“Please don’t,” said another woman dressed in a red robe, kneeling at Sora’s feet. “Together we can start afresh!”
Whitney watched in horror, then saw deeper. This Sora looked like Sora, but her beautiful amber eyes… they were different. No longer pretty but terrifying. Then he remembered the room and the robed figures, the ones who’d torn her out of Elsewhere after their encounter with the Buried Goddess. Maybe it was the Well telling him, but he knew—it wasn’t Sora committing these atrocities. The Buried Goddess had just taken over.
“Lady Sora, please don’t do this,” the mystic woman groveled. “I was wrong about you, your power. We can still save Panping and the Order. Together.”
With a sudden explosion of power, vines burst from the walls, floor, waters, and even from Sora’s hands. They covered the room, wrapping the dead bodies as well as the woman now almost prostrate before Sora, begging.
Sora’s head snapped back, eyes rolling upward. Her back straight, arched, she ascended, hovering a meter from the ground. She turned slowly, and when she faced Whitney, their eyes met. It wasn’t like the other visions… Whitney could see life in those eyes, and he knew, she could see him.
The Buried Goddess smiled.
This time, there was no melting butter, no warm fuzzies inside. Whitney’s heart felt like it was being crushed beneath the weight of a thousand mountains. The woman in red was speaking again, but Whitney didn’t care. He just watched as Nesilia watched him through the eyes of the woman he loved.
“Whitney Fierstown,” she said. “Always meddling in business not your own. When will you learn?” It was definitely not Sora’s voice speaking, even if it was her mouth. Every syllable made the hairs on his neck stand erect.
Whitney looked around, confused. “You… see me?”
“I see everything.”
“Good, then I have a few words for you,” Whitney said.
Nesilia’s smile widened.
“You’re not welcome here,” he continued. “Why can’t you just leave us alone? What did we do to you?”
“Besides killing my rotten sister, Bliss, and stealing away my opportunity at revenge? Every breath you take is an abomination. But it’s no matter. Soon, you will be dead. Then, the rest of the world will bend beneath my power. Grimaurs, goblins, demons—even the wianu themselves,” she motioned to the statues stationed around the room, and Whitney could have sworn one moved. “Our forsaken creations that you people call ‘monsters’ will want vengeance upon Iam’s chosen. Soon, they will all heed my commands.”
“You think that scares me? I’ve fought a wianu, and I live to tell the tale,” Whitney bragged, although he felt no strength behind his words.
“You survived because of your little upyr pet!”
“I saved him too.”
“Whitney Fierstown.” Nesilia laughed, a sound like ice. “Six years forgotten below and you haven’t changed. Imagine eternity.”
“Sounds awful. How was it?” Whitney couldn't help himself. He knew he was playing with fire, but didn't care. “Why don’t you let Sora go and come face me and my upyr pet yourself? I’ll show you how much I’ve changed.”
“Oh, trust me, I plan on it. Your meddling has become tiresome. I already planned to visit the Sanguine Lords and show them what a true deity looks like, now I’ll really enjoying slaughtering them. Their days of toying with the delicate balance of life are through.”
“We‘ll stop you,” Whitney said.
“No—you…”
Her voice trailed off, and her eyes jerked to the ground. Whitney followed her gaze. A strange piece of jewelry lay just a meter away. It was broken, but Whitney could still make out a pendant—a golden disc surrounded by six small stones. Each stone had words written on it, though the language was nothing like Whitney had ever seen.
The Buried Goddess’ eyes sprang back to Whitney. They betrayed a flicker of fear, not Sora’s, but Nesilia's. Then, she was gone. It was all gone.
Whitney breathed in a lungful of water.
XX
The Knight
Torsten watched the cell door close, then heard the lock click. Rand never fought being thrown inside. He merely sat against the wall, a thousand-meter gaze aimed at nothing while Lucas checked the cell for anything Rand could use to hurt himself. Nothing was left. Not a bone, no loose stones, not even straw of hay.
The dungeons were reserved for smugglers and brigands—people brought in off the roads up to no good, thrown into a hole in the side of the Jarein Gorge. Torsten wondered if they’d ever housed a man who’d simultaneously done so much to save the kingdom, and so much to harm it.
“I’m so sorry, Rand,” Torsten said, choking back his sadness. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Rand had freed Torsten from a dungeon when he'd been at his lowest, had sacrificed everything to do it. Now, to save Rand from himself, Torsten had to lock him up.
“Deep down, I know you’re a good man,” Torsten said, stepping closer. “You have to stay here for now. Once we move on, we’ll figure out how to help you. Perhaps, Hornsheim can show you the beauty of living.”
Rand peered up at Torsten from within the cell, and for a moment, looked like he had something to say. Then his sad eyes went hazy, and it was like Rand was staring straight through him again.
Torsten sighed and turned, finding Lucas waiting anxiously by the dungeon entry. When Torsten reached him, Lucas said, “Sir, I saw Valin’s letters about Rand and the Caleef back in Yarrington.”
“He’s suffered enough,” Torsten said.
“He might know something.”
“He did. The Caleef died here at the hands of the Drav Cra. Fell into the Walled Lake. No one could have survived that.”
Lucas didn’t seem surprised. “Could be lying.”
“Does that man look capable of lying right now?” Torsten asked. “Besides, I trust him.”
“How? He helped Valin, he—”
“He followed his heart to try and save me and his sister, and lost her for doing so," Torsten said. “A crime for a Shieldsman who must only serve the Crown, perhaps, but he threw his shield down long ago. If he says the Caleef fell to his death, then I believe it. There’s nothing to gain in lying.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Lucas sighed. “Let me take some men down below to search the shores for his remains, anyway. Best safe than surprised.”
Torsten pondered for a moment, then nodded. “No men. Go alone and tell no one. Body or not, the Black Sands cannot know their Caleef is lost, not yet. As far as they know, Yuri Darkings is still smuggling him, and that friction will help us. If a new Caleef is chosen, and is braver than Sidar Rakun… I can’t say what will happen.”
“Yes, Sir.” Lucas pounded a fist against his chest, then took a step toward the stairs. He stopped.
“What is it?” Torsten asked.
The boy turned, lips falling at the corners. “I’m sorry, Sir Unger. I know he’s your friend.”
“Not my friend. Just another Shieldsman I’ve failed.”
“You haven’t failed anyone.”
Torsten smiled. “The light of Iam reveals only the truth. Now, go. We’ll spend the rest of the night here cleaning up, then leave a few behind while we march to join Sir Nikserof, and finally put an end to this war.”
Lucas saluted again, then headed out and up. Torsten glanced back at Rand’s cell one last time, and his heart felt like it had been stabbed by ice picks. Anyone else would’ve been at the bars, banging, hollering to be freed. Torsten never could understand men who gave up on living, who’d rather take their own lives, squelch their own light, and be damned to Elsewhere. For Iam taught that to murder was to forsake the Gate of Light—whether the forfeited life be others or oneself.
That he didn’t understand it made it all the more frightening.
He’d have hoped Rand would want to live a life in honor of his dead… undead sister; to do what he could to make the world a better place, so what happened to her wouldn’t happen again. Tor
sten cared as much about Rand being ‘the Redeemer’ as himself being called ‘Torsten the Triumphant.” They were mere titles that were only a hair’s breadth away from being taken away if either of them made a poor choice. The Glass Kingdom didn't need icons or heroes, it needed Iam’s light alone.
Torsten had lied to Lucas. Rand wasn't just a failed Shieldsman, he was a friend, and Torsten just wanted him to find peace.
He’ll recover, he told himself. Then he can know the truth about Sigrid, and we can find a way to stop the Dom Nohzi from ever killing again.
Torsten climbed the stairs. Each step hurt, his legs burning, back aching. The war wasn’t even over yet, and he felt like he'd fought a hundred battles.
“Your accent, it’s very pretty,” Dellbar said from around a corner. “Where are you from?”
A young woman snickered. “Bridleton.”
Torsten came around and saw the High Priest standing with Nauriyal. She held a bowl of water to be brought to the victims. Dellbar reached out and ran his thumb along her chin.
“Ah, yes, there it is,” he said. “The southern dimple. You can tell a lot by a woman’s chin.” He turned toward Torsten as if hearing him coming, then, clearing his throat, said, “And a man’s, of course.”
“Leave the sister alone,” Torsten said. His tone wasn't unkind, but it was a warning—something he'd never thought he’d have to do to the High Priest of the Glass Kingdom.
Times are changing, Torsten thought, and not for the first time.
Dellbar whispered something in Nauriyal’s ear that got her to smirk, then he stepped aside.
“You don’t need to keep working,” Torsten addressed her. “I know what it’s like to lose a father, even a wretched one.”
“Iam is just,” she said softly. “My father got what he deserved.”
“Even still.”
“It helps me to help them.”
“You are strong beyond words,” Torsten said. “We aren’t our parents, Sister. You prove that.”
She put on a frail grin, then hurried off. Torsten caught Dellbar taking a swig from his flask before stowing it within the folds of his holy robes.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Torsten grumbled.
“Am I still breathing?” Dellbar replied. He slapped Torsten on the back. “I heard about what happened. Rand Langley. Of all the people to be here… the one I helped free you. Is that why you spared him?”
“What did you say?” Torsten asked.
Dellbar laughed and shook his head. “Bartholomew Darkings may’ve been a cur, but he was a prisoner of the Glass. Now, he’s murdered.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it that.”
“I may not have eyes, Master Unger, but even a blind man can see. Rand ‘The Redeemer’ gored the man in the throat repeatedly. If that is not murder, nothing is.”
Torsten scowled and kept walking. Dellbar took a long stride and stopped him with a palm to his chest plate. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just find it curious that we three would be here on the bridge between worlds. It’s almost… destiny.”
“I think maybe you’ve had a sip too many, Holiness.”
Dellbar chuckled. “Well, that’s always true. Still, I’ve learned not to miss the signs. That poor soul who has lost so much… somehow I feel he’s the key to all of this.”
“All of what?”
“Now that, Sir Unger, is the right question. I think I’ll go talk to him, offer him the same old rant about the light and how life is worth living. Or, maybe just a drink.”
“Sir Unger!” a soldier shouted down from atop the gate. “A rider approaches. He carries the standard of the King’s Shield.”
“It never just rains.” Torsten exhaled. “Your Holiness, if you make that man crack a smile again, it’ll be more of a miracle than giving me sight.”
“I’d be proud just to make you crack one.” Dellbar strolled by, whistling a song mothers sang to children in Winter’s Thumb about Drav Cra raiders and ice dragons. It was far too cheerful for the occasion.
Torsten climbed the watchtower to gaze over the gates that were, until now, rarely ever closed.
Another sign of the times, Torsten thought.
It was a Glassman rounding the grassy plains for sure, only, he was in as much a rush as anyone Torsten had ever seen. Mud kicked up as horse and rider slid to the ground. The horse, obviously exhausted, didn't rise again. The rider left his flag where it lay, and pressed forward on foot.
“Open the gates!” Torsten demanded as he stumbled down the stairs, still aching from his battle with Mak. He hurried to the hitches and mounted the first horse he found, then raced through as the gates were still cranking. As he drew closer, he noticed a Shesaitju barbed arrow sticking out of the man’s thigh. His horse was dead, but now he wasn't sure it was exhaustion as several arrows protruded from its haunches.
Jumping down, Torsten rushed to the hobbling soldier. With a hand behind his back, Torsten lowered the man to the ground.
“Relax,” Torsten offered, but even as he did, heard the absurdity of the command.
Every crevice of the man's steel armor was filled with coarse, black sand, and the metal itself suffered from countless dents and scratches as if rats had been loosed upon him. His cheeks were similarly cut, every wound filled with more sand. His hair, his eyebrows, his chapped lips, everywhere: sand.
“Soldier, can you hear me?” Torsten asked.
The man looked at him. He didn’t seem like he’d gone mad, just so exhausted he could barely speak.
“The Black Sandsmen, they…” he coughed. It sounded like his throat was made of dried bark.
“Where were you posted?” Torsten asked. The man’s head rolled to the side. “Have they sent out raiding parties again?” He grabbed him by the shoulders. “Speak!”
With his last breath before exhaustion took him, he said, “Nahanab… they…won.”
“Uh, Sir Unger, they be with you?” Brouben said. Torsten whipped around and saw the dwarven prince atop a lonely rock, axe in both hands. A few more soldiers, dwarf and human, had followed him out.
Letting the weary soldier's head fall back, Torsten stood and what he saw stole all the breath from his lungs. Battered-looking soldiers trekked across the plains, their ranks broken. Hundreds of them, and judging by how many in the distance, maybe thousands more to come. Most were ordinary soldiers, but there were Shieldsman amongst them. Even beneath the murky sky, their glaruium armor stuck out like pearls.
“This is the Glass army,” Torsten said.
“Army?” Brouben replied.
A few unmounted horses galloped toward them.
“Whoa now!” Brouben shouted to one, grabbing its reins as it slowed. He yanked it back and showed remarkable tenderness to the creature, the likes of which Torsten had never seen from a dwarf. It stopped running, but its eyes didn’t lie. They spoke of pure terror.
Torsten stomped through the wet plains toward the nearest of the soldiers. All the while, on the horizon, more and more of them appeared. He didn’t think black sand could coat armor like it did on some of them. The way it caked itself to their blood and sweat, it was like the very desert had come alive to fight them.
“Iam's light, what happened?” Torsten asked the first soldier he found. The man regarded him, confused, a blank look on his face. Torsten seized him by the shoulders. “I am Sir Unger, your Master of Warfare. Tell me what happened.”
That finally gained the soldier’s attention. “The Slayer of Redstar?” he asked, voice dry and hoarse just like the last one.
“Among other things.”
The young man struck his chest in salute, though he seemed incapable of straightening his back. Like all the others filtering by, he looked scared and exhausted.
“We were camped outside Nahanab,” he said. “With the help of another afhem named Babrak, who wished to see the end of the war, Sir Nikserof arranged the surrender of the rebel Muskigo. They opened the gates of the city, and he went in, but it
was a trap.”
“Set by this Babrak?”
The man shook his head. Torsten noticed a wobble to one of his legs and helped him stay upright.
“No,” the soldier answered. Then he drew a long breath. “I don’t know. Muskigo was about to take his own life in shame when reinforcements arrived under a female afhem. It all happened so fast. A fleet broke through our blockade, then flanked us both in the city and outside. We were holding our own until… until…”
“Slow down, Soldier. Speak plainly.”
“A sandstorm hit. It was like... like nothing I’ve ever seen. The sun, the sky, all light went away. It was like ten thousand needles all around us. I can still taste it.” He started hacking on the air.
“What does that mean?” Torsten asked. “Look at me, boy. What are you saying?”
“We lost Nahanab!”
Torsten nearly lost his grip on the man. “And Muskigo?”
“Alive… I think.”
“And Sir Nikserof?”
The soldier’s head hung, and he breathed out slowly. “Captured. That is, if the heathens even bothered to keep him alive.”
Torsten’s chest tightened. If he didn’t have to support the soldier, he would have pounded the earth in frustration.
“I knew it was all too easy… dammit!” He cursed, his voice thundering across the countryside. He’d defeated Mak with no loss, wiping away the plague of the Buried Goddess for good. Yet, all that lingered in his head were Mak’s final premonitions about her return. He’d gained the support of dwarves using the mass of gold commandeered from Valin Tehr, and in doing so, turned something wretched into a gesture for hope.
All of it was meant to provide a foundation for peace. The new king now saw with clarity. He trusted Torsten, even after all his failures, to bring the kingdom that peace. All of it made sense when the Black Sands were meant to fall. Muskigo had no support and was clinging to his rebellion. For months, Torsten had been assured of this, but it didn’t take a veteran soldier to see the sting of defeat etched plainly upon the face of each man marching toward him. It didn’t even take eyes. He could hear their exhaustion and their rattled breathing. He could smell the stink of blood, sweat, and tears. All of it together reeked.
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