Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  "The language around the border is ancient,” Uriah said. “Predating the Glass Kingdom, even the dwarves. Redstar had translated the fable it tells before he vanished. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Spare me,” Torsten said.

  Uriah sighed. “Essentially, it tells that Nesilia will return when the blood of the enemy, the One Who Remained, is spilt. Redstar and the Drav Cra have lost hundreds to the cause before he chose vengeance instead, your queen too in sending our people there to find him. All I know for sure is Nesilia is the key to destroying this great evil."

  “You believe that this… spider—”

  “Queen Bliss,” Uriah interrupted.

  “Fine… you believe she is the One Who Remained?” Torsten asked.

  “I know it. And she is not just a queen—she too is a goddess. Yes, deformed, a remnant of her former self, but a goddess nonetheless. It was a punishment by Iam. He mutated and mutilated her for piercing the heart of the one he loved.”

  Torsten wished he wasn’t so concerned or he would have laughed. “You have truly lost it, Uriah. It was Nesilia who began the feud by her selfishness. The one who slew her was banished from this realm by Iam, and both of them deserve what they got. Iam does not punish out of lust or love. He protects us, guides us.”

  “My friend, you must listen to me. Nesilia is not who you’ve been made to believe. She is not the enemy.” Uriah laid his hand upon Torsten’s shoulder, but it was promptly shaken off.

  “I pity you, Uriah. You have turned your back on Iam, your people, and it’s clear there is no changing that. These are carvings etched by warlocks and heretics, like Redstar, who want nothing more than to see us burn. They lie, they sin, they sacrifice their own—I will not be party to it.”

  “The Second God Feud is coming, Torsten, and the warlocks have predicted a far different outcome. Nesilia was taken from Pantego, sealed below Mount Lister at the hands of her enemy, but only she and Iam together can help us.”

  “Iam,” Torsten clarified. “And she is the enemy.”

  Uriah shook his head. “Bliss is. There is much we have been taught which we must unlearn.”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “I have seen—”

  “Enough!” Torsten bellowed. "I am going to the Webbed Woods on command of our queen. I will accomplish what you could not and put an end to Redstar’s influence over the royal family for good.”

  “You think him still in the woods?” Uriah laughed. “He is dead, Torsten.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “No man could survive there for a year, and no offering would drive Bliss to help the children of the gods who smote her. All he has done is stirred her hunger. No, he has to be dead. Even his own followers gave up on him and came here.”

  “I thought you were dead, yet here we are.”

  Uriah exhaled. “Will you not listen to reason? Redstar is irrelevant. Pi is irrelevant. There is a greater evil working in that forest. One that needs banishment. Together we might be able to uncover the key to vanquishing her. Perhaps we can also learn Redstar’s fate and reclaim what he stole from Pi while we’re there.”

  “Redstar brought ruin upon this realm with his malfeasance—not some spider. I will go into those woods and find that which the Queen desires.”

  “You will die there unless you let us help you.”

  "Then I will die in service to my kingdom."

  Uriah hung his head. He walked over to a nook and returned holding Torsten’s claymore and other effects. “Then I will not stand in your way. Take your things and go, Torsten, but as Bliss hangs you from her web, I hope that you remember it didn’t need to be so.”

  Torsten tore his weapon from Uriah’s hand and hung it on his back. “It is only because of who you are that I won’t tell the crown about this place. I’m only glad King Liam isn’t alive to see what you’ve become.”

  The news appeared to catch Uriah off guard, but before he could say anything, Torsten grabbed him by the collar. He leaned in so close he could smell the stench on the man’s breath. “Get caught sacrificing another man to fallen gods again, and my mercy will run out.”

  Torsten pushed him aside and stomped toward the exit. He was nearly out when Uriah spoke again.

  “If King Liam is dead, then the last great Nothhelm is gone,” he said. “Redstar already corrupted Pi’s mind. There is no helping him now. But we can stop Bliss from covering the world in darkness.”

  Torsten stopped for a moment, his hands balling into fists. “Just stay out of my way, Uriah,” he growled, then continued on his way.

  XXI

  THE THIEF

  “You sure this is a good idea?” Sora asked.

  “It’s my idea, how couldn’t it be good?” Whitney laughed as he studied the town from the hillside. It wasn’t Yarrington, but it wasn’t Troborough either. Three sprawling roads made up the bulk of Bridleton, and in its center, Iam’s temple—a tall, thin structure made of old, grey wood and iron—cast a long shadow over the community.

  “If we are going to travel together, I’m certainly not wearing this.” Whitney gestured toward the unmarked cultist’s robe draped over his body, a dab of blood on the sleeve. “And if you recall, it’s your fault we are in this position, Ms. Plays-With-Fire.”

  “Okay, fine,” Sora said. “We go in, get you some clothes. Then it’s straight to the Webbed Woods. Quick and painless.”

  “You’re really not going to drop that idea, are you?”

  She stroked his chest and put on sultry inflection. “Oh Whitney, I’m just dying to see your famed thieving skills for myself.”

  Whitney couldn’t hide his grin. Maybe it wasn’t a vocation one should be proud of, but that had never stopped him. “I appreciate the flattery, Sora, but it won’t get you what you want.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She sidled up next to him, her hip rubbing against his. The moment he turned to face her she hopped back, the cultist’s coin purse again strung around her finger.

  “Now, let’s go buy you a shirt,” she said.

  “Buy clothes?” Whitney scoffed. “Do you remember who I am?”

  “You plan to steal clothes from some poor merchant when we have the coin to purchase it? Is that what you’ve been up to all these years?”

  “If I only stole that which I didn’t have the coin to purchase, I’d never have the coin to purchase anything.”

  Whitney sensed Sora formulating a response but started off down the hill before she had a chance.

  “I’ll buy them for you,” she shouted. “As a gift!”

  “We both know we aren’t on gift-giving terms,” Whitney shouted back over his shoulder.

  She hurried to catch up with him. “Clothing wasn’t really on my mind when I said, ‘renowned thief.’”

  “C’mon, it’ll be like old times.”

  “No, it’s just cruel.”

  Whitney stopped and looked her over. There was no room for softness in his game. No room for morality. From the smallest to the most ludicrous heist, any hesitation could get him killed, or worse, slammed behind more bars.

  Her brow furrowed as he continued to stare. She had a slender build, long fingers, and the ability to craft fiery distractions on a bloody whim. Whitney had never willingly worked with a partner—the mess with Torsten excluded—and now that he was free of the Shieldsman and done wallowing in boredom, he knew for sure, taking on an apprentice was precisely what he needed to keep things fresh. Just the prospect of stealing a shirt alongside Sora had him more exuberant for a job than even the crown heist.

  “Would you stop staring at me!” Sora bristled.

  “I’m sizing you up,” Whitney said. “You say cruel, yet you want to take on giant spiders and warlocks. I say I won’t consider going into those woods with you unless I know you can handle snagging something as simple as a shirt. Doesn’t matter if you can snap your fingers and make fire.”

  Sora glanced at her fingernails, then nodded. “Fine,
but I choose the mark.”

  Whitney allowed a smile to play at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the spirit! But, first things first. You’ll draw about as much attention here as a giant in Brotlebir.” Whitney drew one of the dagger’s he’d taken from the unconscious cultist, and sliced the top of his robe and held the hood out to her. “Here.”

  “What’s this for?” she asked, not taking the cloth.

  “Tuck the frayed ends of the hood into your collar and pull it up to cover your ears. Keep your head down, so nobody notices your eyes unless they’re really looking.”

  She took a step back, aghast. “Excuse me?”

  “Look, I don’t know how well-received you’re going to be here. Not everyone in Pantego is like the people of Troborough.”

  “What, simple?”

  Whitney squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “No, accepting. You were displaced young—really young. And with your parents… gone, Wetzel and much of the town took you in like one of their own.”

  “You were barely older than me,” she said. “Don’t act like you remember.”

  “I remember how even my dad used to talk about you.”

  Her expression soured, and he knew he probably went too far even though it was true. His dad hated her people after losing his brother in one of the Panping Wars, and while he held his tongue whenever he permitted Sora around, the insults flowed once she wasn’t.

  “All I’m saying is that not everyone in the Glass Kingdom has forgotten the Panping Wars,” Whitney said. “They were bloody, and they touched this area of the Glass heartland. I’d bet a lot of blood was spilled near here.”

  “You’re overreacting. Panping is part of the Glass now.”

  “Barely more than Drav Cra is.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

  “Sora, how many times have you left Troborough?”

  She grimaced. “A few.”

  “Well, I’ve been to every corner of Pantego. I’ve seen hate in every form, and it’s the quickest way to get too many eyes on you.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Would you just trust me?” He shoved the hood into her gut, so she had no choice but to grab it. She squeezed it so hard her knuckles went white, then she dropped it.

  “I’m sick of hiding everything,” she said.

  Sora set off down the hillside at a brisk pace without looking back. Whitney tried to keep up, but she had long legs and sprinting into a town for no reason was the best way to seem like you were up to no good. It reminded him of his childhood, chasing her down to the ravine where they’d play together until his mother called for supper. She wound up eating with his family as often as his father and desperate-to-appease-him mother allowed since Wetzel kept a bed for her in his shack but little else... well, except for apparently a bevy of tomes on blood magic.

  “Would you slow down!” Whitney said in a raised whisper. He couldn’t help but see the irony in being on this end of the discussion.

  She kept going, right toward Bridleton like she was on a mission. There were no gates—but two soldiers sat on stools, drinking ale and guarding the road through the town. They wore the blue and white of the Glass, Iam’s eye painted on leather armor. But judging by their grungy appearance, they were locals turned sentries for the crown, paid to watch out for another potential Black Sands attack while the real soldiers waited in forts. And judging by the ale dripping from their beards, they were doing a terrible job of it.

  The guards perked up the moment Sora got near. It wasn’t an abnormal reaction to seeing a beautiful, unfamiliar woman. But Whitney could see their eyes narrow in disgust after they gave her a thorough look over. The fatter and grungier of the two nudged the other. They both stood and clomped over in front of Sora.

  “Aye there! Knife-ear!” the fatter guard barked. Sora stopped as suddenly as if she’d been petrified. People didn’t talk like that out loud in tiny farming villages so near the capital. The war never reached that far.

  Whitney cursed under his breath.

  “What business have ye in Bridleton?” the fat guard asked.

  Sora’s fists clenched as she said, “Just passing through.”

  “Ye could just as easily pass around.”

  Sora took a step forward. They moved to block her, one of them giving her a healthy shove with his arm that was definitely not accidental.

  “Yeah, we don’t see yer kind much round here,” said the other.

  “Especially ones so pretty.”

  “Please, I’m just looking for somewhere to spend the night,” Sora said. She might as well have been mute because they didn’t hear a word.

  “I’m sure we can work that out.” The fat guard squeezed her arm.

  She leaped backward, her hand falling toward the knife sheathed in her belt.

  “Knife-ear goin for her knife,” one of them chortled.

  “I’m beggin ye,” the fat one said. “Give us a reason to show you how accommodating Bridleton can be.”

  Whitney quickly turned and tore a strip of cloth from his crummy robe, then tied it over his eyes like a proper priest of Iam. The threading was so poor he could see shapes and a bit of detail through it if he squinted. Enough, at least, to not trip over his own feet or get surprised.

  “Gentlemen, she is a child of Iam just as you are,” Whitney said before Sora could do anything stupid. He added a raspy effect to his voice, the kind Iam’s priests use in sermons to make each word appear to be bursting with wisdom.

  The men gave her an appraising once-over.

  “Ain’t nothin bout her like us,” one said.

  Whitney lay a steadying hand on Sora’s shoulder. With the other, he lightly guided her hand away from her weapon.

  “What more do you want, my sons?” he asked. “Her people renounced their lands and their false gods and now serve the One True. Should we not rejoice together in his light?”

  Whitney was impressed with himself for coming up with that on the spot, but that was nothing new. His only hope was that nobody questioned his knowledge of the Panping much further because he honestly couldn’t remember the name of any of the gods Sora’s people prayed to. She wouldn’t either. Sora was so young when war left her a displaced orphan in Troborough, she was raised by Iam’s followers.

  “Little young for a father, ain’t ye?” the fat guard asked.

  “Those robes ain’t look like nothin we seen Father Anyon wearin,” said the other.

  “Ah, please forgive my appearance,” Whitney said without missing a beat. His hand moved to where his daggers were hidden, hoping to not have to use them. He made a mental note to hide them better if he made it through this encounter. Priests didn’t carry weapons. Though they couldn’t see either and if these men decided to tear off his blindfold he’d be made in an instant.

  “We fell upon hard times over our long journey,” Whitney continued. “Wolves tore off my hood on a quest for my throat. This young lady happened to hear my cries and saved me.”

  “This puny girl took on wolves?”

  “I’m quite handy with a knife,” Sora said sharply.

  Whitney gave her a nudge in the side on his way in front of her. “She merely searches for a bit of respite amongst your good people,” he said. “ Tell me, did… Father Anyon was it? …teach you well enough to help a stranger in need? After all, you never know when Iam’s eye is upon you.”

  “Ain’t no way Iam gives one bit of horse shog about her kind.”

  “Iam cares for all who tread the path of light,” Whitney said. He bowed and traced the area around his eyes with his fingers like a good, loyal servant of Iam would do. “Where can I find Father Anyon?”

  “Father Anyon died last week.”

  Whitney counted to five, not wanting to give away his excitement.

  “Ah, yes. Of course, how could I be so stupid? I am his replacement, Father Gorenheimer.”

  “Yer here to replac
e him and ye didn’t know he died?”

  “I knew he was dying. I was sent by the clergy as soon as I heard the news. I am sad to hear he finally passed.”

  “He was run over by a goods wagon.”

  “Yes, quite the tragedy,” Whitney said, lowering his head. “Agonizing way to go.”

  The man appeared momentarily suspicious from what Whitney could tell in his blurred view of the world but eventually stepped aside. “All right, move along, but we’ll all be keeping an eye on her. Wouldn’t be the first time some Panping wench came along, tryin to impose her heresies on us. Them Panpingese mystics are worse than snakes.”

  “Priest’s lodgins are by the church,” the other guard said.

  “Thank you, kind children of Iam. Praise be the Vigilant Eye in all His mercy.” Whitney again performed the standard appraisal gesture to Iam. He was so close to the men they had no choice but to return the gesture.

  “Come, my daughter,” he addressed Sora. “For your help, you deserve a night in proper lodging.”

  He strode by the men and held out his hand so that Sora would take it and guide him since he was blind. Anything to get her hand off her knife. The guards whispered something in her ear on her way by that had her teeth grinding in anger, but this time she kept quiet until she reached Whitney.

  “If you say, ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to burn off your nethers,” she whispered.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Whitney replied. “But I do recall a similar conversation.”

  She groaned. “Where in Elsewhere did you drum up that name?”

  “Lesson one, long names make stupid people feel even more stupid. Gets them to shut up faster.”

  “Noted. But what happens when the people realize you’re a fraud with eyes?”

  Whitney chuckled. “You think this is the first time I’ve posed as a priest?”

  The next day began with a pounding on the door. Whitney grunted something incoherent and saw light pouring in through the thin veil of his eyelids. He threw his feet over the edge of the bed as another series of knocks came. Although the old chapel house adjoined to Bridleton’s church creaked and groaned the way old houses tended to do, Whitney hadn’t slept so well in weeks.