“Who is he… that is a question with a far longer answer,” the Ferryman said.
Whitney shot a glance at Kazimir. The upyr’s gaze drifted downward.
“He has gone by many names,” the Ferryman continued. “Haven’t you?”
“What do you want, old man?” Kazimir asked.
Whitney stepped forward and threw open his arms. “Can everyone take a deep breath and explain what the yig-and-shog is going on? Where is Sora? Where is Tum Tum? Where is—”
“Whatever your mystic friend did has sent us to Elsewhere, you fool,” Kazimir said. “The world between worlds.”
“We’re…” Whitney paused to take a deep breath. “Dead?”
“Some would say so. Some would say not. Much like him.” The Ferryman stepped up onto the tiny boat and lifted a long oar just like the ones gondolas used to navigate the canals of Winde Port.
“Now join me,” the Ferryman said. “The Sea of Lost Souls is no place to linger.”
Kazimir approached without a fuss. “You didn’t keep me here last time, spirit,” he grumbled as he climbed up. “You won’t this time, either.”
“Give me one good reason for getting in that boat with him,” Whitney said.
The Ferryman raised his hand. Spectral arms reached up through the shallow water, dozens of them, pawing at Whitney’s ankles. They passed through his flesh and bone, yet he could feel a chill with every one.
Whitney was on the boat so fast he wasn’t even sure how he got there.
“Well put,” Whitney said.
“Let’s make this quick,” Kazimir said.
“No need to rush,” the Ferryman said as he pushed his oar through the water. “We have eternity.”
The sea lapped against the sides of the boat as they moved forward. Specters teemed beneath the surface, their moans like broken lutes playing on a loop.
“Shog in a barrel,” Whitney said as fog enveloped them like a shroud of death.
Book Three
WILL OF FIRE
WILL OF FIRE
©2019 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.
Juneau—may you grow to be strong and know your place in this world.
PROLOGUE
Two Years Ago
Devlin Boremater stood before the altar in Fessix, just east of Crowfall. Beside him, blind Father Morningweg leaned wearily upon his cane, blessing the townsfolk as they entered. It was a small village settled along the water in the Northern Glass Kingdom. Like every day before and every day that would come, the sun rose, and a sliver of its light shot through a pinhole in the back wall, beaming directly through the Eye of Iam hanging above him. The light refracted through the glass, painting vibrant colors down the central aisle.
Devlin, the altar server, acted as the Father’s eyes, watched as the flock filed in one by one to hear the morning sermon. It was the same as always in the sleepy town as the cold of winter set in upon an already frigid landscape. Devlin whispered each name to the father as men and women approached. Father Morningweg smiled at each of them and listened to the town gossip.
He never could help himself, even though Iam would disapprove.
Fishermen spoke of how the fish stopped biting as ice covered the Strait of Bautim. Most others complained about the deepening chill in the air. More than a few discussed the latest town scandal that Mistress Falhua had been unfaithful to her husband, the bailiff. A man, dressed in Yarrington fashion, said he'd heard whispers during the last feast at the Glass Castle. Apparently, King Liam had toppled from his chair and was rushed away. His wife, Queen Oleander, then had a public meltdown, slamming tableware against the wall until every noble in the Great Hall left.
Devlin wasn’t sure he believed them. Although he wasn’t yet a man and was an orphan without parents to take him to see the great city of Yarrington, he’d heard enough stories about the Queen from passers-through. The way they talked of her beauty, he couldn’t imagine her suffering from fits of rage. Besides, rumors about Liam’s declining health had been rampant for years, and High Priest Wren discredited them as stirs of dissension from enemies of the Crown.
“Welcome all,” Father Morningweg said as the pews squeaked. Devlin took his own seat on the platform. “The light of Iam shines upon you this morning. Winter may be on its way, but that does not mean we let darkness set into our souls. Iam the all-knowing gave us this harsh season so we may learn to find the strength within to endure. So we might never grow soft in this, His world, and forget to count all the blessings he bestows. We are fortun—”
A shrill scream reverberated from somewhere outside, loud enough that all those who’d just sat down leaped up and studied the door. A woman burst through, face drained of all color, terrified.
“The Drav Cra—they—their ships emerged through the fog and cloud,” she stuttered.
“You are sure?” the village bailiff questioned. The woman managed a nod, and the bailiff hastened to her. “Everyone stay here.”
“Stay here?” a man protested. “Last time they slaughtered my cows.”
“Better than your children, aye?” The bailiff stuck his head outside. A bell from the docks chimed. “Everyone in!” he bellowed. “The house of Iam is our protection. Come now!”
Stragglers—all those late to morning service—sprinted through the doors before they were slammed shut and locked. It was impossible to know if the entire village made it in.
“Is everyone here?” Father Morningweg asked.
“I… I think so,” Devlin said, scanning the faces of the huddled crowd. His heart raced. He’d never been through a raid before, though he’d heard the horrifying tales parents told their children at night to frighten them.
“Are you sure, boy?”
“As best I can be,” he said, putting on his bravest face.
“It is all right, my children,” Morningweg said to the entire congregation. “What do we do when the devils come?”
“Shield ourselves with Iam’s light,” many of them replied in unison, Devlin amongst them.
“Good. Here, within these walls, we are shielded by the light of Holy Iam. The heathens come only for our food and supplies because they live in shadow without fortune. Let them have it. For His love protects us and they are like infants thrashing in the darkness.”
The sound of ships cracking against the docks was loud enough to hear through the stone walls. Everyone winced, even Father Morningweg. Devlin felt the man’s hand on his shoulder and immediately all fear dissipated. Although the father’s touch might have calmed Devlin, the screams and whimpers of fear still coursed through the church.
The bailiff worked to restore peace, but there was really no saying if, with all the panic, someone had been left outside. Mothers and fathers searched through their crowd for their children, and when finding them, pulling them close. Others called out for family members or friends who may have arrived separately.
Outside, heavy footsteps rumbled like thunder. There was shouting in what Devlin im
agined was Drav Crava. Father Morningweg hushed his flock and pointed them toward the Eye of Iam. With his fingers, he circled his eye sockets, empty after his vow of sightlessness, and whispered a silent prayer. Devlin did the same, then rose to stand next to the priest, grasping the man’s forearm with both hands. The room grew eerily quiet save for the sniffles of small children.
Despite being locked, the thick, worn, wooden doors swung open. Dust and snow swirled, and through the fog stepped the savages. There were two in front. One had her face painted, half white at the bottom, half black on top with red around her eyes, so their fury shone. Bones and trinkets rattled from within a nest of raven-black hair. She was a warlock. If the tales Devlin had heard could be believed, they painted themselves to evoke fear. It worked. Devlin tightened his grip on the father’s arm, and his heart thumped even faster. Beside her was a more refined man, garbed in a robe of crimson. His face didn't need paint, for a red birthmark stretched across his face into five points.
“It is okay, my son,” Father Morningweg said. “Stand, therefore, and see the salvation of Iam.”
“You do not belong here, heathens,” the bailiff called, standing at the doors and in front of the people of Fessix. “Begone or the wrath of King Liam will befall you as it once did.”
Before he could get out another word, the female warlock slashed his throat with a crude knife. Devlin flinched. The villagers gasped as the bailiff fell to his knees and the warlock climbed over him up onto one of the pews. She hopped from one to the next, glaring down at the innocent people.
“What happened?” the father whispered.
Devlin couldn’t find any words.
“Silence.” The birthmarked man calmly spoke as crying broke out once more. “It will all be over soon.”
A group of hulking, fur-clad warriors strode into the room, axes and spears in hand. They shoved the people aside and made way for their apparent leader to stroll down the aisle. Devlin watched in horror, then looked up at Father Morningweg. The man’s face remained stoic. All the talk of Drav Cra Raiders and how they were like walking demons on Pantego were true, but seeing the real thing was even worse.
When Devlin came into the service of the priest, he’d been told of the many raids the father had endured since the church sent him to serve the people of Fessix. He’d assured Devlin that the raiders always kept out of the church. As if though they worshiped the Buried Goddess, they feared what might happen should they anger Iam.
Not this time.
The villagers all watched in silent horror as the heathens passed. Parents held their children, covering their mouths to stifle the cries.
Devlin Boremater winced as the female warlock leaped down in front of him, then circled him. The sight of her eyes, bright against her black face paint, sent a shiver coursing down his spine.
“Drad Redstar,” she said, addressing the birthmarked man before rattling off words in Drav Crava.
“My dearest Freydis,” the man replied, gently stroking her cheek. “Their time will come soon enough.”
He moved to shove by Father Morningweg toward the nave and the Eye of Iam, but the priest blocked him and spread his arms wide. “Please, there is nothing for you here.”
Devlin hadn’t noticed, but he’d been cowering behind the father, shaking.
“Out of my way, priest,” the man named Redstar said, “or you will join your bailiff.”
Father Morningweg kept his nerve for a few seconds longer, then shrunk out of the way, dragging Devlin with him. Redstar strolled by, ignoring Devlin. Instead, he turned and headed down the stairs of the crypt.
In the back of the church, a man panicked and ran for the door. He made it outside where a brown wolf, big as a horse, pounced on him. His screams could've curdled blood as the great beast dragged him out of view. More cries sounded.
“Nobody else move!” Father Morningweg shouted. He turned to Freydis. If the man had eyes, Devlin imagined he’d see fear there, too. “Please, take whatever you want. No others must die.”
“But Father,” she said, voice heavily accented. “Wouldn’t we be doing a favor sending them to the Gate of Light?” A few of the Drav Cra raiders laughed.
“If it is our time, but I beg you.” He fell to his knees. Devlin took the opportunity to shrink back behind the altar. “They have families, children who still need guidance.”
“Relax, priest,” Redstar said. He returned from the crypt carrying a broken shard of stone with unfinished, ancient artwork painted on it. From his studies, Devlin knew it was one of the few relics left over from the age of the God Feud. It had been stored in Fessix, kept in a sealed reliquary, in hopes of remaining hidden in an unremarkable town, but Redstar’s hand was now bloody as if he’d somehow bashed through the thick glass.
“The tablet,” Devlin squeaked before he could help himself.
Father Morningweg’s head turned toward the sound, and Freydis' did too. Devlin crouched down further.
“How dare you touch that!” Father Morningweg snapped, drawing the warlock’s attention. “That is a holy relic.”
“Not to me.” Redstar stopped in front of the father. “It is the final piece of a story. Ancient priests, men like you, broke this story to pieces and hid them around their land until they too forgot the truth.” He tenderly ran his fingers across the engraving, wiping away a layer of dust. “It has taken a lifetime to gather, but this is the last.”
Devlin watched with admiration as Father Morningweg found his nerve again, standing to block the Drav Cra’s path once again. “I... I won’t let you leave this church with it. You—you’ll—have to kill me.”
“Now what fun would that be?” He swiped his bloody hand through the air, and heathen magic sent Father Morningweg sailing into the wall.
“Father!” Devlin cried out, running toward him. Freydis smiled, then spat on them both.
Redstar grabbed Devlin and drew him in close, placing a knife against his neck.
“Leave him be, heathen!” Father Morningweg cried. “Kill me, but leave him be.”
“How will any of you see the truth of the Dawning if I kill you now?” Redstar said. “I suppose you won’t see much of anything though would you, priest?” He dragged the tip of his blade up Devlin’s cheek. Devlin’s body went stiff, petrified from fear.
Redstar lowered the blade and handed the piece of sacred stone to one of the raiders. In response, the man asked a question in Drav Crava.
“Freydis, burn the church and let them pray to the ashes,” Redstar said. “Then, return to the north and prepare the clans. It’s time I pay a visit to my sister. I shall summon you when the time comes.”
“We await the death of the enemy,” Freydis replied.
Redstar strolled out of the room, and his men followed behind. Freydis then kneeled before Devlin and Father Morningweg, and a sinister grin spread across her face. “Where is your god now?” she asked as she drew her crude knife, slid it across her palm and squeezed blood over their heads.
“You will help the priest see the truth that will come, boy,” she said, standing.
Devlin shivered. He was crying now. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he couldn’t help it.
“But you will only need one eye for that.” She placed her hand over one side of Devlin’s face. Her skin was as hot as a roaring fire. Her fingers covered his eye and burned it, branding his skin. Devlin cried out, falling to the ground, clutching his eye.
“Now you are halfway to priesthood. You’re welcome.”
Father Morningweg wrapped his arms around Devlin and held him tight as she left. After a few moments, the townsfolk stirred and shrieked, and the acrid smell of smoke filled Devlin’s nostrils.
I
THE KNIGHT
Torsten heard the rumble and watched the familiar streets of Yarrington bounce by through the bars of a prison carriage. His ankles and wrists were cuffed, chained to the floor as if he were any other prisoner of war. Others, most of them afhems or commanders of
the Shesaitju, judging by the number of their elaborate tattoos, shared the carriage.
One of Afhem Muskigo’s Serpent Guard sat across from him, mask removed to reveal a face too soft to belong to a grown man. Torsten wasn’t sure why they kept him alive. Serpent Guards had no tongues and wouldn’t be giving up any secrets.
Down at the end sat a wiry boy from the Glass heartland. He had the extreme misfortune to have been an assistant to Yuri Darkings before the traitor murdered Wardric Jolly and fled. Torsten could tell he knew nothing.
“Where are they taking us?” the boy asked as the carriage banked. His face was pressed against the bars, his body trembling.
“The Glass Castle, Shield barracks,” Torsten answered. “Doesn’t matter. There’ll be bars either way.”
“I swear… I didn’t know what my master was plotting.”
“I believe you. A week ago, that might have been enough.”
The boy glanced at the white helm sitting between Torsten’s legs, left there by Redstar as if part of some cruel joke. “But you’re the Wearer of White,” he said.
The gazes of all the captive Shesaitju snapped toward Torsten, bright with anger. As if he didn’t have enough problems. Somehow, they’d made it the entire journey without his identity coming up. Without wearing his full suit of armor, the gray men had no way of knowing what the helmet signified. The Serpent Guard’s hate-filled eyes opened and now fixed on Torsten’s throat.
Torsten ignored them and raised his chained hands. “A week ago, that might have been enough, too.”
“It’s a mistake though, right?” the boy said. “Everyone always talks about how honorable you are. What they claim you did, it can’t be—”
“It is,” Torsten snapped. The boy shuddered, his whole body slammed back against the carriage wall. If any of the Shesaitju wanted to go for him, he wouldn’t stop them. Countless times in his mind he’d replayed those moments after the battle, and every time the truth was evident.
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