WORD OF TRUTH
©2020 RHETT C. BRUNO & JAIME CASTLE
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.
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.
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ALSO IN THE SERIES
Web of Eyes
Winds of War
Will of Fire
Way of Gods
War of Men
You’re Reading Word of Truth
The Saga So Far
Prologue
Freydis couldn’t help but admire the ingenuity of dwarves. Their subterranean cities were absolute marvels, and Balonhearth, the Heart of the North, home of Lord Cragrock, King of the Three Kingdoms, was no exception. Though she had to admit, she preferred seeing these places crumbling and filled with dead dwarves.
They were cowards, the lot of them. Humans drove them away, and instead of fighting back, they hid from the elements in their caverns, hoarding gold. Her people could have dug into the Drav Cra and escaped the bitter cold, but they didn’t. They braved it, let it harden them.
The dwarves, on the other hand, grew soft and fat. They barely posed a threat as Freydis snuck through their city, right to the door of King Cragrock himself. She’d only needed to strangle a few guards, though she’d prepared to slaughter anyone in her way.
So, this is why they cower in their holes during our raids, she realized.
She stopped at the door. Ashes from a clanbreaker guard filled the hall after she’d incinerated him. A gust of magic wind and they spread to appear only like dust. A bandage wrapped her hand where she’d drawn the blood to cast him down, so she didn’t leave a trail.
Those were Nesilia’s instructions. She would not disobey them. She wasn’t like the charlatan Redstar, or even Bliss, who questioned Nesilia’s every motive. She loved the goddess, and the goddess loved her, and every day she breathed as Arch Warlock would be a tribute to that love.
It took no effort to undo the lock and enter the Iron Bank’s antechamber. Gold towers shadowed her. Gold and jewel-encrusted dishware, a helmet, and armor that surely didn’t fit the king’s bulbous form any longer. She poked a chalice, expecting it to be heavier, and the thing wobbled. She didn’t even bother to stop it. It toppled off its display table and clanked along the stone floor.
Nobody shouted for her head.
And dwarves claim to have legendary hearing, she scoffed to herself.
Riches beyond measure could have been hers, but she pressed on.
Freydis cracked her neck, then lifted her freshly bandaged hand to the lock on King Cragrock’s quarters. Ever since Nesilia breached Elsewhere, magic had come easier to Freydis. She no longer called to Elsewhere with her sacrifice, it reached out to her.
As she’d done at the iron bars, a tingle ran up her back as a vine extended from her palm, slithering its way into the lock and then growing to break it open. It barely made a sound.
Slinking in, she rooted the vine in the rock floor to jam the door. Then she looked around. The King slept on his back in an oversized bed, snoring as loud as a dire wolf with too many layers of fur blankets. The winged crown sat upon his head, drooping forward over his eyes.
Men and their crowns. They can’t even sleep without them.
The room was simple, unlike the chamber outside with untold treasures. Useless trinkets. Toys. In the Drav Cra, these things meant nothing, but that was why dwarves hid. Their greed was outdone only by the Kingdom of Glass, whose time was swiftly coming to an end.
Freydis strolled around the edge of the room, running her finger over the smooth walls.
“King Cragrock the Fat,” she said, not even looking his way.
The King startled awake, and before he could shout for guards, Freydis extended her arm and vines grew around his wrists, ankles, and mouth. Her hold on them was weak, but with her other hand, she used a knife to deepen her cuts and strengthen her bond with Elsewhere.
Freydis said. “I’ve been longing to meet you. We don’t get to deal with you rich southern dwarves much.”
He yelled into the vine, voice muffled. His eyes were wide with terror.
“What was that?” she asked. “I can’t hear you?”
The vine fell from his mouth, but she shot forward as he again tried to scream and seized his throat with her bloody hand. His windpipe closed in her crushing grip.
“Now, I’m going to release you so we can have a little chat,” Freydis said. “But if you call for help, the next vines will fill your throat. Nod if you understand me.”
He didn’t move. She leaned over and stared right into his eyes.
“Nod!” she hissed.
This time, he listened.
She grinned and released his neck, leaving him gasping for air. He hacked and coughed, unable to cover his disgusting mouth with his limbs bound.
“W… w… who?” he stammered, sounding anything but kingly.
“So eloquent,” she said. “I am the Arch Warlock of the Drav Cra, Freydis,” she said. “But who I am, is unimportant. I serve the will of Nesilia, once the Buried Goddess. Now she has returned to free this world.”
“Returned? That be impossible.”
“I assure you, it is not. Ask your son. He had the privilege of meeting her at the White Bridge.”
“Bah, my son spent too much time with humans,” he said, voice gaining strength again. “He returned tellin their fibs of goddesses and evil beins. But they only want to use us for war. Gold or soldiers, it’s all the Glass Kingdom ever asks for.”
“He saw the truth. She is here, King. And she will wipe the children of Iam from the face of Pantego once and for all. But she is a generous Goddess. She has no quarrel with the dwarves or any of the children of Muengor.”
Cragrock yanked at the vines, then cleared his throat. “Then what’s yer business here?”
“To make you an offer.” She turned away and continued skirting the room. “My Goddess is willing to forgive your people’s intrusion at White Bridge. She will not touch the head of another dwarf so long as your people remain locked within their holes during the war to come. It’s quite simple. Stay out of her affairs, and soon the dwarves will deal with wicked men no longer.”
She whipped around, pointing her bloody dagger at the King.
“But if so much as a single one of your banners fights beside them. Whether it be your son or some vagrant dwarve
s who think men deserve your help, Nesilia will send her armies here after Yarrington falls, and she will bury the dwarves in their mountains.” She slit her hand, and another vine grew, extending over his neck. “You will all suffocate in darkness, as she did for so very long.”
The lump in the dwarf’s throat bobbed under his gray, wiry beard as he eyed the vine.
“So, King Cragrock,” Freydis said, clenching her fist and urging the vine to tighten. “You tell me. What do you desire?”
The Traitor
Rand and Sigrid sat together on the docks along Autla’s Inlet, on the grimy end of Dockside if there could be a distinction. Spring was in full swing, and with the thawing waters, came the familiar stench of mercantilism. Rand loved all the blending of smells. Fresh fish, saltwater, and spices carried on trading vessels from regions all over Pantego. Languages and dialects ebbed and flowed, chaotic, but so beautiful, too.
He liked to try to decipher the words. If not the words themselves, at least the accents, and then guess where each person was from.
Their feet danged from the docks, not yet long enough to reach the water lapping up at the old, gray wood, cracked and soggy-looking. Their father had lent them his fishing rod. Rand knew it was just to keep them busy while he worked his loading job down the harbor. Mother would be at home prepping supper, with or without their success. But it felt good to be out and about. Maybe they’d even catch something they could eat.
But Rand was never any good at it. Two years older than his sister, and she was the one teaching him. Even turned away, he could feel her watching his hands with hawkish focus.
“Rand, ye hooked one!” Sigrid said.
He was so concerned with all the ships, coming and going, he didn’t move until she shook him by the shoulders. She was strong for her diminutive stature. Her hair, like a red mop, plopped down over her head, making her face seem small and squat.
“Rand!”
He snapped to attention, but by the time he did, the fish was gone.
“Iam’s gold-coated shog!” Sigrid swore as she threw her hands up in frustration.
“Sigrid!” Rand scolded.
“What? Daddy says it all the time.”
“A lady shouldn’t… Not if ye ever wanna get out of this rotten place.”
She grinned. “I ain’t no lady.” Then her attention returned to the fishing line. “And ye clearly ain’t no man. Ye couldn’t feed a stray cat, let alone all of us.”
“Oh yeah? Ye try it.” Rand reeled in the line and shoved the fishing rod against her arm.
She gladly took it, lacing it with another worm they’d dug up behind old man Gunter’s mussel shack. Rand had nearly retched when he put the last one on, but she didn’t even flinch. His brave, fearless sister.
“Don’t ye worry big brother, I’ll keep ye fed when we grow up,” she said as she cast the line.
“It’s just so boring. Maybe out there, sailin round on a big ship, it’d be more fun.”
“We have everything we need right here,” Sigrid said, taking in a deep breath.
“Maybe ye do.”
“Ye and yer big plans,” she groaned.
Rand rolled his eyes. Shouts drew his attention as a ship from all the way in the Black Sands arrived. He knew by the gray-skinned crew zipping around, working the sharply angled sail and the ropes as if it were second nature. He guessed they were from Latiapur, the Black Sands capital city. He’d heard about their giant gold palace and frothing waves.
And they were only half as impressive as the proud Shieldsman who rode up to greet them. Sir Clorus the Courageous, Rand recognized. He knew all of the Shieldsmen who frequented Dockside; all of the peerless warriors who traveled Pantego, fighting wars and keeping peace.
The man’s armor gleamed like a pearl. His steed was white as freshly-fallen snow, tufts of fur billowing around its massive hooves. Standing beside the dockhands, the beast’s back stood as tall as any of them.
Now, there was a dream Rand could get behind. A Shieldsman of the Glass Kingdom; the best of the best in the army led by Sir Uriah Davies and the great King Liam.
Sigrid shrieked. Rand instinctually grabbed her by the arm, fearing she was going to fall in. Instead, he noticed that something was pulling on the line and the fishing rod bent.
“It’s gonna break!” he shouted.
“No, it ain’t,” Sigrid spat. “Watch.”
She rocketed to her feet, nearly barreling into a merchant holding a crate over his head. The man cursed something fierce as he strolled on, but she wasn’t fazed. Rand couldn’t even help if he’d thought she’d needed it. His little sister, small as she was, battled that fish with all of her adolescent might, and before Rand knew it, she had it out of the water, squirming from the hook’s end.
“Ha, I beat ye!” she exclaimed. Without even a hint of hesitation, she pulled the fish free and tossed it into their basket. The first one of the day.
It was nothing impressive, about the length of her forearm. Still, she kneeled over it and marveled at the catch, eyes glinting like that of a conquering hero returning home. Rand imagined she looked about as proud as Liam after he’d defeated the wicked mystics of Panping once and for all.
“See, I told ye I’d keep us fed,” she said.
Rand forced a grin, desperate not to let his wounded pride show. “What, on this tiny thing?” Rand lifted the fish by its tail. “Even mother can’t make a meal out of this.”
“Yer just jealous.”
“Gimme that.” He snagged the fishing rod. “I’ll show ye how it’s really done.”
“Oh, do ye need help hookin another worm—or just a bucket for when ye puke?” She chuckled and gave him a nudge.
“Very funny.” He got to work preparing. “But ye see, little sister, I’m just lettin ye win so ye’ll feel better.”
“Oh, then ye won’t care when I tell Dad I beat’chya?”
Rand gritted his teeth, glancing over to see her wearing that mischievous grin she always donned when up to no good.
“Ye won’t.” He cast the line and this time, forced himself to focus. He’d only ever been good at fighting. Nothing else. Fighting to protect her, or himself, or just because. Sigrid, on the other hand, seemed to be good at everything, ever since she’d learned to walk at half the age Rand had been when he had. His darling, impetuous, perfect little sister.
A part of him always knew that when they were older, she’d look out for both of them. But he’d be damned by Iam if he didn’t find a way to look out for her, too.
The memory of that day came rushing to Rand as he stood before Lake Yaolin, watching the soft ripples about the still water. It looked like a sheet of iron beneath the dark gray clouds. And just like that day when he hadn’t caught another fish and Sigrid went bragging to their parents, he spotted nothing living within the waters. Not even weeds.
“Why have you come here, Rand Langley?” a ghostly voice addressed him. He looked up and saw a mystic floating over the water. Her body was ethereal, phasing in and out of his vision as she moved, flowing robes swelling beneath her.
He sighed and looked around. From a distance, Yaolin City was in fine shape. The field of sweeping roofs—pinks and oranges and reds—extended in every direction, most of their tiles undamaged. Some portions were covered in ash from buildings suffering fires, but all in all, the city remained pristine. It was nothing like how Dockside had been after Nesilia’s cultists had their way with it.
But her streets were a different story. Bodies littered them haphazardly, left to rot, and breed disease, and nobody seemed to care. Grimaurs, filthy, humanoid birds pecked at the remains while others filled the sky, looking for territory to claim. Rand had lived a long time, and he’d never even seen these foul beasts said to inhabit mountain caves. Now, they were everywhere.
Those that weren’t dead—Panpingese men and women, cultists in robes so red, Rand couldn’t even tell that they were soaked in blood, visitors from the rest of the Glass Kingdom—all
roamed aimlessly. Some stopped to watch him from a distance but never got closer.
“I want to see my sister,” he said.
“Good for you,” the mystic said. “And now you can leave knowing that she doesn’t want the same.”
“I don’t believe that.”
The ghostly mystic swooped down before him. He turned his cheek against a cold, like death itself, that seemed to radiate off of her.
“Leave. Now,” she whispered, her voice piercing his soul. It felt like icicles formed along his spine.
He swallowed hard, then shook his head. “No.”
“Do you know who I am, mortal?” the mystic asked. “I could make you wish… beg for death. A mere snap of my fingers and I could make you squirm. I don’t care that your sister shares a body with my own.”
As she spoke, a great beast emerged from the water. First, Rand saw the thick tentacles, long as two dozen horses nose to tail. They slapped around the coast and in the water, sending waves coursing every which way. Then, two large, black eyes followed and a maw filled with enough sharp teeth to render Rand unrecognizable.
He stood proud, defiant until the monster roared, sending him shrinking back. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t run. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and shakily stood his ground.
“Now, now, Bliss, there’s no need to be so rude to our guest.”
Rand looked up and spotted his sister standing atop the sea creature’s head. Or, at least, this version of her. White hair whipped in the wind like a phantom. The tenor of her voice carried on the wind, familiar, and yet so different. It sounded like a refined version of the Sigrid he knew, with no Dockside accent. Her eyes were dark and menacing. Rand had seen them like that only one other time before White Bridge—when she fired an arrow through a Drav Cra warrior trying to have his way with her.
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