War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I…” Freydis started, but quickly settled for, “Yes, my Lady. You’re right.”

  “Always,” Nesilia said with a smile.

  She had been left behind, forgotten beneath a mountain for centuries, while Iam did as he pleased. She would not see Freydis suffer the same fate. It wasn’t that she held any real esteem for Freydis—but too long had men ruled under the Eye of Iam. No more.

  While they marched across Winter’s Thumb, another worthy ally—so far as mortals can be worthy—Aihara Na, the one these fools called Ancient One, remained in Yaolin City to oversee the training of a new batch of mystics. As her first act within Sora’s body, Nesilia had dispatched of the old mystics, set-in-their-ways Order.

  Wvenweigard in the North. Aihara Na in the East. Both building an army of new and devoted soldiers.

  Ancient One, Nesilia thought derisively. Nesilia had experienced festivals which lasted longer than this creature’s whole existence. But that was before the feud. That was before she and Iam set forth to create men and call forth the destruction of all she’d known and loved.

  Love…

  She shook away the thought, because with it, her host began to stir. Sora, daughter of the human King Liam and another Ancient One who’d died so easily… it sickened Nesilia to feel the meager emotions these beings considered to be love. They had no sense or scope for its true meaning. The flittering feeling in their bellies, goose pimples, swollen cocks, and erect nipples—these physical manifestations within their quickly dying bodies were not to be compared with eons of companionship.

  Internally, she cursed both Iam and herself. Why had they even set forth to make these things. They are pitiful, weak. And she hated how much she needed them. Even in trying to bury the thoughts, they only grew, along with the taste of bile in the back of her throat.

  She took a deep breath of the frigid air, pulling her to the present. As Nesilia looked around at the Drav Cra, she considered their mortality. Flesh and blood, protected by little more than animal skin and hard wood.

  Aihara Na … now that was power. The old mystic may have been barely corporeal, but she had untold power. She feasted upon Elsewhere—drawing strength from the very gods which Nesilia had played part in banishing. With neither body to slay nor blood to spill, who could kill such a thing? Though a mere child in terms of age, they were like unto gods, themselves, or as close as creation had known for these many centuries.

  But for all their power, their personal attraction to this realm kept them weak, and they were weakened further by their lust for power. She found solace in knowing that this new batch of mystics would be made aware of her benevolence and they’d worship her for it.

  Nesilia felt rumbling deep beneath her feet, further stirring her from her thoughts. By now, the dwarves had to know of their arrival. Unlike their kin in the Dragon’s Tail Mountains, these poor dwarves lived below ground, fighting for scraps in a puny kingdom of outcasts. They would have felt the quaking of thousands of Drav Cra above.

  These, Clan Strongiron, as they were called, would serve her needs either way. If they would not bow, they would break under the hand of her mighty warriors. She wouldn't even need to lift a finger. And through their kingdom, she would lead them on a path to the Citadel; to removing the upyr and their Sanguine Lords from the equation. The only beings who could possibly rise up against her.

  A wedge of stone, smooth as ice, rose from the snow a short way off. Nesilia recognized Meungor's handiwork even from such a distance. A stone door, large enough to allow giants passage, spanned the width of it, and without looking, she knew the many runes that would be etched upon its face.

  Meungor did so love his dramatics.

  “Freydis,” Nesilia said.

  “Yes, my Lady?” she answered immediately.

  Such unwavering devotion. If only there were enough of these ice-dwellers left to truly bring Pantego to its knees without the need of monsters.

  But there wasn’t. Years of stubbornness had dwindled their numbers. Without their even realizing it, decades of settling for second, third, or even fourth best had driven them to rely upon the Glass Kingdom, same as everyone else.

  Where the Panpingese—like Sora, her beautiful host—and Black Sandsmen paid tribute, or even gave up ruling rights altogether, the Drav Cra submitted to the Glass in another way. If towns like Crowfall and Fessix simply stopped receiving the many goods and life-sustaining materials… or smarter yet, retreated south, the Drav Cra raiding and pillaging parties would cease being useful. In a matter of months, the whole of her devoted peoples would resort to killing one another like the Shesaitju, and worse, eating one another to survive.

  “Show me how resourceful you are, Freydis.” She pointed to the door. “Show me I have not chosen poorly in calling you to lead. Show me that I did not make a mistake in allowing Redstar to die so you might live in his stead.”

  At that claim, the shock on Freydis’ face was evident until she dipped her head. It was the reaction Nesilia wanted. She hadn’t truly sacrificed the existence of the former Arch Warlock, but it was important for Freydis to believe Nesilia’s hand was in everything.

  Before entering the boy-king Pi, Nesilia had little hope of ever escaping her tomb. Even then, she was a shell of what she’d been, constantly struggling to maintain even the slightest hold over the boy. Then, finding Sora atop Mount Lister through the break in Elsewhere, receiving the sacrifice of faith… Redstar had given her new life. That was a fact Nesilia would never let anyone know.

  Freydis hopped down from her mount, running her hand through the beast’s fur, then waved to a legion of Drav Cra warriors. She gave their drad orders, and started toward the dwarven gate. Moving to a hundred year old pine poking through the snow, three large men began chopping at it with sharp axes.

  Nesilia watched, rapt, curious, wondering if she’d indeed done well in selecting Freydis. The warlock’s dire wolf roamed up next to Nesilia, and she stroked the back of its neck, listening as it purred like a kitten in delight.

  Positioning herself in front of the gate, Freydis drew her knife, slashed her palm, and rubbed her hands together. Then they shot forward, a stream of ice pulsing forth and into the center of the door. Frost gathered across the stone, coating it, until Freydis was exhausted. Then she waved the men onward, and the mighty warriors began using the tree like a battering ram. The ice cracked and chipped away, but nothing more than, perhaps, a thin layer of the stone cracked with it. Dwarven masonry was legendary—a gift from Meungor.

  Blunt force, Nesilia thought, shaking her head.

  The truth was, neither Freydis, nor her other warlock companions had the slightest clue just how powerful their blood magic could be if they gave it just the slightest bit more thought. In many ways, the cultists around Pantego were more knowledgeable, but far less moldable. They’d been grafted onto the tree, not like Freydis, a natural branch bearing the fruit of generations who’d worshiped the Buried Goddess. The cultists would serve their purposes, causing unrest in the major cities, drawing the Glass soldiers away from Yarrington but they’d have no place in the true fight.

  The ground shook and shadow passed over her.

  “Shall my chekt help them?” a muscle-bound drad asked, calling down from the back of his giant, wooly beast. Its every footstep left an imprint the size of a wagon, and its head thrashed to the side as he guided the reins.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Nesilia said without looking at the hulking warrior. Then, placing a hand on one of the massive tusks, said, “Send these cumbersome beasts back west. We won’t need them underground.”

  “Your wish is my command, my Lady,” The drad lowered his head in a slight bow, then coaxed his chekt a few stomping steps away before sliding down its long fur.

  Nesilia listened as the loyal chieftain barked orders, and the herd of chekt marching with them, keeping her army warm and fresh, were handed over to beastmasters to march them back west. Dire wolves snapped at their heels to get the
m moving faster.

  “Freydis!” Nesilia called after waiting a short while longer.

  The Arch Warlock turned, shoved her men aside, and strode back to Nesilia while they continued to ram futilely at the gate. Frail as they were, Nesilia admired Iam’s handiwork in this one. Her hips swayed at just the right trajectory, hypnotic in their movements. She had all the right curves. Had Nesilia not found Sora, this warlock would have been an apt choice for a host. But even her willingness didn’t make up for her lack of knowledge. To think, the Arch Warlock of her people hitting a door with weapons instead of using her blood.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  “My lady?”

  “Your hands,” Nesilia repeated.

  Freydis lifted both hands, palm up.

  Grasping them, Nesilia said, “You do not know your strength.”

  “We were almost through,” Freydis lied.

  “That door hasn’t budged in neigh on a millennium—nothing you could do will pry it open. Only if the Dwarves wanted you inside, and it is the first of many. But, there are other ways. An eternity in the shadows has taught me.”

  “We were—”

  “Quiet!” Nesilia barked, perhaps more harshly than intended. She smiled to offset the remark, but Freydis only looked down, disgraced.

  Freydis winced when Nesilia’s thumbnails carved deep lines into both of her palms. Blood bubbled and spilt to the snow.

  Grasping Freydis’ hands in her own, Nesilia weaved their fingers together, then squeezed until their forearms and elbows were stained with streaks of red. The snow melted under the heat of the blood. Once through the snow, it began melting through the stone itself.

  Freydis gasped. “How…”

  “It is not me, my child,” she said. “This is the true power of your blood. The blood of the earth.”

  They descended until the ground broke through. From within the bedrock, vines carried them until they were firmly planted in the center of a dwarven tunnel, vaulted stone all around them.

  Nesilia could imagine the Drav Cra thrusting their weapons into the air as they bellowed out war cries above. Releasing her grip, she pointed up where concentrated beam of light poured in.

  Freydis understood, which pleased Nesilia.

  She drew on her blood and took control, and the same vines which carried them down, now formed a ladder for her army to join them. Soon, hundreds of Drav Cra warriors flooded the tunnels under command of their drads.

  Dust and dirt filled the air, kicked up from the ground, and falling from the ceiling as the tunnel shook with their steps. Nesilia followed behind, watching as Freydis summoned magical fire to her palm and led the way through the darkness. Sweat beaded on the skin of men and women accustomed to much cooler temperatures, but none complained, even when the tunnel graded downward at a steady slope, bringing them deeper into the earth.

  A part of Nesilia grew uneasy underground, reminding her of so many years beneath the dirt—but this was her domain. She was not just the Buried Goddess… for there was a time before she was buried. The earth, the dirt, the animals and beasts, the mountains, and the sea: these were her children.

  Something swooped overhead. Freydis spun, fire in hand. Another zipped by in the other direction, screeching.

  “What are those… things?” Freydis asked, readying herself for a fight. One clawed at her hand on its way by, drawn to her flame. She went to immolate it, but Nesilia stopped her.

  “Grimaurs. They will not harm you,” Nesilia assured. “The beasts, forgotten to the darkness of the mountains, are drawn to me. All throughout the land, they feel my call, and know that I am returned.”

  Behind her, the Drav Cra all readied weapons. Above, the grimaurs snapped razor-sharp beaks, but made no other movement. They were long-faced creatures, half-humanoid, half-bird, grotesque with long, spindly beaks, and sharp talons that oozed a toxin able to paralyze the nerves. They were an early creation, unfinished, but precious to Nesilia.

  As if suddenly recognizing her, one flew down. All muscles in Freydis’ body tensed, but Nesilia held out a steadying hand, then slowly raised it, allowing the grimaur to rest on her forearm.

  “Oh, how far you’ve fallen, nesting in the musty darkness.” A look of genuine sadness rolled over her face as she stroked the rough feathers of its long neck. Now, these… these were her family. “I gave you the sky. I gave you the world, my first creations. But you weren’t beautiful enough for them… for Him. You so challenged their small, shallow minds.”

  The creature squawked, and a murder echoed the same sound up above, before digging talons into a hanging stalactite.

  She sent it flying off and continued through the chasm. More gathered overhead as she walked, following along, entering through every nook and small cavern around the greater passage.

  She overheard two of the Drav Cra dradinengors exchanging words.

  “Truly, this is she that even the beasts obey her command.”

  “Truly,” came the reply.

  Nesilia smiled, and pressed on.

  They stopped before another dwarven gate, etched just like the one aboveground. Those closest to Winter’s Thumb were especially defensive, setting their cities beyond a series of ancient gates. This one wasn’t just outer defenses. Through the hole in the earth Freydis formed using the technique Nesilia taught her, they now stood before the entry to the city.

  “I never understood why these foul little men live so deep,” Freydis said.

  “Like the grimaurs, the dwarves once lived atop Pantego,” Nesilia answered. “They ruled the lands the Glass now calls home. But Iam’s children are wretched and greedy, always taking what doesn’t belong to them, hiding behind his name.”

  “Filth,” Freydis agreed.

  “Worry not, my child. We will liberate them, one way or another.”

  Nesilia motioned to the door. “The city behind those doors has access to an ancient tunnel. One that pierces the core of our world, far beneath the Dragon’s Tail. The inhabitants aren’t primitive as their surroundings might suggest. It is likely they know we are here now.”

  “Heathens. Worshipping Meungor,” Freydis spat.

  “Not all can be so aware as you,” Nesilia said, no lack of distaste upon her tongue. “Give them one chance. If they refuse to bow after the first demand, kill them all. It’s time Meungor knows he can’t hide his creations in the mountains and pretend Pantego doesn’t exist.”

  “My Lady,” Freydis said, bowing her head.

  Nesilia pointed to the door. “Now, it is your turn.”

  Freydis set her jaw. She picked at the skin on her palms, then rubbed her hands together, tearing at the already healing wounds. Blood poured out and she pressed both palms against the door. Closing her eyes, she began to chant.

  “Why are you speaking?” Nesilia asked. Freydis looked over her shoulder, opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when Nesilia continued. “There’s no need for words. Trust…”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Freydis said, then turned back to the door and closed her eyes again.

  The door shook slightly, Freydis’ arms trembled, and she lowered her hands. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hands again and the door began to rumble again. Nesilia could see Freydis feeling the earth, feeling every part of the stone. No elements were needed. The earth itself, the stone, bent to Nesilia’s will, and thus would bend to the will of her followers.

  It cracked, vibrated, and began to crumble. Nesilia watched the smile beginning on the warlock’s face as it fell, but knew it would quickly fade.

  The movement had nothing to do with Freydis, but everything to do with the legion of dwarves standing just beyond the threshold. As the door opened, mine carts and towering stone edifices could be seen in the city beyond. The small army was led by one whose yellow-hair was swirled up in a knotted mess, beard long and braided.

  “One chance,” Nesilia reminded Freydis as she shrank to the back of the gathered army to watch her commander command.


  The air was thick with dwarven confusion, which was quickly mounting upon the wings of anger.

  “Who be knocking on our—” The dwarf speaking stopped as soon as he saw what lay in wait. They’d been hounded by Drav Cra raiders for centuries. Any dwarven traders and outposts, anyone who dared travel behind the safety of their subterranean city, but their home was well-protected. They weren’t used to being invaded.

  Nesilia smiled.

  Are you watching this, my love? she said to Sora, who was now so deeply buried within her own mind that she hardly spoke at all anymore. But Nesilia knew she could see it all, that she would eventually break and become completely lost to the goddess’ will. All she clung to were thoughts of Whitney saving her, the useless thief who’d tried to break into her mind.

  “Tell me who ye be before we send ye to Meungor’s arsehole with cracked skulls!” The dwarf who spoke was bold, Nesilia would give him that. He was king of Clan Strongiron, a pesky little kingdom.

  “Big claim for such a wee little thing,” Freydis said, laughter filling the tunnels behind her. The drads arrayed themselves at her back, ready to slaughter. Dire wolves stepped up between them, their low growls trailing on even after the laughter stopped.

  “Bold words for such a dumb cunt,” the dwarf retorted.

  Freydis glowered back at Nesilia, hoping for answers. The Arch Warlock looked enraged, grinding her jaw. Nesilia didn’t budge.

  Freydis turned back to the dwarven king. “We come, extending to you a hand of peace. March with us against our enemies in the south, and know riches beyond your wildest imagination.”

  “We got no beef with the flower-pickers. Best ye turn around before—”

  The dwarf’s words cut short as Freydis sliced her hand and flung a ball of fire at him.

  Blunt weapon, indeed, Nesilia thought.

  It took a moment for the rest of the dwarves to realize what had happened. The king screamed, then ran like a mad boar as the blaze caught his beard, and singed his clothes. Freydis raised her hand and the flame intensified. After one final outcry, he collapsed face-first.