She just couldn’t understand what Yuri was trying to say. He didn’t want her to fight, yet, unlike so many others—her father included—he wasn’t recommending she stay in camp either.
“He’s a strange, strange man,” Bit’rudam said as he crouched to examine her wound.
“I seem to attract them,” Mahi said softly. She was referring to Jumaat, but Bit’rudam cleared his throat, and his gray cheeks went purple. “Sorry, I didn’t… I… Sorry.” She reached out and touched his forearm.
“You never need to be sorry, my Afhem.”
“Have the others tended to first,” she ordered. “Then we’ll march.”
“Did you ever hear how I grew up?” Bit’rudam asked, not bothering to provide a proper segue.
“Should I have?”
He shook his head with deference. “On a trading ship. My father sailed across the Torrential Sea to Yarrington in service to our last afhem. Back and forth a thousand times while my mother cared for my younger siblings. Whale oil in exchange for weapons, as there is no iron on our—your—island chain.”
Mahi sat up. “You’ve been to Yarrington?”
“Seen it from afar. The Glass Castle is so tall, on cloudy days, the spire vanishes in clouds. My father always said it was their kings compensating.”
Mahi smirked. “So did mine. I—” She squealed as Bit’rudam suddenly tore the broken arrow out through the back of her shoulder. She squeezed his arm so tight her nails left deep crescent-shaped imprints, but he was stronger than he looked on the outside.
He laughed and juggled the bloody projectile once. “Youngest on the ship meant I took care of the crew. Sick, injured—my mother taught me what to do. Hold this here.” He took her hand, filled it with a piece of cloth, and placed it over the exit wound. It was an awkward angle, but she managed. “Pressure stops the bleeding.”
He fumbled through a satchel, then removed a curious-looking sea urchin. The tips of its spikes glowed the same color as a nigh’jel. He then drew a knife from the back of his belt and sliced off one of its spines.
Mahi rotated away as he approached her, holding the spike by its sharp end. “Hess tu wima—they live only around our isle,” Bit’rudam said, clearly noticing her confusion. “They use seaweed wraps in Latiapur, not us. It might sting a little, but it cleans better than anything in this world.”
He held the barb in front of her wound, then stopped. He looked up, and Mahi hadn’t yet noticed how pretty his eyes were. Deep gray with flecks of gold, like sunlight on a rainy day.
“May I?” he asked.
She nodded, and he slowly tilted the barb over the entry wound. A trickle of its venom, or whatever it carried, splashed on the injury, and it felt like fire. She clenched her eyes, then watched through squinted eyelids as the rent flesh bubbled. Finally, the injured area turned a lumpy white, but the bleeding stopped.
“Amazing,” she said, breathless through gritted teeth.
Bit’rudam lay his hand on the center of her back and gently tilted her forward to do the exit wound. Mahi squeezed her own thigh now. The pain in cleaning was worse than the would itself. It seared, and she felt it bubbling while it coated her wound and stemmed the bleeding.
“Good as new, my Afhem,” Bit’rudam said. “And ignore the old pink-skin. Ignore everybody. Just lead. We are your afhemate. Anything you ask of us, it will be done.” He flashed her a smile, then used the flat side of his knife to brush any excess toxin from the skin around her wound. He wiped it on his sleeve before stowing the blade in a sheath at the small of his back.
Mahi watched him walk away toward the passage through the bluffs, noting the way the sun glinted off his wet arms and back. Out of the corner of her vision, she noticed Yuri looking back at her. He shook his head like he was ashamed, then averted his gaze.
Mahi bit her lip, grasped her spear, and stood to follow her people.
Ignore everybody, she thought. Just lead.
Now those were words she could live by.
XI
The Knight
The Glass Road slashed along the Jarein Gorge, winding along the cliffs and crags like a serpent. It was a haven for bandits and smugglers who used the gorge’s caverns and offshoot trails for their nefarious gains. No longer. Torsten and his legion passed by travelers and tinkers; traders heading east who were now blocked. Dozens of people camped, waiting.
For centuries the White Bridge had served as a crucial strategic point, as well as the straightest and safest land route across the gorge. The mountain pass was treacherous, as Torsten had learned, and beyond the realm of the Glass, but the ancient structure was built with glaruium-reinforced stone, said to have been constructed by ancient dwarves themselves. Unbreakable.
“Will you destroy the heretics like you did Redstar?” a woman on the side of the road asked. She clutched a small child to her breast.
“The bodies…” another cried. “It’s wrong.”
Fearful muttering abounded, but Torsten kept his head high as his horse threaded its way through. He had to maintain an air of confidence, for their sakes as well as for his men. It seemed every battle he’d entered over the past year, the warriors at his side were younger and younger. This was no different. Many, including Lucas, were new recruits, or converted guards.
“Worry not, fair citizens, Iam is with you now,” Dellbar the Holy said as he pushed his horse to catch up. He hiccuped. “We will purge the darkness from this land.”
Torsten glared back at him. “That’s enough, Father Morni—Your Holiness,” he said, struggling to mask his displeasure. The man reeked less of alcohol, at least, which wasn’t saying much. “You’re to stay here. Calm these people.”
“The men—”
“Prayed with you before we left,” Torsten cut him off. And it was quite a prayer. They’d circled atop the plateau beneath the noon sun, when Iam sees all, and Torsten hadn’t witnessed an army so stirred by faith since the days of Liam. He too felt a lightness in his heart. Like they were protected. Dellbar had a theatrical quality to him with which Wren couldn’t compare. Even inebriated, his charm was undeniable.
Dellbar remained quiet for a few long seconds, face aimed at the ground. “Drad Mak was there,” he uttered. Torsten noticed his fingers beginning to twitch.
“What?” Torsten replied.
“When I was still just Father Morningweg in Fessix. When Redstar came to my home and slaughtered everyone. Mak was with the raiding party. I want to feel his fear when you beat him.”
“Your Holiness—”
“Please, stop with the formalities…”
“Never. It is who you are. It is who Iam has called you to be. You are my High Priest. Regardless of what you’ve done or what has been done to you, these people need you now,” Torsten said softly. “The Glass Kingdom needs you. I once allowed vengeance to cloud my judgment. You mustn’t. Vengeance is a tool of the Buried Goddess. We seek justice.”
Dellbar the Holy sucked in air through his teeth, then hung his head. “Just promise me you’ll end this. Put that sight Iam gave to you instead of me to good use?”
“I can only promise that Drad Mak will not leave that bridge,” Torsten said. “He is beyond saving.”
“Well then, Sir Knight, may Iam guide your sword, and this blind man to a drink.” He swung his legs over his horse’s side, taking no care for the condition of his luxurious robes. Droning sounded from the gathered travelers as he walked amongst them. They bowed, circled their eyes in prayer.
A light kick sent Torsten’s horse onward, leading the battalion. When they turned the next bend, he was as sure as ever that this was no place for priests. The two manmade watchtowers flanking the gate stretching across the west side of the bridge were wrecked. Piles of loose stone and smoldering wood that still smoked. Torsten was thankful the smoke wasn’t from pyres, but that gratitude was short-lived.
Along the path, men were affixed to crudely-constructed wooden Eyes of Iam. Their arms and legs were spread across th
e circle, nails through their wrists and feet, holding them secure. They were all stripped naked and left out in the sun, their skin now blistering and crisp. That, combined with the blood smeared across their bodies and faces, made it impossible to recognize any, but there were women amongst them. It wasn’t just soldiers.
Most of the unfortunate victims’ chests still heaved, heads swaying slowly from side to side, alive. Torsten heard a few retches from the soldiers at his back in response to the sight. The contents of his own stomach turned over, too, but he held it down.
It was Winde Port all over again, when Muskigo set Glass heads on spikes, only this… this was far worse. The victims were in unspeakable agony, all while being used to taint Iam’s holy image.
“The savages…” Sir Marcos spoke, breathless. Bold and defiant in training, the truth of war had a way of humbling those types of men. Though he wasn’t alone in his words, most had been rendered silent.
Torsten noticed the light of a flaming arrow lance across the gorge on the east side, signaling that Lucas and the dwarves were in position as well. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were greeted by the same gruesome scene.
“By Iam… This ends today,” Torsten declared.
“Sir, wait—” Marcos didn’t finish before Torsten spurred his horse toward the bridge’s gate. Alone.
Torsten would never un-hear the moans. They assailed him from all directions, making Muskigo’s treatment of his captors seem tame. He recalled riding up to the gates of Winde Port, and offering a duel, failing to convince Muskigo to spare thousands of warriors’ lives, but this time he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Mak and the other Drav Cra had been allies, and Torsten cursed himself for ever helping let such barbarous people into his kingdom. Anyone capable of such savagery deserved nothing but the executioner’s block. No more would suffer for his failure, for not having done what was needed the moment those heathens stepped through the Glass Castle gates.
Torsten adjusted his blindfold and knew Iam had punished him enough for those very same failures. No longer.
“Drad Mak!” Torsten shouted through the closed gate. He noticed Drav Cra slinking through the ruins of the watchtower, ready to chuck spears through his chest. He knew that Muskigo had too much honor to do that at Winde Port, but with these people, he wasn’t so sure.
Dismounting his horse, he gave her a light slap and sent her running back toward his men. He wouldn’t let the savages prove their true nature by slaying her. Then, from the scabbard on his back, he drew Liam Nothhelm’s sword… now Torsten Unger’s sword, Salvation. He let his finger trace the gold-threaded leather, and strode forward.
“Mak!” Torsten yelled again. “You asked for me, and here I am!”
Wind howled through the gorge, carrying with it whispers in Drav Crava.
Torsten’s thumb rubbed the Eye of Iam on Salvation’s cross-guard. “Come out here and face me, coward! There’s nowhere to run now!”
“Sir,” Sir Marcos said, walking up along side him. “What are your orders?” A cluster of Shieldsmen accompanied him, raising large heater shields in front of Torsten.
Torsten whipped around to glower down at the young Shieldsman. “Help these poor souls down and get them to his Holiness.” Though all priests were trained in the healing arts, Torsten wasn’t sure Morningweg’s drunken, shaking hands were the best choice, but he was all they had.
“Sir,” Marcos said, edging up closer, “you’re within their range. We must fall back.”
“I gave orders, Shieldsman,” Torsten said. Then using Queen Oleander’s words, he said, “Follow them, or I’ll find someone who will.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Then, that is to be my fate.” He gave Marcos a light shove, then pushed through the wall of shields. A couple of his men protested but could do nothing to stop him. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he reached White Bridge until that moment, but now it was evident, he had to end it before any more Glassmen died. He had to take that chance.
“This is our fight, Mak!” Torsten roared. “Face me alone and end this.”
The great, wooden gates creaked, gears clanked along, and they slowly opened, revealing the stone of White Bridge, too covered in dust and ash to fulfill its namesake now. It looked like a war had been fought atop it. Stone was scorched, rubble everywhere, and bodies littered it, both Drav Cra and Glassmen.
At least a hundred living, breathing savages arrayed themselves in lines down either side of the bridge, leering at Torsten as he approached. Some snapped their jaws like rabid wolves, while others whispered vulgarities. All were painted with blood and soot. Impure. Unholy. Between them, more Eyes of Iam stood with Glassmen nailed to the wood, clinging to life.
In the center of the Bridge, an encircled triangle was drawn in blood—the symbol of the Buried Goddess. Mak stood at the heart of it all, his milk-white skin stained with blood from his chin down to his muscle-bound chest. He wielded his great battle-axe with two hands against his body. A skull, eye sockets dark and empty, was fastened to the dual blades, facing Torsten, staring him down like death itself.
Mak’s warriors chanted in Drav Crava. Torsten understood none of it, and he didn’t care either. He just walked forward, through the gate, listening as it ground shut behind him. He heard the now-distant shouts of his men, but there was nothing they could do.
“About time you showed,” Mak shouted, his voice returning ten times as it slapped against the gorge walls. “I was running out of people to display for your arrival. It’s like art, no?”
“You’re surrounded, Mak,” Torsten growled.
“Can't bear to look at me when I drive my axe through your skull?” Mak taunted. “Look at him, blindfolded, ready for an execution.”
Torsten wasn’t surprised that Mak hadn’t heard of Torsten’s vision loss atop Mount Lister. He was too busy slaughtering people who couldn’t defend themselves throughout the eastern plains.
“There’s no getting out of this,” Torsten said. “Surrender, or die.”
“Skorravik awaits me,” Mak said, pounding his chest with one hand. “As it did for those you betrayed. Slaughtered in their sleep!”
Torsten did his best to ignore the ravenous warriors on either side of him, even as they snarled at him, still snapping their jaws. His focus was singular, Mak the Mountainous, the one who’d crucified all these citizens of the Glass all around them. Torsten’s blood boiled like it never had before. Redstar, Muskigo, Valin—they’d all had motives. They’d all had reasons for their cruel actions, but not Mak. This was pure evil.
“Redstar deceived us,” Torsten said. “We did only what was necessary.”
“Hypocrites and cowards, all of you!” Mak snarled.
“Says the man who did this to innocent people.” Torsten gestured to one of the crucified Glassmen. “How many are just farmers? For Iam’s sake, there are women!”
“Tits or not, one Glassman is the same as the next,” Mak replied. “The Buried Goddess judges you all ‘guilty.’ It is your turn to be forgotten.”
“Don’t hide behind your fallen goddess, Mak! Her return has been thwarted. This… monstrous act. It’s all you.”
“What gives you the right to judge—leader of backstabbers?”
Torsten hadn’t noticed they were circling each other like two bulls ready to charge. “You would have turned on my people if the tables were turned. That was war.”
“And this is personal.” Mak slowly extended his arm and let it fall, so his giant axe touched the ground, then continued to walk the bloody circle, letting the blades scrape across the stone. “This circle… it opens our hearts and minds to Skorravik, through the depths of the earth, to our Lady.”
Torsten stopped at the circle’s edge, now only a few meters away from Mak. In his peripherals, he noticed that the Drav Cra had closed in behind him, blocking any chance of retreat. That was okay. Torsten had no expectation of leaving that bridge alive. His only hope was that Iam would allow
him to kill Mak first, to save the rest of those crucified on the bridge from a horrid fate.
Perhaps this was a trap, but as Torsten squeezed the grip of his sword, felt the cold Eye of Iam at the cross-guard, he didn’t think so. He knew warriors, knew how the great chieftain Mak claimed never to have lost in combat. Torsten was a man of Iam, yet, more than anything, he was a warrior. He knew the pride of men like Mak who saw nothing save for their own legend.
“It’s blood on stone,” Torsten spat. “Nothing more.”
“Within these sacred bindings, none may interfere,” Mak replied, brow narrowed to a point. “In here, it is you and me. You shall perish, and then, my fallen warriors will drag you down to Skorravik, and you will feel the pain of their swords. They will cut your skin, over and over, for all of eternity. Their reward will be your torture. Skorravik!”
An earth-shaking response came from every Drav Cra warrior on the bridge. “Skorravik!”
“And if you die?” Torsten questioned, doing his best to ignore the pit forming in his gut.
“They are sworn to their drad. Only another of my kind can claim this axe, and you will never be Drav Cra.”
“You demanded I come. Here I am,” Torsten said. “I will face you, Mak, if you give me your word that if you die, they will all surrender and return home. No raiding, no pillaging. They will go back to your ice.”
“If I die, they will join me in Skorravik. We are one.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Then you aren’t listening to my words,” Mak said, slamming his axe on the stone. “The Fyortentek clan can have no dradinengor if yours are the hands which claim me. If I die within this circle, they cannot retrieve my body or this axe. They will have no drad. If I die, they do as well.” He snickered and looked around at his people. The savages were so close to Torsten’s back now he could smell them. “But do they seem afraid? Only you should be.”
War of Men Page 15