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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  LI

  The Knight

  Torsten braced himself upon the walls surrounding the Glass Castle. The battle was over, but the sight before him, the city he’d grown up in… it was barely recognizable anymore. The fires had stopped burning at least, but every district was in shambles. The Northern Mason’s District and the Central Markets were hit as severely as Dockside and were filled with so much rubble, they were still clearing it out.

  It’d been a week since Whitney Fierstown gave his life to deliver the Brike Stone and Nesilia to Nowhere. Some said that maybe the fool messed up his throw and got himself eaten, that it wasn’t a sacrifice. But those were whispers because the majority accepted him as the hero Torsten always wanted him to be. He knew in his heart it was true. Whitney wouldn’t have let himself die, leaving Sora behind unless there was no other choice.

  Or maybe he just wanted to steal the victory all for himself, Torsten thought, allowing himself a smile. That wouldn’t be a surprise.

  Regardless, the moment that Nesilia was defeated, the battle turned. The goblins and grimaurs wailed in terror and fled. The possessed did the same, running out through the walls and into greater Pantego, where they’d have to be hunted. It would be years before travel could be considered safe. The wianu, too, continued their retreat, and nothing had been heard about them since—not even from the fishing boats being used to clean Autla’s Inlet.

  The Drav Cra fought to their very last, but Brouben Cragrock’s reinforcements helped defeat them. Babrak and his Shesaitju kept at it as well, but once he was captured, they were forced, by his cowardly hand, into surrender. Now, Torsten had every dungeon and holding hall in the city filled with enemy warriors, and no idea what to do with them. He supposed it would be up to Mahraveh. She earned that much, at least.

  The dead were innumerable, from all sides, fighters and innocents alike. A constant flow of carts carried them beyond the city walls, piled by race or creed. Drav Cra were burned alongside monsters. Glassmen would be buried, if Torsten ever found enough land to dig thousands upon thousands of graves. The Shesaitju were brought to the coast. They were the easiest to get rid of. Luckily, the battle had left enough debris to drift them off on.

  Torsten knew it would be simpler to burn everybody. Some of the Royal Council had even suggested it, Lord Jolly among them. Still, it seemed wrong to deny anybody their beliefs. That was how all the wars started, after all. Even those who followed Nesilia so blindly… it was time to turn the page.

  Sighing, Torsten headed down from the wall. Two dwarves hauling a chunk of stone from the broken fortifications bumped him.

  “Excuse us, me Lord,” one said, more politely then Torsten usually got from dwarves.

  Maybe things really are changing.

  “No dawdling!” Brouben shouted over, standing atop a pile of boxes and ordering around his men. He offered Torsten a nod, and Torsten returned it before continuing on.

  Their presence had been a blessing. Not only in helping end the battle after Nesilia was defeated, but in the cleanup. They didn’t have to stay and help, but Brouben had insisted. And he didn’t even demand a bit of gold for it like his father would have—not that the Glass Kingdom had much left to give anyway.

  The dwarven Prince was King now, and the winged crown fit his head well. The way he told it, his father had abdicated the throne after three centuries, shamed after being tricked by the Buried Goddess. Brouben said that it was Whitney Fierstown who helped show him the way toward claiming the crown and joining the fight for their world. One more gift to Pantego from its greatest thief.

  Torsten made it barely a few more steps across the courtyard before he was jarred by another worker. Then another. His days had gone from commanding men of war, to issue orders to the common folk, telling them where to put things, what to do next. Citizens from neighboring villages may have rushed back to their homes to make sure they still existed, but any who called Yarrington home extended their hand in service. Women, children, the elderly—it took everyone, and it would take so many more to make Yarrington a grand city once more.

  Stepping into the castle’s entry hall, Torsten spotted the Royal Physician rushing by.

  “Master Pymer,” Torsten called, hurrying to catch him.

  “Yes, Master Unger?” Abijah Pymer asked. He turned, his entire face sagging from exhaustion. He looked ten years older than he had just days before. Now that the battle was over, he was at war. So many were injured all over the city, filing any shelter that could be found. His hands and clothing were stained with blood—not usually an appearance befitting a member of the Royal Council, but who would scold him for it?

  “How is he?”

  “Still asleep.”

  “Did you try—“

  “Sir Unger, I have tried everything I was trained to try. Perhaps he will wake again, or perhaps it is not meant to be. Iam holds his fate now.” Pymer rubbed his hands over his face. “Please, with all due respect, there must be somebody else who can keep watch over him. I barely have time to sleep, let alone attend today’s Council meeting.”

  Torsten exhaled through his teeth. “You’re right. You’re doing a fine job, Master Pymer. Your predecessors would be very proud.”

  He forced a grin, then continued on his way. Torsten headed to climb the West Tower.

  “Lord Unger,” someone called up to him as he ascended the stairs. He stopped and looked down. Hovom climbed to greet him, face blackened by soot.

  “Is everything all right, Hovom?” Torsten asked.

  “I just got word from Taskmaster Lars. He says you want me to get a team of Shesaitju to retrieve the glaruium armor we disposed of?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No, it’s…” he paused. “That doesn’t seem crucial right now.”

  “Our Shesaitju allies won’t be here forever. There is no metal more durable. We’ll need it.”

  “My Lord, are you sure it’s wise to—“

  “Nesilia is gone. She can’t control it any longer. The sooner we believe in that, the sooner we can go back to how things were.”

  “No lack of faith intended, but I don’t think we can.”

  “Faith is not what’s in question here,” Torsten said. He let out a breath. “I’m tired of being afraid, aren’t you? One day, there will be a King’s Shield again, and a King to shield with it. And they must be as unbreakable as they ever were.”

  Hovom considered it for a moment, then struck his chest in salute. “Yes, my Lord.”

  Torsten returned the gesture. “And Hovom.”

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Mahraveh told me your chains worked well.”

  His features darkened. “Not well enough.”

  “We wouldn’t have survived if not for your work, Hovom,” Torsten said. “You have my gratitude. Whatever comes next, I plan to ensure that you have a seat on the Royal Council.”

  “I… I…” Hovom struggled for words.

  “No need to say anything, my friend. You’ve served in the shadows of the castle for long enough. The shield was nothing without its armorer.”

  Hovom’s crooked lower lip started to tremble, then he bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord Unger.”

  “You’ve earned it.” Torsten gave him a pat on the arm, then continued up the West Tower to the living floor. The halls were a mess. Doors had been bashed in by angry goblins. So many were dead—guards and hiding noblewomen, handmaidens, and Shesaitju women and children. Stolen jewelry and treasures. Still, the rest of the city had gotten it far worse.

  Torsten made his way to a room at the far end. The door was open a hair, and Torsten quietly entered. Dellbar the Holy was on the bed where he’d been since Whitney ripped the Brike Stone out of his trembling hands. He still breathed but hadn’t woken since.

  “Still in the dark, my friend?” Torsten said, sitting down beside him. “I hope it’s peaceful in there. She’s gone, Dellbar. The goddess whose followers took everything from you, she’s finally go
ne.”

  He rested his hand upon the man’s chest, feeling his meager breaths. “Pantego needs you, Dellbar. We need—I need... to know if Iam is still watching over us.”

  “He is.”

  Torsten glanced up and saw Lord Jolly leaning against the doorway with his one arm. He’d suffered some bruises in the battle but had somehow survived the chaos in South Corner. Torsten had heard how the ambush failed, and the naval forces descended into a mad brawl beneath a smog of smoke. They’d held out long enough for Whitney to make it to the water, and that was all that mattered.

  “How are you so sure?” Torsten asked.

  “You can still see, can’t you?” He gestured to Torsten’s blindfold.

  “I suppose.”

  Jolly entered the room and sat on an empty bed across from him. “He’s here, Torsten, smiling down on all of us. After so long, it seems we finally ended the God Feud.”

  “And how many died in its name? How many died, because He couldn’t love Nesilia?”

  “Sometimes, love doesn’t look like roses and sweets,” Jolly said. “Perhaps, in these dark times, the best love Iam could have shown her was to let her go for good?” He sighed. “Either way, Torsten Unger, there’s enough blame to go around.”

  “We couldn’t have stopped this from happening. Nesilia was right about that. She was inevitable. Whether she arrived now, or a hundred years from now to torture Pi’s great-grandchildren, she would have come. I think that’s what Dellbar realized. The darkness was always coming, no matter how hard we fought to drive it back. Wiping away heathens and mystics in the name of Light… we always had to face the monster He made.”

  “There was once a monster you and I shared love for,” Lord Jolly said. He scratched the stump of his lost arm. “Perhaps, our Lord, Iam, is more human than any of us ever cared to think.”

  “Like our great King.”

  Jolly grunted in agreement. “Still, that we’ve endured has to mean something. And all those people out there, burying dead loved ones, cleaning up a ravaged city that was the only world they knew… they need something to hold onto.” His features darkened, and he looked to the floor. “My home is gone. I need something to hold onto. Some hope.”

  “I know. I haven’t had the opportunity to say how sorry I am.”

  “Don’t be. We won. That’s what matters. And maybe, just maybe, Nesilia is the liar, and she and Iam were nothing. Maybe she made herself a monster all on her own.”

  Torsten nodded. “Maybe,” he said out loud, but he knew deep down it wasn’t true. He’d seen and heard enough by now. Witnessed enough to know that evil was created, not born, and it rarely happened on its own. Ever since the moment Whitney ended her, Torsten felt different. He couldn’t quite explain it, almost like a weight was lifted from him.

  He so desperately wanted Dellbar to wake so he could ask him. So he could find out the truth he felt in his soul—that Iam was gone—really gone—from this plane now, having given everything to right his wrong of a bygone age.

  “If not, all we can look to do now is follow in his footsteps,” he continued. “To right our wrongs. To fix Pantego, and make it a brighter place. That’s all the faith I need.”

  Lord Jolly chuckled. “Righting wrongs? Where in Iam’s name do we start?”

  Torsten couldn’t help but let out a small laugh as well. That was quite a question, one with too many possible answers to imagine. Closing the breach to Elsewhere and rebuilding Panping would be a good start. Training knights and priests to go out into the world and hunt down the demons still in possession of bodies. Finally restoring Winde Port, better than ever. And now Crowfall, too. Giving Mahraveh her Kingdom back. Finding a way to repay Brouben and the dwarves for arriving to help a people who had banished them to caves and mountains so long ago.

  “Where to start, indeed,” Torsten said.

  “I think I have an idea,” Lord Jolly replied. “Those people out there haven’t only always placed their faith in Iam, but on this castle. On the Crown. I know the battle has only just ended, but the throne can’t remain empty.”

  “How do you name a King when all the Kings are dead?”

  “How did Autla get his crown? Let me tell you. He declared that he was chosen and put it on his own damned head. Those who bowed first, fill Old Yarrington. Those who never did? Well, my ancestors got brought into the Glass another way.”

  “More war,” Torsten lamented.

  “Not if we make the right choice.”

  “And what choice is that?”

  “The late King Pi selected his Royal Council. They may be young, inexperienced, hell one is a dwarf, but certainly, that means he entrusted us with the power to decide. The Nothhelms are gone, Torsten. There is nothing we can do about that besides move on.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want the crown?” Torsten asked.

  “No,” Lord Jolly muttered after a long pause.

  “Why not, you? Your lineage traces back to the old Kings. Oleander trusted you. Pi trusted you. The men who laid down their lives along the waterfront, they trusted you.”

  “Alas, Crowfall is where I belong, Torsten. I’m needed there now, not here.”

  Torsten let out a low growl of frustration. “You couldn’t just make it easy, could you?”

  “Nothing about this is easy, but it’s our duty.” He leaned forward, placed a hand on Torsten’s shoulder, and gazed straight into his blindfold. “I know who it would be if I had my choice.”

  “Don’t start, Kaviel,” Torsten scoffed. “I was born a Glintish street rat.”

  “Raised by Liam himself to knighthood to be the first of the Unger name. You led our armies when we needed you most and defended this city against things no other King ever even imagined possible.”

  “All I’ve ever done is fight. Fight to live. Fight for Liam, and Iam, I… that’s not what Pantego needs anymore. If only Pi were still alive. He understood what it meant to bring peace.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “That’s all too clear.”

  “Torsten, what if the fight to rebuild our world is the greatest we’ve ever faced?” Lord Jolly asked.

  “Then I will gladly face it, in the name of our Kingdom,” Torsten said. “I serve, waiting for the day that there is no need for a Master of Warfare or a Wearer of White. War is all I know.”

  Lord Jolly exhaled, then stood. “Well, if not us, then who?”

  Torsten couldn’t deny that question had crossed his mind a few times since the battle ended. He knew it was impossible to leave the throne of the Glass Kingdom empty for long. Without a proper King, all the lords and cities who’d pledged fealty to the Nothhelms would break away after the dust settled. The empire Liam and his fathers had carved out would fall to pieces, to one day be put together by another conqueror in another series of wars.

  Even if everyone got along and played nice in the wake of so much death, that was as inevitable as Nesilia had been. And as Torsten strolled through the halls of the castle that night, he hated that all he could think of were the wars to come, when the greatest he’d ever known had only just ended.

  Wind howled as he stepped into the Throne Room, the ceiling broken apart. Fragments of glass still littered the grand carpet, which unfurled unto the throne’s dais. It was torn and stained with blood that would never come clean. And the throne itself was ruptured—cracked down the middle with the left half in pieces.

  Salvation lay upon what was left of the seat in three pieces. There was no crypt to return it to. It’d take years to dig out the caskets and the bodies buried by Nesilia and Sora’s fight, if there was even anything left of them when they were found. Perhaps that was Nesilia’s greatest revenge, to bury the most prominent followers of Iam as she’d been for so long. Liam’s broken sword and a few other weapons reforged with silver were now all that remained of more than a thousand years of Glass Kings.

  Torsten knelt before the throne and slowly reached for the sword’s handle. He winced as he pict
ured the events leading to its breaking. Nesilia, slaughtering so many people until Rand Langley came and took up the blade himself. Now, he was gone too. Not a soul had heard of his or his upyr sister’s whereabouts since the end of the battle, and Torsten supposed they never would.

  Both deserved blame and punishment for what they’d done. Rand had betrayed and killed men of his own Order, his own King, Lucas… Torsten had yet to be able to find the young Shieldsmen’s parents after the battle, but their shop had burned down with most of Dockside and South Corner. He had to hope they’d turn up somewhere. Sigrid, his sister, had murdered Queen Oleander and who knows how many more before Nesilia took control of her and killed thousands.

  Nothing could ever redeem all the evil they’d been behind. Yet, Torsten couldn’t help but wish that they found somewhere quiet—a shack by the water somewhere, fishing together… happy together. Finally, at peace. He knew he shouldn’t—Lucas and Oleander deserved better—but he did.

  A man and his upyr sister.

  “Would you have sent an army after them to the ends of the earth?” Torsten asked of Liam as he raised the broken sword. “Or would you have let go, forgotten what was done, like you did with Sora?”

  The wind whistled in the silence that followed, playing gentle melodies on the broken glass above. He wasn’t expecting an answer, he never did, even all the times he visited the crypt to speak with his King. However, he usually felt something other than emptiness.

  He closed his eyes, again picturing all the Shieldsmen who’d died right behind him. He saw Lucas, head chopped off by the very traitor who’d wielded Salvation and saved them. The world used to be so simple. There were Iam’s faithful, and then everyone else. Now, there were too many shades between for Torsten to count.

  Feeling a phantom tear upon his cheek, Torsten rubbed his face. “Why couldn’t it have been me taken?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why them?” Not even out loud did he say, “Why him.”