A notch in Mak’s axe locked with the Eye of Iam on Torsten’s sword. The hulking man had leverage. Torsten watched the sunlight glint off the blade as it neared his face. His muscles were strained to their limit.
“I hoped for more,” Mak said through clench teeth.
Torsten found the moment he was waiting for. Even the slightest distraction. He rotated his grip, allowing his sword to come free and bashed Mak in the hip with Salvation’s sharp, dragon-shaped pommel as the axe glanced off his pauldron. Then he went to swing up, but Mak grabbed him by the back of the head, roaring as he flung Torsten across the circle.
As he did, Mak’s thumb caught the knot in Torsten’s blindfold, and it ripped free. Torsten tumbled, and when he came back around, he did so completely blind, the world nothing but blackness again. He patted the stone, searching frantically for it. It had been easy to bite back fear when he knew what was in front of him. But now…
“Your eyes,” Mak said, incredulous. “And here I thought I’d finally found a worthy opponent.”
Torsten raised Salvation in front of him, staying low, feeling out with feet for the strip of cloth that had changed his life. Suddenly, Mak’s axe smashed against his sword and knocked Torsten back to the ground.
“Did Drad Redstar do that to you?” Mak laughed. His warriors joined him. “Made you just like one of your priests, did he? How poetic. I supposed this will be a mercy then!”
Torsten rolled to the side just in time. Mak’s blade caught his shoulder cape and tore it in half. Slashing blindly with Salvation, Torsten prayed, but Mak snatched his wrist and yanked the blade free. It clattered harmlessly, then scraped across the stone. As Torsten crawled for it, a massive hand gripped his ankle. He kicked free, felt the hand again, and kicked free once more.
Another chortle. “Like a pig scared of slaughter, look at him. Pathetic.”
Torsten found Salvation’s grip and swung low, striking only air. He was disoriented. All the ruckus around him, and being spun around, he wasn’t sure which side of the circle he was on. Only because a spear hadn’t jammed into his throat did he even know he was still in the ring.
“Go on, stand, little piggy,” Mak said. “Don’t be afraid. A blind man to fight for his blind kingdom. Does this amuse you, my Lady! Are you watching from below?”
Torsten found his footing, but his muscles seared. He’d trained for much of the trek from Yarrington to get back to the warrior he was, but a real fight was different. His own men didn’t strike with such wild abandon, nor were they as strong.
He could feel his heart bobbing in his throat. His hands quaked, and sweat poured down his back.
“An anxious warrior is a dead warrior,” Sir Uriah had once told him. “Any man with a brain should be afraid in the midst of battle, but the moment you show fear, the enemy’s got you. If you’ve lived a life in the light, then the Gate of Light awaits you. The outcome of war is not in your hands, so why should they quake?”
Torsten breathed out slowly, let his grip tighten, so Salvation became an extension of him. For months he’d toiled around Yarrington, blind as one of Iam’s priests, atoning for his sins. He’d learned to trust his ears like he’d never had to before.
Focusing on Mak’s ragged breathing, Torsten straightened his back. The savage was winning, but lugging around so heavy an axe had him winded enough to identify over the others. Considering his style, no opponent had likely ever lasted this long against him.
Torsten tuned out everything but those labored breaths, letting their harsh language and jeers blend like running water.
“Are you praying?” Mak asked. “Do it louder. We’d all love to hear.”
Torsten ignored his words but focused on the sound of his voice. Slowly, he paced sideways, careful to keep his balance centered. Mak gave his axe a few negligent swings, startling Torsten. He blocked, but Mak was feigning the blows, toying with him.
“I wonder, will you be accepted at your Gate of Light after I nail you to his image?” Mak asked. “I saved a special statue just for a man your size. Perhaps we’ll carry it right to the Glass Castle. Show your puny king the worth of his men.”
Torsten kept pacing. His blood had stopped boiling, now it was a fiery inferno. He knew what Mak was doing, trying to get a rise out of him, make a show of it, but he refused to give in. Torsten never thought he’d admit learning something from Whitney Fierstown, but that thief taught him how to handle goading better than anyone could have.
“Sir… Unger…” a frail voice spoke from over his right shoulder. Torsten wasn’t sure why he listened, but something about the voice sounded familiar, made him feel at ease. It came from outside the circle, and as Torsten forced his focus onto the area, he heard strained breathing, lungs just about ready to collapse.
“Follow my voice…” the man rasped. “The cloth…”
Hands and blades accosted him as he moved over the line of blood. Most couldn’t pierce his armor, only the weak spots. But as they came at him, a stiff breeze kissed the back of his neck, and he felt something soft brush against his hand—cloth.
He stopped resisting and allowed the savages to shove him forward. He fell to hands as he did, clutching the blindfold. His forward momentum was stopped by a massive fist smashing across his jaw.
Torsten sprawled out. Thankful for his zhulong-leather gloves, he let the cloth roll around in his fingertips, feeling every fiber. With his other, he swung Salvation. Mak kicked him in the stomach, rolling him onto his back. Torsten swiped again, but Mak’s boot smashed down on his weapon hand. Once. Twice. Again, and the blade came free from his battered fingers. Another kick to his ribs kept him from regaining the sword.
“So, this is the sword which slew the Arch Warlock Redstar.”
As Mak taunted, Torsten slapped the blessed cloth over his face. He didn’t tie it, there was no time. But suddenly the world was painted with shades of white and gray, light and darkness. He could see Mak turning the sword over in one hand, admiring its craftsmanship.
“That is the sword of Liam Nothhelm the Conqueror,” Torsten snarled. “And it should never be wielded by the likes of you!”
Torsten popped up. The moment he did, the clothe moved and was blind again, but he’d seen enough. He caught the heathen by surprise and drove his shoulder into Mak’s arm, driving Salvation to gash Mak across the chest. Torsten grabbed the sword by the blade and wrenched it toward Mak’s throat. Then, wrapping his other arm around Mak’s forearm, he pinned the sword securely in place.
The flat pressed against the drad’s throat, choking him, the edges digging into his jaw and collar bone. Mak swung madly with his axe, but Torsten was too close for him to have a clear angle. He was, however, still able to batter the blade against Torsten’s calf, but couldn’t put enough force to get through the glaruium armor.
Torsten fell back with all his weight. Mak was enormous, too big to drag fully to the stone, only to his knees, but Torsten kept pulling, crushing his trachea. And now that they were low to the ground, Mak’s axe was useless. He elbowed Torsten in the chest plate.
“My throat won’t be cut again!” Mak roared. He swung his head back and caught Torsten in the nose. Torsten knew the sound of breaking bone when he heard it. Blood poured into his open mouth, but he ignored it. Then Mak reached back, grabbed Torsten by his pauldrons, and flipped him over him. The blade jerked up and sliced through half of Mak’s jaw.
Torsten landed hard on his back. The wind gushed out of him like water through a broken dam. He’d trained for worse. Survived worse. Coming to his senses, he listened for Mak’s breathing, then thrust Salvation forward.
He felt it sink into flesh a short distance, then it stopped. The blade vibrated, but as Torsten pushed, there was resistance. Mak grunted from exertion. He’d caught it between his hands before it skewered him fully.
“Is that your best try?” Mak growled, his voice garbled by his mangled jaw.
Torsten threw all his weight behind the blade. Sinew split. The
coppery smell of fresh blood reached his nostrils. Mak redirected him, then one of his fists pounded Torsten in the side of the head.
Though dazed, Torsten didn’t allow his grip to falter, and the blade sunk in deeper before Mak got a second hand back on the blade. Judging by where Mak’s voice came from, and their position, it was somewhere in the middle of his torso.
“Your plague on this land is over,” Torsten said. “It’s time you join your goddess underground.”
Another punch crashed into Torsten’s face. Still, he held steady, and the blade plunged deeper, tearing muscle, scraping through bone.
Mak screamed, primal, agonized. More warm blood sprayed Torsten’s cheeks. Punch after punch landed upon Torsten’s jaw, each one weaker as the blade sunk farther. If Torsten had his natural vision, he would have been seeing stars by then. He could hardly hear himself think as the blood pounded in his ears.
Then, the resistance stopped. Bone cracked, and the blade pierced through Mak’s spine. Torsten slid forward until the hilt stopped against the Drad’s chest. A few more futile punches hit Torsten’s shoulder, but he twisted the blade, and Mak’s head fell against his shoulder.
The entire bridge went silent. It felt as if even the air stopped moving. All Torsten could hear was the drad dying, sucking in breaths, laborious as those of the people he’d crucified.
“It is finished,” Torsten rasped.
Mak laughed, and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather spread across Torsten’s body.
“You think she’s defeated?” Mak asked. “My Lady has a message for you. She… she’s returned already. You failed… You’re all just… too… blind.” A long exhale escaped his lungs, the kind Torsten had heard too many times in his life when all air vacates the lungs, and a soul’s time on Pantego ends. The full weight of Mak’s head collapsed to Torsten's shoulder.
He tore Salvation free and moved aside. Mak’s limp corpse thundered against the stone. Torsten tried to stand and found himself too weak to do anything but crawl. Murmuring in Drav Crava sounded. Their leader was destroyed, and no matter what arrangement was made with Mak, he’d been in situations like this one. Desperate men made bad decisions.
Torsten pawed with his free hand, searching for the blindfold. As he found it crumpled on the stone, the hum of swords being drawn reverberated. He dropped his own momentarily so he could tie on his key to sight. He took up Salvation and raised his eyes, prepared to defend himself, to cry out for his men to begin their two-pronged assault.
Instead, he saw the hundred or so Drav Cra warriors raise their own weapons to their throats. “Skorravik!” They all shouted. Then, every single one of them drew deep, red lines. No hesitation. No lingerers.
Their blood poured upon the White Bridge, running through the grooves in the stone and through the drains along the edges. The bridge would never be white again.
The sight stole all the energy Torsten had. Salvation slipped through his battered fingers as he looked around, seeing the Drav Cra drop one after another, giving their lives over to a forgotten, fallen goddess.
Torsten watched them until his gaze froze upon one of the crucifixes. The soldier who’d helped him was nailed to it. No ratty beard or overgrown hair could mask what he saw. The shades of light and shadow which comprised his vision, didn’t lie.
Rand Langley, disgraced-knight-turned-Redeemer, raised his head and stared straight at Torsten.
XII
The Thief
Tum Tum stood at the door next to Whitney now, warhammer back in hand. Talwyn returned downstairs to comfort Gentry, who’d had just experienced the first time he’d ever taken a life. Lucindur joined her.
Whitney could remember his first time quite well. It was central to everything he’d experienced over the past year. He’d just stolen the Glass Crown from King Liam’s own head. It had been so easy—the old bugger died, his head lolled, and off rolled the crown, right to Whitney’s mud-crusted boots.
The dwarf presently standing next to him was the precise opposite of the drunken, waste-of-breath Grint Strongiron who’d challenged Whitney to steal that crown in the first place. It had taken a long time, but Whitney finally realized there was no one to blame for that moment but himself. He’d happily snatched up the crown with dreams of being some kind of hero to the people of Troborough. Visions of him tossing riches onto the dirt streets and watching from high up on his well-groomed steed as the children, faces dirty, and clothing tattered grasped for the autlas now made him sick to his stomach.
In a stroke of luck or misfortune, it had been the exact moment that Whitney arrived in Troborough to boast, gloat, or otherwise rub the news of his success in the squat little dwarf’s cock-eyed face, that the Shesaitju arrived to burn his hometown to the ground. It was funny in a sick sort of way how long ago that seemed, how insignificant that moment had become in the light of it all—but it wasn’t.
That was the day Whitney took his first life. Sure, he’d told tales before of great exploits he’d done with sword and spear, but they were all fabrications. That day, he’d shot a man straight through the heart.
Now, Gentry was experiencing the same disgust in himself that Whitney had. The only difference was that Whitney’d had a lifetime of lying to himself and others to mask his true emotions.
Kazimir appeared behind Whitney and sniffed the air. “This is the distraction we need.”
Sigrid went to charge by him, but Kazimir barred her with his arm. She didn’t relent until he shoved his forearm beneath her throat and slammed her against the wall. The sounds she made under her muzzle… Whitney wasn’t sure who the good guys were anymore.
“Meungor’s axe, what are they?” Tum Tum asked.
“Cultists, devoted to Nesilia,” Whitney said. “Apparently, Torsten and the Shield didn’t kill all of them.”
“An idea cannot be killed,” Kazimir said. “Her followers have vanished, they were forgotten, but they were not gone. It was they who stole my apprentice’s mortal life.” He whispered into her ear, something in old Breklian. It seemed to calm her a bit until he could back away.
Whitney covered his ears against a hair-raising screech. They hurried back to the stairs leading into the basement and saw the re-patched portion of the wall, and a claw poking through.
Sigrid unclasped the crossbow from her back, bolt already loaded, and took aim, pulling the trigger just as the fearsome head of a grimaur burst through. The bolt buried itself between the beast’s eyes. More scraping sounded, then another talon appeared.
“Oh, gods,” Lucindur said. “I told you I shouldn’t have used my power again…”
“We don’t have time for this,” Kazimir growled. He pushed passed them and across the pub.
Whitney followed just a step behind, and they went out onto the patio.
Celeste and Loutis, Pantego’s twin moons, hovered above, illuminating the scene before them. As a cultist dragged a young lady down the street by her hair, Kazimir unsheathed one of his many blades and flung it with a movement casual enough to be found at a family gathering. The blade sliced through the cultist’s neck and he or she dropped like a discarded apple core.
Sigrid lurched forward, compelled toward the fallen body. Then, just as quickly, turned on Whitney, whiffing his shoulder where the fresh wound was stitched. He backed away and turned back inside.
“Lucindur,” he said, “bring Gentry and Talwyn upstairs. Tum Tum, chase away the grimaurs and keep them and your pub safe. This place will be as defensible as a small fortress once they’re gone.”
“And what are ye gonna do?” Tum Tum asked.
“The two upyr and I will break into that wizards’ tower. Huh, well that’s something I never expected to say.”
“They are not wizards,” Kazimir corrected.
“Potato, potahto.”
“I’m coming with you!” Gentry said, breaking free of Talwyn. Tears filled his eyes.
Whitney knew he didn’t have much time, but he moved to the boy, kn
eeled, and held him by the shoulders. “You’ve helped enough, Gentry. I promise, you’re the best sidekick this thief’s had yet.”
“Really?” Gentry said softly.
“Of course.”
Another demonic screech was followed by snapping wood. Whitney only felt the gust of wind as Aquira blew by his face. Whether she was inspired to help him or Gentry, he didn’t care. No sooner had a grimaur bounded upstairs, than it was turned to ash by her flame.
“Look after them!” Whitney called to Aquira. He stood and passed Tum Tum on the way out. “Don’t get yourself killed. I won’t be here to save you this time.”
“Har, har,” Tum Tum feigned a laugh. “Go find what yer lookin for. Sora needs ye this time. I’ll protect em.” He lifted his hammer and charged down the stairs, screaming like a lunatic. They were in good hands—safer than Whitney knew he was about to be in.
Joining Kazimir and Sigrid outside he closed the door, and said, “We ready?”
“We must be. Fate is on our side, clearing the way,” Kazimir replied.
“Tell that to the people who live here.”
The upyr ignored him, then led the way out onto the stone-paved street. In the distance, they could hear the cultists ululating, and see the results of their blood magic as the streets of Yaolin City were turned into their own playground. The city guard marched on them, but Yaolin had been peaceful for decades. They wouldn’t be prepared for this level of chaos.
“She heard you, she heard you!” one chanted as he frolicked by, shooting fireworks into the sky. A bolt from Sigrid’s crossbow pierced his throat and shut him up.
Avoiding them, Whitney dashed around the side of the building and down the cliff face to the small boat he’d tied up. From there, he could see the Red Tower silhouetted against the cold, gray sky. Also visible under Celeste’s orange glow was the other half of Yaolin City—its many tiers and waterfalls, but also several small fires blazing, and plumes of smoke snaking up along the coast. Bells had just begun ringing from various places, and Whitney could see little lanterns bouncing along the streets—more guards heading toward the activity.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 74