Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  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?”

  “I didn’t...”

  “He’s still breathing,” Torsten said. He crouched at Redstar’s side with his hand on the man’s throat. “Barely.”

  “So, drive that sword into him and be done,” Whitney said.

  “I can’t do that. The Queen will want him. If I bring him back, she might restore…” his voice trailed off.

  “Restore?”

  “Hope in the kingdom. No, he still must be returned alive to answer for these crimes. To show Yarrington that Iam remains with us.”

  “So, what happens when our friend wakes up and goes all drunk with power again?” Whitney asked.

  “He won’t,” Sora said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “His hands,” she strained at first, but her words gained strength as she spoke. “See those little cuts? He’s just like me… a lot stronger, but just like me.”

  “By the look of things, there aren’t many stronger than you,” Whitney said.

  She blushed. “I got lucky.”

  “There’s a word for it. You were like a powder keg.”

  “I think... maybe I somehow drew on Bliss' blood.”

  “Is that possible?” Whitney asked.

  She was able to shrug one shoulder. “Wetzel didn’t know everything.”

  “No,” Torsten declared. “It was His light—Iam’s light—that came through her. I know it. That is why we were spared.”

  “Now her powers are all fine and dandy?” Whitney said.

  “We cannot say why or how he will choose to act through his vessels, but of this fact, I have no doubt. I prayed to him as death closed in around us, and I felt him in my heart when the light arrived. Perhaps your friend has turned toward the Light, but he has not turned from her.”

  Sora rolled her head over to face Torsten. Whitney couldn’t quite discern what her expression meant, but he was sure it wasn’t anger. Maybe it was hope. It didn’t last long before her exhaustion returned in full force.

  “Whatever you say.” Whitney lifted Sora’s head to keep her from fainting. “So how do we keep him in check?”

  “Bind his hands and legs,” she said. “Gag his mouth, too. He shouldn’t be able to perform any spells like that.”

  “I don’t know if this is something we want to chance.”

  Torsten was already tearing Redstar’s robes to use as makeshift bindings. “It‘s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  Whitney laid Sora down, retrieved Wetzel’s dragon engraved knife to tuck into her belt, then went to the knight’s side to help. A long rasp sounded as he tore more fabric. Torsten went to grab hold of Redstar’s hands, but his arms froze. He started to rise into the air again.

  Redstar groaned, “You will not—”

  Whitney threw a sharp right hook into the side of the Arch Warlock’s head. His eyes closed for good.

  “Good punch,” Torsten said.

  “Thanks,” Whitney said, shaking his hand.

  They finished tying up Redstar, then stood.

  “You’re carrying him,” Whitney said.

  “There are two of us, Thief,” Torsten replied. “And we have a long road back to Yarrington.”

  “Well, someone has to help her!” He pointed at Sora, who had passed out at some point while they were binding Redstar. Torsten’s gaze moved from her, then froze on the gauntlet covering Whitney’s outstretched hand.

  “Ah, right.” Whitney went to remove them, but Torsten stopped him.

  “I dare not wear them. I doubted Uriah’s faith and I have to live with that forever.”

  “Redstar was a good actor.” Whitney rolled his shoulders, then handed the gauntlets over anyway. They barely fit, and even though the armor of a former Wearer was quite the treasure, he had no desire to be reminded of nearly being devoured by a giant spider every time he looked down at them. For all his preaching, Torsten seemed plenty satisfied as he strapped them on.

  “So, that was the real Uriah I found down there?” Whitney said.

  “Yes.” Torsten bent over and picked up Redstar’s sword—Uriah’s sword—the pommel sculpted into a lion. “The monster stole his sword and everything, all to deceive me.”

  “About that. I still don’t really understand what in Elsewhere he wanted.”

  “What does any heathen want? Chaos. To blot out the light in this world because there is no light in theirs.”

  Whitney looked up and considered making a remark about how little light the woods had, even with the glittering eyeballs hanging all around them and reflecting Celeste’s light, but he decided against it. “Well, if it’s all right with you, I’m ready to get out of this place.”

  “Yes. For too long the Webbed Woods have haunted our kingdom thanks to this madman. It’s time to leave for good.”

  “Finally.” Whitney patted the Drav Cra doll in his belt. “I’ll hold onto this until we’re back, just in case you decide to go rotten.”

  “I gave you my word under Iam’s Vigilant Eye.”

  Again, the swinging eyeballs caught Whitney’s gaze, and he stifled a gag. “Please don’t mention eyes… ever again.”

  Torsten sighed. “I will stand by my promise.”

  Whitney flashed him a grin. “But it’s so much more fun not to.”

  XXXIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Yarrington.

  Torsten swore he’d never been so happy to see the glory of the capital in all his life. From the dark, towering trees of the Webbed Woods, to the white-stone spires and crystal spindle swirling atop the distant castle—he’d been to war in plenty of places but never had the difference been so stark. Mount Lister’s snow-dusted, flat top glistened under the bright winter sun as a backdrop to it all.

  He sat atop his steed staring down upon the city from a nearby hill. It seemed more peaceful than ever. Redstar was slung over the back of his saddle, bound, gagged, and so far he hadn’t tried any tricks. Uriah’s sword was strung along the side of it, finally able to be returned to its proper place.

  Whitney and Sora sat on the horse behind him, the thief finally quiet for once in his Iam-forsaken life, and Sora finally at full strength after Torsten had felt Iam appear through her to save them all. He was sure of it. And because of that, he was about to allow a known blood mage to enter the capital.

  The world really has changed...

  They’d traded for two horses at the first stable they found outside the Webbed Woods. There were few southern villages left that hadn’t already been razed by the growing Black Sands army, so stocky, southern shorthairs were the only option. Whitney hesitated to give up his stolen arrow-shaped amulet in exchange for such inferior beasts, but he eventually gave in when he realized walking was the only alternative.

  Torsten couldn’t help but feel like the young man was finally starting to see the weight of t
heir actions. How a quest, so foolish in its description, could help save the Glass Kingdom.

  “Are you planning on sitting up here all day?” Whitney asked. “Sora can really use a bath.”

  “Excuse me!” She smacked him in the back of the head.

  “What? We all can. Nice, warm, castle water. A fresh rack of lamb. Rosemary potatoes.”

  Torsten glanced back at him, incredulous. Then his stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing but the stale bread Uriah—Redstar—had given him for days.

  “We’re heroes, Shieldsman,” Whitney said, clearly protesting the look Torsten sent his way. “It’s the least we deserve. We rescued a hand-sewn damsel—dame?—in distress, thwarted an Arch Warlock, and slew an evil, goddess, spider... thing.”

  “Is a name of worth not enough?” Torsten questioned.

  “You have met him, haven’t you?” Sora said. “Nothing is ever enough.”

  “You’re learning,” Whitney said.

  “Stop.” Torsten held out a hand and nodded toward the doll tucked into Whitney’s belt.

  “I said you’d get it when we reached Yarrington.”

  “This is close enough. We will be better received if it is in my hands.”

  Whitney looked to Sora, who seemed too preoccupied marveling at the great city to care. He sighed and handed it over.

  “It’s a creepy little thing anyway,” Whitney said. “Not to mention all the gross, spider-woman blood you got all over it.”

  Torsten raised Pi’s Drav Cra orepul in front of him—the boy’s supposed soul. The thing was a wreck. A year or so in Queen Bliss' lair hadn’t been kind to it. An eye was missing, and the dark stains of blood—both old and new—and dirt would never wash out.

  That the entire kingdom could rely on something so small and worthless...

  Torsten tucked it away. “Let’s go home.”

  “Your home maybe,” Whitney muttered.

  Torsten spurred his horse on down the paved road into Yarrington. The farms outside were quiet, touched by winter’s frost. A few lonely, old farmers tilled the soil to keep it fresh, but naught for that, only stubborn crows disturbed the stillness. Smoke climbed from the mills and homesteads, firelight glowing through hazy windows.

  Torsten always enjoyed winter. Quiet. Fewer foreign traders to monitor, and the people were usually too cold to cause much of a stir. It made his job easier, and coming back from Liam’s war campaigns had always exhausted the King’s Shield.

  It was different now, like so much else. The city may have looked peaceful on the outside, but as soon as they reached the gate, Torsten knew Yarrington wasn’t the same place he’d left. The main eastern gate into the city hadn’t been sealed in ages, yet now the tremendous, oak doors were closed and the steel portcullis lowered.

  He brought his horse to a snorting halt.

  “Who goes there?” A voice shouted down from the stony ramparts.

  “Where are the trumpets?” Whitney whispered.

  “Torsten Unger!” he shouted up. “King’s Shieldsman. The Wearer of White.” It was only as the words left his lips that Torsten remembered he was lying. He’d never actually said out loud what he no longer was.

  “Sir Rand Langley’s the Wearer now!” the guard replied. “I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here.”

  “Did I just hear him right?” Whitney said.

  “Quiet,” Torsten snapped. He looked back up. “Fetch Sir Wardric Jolly! He'll be expecting me. I bring a gift that may very well save our young, ailing king.”

  The guard hesitated, but soon disappeared, leaving them to wait in the cold. A northern breeze bit at Torsten’s nose and cheeks, though it was welcome compared to the fetid stench of swamps and cursed woods. He took a moment to inhale the chilly air through his nostrils when Whitney tapped his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Rand?” Whitney said. “He’s the way-too-young knight who took my crown. What is that guy talking about?”

  “It wasn’t your crown, and it’s complicated.”

  “No, alchemy is complicated. This is simple. Are you the Wearer or did you lie to me when I agreed to this insane adventure?”

  “The Queen Regent is impulsive. When we return, she will see reason, and you’ll get everything we agreed upon. You have my word.”

  “Your word? Are you even a knight?”

  “Well...”

  Whitney’s jaw dropped.

  It hadn’t occurred to Torsten until they defeated Bliss that he may not be able to offer what he promised should they succeed. He didn’t care about disappointing Whitney— the thief had done more than enough to deserve disappointment—but a vow made under the light of Iam was a sacred thing.

  “I knew I didn’t like him, Whitney,” Sora said. “We should leave right now, before he turns on us, too.”

  “Look,” Torsten said. “The Queen Regent sent me off in anger. When she sees what we return with, all will be forgiven. I will ensure you get what was promised, thief.”

  Whitney took a long hard look at the road from whence they came and scratched his chin. “Fine. But I swear: if you go back on it, I’ll burn that doll. Or maybe I’ll sneak back into your Royal Crypt and turn your beloved King’s old crown back into sand.”

  “My word is my bond. If I’m unable to anoint you, I have friends in the castle who will honor my final request.”

  “What about her?” he asked, nodding to Sora.

  “I agreed upon nothing with her.”

  “We’d be dead without her, and you know it.”

  “Perhaps there is redemption for you, thief. Whether you fled and left me to die in those ruins or not, you returned and stood by to the end. But no Shieldsman, I, nor any other, can, in good conscience, bestow a name upon a known practitioner of the dark arts.”

  “But you said it yourself, you’re not a Shieldsman.”

  Torsten bit back his anger. “All I can offer is that she may walk free. I will say nothing of her malfeasance and see to it she is rewarded appropriately in autlas, as any aid to the Crown would be. Perhaps enough that she may pursue a decent art.” He eyed her disapprovingly with the last words. “Her fate rests in Iam’s hands now, and after what I witnessed in that forest, I have faith she’ll find the right path.”

  “She saved us all! You said it yourself, ‘Iam worked through her’, or some mumbo-jumbo.”

  “It’s okay, Whit,” Sora interrupted Whitney. “I don’t need a name or gold. The Crown’s never offered a poor, outsider like me anything anyway.”

  “Well, then what do you want?”

  Chimes from Yarrington Cathedral rang out before she could answer. Then the gate creaked as old gears inside the wall slowly turned, grinding against one another. The doors opened to reveal Sir Wardric atop a strong, regal-looking stallion. It had only been a few weeks, and the already-elder statesmen of the King’s Shield looked as if he’d aged a decade. His graying hair and beard were haggard, his face creased like a stone quarry.

  “Wardric, you have no idea how good it is to see a familiar face,” Torsten exclaimed cheerily. He chose not to dwell on how the two of them left things, almost killing each other. As Torsten stretched out his arms in greeting, Wardric’s expression was as solemn as it had been then.

  “I figured you weren’t coming back,” he said.

  “I have captured the Queen Regent’s traitorous brother and returned what was stolen. Please, I must speak to her.”

  Wardric bit his lip. “You should come with me, Torsten.”

  “What happened?”

  “I dare not speak it here. Come.”

  Torsten urged his horse forward, looking down upon it with shame in the light of Wardric’s tall steed. Whitney and Sora followed.

  “Who are they?” Wardric asked.

  “They helped me bring Redstar to justice and are to be rewarded justly.” Torsten glanced back at them. Whitney wore that same wry grin he’d been found wearing in the Yarrington dungeon on the day they’d met. Sora’s scowl, on the other
hand, made him reach for his holy pendant he no longer wore. “They can be trusted.”

  “So be it.”

  Wardric spun his horse, and Torsten caught up. It was only once he passed the guard’s tower he realized the state of Yarrington. He’d seen many cities, and—outside of the docks—the capital had always been the cleanest. No longer. It was as if the citizens had stopped working. Horse shog stained the streets. Beggars and paupers donned the porches of every shopfront, crowding the usually bustling entry plaza. Commotion broke out down one of the avenues, armed soldiers holding back a mob of rag-clad citizens hollering that they were starving.

  “The Black Sands hit many granaries when they raided those towns,” Wardric explained as they rode as if reading Torsten’s mind. “As if the poor harvest this season from the drought wasn’t enough. Stores are low, and we had to send as much as we could to fortify our fortresses throughout the kingdom against possible uprising.”

  “We should fortify the South first,” Torsten said. “I sent riders with news about the afhem gathering an army in the Fellwater. Did they reach you?”

  “Yes.” Wardric reached into a satchel and removed Torsten’s necklace. It was covered in grime, barely recognizable as the holy eye. He handed it over.

  Torsten exhaled as he took it and threw it back over his neck. He hadn’t realized how exposed he felt without it until it was back.

  “I worried they wouldn’t make it,” he said.

  “They’re safely locked up for spreading lies and fear-mongering.”

  “Lies? Fear-mongering? I saw the force with my own eyes, Wardric. It’s the largest army we’ve faced in a decade, I swear to you.”

  “It’s not me you must convince.”

  “Oleander,” Torsten muttered to himself, hanging his head. “Surely Rand—”

  “Is a spineless whelp,” he said, finishing Torsten’s sentence. “He stands guard outside her locked door while she sits with her son. Half the men whisper of a coup, the others lose faith in Iam and the White.”