“Well, now you have me. C’mon. Don’t I deserve to see why they call us knife-ears?”
“Look in the mirror.”
“I’m serious,” she said.
“You just want to figure out how in Elsewhere you performed that spell in the Woods, don’t you?”
She blushed.
“Well, I’m not sure that sort of answer is something we can steal,” Whitney said, “but I’ve never been one to turn away from an impossible job.”
“Like stealing that doll was really that hard?”
“Please, that was a cinch compared to my last foray in Yaolin City. But first things first.”
“What is it this time?”
“Let’s get out of these rags. I’m tired of smelling spider blood.”
Sora picked a few coins out of her new purse. “This should do it, and take us the whole way there.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” In one motion, he pulled his dagger and slit the bottom of the bag, the gold tumbling out into his hand. A few pieces clanged against the cobblestone street. Sora lunged at him, but he side-stepped and skipped backward.
“Lesson number three, my young apprentice,” he said. “Never accept gold from the Crown.”
“That’s lesson four,” she said.
“So, you are paying attention! Alright, off we go.”
He took a few coins and tossed them at a ragged man sleeping under an overhang, covered in mud from wagon wheels.
“There is no better place to start then from the beginning.”
XXXVIII
THE KNIGHT
Torsten stood before Uriah Davies' likeness in the Shield Hall, overlooking the smooth, snow-covered slope of Mount Lister. Celeste, the bright moon, was nowhere in sight. A strange sight, Loutis, haggard and plain being the only faint light that could be seen that night.
The Shield Hall wasn’t anywhere as glorious as the Royal Crypt, but it was where men like Torsten were buried under the watchful gaze of Iam. Men who’d dedicated their lives to the Crown.
URIAH DAVIES, WEARER OF WHITE.
Unlike the tombs of the other Wearers, there was no body buried within his. The statue was made, but he’d never returned. Now, at least, Torsten knew he was at rest through the Gate of Light.
Torsten drew the longsword that had belonged to Uriah before Redstar stole his visage. He lay it across the statue’s palms, admiring the blacksmithing. The blade was elegant, cleft down the center, but sharp as a wolf’s fang.
“I’m sorry I doubted you, old friend,” he said, placing the sword vertically between the hands of the statue. He noticed the gauntlets which had once belonged to Uriah on his hands. He’d decided he would wear them in Uriah’s honor, though they needed the attention of Hovom Nitebrittle, the Castle Blacksmith to be properly fitted.
“There is no greater honor than to die in service to God and Crown,” Torsten said. “I pray you are at peace up there beside our great King in the Light. One day, by the grace of Iam, I might join you. But for now, guide me, as you once did Liam. Please…”
A deep tremor suddenly shook the ground. Torsten heard glass shattering in the castle as he was rocked from side to side. He had to grab onto the statue just to keep from being tossed. It didn’t last long, and the moment it ended, cries for help echoed all around.
He jumped to his feet, searching the area. His gaze fell on Mount Lister, where a sliver of moonlight revealed a new gash running down the length of its side. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled toward it, beckoned.
He left the screams and the chaos of the castle at his back, descended the stairs leading outside and headed toward it. The closer he got to the base of the mountain, the louder the whispers in his head, the unflinching desire to head for the heart of the quake, grew.
He climbed over a pile of fallen rocks and found himself standing before an opening in the earth. Where Mount Lister met the plain, the ground had caved, revealing the heart of the Royal Crypt within. The oculus cutting through the side of the mountain had been smashed to shards.
Torsten crept to the edge and stared down. Too many caskets to count had been cracked open, Liam’s among them. His sword, Salvation, had been cracked into three pieces, the hilt pinned between rocks. The remaining half of his Glass Crown lay in the center of the room, glimmering under the moons glow until a shadow covered it.
Torsten’s eyes went wide.
Bending to pick up the broken crown, was Pi. Breathing, moving, he stared at the half-circlet as if it were the first thing his young eyes had ever seen. In the other hand, he clutched the bloody, ragged orepul Torsten had gone through so much to recover.
Pi Nothhelm, first and only son of Liam the Conqueror and the Flower of the Drav Cra, had been buried, but he wasn’t dead.
The story continues with Winds of War, book two in the Buried Goddess Saga.
XXXII
THE THIEF
“Congratulations, old friend,” Uriah said. “You have slain even what your God could not. The One Who Remains is no more.”
Whitney stared at Uriah as the black cloud surrounding him dissipated. He stretched his arms and drew a calming breath as if everything was fine. It was then that Whitney remembered what had happened and his blood started to boil.
“You used me as bait!” Whitney shouted. He jumped at the old man and pointed his dagger at his throat.
“Put the blade down, Whitney,” Torsten said.
“Why? He used me so we’d have no choice but to fight his monster. Your men didn’t draw her away, did they? This was all to get us to distract her so that you could do... that. Whatever the shog that was.”
The old man merely smiled, wrinkles splaying at the corners of his lips.
“Is that true, Uriah?” Torsten said.
“Of course, it is!” Whitney growled. “Bliss was waiting to drain me.” The thought made him shiver. “Do you know what it’s like down there?”
“I knew something was off,” Sora said softly, still on one knee struggling to catch her breath, exhausted from using magic.
“I ought to make you go down there and lay with the corpses!”
“Whitney, stop!” Torsten bellowed. “Uriah, is it true?”
The old man sighed. “I did what was needed to rid this world of great evil. The potential sacrifice of one man does not compare to what we have accomplished here together.”
“I’ll give you sacrifice.” Whitney went to hit him, but Uriah was too smooth. In a flash, he had Whitney disarmed and his arm wrenched behind his back.
“Please,” Uriah said. “I do tire of all this arguing.” He shoved Whitney into Torsten.
“I trusted you,” Torsten said, holding Whitney back.
“And your trust was not misplaced. Look.” He gestured to all the carnage around them. Bliss' corpse plugged the entrance to her lair, legs tossed haphazardly like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer. The bodies of her children covered so much of the surrounding area that the forest floor could no longer be seen. “We have victory. Who cares what it took to achieve it. Didn’t Liam teach you that in all his bloody conquests?”
“We?” Torsten said. “That spell, whatever you did. You didn’t need us.”
“Oh, but I did.”
“I’ve never seen magic like it,” Sora added. “Not even from Wetzel.”
“What happened to you?” Torsten asked.
“I called upon the gifts of my goddess,” Uriah said. “You too could be teeming in her power, if only you’d see the truth about the beings we worship.”
“You were a servant of Iam! You believed in him even more strongly than I.”
“Whatever he did, it did save our lives, oh holy one,” Whitney remarked. Torsten glared at him. “What! The guy sent me to die. If anyone should be mad, it’s me.”
“Stop being so stubborn and listen,” Uriah said. "Nesilia, Iam, together, after all these countless years, we faithful have brought their enemy to her bit
ter end.”
“Together we have done nothing,” Torsten snapped.
“Do you not remember the song, old friend?”
“Again with songs of fancy and fantasy?” Whitney said.
Biding her time, her pain like a flood
Alone in the darkness, she longs for the blood
In the name of the Lady, in the name of the Lord
Shall settle it all with power and sword
Then she will arise, in glorious day
Through will and through fire, her enemies slain
Forgotten, abandoned, but no longer bound
From Elsewhere and exile, she’ll receive her crown
“Riddles and nonsense,” Torsten said.
“How do you not feel it?” Uriah said, looking to the sky and closing his eyes. “Their union, deep in your soul like a… like a mounting storm.”
“You guys both sound insane,” Whitney said. Of course, nobody paid him any attention. He was getting used to it.
“Do not make me a party to your heathen worship of the Buried Goddess,” Torsten said. “It was Iam who guided my blade. You may have tricked us into helping you, but we are done now. We will find King Pi’s orepul, and then you will return to Yarrington and answer for your sins.”
“You cannot deny what happened here!” Uriah roared, his calm façade slipping.
It was then that Whitney realized how foolish he was for charging the former Wearer of White.
He just called on shadows to kill a goddess, you idiot.
“Why don’t we just let him leave,” Whitney said. “I have the damn doll anyway. We can all go on our merry way.” He removed the orepul he’d found in Bliss' lair from his belt and held it up.
Torsten and Uriah grabbed it at the same time, their hands covered in Bliss' black blood, so much that it soaked the poor doll’s crude face through.
“Hey!” Whitney ripped it back and patted the head before he stored it back underneath his belt. “Didn’t either of you ever learn to share?”
“Where did you find that?” Torsten asked.
“In the big chamber he sent me into with the… you know, spider webs and dead bodies.”
“So Redstar really is dead,” Torsten said. It was not a question.
Whitney shrugged. “I suppose. There was a body holding it. Well, it used to be a body. It was really just a pile of white armor and crumbling bones. Like yours, see.” He raised his forearm to show off the gauntlets he’d taken.
Torsten’s eyes went wide. “Those are glaruium gauntlets,” he said. He clutched Whitney’s arm and pulled it close. “Where did you find these?”
“They’re yours if you want them. I figured it was the least I could do after I… uh… damaged yours back in the ruins.”
There was silence.
“Really, that was his fault,” Whitney went on, pointing to Uriah.
“You found these in the same place as the doll?” Torsten asked.
“Yeah, cradled right in these things like it were a baby.”
Torsten’s eyebrows rose slowly and his gaze leveled on Uriah. Whitney did the same.
“The lion’s head?” Torsten said.
A smirk played at the corners of the old man’s lips. He clicked with his tongue and shook his head. “This could have been a smooth transaction. In and out. Both our needs fulfilled. You got the orepul and I… I get what she asked of me.”
“What is going on?” Whitney asked.
“Watch out!” Sora suddenly sprawled in front of them with her hand raised as if to block something. When nothing happened, she glanced up with her weary eyes and said, “I felt…”
Uriah snapped his fingers. Whitney winced, then, when he looked again, Uriah was gone. Where he had just been standing, a pale, gangly man now stood. The scarred, left side of his face was covered by a deep red, almost crimson birthmark with a few points stretching over his forehead and nose.
Whitney was dumbfounded. Sora froze in her place.
“It’s you,” Torsten said softly. “You son of a—” He lunged at him, but the man sliced his palm on his sword and raised the hand. Torsten went stiff.
The man waved his arm aside and sent Torsten slamming hard into the cavern’s outer wall, his head cracking against the stone.
Whitney lifted his hands in surrender. He was no fool. Torsten hadn’t told him a thing about what Redstar looked like, but a birthmark like the one this man had made it pretty obvious. And anyone who could use magic to change their appearance like that was a warlock not worth messing with.
“Hey, man. Listen, we’re friends, right?” Whitney said. “You sent me to my doom, no sweat. This really has nothing to do with me.” He nodded to the doll. “You want this? Fine, no skin off my bones.”
“You really think this was all about the orepul?” Redstar said. Even his voice changed. It was stronger, more dignified.
“Don’t, Whitney,” Torsten groaned as he struggled to recover. “He is behind everything. He’ll never let you leave alive.”
“Unfortunately, he’s right about that.”
Redstar raised his bloody hand, but so did Sora. She stood tall in front of Whitney and fire erupted from her own newly bleeding hand. Redstar didn’t even bother moving. As the ball of fire leaped from her palm, he snapped his fingers. The flame turned to ice mid-flight, then fell to the ground and shattered. He then extended a hand toward both Whitney and Sora and threw them into the same wall as Torsten.
They all lay in a heap, staring at Redstar. Whitney felt a new level of fear that even Bliss didn’t instill in him. She needed a leg to throw him across the room, but Redstar didn’t even need to touch him.
Torsten drew himself up. “Redstar, I am here under the command of your sister, the Queen Regent. Stop this madness.”
“She’s not my ruler!” he shouted. “I came to her a year ago. Begged her to see the truth of what lived in these Woods and to help us destroy it. She treated me as a stranger—worse than a stranger. The sister who I witnessed being ripped from our home and forced to the Glass Kingdom died that day in Drav Cra. Your King defiled her.”
“So, you cursed a child?” Torsten spat. “We can talk with her. Reason with her.”
“I will not waste any more time with her. My faith belongs to another Lady; one who holds real power. My goddess will soon return with a vengeance, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“Me?” Torsten stomped forward, but Redstar flexed his hand again and shoved him back down.
“Didn’t you pay attention to anything I’ve been telling you? ‘One of the Lady and one of the Lord.’”
“We all heard your dumb song,” Whitney said.
“Only true believers of Iam and Nesilia, together, could truly vanquish Bliss and undo what she has done. And your faith was proven so predictably at the ruins. Now, Torsten, she will rise again. No longer forgotten!”
“Not on my watch,” Torsten declared. “Not in the Glass.”
“If only that were up to you. I no longer need you or these filthy little creatures you find company with.”
Behind him, three of his masked cultists appeared, only they weren’t wearing masks any longer. Their faces were pale, black painted across the top halves with thin lines of red around their eyes. They had all the features of men from the Drav Cra tundra, not Glassmen. They were, all of them, real warlocks pretending to be cultists.
“Drad Redstar, Arch Warlock of Nesilia, condemns you each to death,” they said in perfect unison. “May the dirt take you.”
One waved his hand and Whitney went flying. Another did the same to Torsten. Redstar raised his hand in Sora’s direction, and with it, she floated, pushed hard against the rock wall. She groaned in agony as her back was crushed.
“And you… little blood mage.” Redstar took a few steps forward. “I hate to see such raw talent wasted, but I cannot take any risks.”
“You’re pure evil,” she said through her teeth.
“Young lady… there is no evil—only
power.” He squeezed his fist into a ball, and she writhed.
“Stop!” Whitney shouted from wherever he’d landed. One of the cultists slowly walked toward him with a dagger in hand, robe sloshing through Bliss' pooling blood.
“Redstar, let them go!” Torsten pleaded. “They are not your enemy.”
“You don’t understand, do you, knight? You wouldn’t.” Redstar squeezed harder. “I enjoy this.”
Sora’s eyes opened wide, and she looked as if she were about to burst. Torsten closed his eyes and prayed, asking for Iam’s light to deliver them from evil and give his kingdom a second chance. Whitney found his footing and charged at Redstar, ignoring the cultist. Redstar raised a bloody hand his way and paralyzed him mid-stride. Then he focused back on Sora. Her moans of pain grew louder and louder until it was all he could hear. He wished he could look away, but Redstar held every part of him still. A soft glow began to form in her irises and then it grew brighter.
Then Sora screamed.
Blinding light and fire surged from every pore of her battered body. Whitney, Torsten, and the cultists bore down. The light was so bright and the heat so sweltering, Whitney had to close his eyes. When he opened them again, Redstar lay ten meters away, his clothes smoldering. His three warlocks were charred to a crisp. Whitney rolled over and tried to stand, but his head was ringing, and he fell back over. Torsten stumbled a few feet then did the same.
“Sora!” Whitney grated. The heat on the air made it hard to breathe. She lay on her back against the cavern wall, arms draped off to the side, eyelids twitching. Whitney crawled the rest of the way to her.
“Sora,” he repeated. “Are you okay?” She wasn’t moving. He grabbed her by the jaw and rolled her eyelid open, but only saw the whites of her eyes. “Sora wake up.” He dragged her down from the wall, laid her down flat and started slapping her cheek. “Sora!”
“I...” she coughed and rolled her head. “I’m okay.”
Whitney released a mouthful of air and pulled her close. She was too weak to speak, but that was better than dead. “That was incredible, Sora. Where did you learn to do that?”
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