“I hadn’t noticed,” Dellbar replied, words dripping with sarcasm.
“That’s good.”
The High Priest turned to face Torsten. He didn’t need eyes to exhibit the heartbreak wracking his very soul. His shoulder’s slumped. His cheeks were gaunt. His features all darkened like the storm lingering out over the Boiling Waters, ready to wreak havoc.
“Last night, at the feast…” Dellbar said. “All that spiced wine and… nothing. No urge.”
“Well, we need your mind clear.”
“It’s not. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t yigging drink. Feeling His power flowing through me again—it’s everything, all I crave. I can’t think about anything else.”
“He chose you for a reason, Dellbar,” Torsten said. “Even if you can’t see it. Your faith was strong enough to summon his power and save us all to fight another day.”
“That’s just it. He gave you sight when all your hope was lost. He gave me purpose when I stopped caring. He chose us, and we were right there to stop Nesilia. Right where we were meant to be. And even with Iam’s aid, she somehow survived. That was the moment when I felt his fear. Not when He fought her, but when she didn’t die. It’s when I realized that perhaps there really is no stopping her now.”
Torsten sighed. “Of all people to lose faith.”
“We study demonic possession in Hornsheim, Torsten. You must know that. I’m sure the Shieldsmen do as well, ever since the First Panping War. Even if it became so rare it seemed like myth. Destroying the host doesn’t destroy them. They can seek refuge in another body.”
“But there’s a way to banish them, isn’t there? I fought the mystics, and our priests weren’t only healers in the war against their magic. They called on Iam’s light itself to shield us.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Torsten said. “Their magic comes from Elsewhere. So do these cursed spirits.”
“I’ve never dealt with possession myself, but there are tomes and stories from the elders. They say Iam’s light can drive them back to the shadow realm He created for those unworthy.”
“Then we can stop them.”
“One problem,” Dellbar said. “Elsewhere has been split wide open.”
“Open?” Torsten said, voice empty of life.
“How else would she command such forces?” Dellbar said.
“There must be a way. Iam’s light will protect us again and provide a means of facing them.”
Dellbar shook his head. “When the mystics were destroyed, such defensive arts were no longer needed, buried in texts in the Chamber of Light below Hornsheim. There was only a battered world left to heal, and together, Liam and Wren ordained that the Church of Iam should focus only on rebuilding efforts.”
“Then perhaps it’s time you visit Hornsheim and change that. Right now, we must gather the priests of Iam and have them join this fight.”
“Those were different times,” Dellbar argued. “Iam had the Order prepared to fight the mystics. Time is not on our side.”
“There will be nothing to heal if we’re all dead.”
“Besides, Wren the Holy was far more knowledgeable than I. His faith, far more unbroken.”
Torsten took Dellbar by the shoulders. “Yet Iam never deemed him worthy of working through his body, Father Morningweg,” Torsten said. He purposely used the man’s former name and title—a reminder of how he’d once been known.
“Only the truest followers of the Light will be able to banish Nesilia’s new servants. But they won’t all be eager to listen to me and march off to their deaths. You’ve never been to Hornsheim. It’s politics more than faith, and they chose me only because they knew I had no power myself. I’ve been High Priest for barely a fortnight.”
“And been party to two miracles.” Torsten used his blessed sight to stare directly at the man. “You don’t need Iam controlling you to serve Him, my friend. He’s always been with you. Perhaps, this is why.”
Dellbar exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know I am. We’re still here, aren’t we?”
“The parts of us that matter, I suppose. Fine, Sir Unger. At the request of the Master of Warfare, I will travel to Hornsheim and gather the priests after we’re done here. But know that it still may not matter. The cursed spirits the mystics released in the wars were freed by accident. They were exposed. Solitary.”
“I’ll take anything that helps buy us time to figure out a way to stop Nesilia. Once she falls, they all will.”
“So, we hope. But Iam was afraid for a reason, and it is because as this darkness floods our world and people lose their faith in Him, His light wanes. That is the truth I’m now unfortunate enough to know. We can call on His power all we want, and there might not be any left to help us.”
“There will be.”
“You don’t know that.”
Torsten gave Dellbar’s arm a light, reassuring squeeze. Then, he pounded his own chest. “There’s enough faith right here. Enough left in me alone to give.” Then he turned his hand to Dellbar and laid a flat palm against the man’s chest. “And combined with yours? Iam might as well have the faith of all Pantego.”
Dellbar offered a small smile and bobbed his head, then shuffled to straighten out, leaning on his cane.
Torsten returned the smile, then turned to leave. He was in the doorway when Dellbar stopped him.
“Oh, Master Unger, the rest of the Royal Council convened, and we all agreed,” Dellbar said, face turned away. “We see no reason why the Master of Warfare cannot also serve as Wearer of White, head of the King’s Shield. The King must’ve been too distracted to bring the white helm here—it was his idea—but you’re finally you again.”
Torsten thought for a beat. He recalled that day when the white helm was stripped from him by Redstar… no, his own carelessness. He imagined earning it back would feel better than anything in his entire life. Yet, all he could picture was it on Sir Nikserof’s head as he bled out from the throat. Or Uriah, having his skin worn by a vile warlock.
“I am honored,” Torsten said. “And perhaps someone will wear the helm again one day. But it won’t be me.”
He lingered a few seconds longer in disbelief over what he’d just said. Then he tapped the stone wall twice and continued out of the room. Of all Redstar’s myriad curses, none was so obvious as that placed upon the Wearer of White.
Torsten would say this about the Shesaitju, their Boiling Keep was nowhere near as complicated as the Glass Castle. All paths and hallways led toward the throne room. Even the lower chambers lacked the labyrinthian feel of his home’s tunnels and crypts. But then, they had always been a simpler people. Focused. Strength meant everything to them, and for those who couldn’t be strong, loyalty to their afhems was their most celebrated export. Now, all in Latiapur were loyal to the Caleef.
As Torsten traversed the city on his own, he began to see how frightening an aspect that was. The Shesaitju were skilled, ruthless warriors. It was in their blood, bred from centuries spent in the harsh Black Sands desert filled with rival armies and deadly beasts.
Liam had been able to conquer the Black Sands because of all the infighting. He knew how to exploit weaknesses and drive wedges, how to get an afhem to remove his support from another without ever having to lift a sword.
But Torsten knew what a threat the Shesaitju under a single banner would pose, all while his own Kingdom would grow soft and accustomed to victory. His only solace was that despite Mahraveh displaying her grand army throughout the streets, the vast and wild city markets told a different story.
Most wouldn’t notice it, but Torsten had spent years watching the feasts in the Glass Castle, keeping an eye out for any signs of unrest. And they were here. Beyond colorful sarongs and intricately weaved baskets, a name Torsten recognized was whispered here and there. His hearing, enhanced by the loss of true sight, allowed him to perceive it. Babrak. The afhem whom Torsten had previously attemp
ted to align with against Muskigo.
His name was like background noise, always present, but never more than a rustle on the wind. And occasionally, Torsten saw Serpent Guards grab locals, warriors and markless alike, and drag them away. They always covered their mouths to keep them from shouting.
Queen Oleander had done the same when Yarrington’s people spoke out against her. Only, those people were slung by the throats over the castle walls. Torsten could only hope that Mahraveh wasn’t her father.
Already, Caleef Mahraveh’s attempt to unite her people, altruistic as it might have been, wasn’t working. At least, not in the way she’d expected.
Afhems, even without the title, still carried the respect of their former afhemates. Torsten noted the warlords, scalped and scabbed, trouncing around the city with dozens of warriors in tow. Perhaps, in time, without inter-afhemate wars, these loyalties might dissipate completely.
He did, however, have to learn to appreciate that these people weren’t his own. They were different, beyond only how they looked. King Liam had no greater fault than that. Trying to make all Pantego a reflection of himself.
In Yarrington, for Oleander to do what she’d done was monstrous. It was unforgivable in the eyes of Iam, even if Torsten had found a way to forgive and love her. But here? Death was as common as the shifting of the dunes. If Pi ever hoped to change the Shesaitju’s harsh ways, Torsten knew they’d have to understand them first.
Nothing exemplified this more than the arena known as the Tal’du Dromesh. Torsten knew all the tales. How their finest warriors battled to the death on its hallowed sands in order to earn their titles. He’d heard of how Muskigo slaughtered his opponents to claim the Ayerabi Afhemate while King Liam watched.
Torsten could never understand why a culture would purposely allow dozens of their best soldiers to die on ceremony alone. To sacrifice their lives for what—entertainment?
Now, he stood before that great arena, its stone arcades rising high. The zhulong statues set along its crest clashed with their gilded tusks, home to many a bird searching for their next meal in the sea below. Giant spheres filled with nigh’jels hung in intervals, creating a soft, cool glow against the black sandstone columns. Serpent Guards stood in every opening of the entry colonnade, and they allowed Torsten passage to the place where young Pi was to be married.
What better place for the grandest performance the Kingdom has ever known?
When he reached the inside, that truth became even more apparent. Yarrington was home to theaters that could fit hundreds to be entertained by acting troupes and musicians. Torsten had helped secure countless plays put on in Liam’s honor after every victory they’d achieved.
Those were nothing compared to this.
The walls were high as any castle, with dozens of layers of stands rising up them. They all circulated a walled pit of black sand, stopping only at a dam of rocks on the seaside, which kept the Boiling Waters out.
Later that day, at the highest sun, when Iam’s eye was most watchful, thousands upon thousands would pack those stands to witness the union of Pi and Mahraveh. It was Torsten’s job to help secure it, a task that seemed impossible. If Mahraveh’s people decided to swarm the arena, they would swallow them whole.
Servants from the palace carried shell garlands, nigh’jel lanterns, flower petals, palm fronds, and more, decorating every flat surface for the event. Torsten glanced right. Sir Mulliner spoke with the head of the Serpent Guards—the only one of them with a tongue—pointing out weak spots in the arena. As if it would matter. They were placing their trust in a people who’d been in open rebellion only weeks earlier.
Shieldsmen probed with them, learning the layout. Their white plated armor stuck out against the black-colored stone. Once they were done here, putting on a show, Torsten would have them all get rid of it. They couldn’t face Nesilia in armor infused with the glaruium she could manipulate.
Torsten was on his way to meet with Sir Mulliner when he noticed that the battlegrounds weren’t empty. Winding his way back through the innards of the arena and emerging into the sands, Torsten heard them, silently fighting. Three Serpent Guards sparred with Caleef Mahraveh in the center. Her skin was a shade darker than the sand. The Serpent Guards couldn’t talk due to their lack of tongues, but neither did she grunt or yell, no matter how much force she put behind an attack.
Her long spear parried and thrust, sparking along the sickle blades of her opponents. She ducked and weaved, and while they didn’t strike her, they weren’t holding back in the slightest. It was like a choreographed dance.
The muscles of her long, lean body stretched and tightened. She was slight but impossibly agile, bending backward and springing clear of strikes like a limber snake. She landed on the balls of her feet, ready to pounce, then her dark eyes fixed upon Torsten.
“Stop,” she said.
The Serpent Guards pulled back mid-attacks, sheathing their weapons and falling to attention with speed and discipline Torsten could only dream of. Even Sir Davies’ best Shieldsmen—of which Torsten had been one—were never so in sync.
Mahraveh crouched and wiped her hands in the sand. Then she stabbed her spear down and sauntered toward him. Torsten averted his gaze by nature. It had been hard to tell while she was fighting, but now it was clear—she wore absolutely nothing. Only long braids entwined with shells and trinkets bounced off her, clattering as she walked.
“You must be Sir Unger?” she said, stopping a short distance from him.
“I… uh… yes, my Lady,” he stammered. “I am.”
“You’ll have to speak louder here. The winds of our God converge in this place, making it quite loud. Especially when storms brew off the coast.”
“I am Sir Unger, my Lady,” Torsten pronounced. “We didn’t have a chance to speak at the feast.”
“I know your relationship with my father. You can look at me.”
“It’s not that, my Lady. You’re… uh…” He glanced up. The Black Sands was a hot place, and it’s people dressed in a way far less conservative than his own, but he didn’t expect her to be nude. And the sun barely seemed to even play against her skin, like she absorbed all the light around her.
“Oh…” She looked down at her body. “I apologize, Sir Unger. Sometimes, I don’t realize.”
She strolled over to the arena’s stone wall. Then, grabbing a gold-and-shell-laced dress hanging from a spike meant to keep combatants from daring to climb out, she let it drape over her. While it would have been out of place anywhere in Yarrington apart from a brothel, here, it fit.
“I cannot believe you are here,” Mahraveh said, returning. The arena held many large rocks that the contestants would use for cover. She found one such boulder planted and raised herself upon it. Then, she snapped her fingers toward one of the Serpent Guards, and he fetched her spear.
“Is something else the matter, Sir Unger?” she asked. “Am I still not decent enough for your sensibilities?”
Torsten drew a long breath before starting off toward her. “No, it’s not that. I’m just… not used to the heat of this place.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. As he moved from the shadow of the entry tunnel, the hot southern sun beat down on his bald pate. Even wearing only a thin brown tunic, sweat beaded on every part of him.
He stopped across from her and bowed his head. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
She nodded but said nothing. Instead, one of the guards handed her a whetstone, and she started sharpening the blade of her spear. Torsten gave her a few seconds more to answer, but still, nothing came. As she slid the stone, sparks flying out, all he could picture was Muskigo. She had his eyes and nose.
“I have concerns over the security of this location,” Torsten said.
“What was he like at the end?” Mahraveh asked, neither looking up nor responding to his statement.
“Excuse me?”
“Muskigo. There were others there, but I don’t know if they can be honest with me, even if they want to.
You don’t care about our god, so you be honest with me.”
“I see.” Torsten straightened his blindfold, cleared his throat. “He was… Brave—“
“Another word for outmatched,” she interjected.
“We all were. Truthfully, I have never seen anything like it, and I have fought many things. Mystics, giants, dwarves—your father stood above them all as a warrior.”
“He defeated you in Winde Port,” she said bluntly.
“I’d say we both lost, considering we were both going to drown before he was pulled out of the canals.”
“I never heard that part of the story.”
Torsten chuckled. “I’m sure you haven’t. A lot of blunders were made in that battle by both of us. If that damn blood mage hadn’t burned down the entire city and drove his army out, we may have all slaughtered each other.”
Her whetstone slid out as she missed her next stroke. Her finger caught on the edge of the blade. Even if it drew blood, she was quick to drop her hand to her side.
If you can help it, Torsten thought, never let the enemy see you bleed.
One of many lessons Sir Uriah Davies had taught them, and one that had served him well over the years.
“My father razed the city to cover his retreat,” Mahraveh stated.
“Perhaps he lit the fuse, but the fire came by Sora’s command,” Torsten said. “Your father and I were too busy focused on killing each other to strategize. Our people are the only reason either of us was pulled out alive.”
She returned to sharpening her blade. “It’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“How history forms when there is a winner,” she said. “I used to picture my father’s face when word reached us that he had conquered Winde Port, stolen it right from under the nose of the great Shieldsman, Torsten Unger. I’d imagine his smile and your anger.”
“Your father didn’t smile. He was many things, but he was not one to celebrate until the job was done.”
“And now he is dead,” she said. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in the words.
“He is.”
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 125