now, for better or worse. Mahi would let them find their own ways of motivation. As for her men, she only knew one thing that would give them the strength needed to carry out today’s battle.
“I know this is not our land,” she spoke, “but we will fight like it is. You saw what happened to our great city. If this one falls, the Current will never return us home to take back what is ours.”
There were murmurs, but not even Mahi could make them out.
“This enemy wishes to divide us, just as we have been for so long. She offers false promises, even as she murders our children. But now, we all must survive together. Though I may not be the Queen of Sand and Glass as I was to be, is it not a wonder that glass is made when sand is put under flame? Could it not be that we are one and the same, deep down?”
“Yes, Caleef,” they all said together. None of them sounded convinced.
She’d already given this speech to the other groupings and would have to give it a dozen times more, and none could be done with less vim than the last. It was vital that each of these warriors felt the weight and gravity of this day.
“We fight not for King or Queen, but for all life upon Pantego.” She pointed to the fleet upon the horizon. “It may be Babrak out there, that cowardly pis’truda, but he fights for Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. The one who saw to it that our God of Sand and Sea is not here with us today.”
The murmurs now became loud grumbling.
“What are you doing, Mahi?” Bit’rudam asked.
“That’s right,” she said, ignoring Bit’rudam. “I was there when Nesilia swallowed Him like the sea gobbles up the beaches; when she buried Him like she had once been.”
The look of confusion upon the soldier’s faces was evident.
“I don’t think this—“
She cut Bit’rudam off. “Winning this battle may be our only chance of bringing Him back. Let us show Him that He will not be forgotten. No, this day isn’t just for us, nor for the Glass. Today is a battle for our very God. For all those who dance upon the Eternal Current. For all those who one day will. If we do not win today, our spirits will wander like lost wolf pups. This cannot be.”
“Yes, Caleef!” They all said, louder and with more conviction this time.
“Fight with all the rage of the sea!” she shouted. “Kill them first!”
She left them in a frenzy of spirits and began toward the next group of archers. Bit’rudam stayed behind, leading the men in a pre-battle prayer. They had no sages after they’d all stayed behind in Latiapur, but he did his best. Even though they now knew Caliphar would not hear them, they repeated his words with such respect, and she could tell, they meant every last word.
They would rise upon the tide by the guided hand of God. They would cast down the enemy like a rip in the current, dragging them to the depths of darkness. The sea would feast upon their flesh and spit their carcasses out upon the rocks. This would not be the day they met their end.
Mahi spoke the same words to each of the front lines throughout Dockside, and each received them the same way. It bolstered their faltering resolve to know that they fought for something bigger than themselves.
By the end, Mahi almost believed it herself. Almost.
But she’d been too close. She’d seen it—the end of all things. She knew that Caliphar wouldn’t be returning, not even if they won. The Sirens were gone, and she was His last voice in this realm. Things would never be the same.
She considered the memories of all the former Caleefs and found herself wondering if that was such a bad thing. There’d been so much infighting and war that, perhaps, a fresh start where her people were no longer under the boot of the Glass, but hand-in-hand, might be best. There may not be a King—she may not be their Queen—but that didn’t mean something new and wonderful couldn’t sprout from the horrors of the world’s end.
Horns sounded from the north end of the docks, tearing her from those thoughts. The sound indicated the first of Babrak’s ships had reached their blockade. A sudden inferno blazed upon the waters as the soldiers out in the water lit barrel after barrel full of whale oil. Small explosions sent shards flying everywhere. She could hear the hysteria, even from there, as Babrak’s men realized what was happening.
As little men on little boats rowed away and back toward the docks, Babrak’s ships slowed, and for a moment, Mahi felt encouraged. Until she heard it, a loud crack before something massive tore through the sky.
Barbed, metal bolts, large enough to tear through the hull of any ship at sea, did just that, shredding Glass vessels before any of them could fully realize their purpose as explosives. The Glass blockade had stopped a few of Babrak’s ships, and it was only meant to buy time. But as the bomb-ships crumbled, the already dark sky darkened further from a volley of enemy arrows peppering the inlet. They came down upon the fleeing Glassmen, and their screams could be heard above everything.
None survived. It was as if Babrak had expected the defense, and Mahi realized he might have. It was similar to the tactic the Glassmen had used in Nahanab. Still, it was only meant to slow them down, and by the look of it, it was working, forcing them to waste crucial arrows and reveal the signature ballistae weaponry of Babrak’s fleet. Once meant to hunt large beasts that would threaten their fishing hollows, they’d been transformed into vicious weapons.
The first of her archers, positioned to the north of the inlet, let loose upon Babrak’s stalled fleet. They would fire, then duck behind shanties while they prepared for their next salvo. The cluttered area of the city made their ranks disorganized, but that also made them unpredictable to the enemy.
Mahi ran back to where Bit’rudam stood. “Prepare shore defense,” she said. “Take out as many as you can with the flying torches, and then fall back. Lure them in and set fire to the docks.”
Sacrifice the few, her father had always said. She’d thought it heartless, but now, she understood better than ever.
And she was ready to be sacrificed. They all were.
Dashing past the lines of archers, she climbed the low bluffs on the north to where Lord Jolly stood, watching with his spyglass.
His cheeks
were red, and sweat poured down his face despite the bitter cold.
“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering the spyglass and averting his gaze. “That should have been more successful.”
“It was,” Mahi said. “In Nahanab, the first time our people saw such a tactic.”
She didn’t mean for it to come out with such venom, but it did nonetheless.
Lord Jolly turned, shock upon his face. It immediately turned to anger. “And what would you have done?” he snapped. “I didn’t hear you voice an objection in the Shield Hall.”
In her past life, Mahraveh would have responded in like manner, but now, possessing centuries of wisdom passed down from great men of strong character, she withheld her ire.
“You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t. This is no time to be at each other’s throats.” She turned to the approaching army. “And look, it did work upon a number of their vessels.”
It was true. From at least three of Babrak’s larger warships, men leaped off and swam through fiery waters to the safety of other ships. Many didn’t make the journey, as Mahi’s archers picked them off. The initial defense wasn’t a complete loss. Though, for every ship thwarted, another ten pushed on.
“Blackwood doesn’t burn so easily,” Mahi said.
“Now what?” Jolly said.
Babrak’s men returned fire, but they were nearly out of range, and Dockside offered cover they didn’t have out on the water.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 163
