“Suffer not a witch to live!” Lord Thain’s voice resonated.
The mist rose like a wall in front of Nesilia’s forces, catching Freydis’ flame and ice in the cloud and blocking their sight. The elements coruscated from it, slashing across walls and loosening more rock, turning the stone into molten slag. Nesilia’s forces retreated to where they'd come lest they be crushed. The cavern quaked. More stalactites shook over the sea, some breaking off and plunging like spears hurled from a giant’s fist.
The vines fell away from Sigrid, and she crumpled to a heap, unmoving.
“The Dom Nohzi may die today because of you, Kazimir,” the voices of the Lords echoed around them. “But balance is preserved. We cannot hold for long. Finish her.”
“I knew it,” Kazimir said. “They’re still with us.”
“Hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. Same as ever,” Teryngal said.
“Good work. For a moment, I thought she’d gotten to you,” Kazimir said.
“For a moment, she had…”
XXXV
The Knight
Torsten’s head still pounded. He wasn’t used to a sip of ale, let alone a few flagons. It was well past mid-day by the time he woke to the sound of horns signaling the Shesaitju army’s arrival.
He knew his men needed the distraction after seeing poor souls crucified, others losing a battle and being choked by whipping sand. Morale was everything, and Torsten wasn’t sure when exactly it’d happened, but he’d become a hero to the common soldier. The way they regarded him that morning—he’d never experienced anything like it. It wasn’t only respect, it was adoration. He recalled the same look in his own eyes when King Liam would ride by on his white horse.
There was a lesson he couldn’t wait to impart to young King Pi. Killing Redstar, winning battles, defeating Mak—to the people he was just a commander atop a horse wearing armor. It was only when he stepped down in the dirt with them, became one of them, that the respect blossomed into something more. He knew that no matter what happened, if talks with the Shesaitju army broke, and continuing war was inevitable, these soldiers of his wouldn’t be bested. Iam was with them.
“Your light shines bright upon us this day,” Dellbar the Holy said to Iam. He and Torsten were alone together, off wedged into one of the many alcoves along the White Bridge, Torsten kneeling before the old priest in one last prayer.
“Our little kingdom has been through so much,” Dellbar went on. “Today, by your grace, we hope we’ll see an end to the struggle. Let it be that the peace which dwells within this man, dedicated to your love and light, will hold it until he reaches the Gate of Light. May your Vigilant Eye guide our paths.”
Dellbar circled his eyes in prayer, and Torsten did the same. Then, he stood. Dellbar cleared his throat and cracked his neck. A small exhale followed the pop, pop, pops. His breath reeked, though Torsten imagined his smelled far worse.
“Thank you, Your Holiness,” Torsten said.
“All in the job,” Dellbar replied. His hands fell to his side, and Torsten noticed that he wasn’t holding his flask. A rare sight.
“No drinking this morning?” Torsten asked. “Dare I say, I’m proud of you.”
“Even I am only human. Breaks are required.” He wrapped a feather-light arm around Torsten, and they started off toward the gate. “I had no idea you had it in you. Perhaps, I should have asked Iam to ease the pain in your head.”
Though his hangover was severe, Torsten smirked. “I prefer the reminder.”
“Suit yourself.”
“How do you live this way?” Torsten asked. “I can barely recall falling asleep. Or… no, I don’t remember it at all.”
Dellbar stopped. “Do you remember your late-night visit with Rand Langley.”
Torsten shook his head. “Not a second of it.”
“I see…”
“Is he—”
“He’s fine, don’t worry,” Dellbar said. He ran fingers through thin, dirty hair. “However, you may have revealed some… unsettling truths about his sister being an upyr.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Torsten’s face fell into his palm. “Oh, Iam’s Light, what a fool I am. I should speak with him.”
“I wouldn’t. Sir Danvels is hard at work trying to explain things; make things right. He’s a good man, that one. A bit nosey, but solid as a zhulong in a mud bath. I do believe you have more important things to handle.” The echo of Shesaitju zhulong-tusk horns echoed, as if to emphasize his point.
Torsten wasn’t sure what to say. Embarrassed was too soft a term.
Dellbar patted Torsten's shoulder. “Everything will be fine, Torsten. I’ll pray for him. I may not be able to see, but I have a sense for men who’ve been hurt far more than they deserve. He will feel the light again.”
Torsten blew out a mouthful of air. “Thank you, Your Holiness. I promise you, that’s the last time I’ll be drinking.”
“And Pantego will be a lesser place for it.”
“I should know better. My parents—”
“Were not heroes,” Dellbar assured him. “You are. Stay strong, my friend. War has robbed us of so much. My home. My friends. End it today, and perhaps we can finally start the arduous process of rebuilding. I know a few towns in desperate need of a new church.”
“Your mouth to Iam’s ears.”
Dellbar smiled, then angled his head, as if listening to the sky. “Do you hear that? It appears my time of restfulness is over. I find myself incredibly thirsty.”
“You’re a peculiar man.”
“So, I’ve been told.” Dellbar released Torsten and drew his cane from his belt. He tapped along, back into the watchtower where he and the other members of the Church of Iam had made their temporary residence.
Torsten watched him leave, hoping with all his heart that the High Priest was right, that the warring could finally end. Leaning out over the gorge, his gaze jumped to the dark portal leading down to the dungeons where Rand now likely stewed. Torsten’s heart sank. He’d lost his composure just for a moment and made the poor man’s life even more miserable.
Sigrid was gone. At least, the version Rand knew. In the realm of Iam, unlife was equal to death. She was a cursed, murderous being, closer to a monster than human. Rand would see that in time. But Torsten also understood, more than anyone, how being close to somebody could make it so impossible to see the truth about what they’d become.
He’d been so preoccupied with battle, and blood, and death that he hadn’t thought much about Oleander lately. A Shesaitju horn sounded again ensuring it would be a bit longer before he would. Turning toward the gates, Torsten gave his temples a squeeze to combat his throbbing head and pressed onward.
Peace.
That was what was needed.
Then, and only then, would Rand and all the others scarred by battle be able to heal, find their happiness.
Sir Hystad waited, holding Torsten’s chestnut mare by the reins. Their defenses were ready, their army, prepared. The infantry stood at attention behind the first spiked trench dug by Brouben’s people. The formation of thousands, men and dwarves alike, extended across the horizon, each legion under the command of a Shieldsman. Behind them were lines of archers, consisting of both Glassmen and Panpingese conscripts. And Torsten himself led them all, a man of Glintish descent.
“Find your place, Sir Hystad,” Torsten told the Shieldsman as he took the reins and mounted his horse.
All these peoples fighting together. It reminded Torsten of days under King Liam. He’d made sure they were all visible, presenting a unified front for the arrival of the Black Sandsmen. Not just to show their strength, but to show that it was possible—that men and women of all races and all colors could stand together for a purpose.
For all his faults, Liam had crafted an empire worthy of lore.
The ranks parted as Torsten trotted through. They nodded, raised their spears; honored him. He’d been Wearer of White, th
en Master of Warfare. He’d commanded the battle of Winde Port and Fort Marimount before it, but for the first time, he felt like a true general, like he belonged at their head.
“Sir Unger, ye finally woke,” Brouben called, looking up at the sun which was already beginning its descent. He stood out in front of the army, a spike-armored clanbreaker on either side of him. “Look at ’em all. By Meungor, I hope they fight.”
As Torsten broke through the ranks, he saw it: across the plains, so muddled by foot-traffic there was no more grass to be found, awaited the Shesaitju army. They’d begun to set up camp, but the bulk of them had lined up for battle, mirroring Torsten's men.
Their force was smaller, but it was by no means small. It, too, stretched out like the sands of the M'stafu, and boasted a full complement of zhulong cavalry at the core. He knew how they operated. Charge the heart of the enemy formation like a wedge, and crack them open like a nut. It was why he’d had two layers of spikes built-up on the center of the trenches and a horde of clanbreakers to meet the charge.
Torsten imagined it all unfolding. Arrows from both sides would blot out the low-hanging sun. Their ranks would rush one another, warriors screaming like banshees. They’d crash like an avalanche. He was confident his army would prove victorious, but countless men would die. Torsten may have had the numbers and the better position, but as he scanned the faces of the Shesaitju, he knew what advantage they did have. Experience.
These savages weren’t conscripts or young soldiers who’d enlisted in the Glass Army to find their place in life. Not men who’d mostly trained in fighting, but had seen few battles. These Black Sandsmen had been fighting each other since they were kids, born and bred under heat and iron.
Torsten knew he'd win. But the cost… would be unbearable.
“No, Brouben, I hope our duel is the last fight I ever see,” Torsten said.
The dwarf frowned. “I been hopin that when ye saw them, ye might change yer mind. But I get it, me Lord. Ye do what ye must.”
Torsten stared across the prospective battleground. Surprisingly, he didn’t recognize the leader of their army. It wasn’t Muskigo, but an older afhem who barely looked in good enough shape to make the trek across the field.
Torsten considered having Lucas summoned to him, and a handful other Shieldsmen. Together, they could ride out with Brouben and a clanbreaker as well. Really show them how out-marched they were. Instead, he pulled on the reins and held his horse in place.
“Well?” Brouben said.
“They’re our visitors,” Torsten said. “They ride out first.”
“Men,” Brouben scoffed.
An hour passed, maybe longer. Torsten’s headache was gone, and he was as clear-headed as ever. Armor rattled at his back as the men started to grow weary and lax. They muttered, wondering what was going on. Torsten never moved a hair, just stared straight ahead at the enemy commander. The expanse of dirt and flattened grass had turned a hue of pink as the sun began its retreat into the night. He knew how these sorts of negotiations worked. He’d seen enough men surrender to Liam. It was only when neither side desired a fight that armies lined up to present themselves like whores in one of Valin’s old brothels.
“I’m about to charge,” Brouben murmured. He was seated now, tirelessly sharpening the blade of his axe with a whetstone.
“Be patient,” Torsten said.
"Me axe’ll be nothin but dust soon.”
Another minute went by, and then, finally, the enemy commander stirred, hopping down from his zhulong. His hand flourished, and more men shuffled behind him. Then, he started a slow waddle across the field. A strange, long-shafted, two-faced hammer was latched onto his back.
“See?” Torsten said. “War is an art, my Lord Dwarf.”
“I s’pose things be more simpler in the mountains,” Brouben replied.
Torsten dismounted as well. It was a show of faith when commanders met, ensuring the other that there was no means of a quick escape, betraying an honorable parlay wasn’t possible.
“You,” he said, pointing at a mounted Shieldsman. “Please, go and retrieve Sir Danvels. He should be here for this.” The man pounded his chest, then rode off as Torsten turned back to the field and started walking, all by himself.
“Shall I accompany ye?” Brouben asked.
“No,” Torsten said, without looking back.
Showing no fear would earn him the upper hand. He did, however, ensure that his back scabbard was arranged so that the razor-sharp blade of Salvation was displayed for all his enemies to see.
The walk was long. Lonely. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the rival afhem. If he allowed it to wander; to steal a glance of the thousands of Shesaitju warriors arrayed before him, then he’d already be at a disadvantage. The afhem remained similarly disciplined. The closer they got, the more Torsten noticed the man's gray gut bouncing with each step. However, even with the belly, Torsten could tell by his composure that the afhem clearly had experience in war.
Neither spoke until they were only a few paces apart. Torsten stood straight, shifting his right arm ever so slightly to show more of Salvation. The afhem stretched his back, a few of his vertebrae popping. A few more seconds tittered on in silence.
Torsten’s eyes betrayed him only momentarily, and he eyed the army. The fearsome warriors may not have wanted to fight, but they were ready. Their dark, gray faces spoke of decades of imagined abuses. They may as well have been snarling.
“Perhaps, we should have lined up closer,” the afhem said, finally. Shaking out his legs, his gaze flitted to Torsten’s blindfold, but he said nothing about it. “This old body isn’t what it used to be.” He drew a deep breath. “Where are my manners. I am Tingur Jalurahbak, acting commander of Caleef Mahraveh’s armed forces. You must be Sir Torsten Unger. They were right,” he said, with a gentle laugh, “you are tall.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Tingur, under the light of Iam this day.” Torsten circled his eye in prayer and wasn’t surprised when Tingur didn’t return the gesture. The Shesaitju had been more difficult to convert to the one true faith than almost any other—save the Drav Cra. “Your name is familiar to me.”
“I fought in the war, the last one, at least. You’d have been a much younger man then.” He spread his arms. “Now, here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Tingur cleared his throat.
“I was sad to learn of the fate of the late Sidar Rakun,” Torsten said. “I hope you know that none of what happened was our intent.”
“Our new Caleef wishes only to look forward,” Tingur said. “That starts today. Before we begin, I will warn in advance that affairs in Latiapur following the death of Sidar Rakun were tense. The Shieldsman you sent with word of your offer was killed, as was the man who betrayed your king, Yuri Darkings.”
Torsten bit his lip. He couldn’t believe how matter-of-fact the man was about news like this. Sir Marcos was just another Shieldsman Torsten had sent to his death. All the good feelings about leading a unified army fell to the wayside.
“You’re only bringing this news now?” Torsten asked, though it was closer to a growl.
“The transition has not been an easy one,” Tingur said. “Outsiders became easy targets. Many afhems were loyal to Sidar Rakun. When he was lost, many refused to kneel before a new Essence of the Current, a woman no less. Mahraveh a'Tariq of Sauijbar decided that the time of the afhems was at an end. I am the last. Our markings have been erased from history. When I return to Latiapur, mine will join them in the sand.”
“No afhems?” Torsten said. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. All his life, throughout history, the warlords of the Black Sands had been infamous. Men taking names, stealing armies, competing for the adoration of the masses in their great arena.
Tingur clasped his hands. “Only one Black Sands,” he said. “United under the grand vision of our Caleef—but there is expected resistance. We hope our respective peoples can move beyond these lo
sses. Yuri Darkings helped our people, your Shieldsman served yours.”
“He has a name,” Torsten snapped.
“A name, we promise, will be inscribed on the walls of the Tal'du Dromesh, with your blessing. If that is agreeable, we may continue.”
Torsten grimaced. Agreeable… He was glad he’d grown older and wiser over the last few years. A younger him might have called things off then and there with a slash of Salvation. But Tingur was right. Someone had been lost on each side, and more death wouldn’t bring them back. Only peace between their peoples could ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
“I must request both bodies be returned to us for proper rights,” Torsten said. “Even a traitor like Yuri Darkings deserves to be buried beside his son.”
Tingur nodded. “The Shieldsman—”
“Sir Marcos,” Torsten offered.
“Yes. Sir Marcos, has been preserved and will be transported to Yarrington. Yuri Darkings, unfortunately, cannot be. His body has been lost to the Boiling Waters.”
Torsten sighed and scratched at his chin where thick stubble had grown. He tried to do the proper, pious thing, but he couldn’t deny the tinge of satisfaction in knowing Yuri’s soul would never be at peace. If his son had earned his own fate, Yuri had earned it two-fold.
“What of our Wearer of White and the rebel, Muskigo?” Torsten asked.
Tingur turned to the side and gestured to his army with two fingers. Two men strode forward. Torsten recognized both. One was Sir Nikserof, stripped of armor and wearing a fine, white tunic marked with the Eye of Iam. At least, it once had been fine, and once had been white. Now, it was stained by black sand, dust, and dried blood. In addition to the collar and hem, the embroidered seams were torn. The only armor he still wore was the gleaming white helm signifying his position.
A gag pulled at the sides of his mouth, hemp rope at his wrists. His face was adorned with all manner of open cuts and bruises. Blood caked his bare feet, wounds filled with sand and dirt. So muddied was his lower half that it appeared to belong to a Glintish man.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 105