Book Two
Winds of War
WINDS OF WAR
©2018 RHETT C. BRUNO & JAIME CASTLE
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Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Fabian Saravia. Cartography by Bret Duley.
Published by Aethon Books LLC.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.
All rights reserved.
Robyn—more beautiful than Oleander and far less cruel.
PROLOGUE
Wooden planks coated in a thick layer of moss creaked under Bartholomew Darkings' heavy boots. He closed the paint cracked and weather-worn doors behind him. The Church of Iam was enveloped by darkness but for a faint light filtered in through a circular stained-glass window, so covered in dirt the imagery was impossible to distinguish. A long aisle separating the pews was abandoned. The pews themselves were askew, and the gilded Eye of Iam had fallen from its perch over the altar. Shards of its glass core lay scattered across the floor, coated in dust.
“Hello?” Darkings called out, crossing the threshold. Only his echo answered.
He brushed a string of cobwebs from his hair, yelping like a man on fire, flailing to break free. He struggled to dignify himself, catching his breath and straightening his silk tunic. He removed a note from his pocket. On one side was a red hand and on the other, an unsigned invitation to the church with a time and day scrawled beneath.
“Another one of your made-up stories, isn’t it father?” Darkings said to nobody. “The Dom Nohzi… I should have known better.”
He crumpled up the note and tossed it aside, then turned toward the door. Just as his fingers wrapped the handle, he heard rustling behind him. He whipped around to find a man shrouded in a dark cloak holding the note. The man drew back the hood, revealing hair as white as the snow sprinkling the streets just beyond the doors. His pale skin didn’t show even the slightest wrinkle, not even at the corners of his eyes which were so dark it was as if they had no whites at all.
“What resolve you show, Bartholomew Darkings of Winde Port,” the man said. “Waiting all of three minutes?”
Darkings had met men from Brekliodad before, but none with accents so harsh.
“Th… there was no one here,” Darkings said. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he used his father’s contact to reach out to the Dom Nohzi, but just the sight of the man made him feel like his heart had stopped. “Where did you come from?”
“You called for us. You do not get to ask the questions here, Southerner.”
“Yes, I…” Darkings drew a deep breath so he’d stop coming off like a blathering fool. His was one of the wealthiest families in Pantego, he could deal with a glorified hitman. “I have heard when it comes to eliminating enemies, your order is the best there is.”
“What do you seek? And I warn you, waste my time, and you will leave here without a tongue.”
Darkings swallowed the lump in his throat. “I need you to kill a man.”
“Every poor soul stuck on this plane wants a man dead. The Sanguine Lords are neither man nor god, and we are their silent hand. If he is worthy of their judgment, then it will be so. If he is not, then yours will be the life forfeited. Do you accept?”
“You’ll kill me? That wasn’t part of my fath—”
“A man who marks the death of an innocent deserves not to live.”
Now Darkings' throat went dry. He knew he should have further studied his father’s notes about this ancient order of killers, but he was in such a rush. After what happened in Bridleton, losing everything he’d worked so hard to build, he’d been desperate. He pictured the flames devouring his home, all thanks to that damnable thief. He was through waiting.
“The man posed as a priest of Iam to rob me of my mother’s last remaining memory. Then, he used a Panpingese witch to burn everything I loved to the ground. He is the foulest, most inso—”
The cloaked man raised a finger to silence him again. “A mystic?” he said.
“I suppose. You can kill them both if you want, but all I ask for is her companion, Whitney Fierstown. I want him delivered to me. Alive, so that I may see the life flee from his eyes.”
The man inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes as if someone had just laid before him the most delectable meal imaginable. He looked at the ceiling and smiled. “The Sanguine Lords accept this offering.”
Before Darkings could get out another word, the man was less than an arm span away, closing the long distance in a second. He pulled a knife from his cloak and slashed Darkings across the arm.
Darkings howled in pain. “You said they accept!”
The man raised Darkings' arm. He held a vial between two fingers and allowed the blood to trickle into it until it was full.
“Blood given, for blood required,” he said. “This is our pact. If you fail to fulfill your end of the arrangement, my order will hunt you to the ends of the world. They will find you anywhere with this.” He plugged the vial, then shook it in front of Darkings' face before stowing it.
“Clearly, you have never heard of my family. Whatever you ask for will be paid in full and then some for every minute you add to that bastard thief’s suffering. Gold, gems, anything.”
“I have no need for riches.”
“Then what do you want?”
The man leaned forward, allowing Darkings to see beneath the folds of his cloak. A row of knives was strapped to his chest, sharp as galler talons. He raised Darkings' chin with a single finger, so their eyes met, then answered.
“Power.”
I
THE KNIGHT
Torsten knelt atop Mount Lister, flattened centuries ago in the God Feud. Ice and snow gathered within the Eye of Iam carved into the plain, shimmering like glass when the clouds broke. White flakes danced down from a blanket of gray that hadn’t waned in weeks. King Liam Nothhelm the Conqueror had ruled over the Glass Kingdom for all those years, yet now Pi stood in the center of the plateau, his mother Oleander beside him in a blue, velvet dress. Lush, white furs draped over her shoulders to fight the cold wind. She’d been unable to take her eyes off her beloved child since the moment he awoke from death. Unable to stop smiling, even though he hadn’t muttered a single word since.
The boy was twelve years old, but he didn’t look it. Even weeks later, the color hadn’t returned to his gaunt cheeks. But it was his hazel eyes, so much like his father’s, that made him seem so much older. They bore the struggle of a whole lifetime. Dark bags hung from them like sacks of wheat, and crow’s feet jutted from the sides as pronounced as a man five times his age.
Wren the Holy, the blind High Priest of Iam, held a newly crafted Glass Crown above the boy’s head. It was even grander than Liam’s had been. An Eye of Iam in the center was set with a large diamond gleaming as a pupil. By Oleander’s demand, there was a thin line of glaruium laced around it, ensuring that her son’s crown not suffer a similar fate as her late husband’s.
Wren spoke, but Torsten couldn�
�t focus enough to hear the words. He could only think of how much had been lost since Liam’s illness and subsequent death. Uriah Davies, Torsten’s true predecessor as Wearer of White and Commander of the Glass Army, had been lost at the hand of the Queen’s traitorous brother. Without Liam on the throne, an insurgency the likes of which Torsten hadn’t imagined possible had arisen. A rebel Shesaitju force had even sprung up in the south, waiting to strike, ready to take back what they felt was theirs.
And the Queen... that stunning, proud woman standing beside her miracle son, she had left a swathe of death amongst her own people under the guise of trying to save Pi. Even if Torsten understood how the love of her son could drive her to such awful things, he knew the kingdom would never be the same.
He could feel it in his bones as he watched the coronation. He expected more enthusiasm—a fraction of joy, even. This was the day a new king was formally recognized; the king of the most vast and wealthy kingdom Pantego had ever known. But as Wren lowered the Glass Crown over the Miracle Prince’s head, properly declaring him king beneath Iam, people cheered in presentation only. Torsten could see it in their faces; they were doing so out of fear and not love. And for all the realms Liam had brought under the rule of the Glass, no foreign dignitaries showed.
The Queen embraced her son when the ceremony was through, and then Torsten. She whispered something in his ear that he missed. The new king offered nothing, just received the crown and left wordlessly, leaving Torsten and Oleander behind to catch up.
The boy was now king, both legally and in the eyes of the Holy Lord. A boy Torsten knew little about beyond his having spent the last year cursed by Redstar to see nothing but the horrors of the Buried Goddess, Nesilia.
It all felt like a bad dream.
Once they made it back to Yarrington and returned the boy safely to the castle, Torsten left his white armor behind and found himself wandering the streets as he’d so often done as of late. He listened to the people as he walked, how they talked about the Crown now compared to when Liam was king, or more unsettling, avoided talking about it. They were scared. All of them.
His stroll took him to a tavern he’d been frequenting down in Dockside, not far from the spot in South Corner where he’d grown up. The Maiden’s Mugs was like any other tavern in the area—dark, dank, and filled with the kind of riffraff with which the King’s Shield was above dealing. Tired old men drinking until their vision went blurry, grasping at barmaidens, cursing their rotten luck.
It was the kind of place Torsten’s father loved. A godless place smelling of sweat and sorrow. And every time he visited, he couldn’t help but imagine how his life might have turned out had Liam not raised him from the muck.
He was just happy to get out of the snow. Winter had fallen upon the Glass Kingdom in a way not seen in a decade. It was as if Pantego still wept frozen tears for the greatest king Pantego had ever known instead of celebrating the newly crowned Miracle King.
Torsten supposed that’s how Pi would be named: King Pi the Miraculous. It brought a shiver not caused by the cold.
The Maiden’s Mugs was raucous as usual, but as the weeks went on, more and more were driven in at night to escape the weather. Torsten wasn’t concerned. Even without his armor, he outmatched any dozen men in the bar twice over.
The hearth was warm, and beside it sat a cross-eyed bard strumming a lute, keeping the myriad conversations private. A sign hung on the wall and read, Order any drink ye like, so long as it’s ale. But Torsten wasn’t here for that. He’d seen so many soldiers turn to drink to drive out their demons, but Torsten could thank his wretch of a father at least for teaching him the evils of alcohol.
He sat in a corner booth and watched the staircase leading to the apartments upstairs, waiting for Sigrid Langley to come down. When she finally did, he sank further into shadow. Skulking wasn’t like him. In fact, it reminded him too much of that rotten scoundrel, Whitney.
A drunkard grasped at Sigrid’s behind and earned her elbow to his gut. She flashed him a forced grin on her way by, then slid behind the bar to start her shift serving the dregs of Yarrington. Torsten shimmied out from his seat and tried to blend in. Not an easy task for a man his size.
He was mere paces away from the stairs when he heard her voice. “My Lord, Wearer, I can’t imagine what ye could be doing here.”
Torsten stopped. His gaze drooped slightly, but he recovered before he spun to greet her with his best smile. She held a tray of sloshing mugs for eager customers. She was well-kept, fiery-red hair in a bun, face clean. Her beer-stained dress, however, was cut so low Torsten felt he was sinning just by looking. His father had his mother do work like this to earn autlas before she passed from fever. Dressing like that was the best way to get tips in a place like Dockside.
“My lady,” Torsten bowed his head, “the pleasure is—”
“He don’t wanna see ye,” she interrupted. “How many times ye gonna come around?”
“Until you allow me to pass.”
“Ye expecting me to be believing I’m stopping ye?”
“Your brother took an oath. I’m already ignoring the law by not dragging him before the throne, so if you’d please just—”
“Dragging him before the throne to see who? The true king is dead, Wearer, and there ain’t no one fit to rule in that castle. Rand told me all that went on in that Iam-forsaken—”
Torsten placed his palm over her mouth. He must have moved too hastily, or maybe it was just his size, because she flinched in terror, tray nearly toppling.
He was always shocked at how openly Dockside folks would speak ill of the Crown—as if they didn’t realize they were committing treason. Maybe they just didn’t care. Dungeons had food after all, and they were warmer than wooden shacks rattled daily by the bitter, oceanside breeze.
“Ye know what?” she continued. “Be my guest. Go on. See what ye sorry old lot did to my dear brother. Don’t come back down here looking to wash yer regret in a pint though.”
Torsten held his tongue and turned to climb the rickety old flight, the wood groaning. He rounded a corner to a corridor of tightly clustered doors. The housing above the tavern was cheap, and rightly so. Cobwebs lined the planked ceiling and the floor sagged in the corners. To Torsten, it wasn’t worth a single autla to live in such a place. Maybe he had forgotten his roots.
The door to Rand Langley’s apartment was a few planks of wood poorly fit together. If the purpose of a door was to maintain privacy, his failed on every account. Through the large cracks, Torsten could see Rand sitting at the table, staring into a withering flame, hand wrapped around a mug of ale, but Torsten knocked anyway.
When no answer came, he drew a deep breath and pushed the door open. His hand clutched the Eye of Iam pendant hanging from his neck.
It was the sight, not the smell that made his stomach turn.
Torsten’s quarters in the castle were far from opulent, but Rand’s home could fit in one corner of it. A candle flickered on a table cramped against a mattress stuffed with hay. The whole of it was nearly a thick pool of wax, cooling quickly as a cold draft poured in from a frost-coated, cracked, glass window.
“Rand,” Torsten said softly from the entrance. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Torsten?” The young man broke from his daze. “Torsten!” He jumped up from his chair, then toppled backward, knocking it over. He burped as bent to pick it up. “Forgive me,” he said, speech slurred. “I wasn’t expecting such a noble guest.”
“I’m far from noble.”
“Nonsense! You’re the Wearer of White again.” He extended his arms wide and banged his knee on the table, then stumbled a few more paces and placed his hand on Torsten’s shoulder for balance. His breath reeked of ale. The stuff in Dockside was so strong it masked the ocean stench. Torsten remembered stealing a sip when he was a child and nearly vomiting. Even before he took the Shield vow, he never touched it again.
“Come, let’s sit,” Torsten said. “I hav
e an important matter to discuss with you.” Torsten wrapped him and guided him back to his seat. It was only in the candlelight he noticed a few stale shreds of bread, thick with mold, in the basket near the window.
Rand plopped down. His eyes lit up at the sight of his ale as if only just realizing it was there. He pawed at it a few times before gaining purchase and raising it to his lips. He took a long sip, then stopped, peering at Torsten over the rim.
“Will you have a drink with me, sir?” he asked. “I think I have another mug around here some…” His words trailed off as he reached out and rifled through an open cabinet.
“That’s okay, I’m here on behalf of the Crown.” It wasn’t strictly forbidden by the King’s Shield for a man to drink, assuming it didn’t grow into a vice. So long as they remained true to Iam and the Glass, and put duty above all things, even themselves, their oath was upheld.
“Oh.” Rand burped. He clanged his mug down hard on the table, spilling some all over his hand. He slurped it up and reached for his basket of bread with his dry hand.
“Bread?” he asked, tearing a piece off the stale loaf with his teeth. A small puff of mold rose, but Rand didn’t seem to notice.
Torsten shook his head. He considered sitting across from him, but the rickety wooden chair looked like it’d crumble beneath the weight of him.
“I’d like you to consider returning to your post,” Torsten said. “The King’s Shield needs its best men for the days ahead.”
Rand laughed. “Then it doesn’t need me.”
“No, you’re exactly who we need. It was Liam who decided our order needn’t have armigers of noble knights and gentlemen, but the best men the Glass Kingdom had to offer. The most loyal. This is no place for a man of your quality to live.”
“Why not? I like it.” He laughed again and took another swig. “The best part of living above a tavern.” He raised the mug.
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