War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  And now, the one bargaining chip Torsten might have had with Yuri Darkings had just gotten himself killed.

  “Look at ’em all,” Brouben said, stomping over. “I thought the war in the south was almost over.”

  “So did I,” Torsten said. He turned to the weary soldier. “What's your name, soldier?”

  “Brenlin, Sir. Brenlin Coreth.”

  “Brenlin, start getting a camp set up outside the gates.”

  “With what?”

  “Anything,” Torsten said.

  “They burned our supplies… They burned everything.”

  “Just do it!”

  “I can go to me father and ask for materials.” Brouben offered.

  “No,” Torsten said. “We don't have that kind of time.”

  “We send a galler. He’ll dispatch what we need as soon as he receives the bird.”

  “I won't add to our debt…”

  The dwarf held up one furry hand. “Won’t hear nothin about it. Ye paid, we agreed. The warm hospitality of my people is just what these brave men be needing. Me cousin Hogrin’ll bring an extra barrel of ale… or ten.”

  Torsten bowed his head. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “Don’t. Ye promised me a good fight and cheated me out of it with yer heroics. I ain’t never fought gray men before. Always a good time to try new things.” He stowed his axe and lumbered over to a few of his people, barking orders.

  Torsten let the soldier march along and turned. More and more of his people flooded from White Bridge’s Eastern Gates to help the battered army. Spotting Lucas in the fray, Torsten summoned the willpower to make his way to him.

  “Sir Unger, there you are,” Lucas said, saluting. “Have you heard what they’re saying? Is it true about Nahanab?”

  “Is it true? Look around,” Torsten said.

  “Sir… I... what do we do?”

  “Sir Danvels, focus. I need you to ride east to the nearest town. Fettingborough, I believe. Ask if they’ll spare their lodging and whatever supplies they have for an army.”

  “This region was hit hard by Mak and the raiders,” Lucas said. “They might resist.”

  “It was, and the time to rebuild will come. But, for now, Fettingborough is all that stands between this army and the Black Sands. Convince them they'll be safer with us there than here. If Muskigo has reinforcements, it’s clear that the situation in Latiapur isn’t as clean as our agents might have thought. Ride fast and bring men with you.”

  “Yes, sir. What should I do after?”

  “Return here,” Torsten said as he placed a hand on Lucas’ shoulder. “I need you at my side as we prepare for battle.”

  Lucas saluted and returned for the horses. Torsten followed behind him. The men and women of the cloth received the newcomers, filling the broken towers of White Bridge with more injured. Even Dellbar the Holy seemed to be paying less attention to his flask and more to the onslaught of refugees.

  As Torsten climbed to one of the few rooms left on the ravaged upper floors of the Eastern Watchtower, he could see further.

  There were too many men.

  “Sir Marcos!” Torsten spotted him and called down. The young Shieldsman instantly came to attention, looking around for the voice. “Up here!”

  “Sir?” he said, finding Torsten in the window.

  “Start getting a headcount. I need to know how much of the Glass army remains. When you’re done, return to me. I have a special assignment for you. A message that must be delivered by hand to an afhem in Latiapur named Babrak.”

  Even from so high up, through his blindfold, Torsten could see the Shieldsman's brow furrow. “In their capital?”

  “They still serve the Crown. Nobody will dare touch you. It must be done.”

  “Yes, sir.” The words passed by the lump in the soldier's throat, and he hurried off.

  Torsten continued to his temporary quarters, passing several of his men, sending one to retrieve ink and parchment, and another to fetch gallers. He didn’t have time to think of all the angles, but he couldn’t afford to waste any either. Not after such an unexpected defeat. The most important part of losing is the recovery. Uriah Davies had taught him that.

  He’d send a message to the Crown first, informing them what had happened. The people of Yarrington were hungry, but food and water would have to be found to spare. Supplies from the reconstruction efforts in Winde Port could be redirected to house soldiers.

  Then, he’d send a bird to Yaolin. Now that the main route between the west and east was retaken, he’d demand more support for the war effort beyond the cohort of Panpingese archers they’d dispatched. All the soldiers hunting for the mysterious Dom Nohzi hideaway could be recalled. Ships from the eastern isles could sail south with fresh conscripts.

  While the Black Sands continued fighting amongst themselves, with no Caleef to unite their vision, Torsten could move fast to establish a foothold just north of their desert. And from there, Sir Marcos would deliver a letter to the Trisps’I Afhemate which Sir Nikserof had built a relationship with. He would demand the safe return of Sir Nikserof, the handing over of Yuri Darkings, and the public submission of Afhem Muskigo. All of that, in exchange for peace talks that would forgive all offenses and offer more favorable terms to the Shesaitju than before.

  He didn’t have time to ask King Pi’s permission. He knew the boy wanted peace more than anything. A lone rider might be able to reach Latiapur before Muskigo and his new supporters could. That would sow further discontent amongst the afhems. They’d demanded Muskigo’s life before, but now, the responsibility for future death would be squarely on his shoulders.

  He doubted it would stop a war. But it would give them time to recover. The Glass army had suffered a defeat, but from his window, he saw the mass of broken men spread across the horizon. By some miracle, much of the army had survived.

  Torsten had hoped that, without him, the wars would’ve ended. He’d hoped Mak’s would be the last blood he’d have to shed.

  Some things weren't meant to be.

  XXI

  The Thief

  Whitney emerged from the water, gasping. He coughed up the strange blue liquid from the Well of Wisdom and threw his bone-soaked torso over the ledge. The stench of mold overwhelmed his olfactory senses, and his eyes stung. Hard as he could, he tried to process what he’d just seen, but simply couldn’t reconcile the thought of Sora—even if it were only her body—performing such heinous acts. It made him sick.

  Fearful even the memory of it might make it all begin anew, Whitney thrust himself fully out of the Well and rolled away. Lingering there a long moment, eyes bleary, he blinked several times in an effort to drive it all away. But the mental barrage wouldn’t stop. Nesilia had spoken to him. She’d all but told him her plans.

  A violent splash disrupted him, and he looked over to see Kazimir rising from the Well, too. His white hair looked like a messy bird’s nest atop his head.

  "Kazzy," Whitney said, coughing. "Are you okay?"

  Kazimir didn't respond, just stared into the dark, eyes wide, a blank expression plastered on his face. Whitney rolled over and speedily crawled to him. He reached out for the upyr, but Kazimir snapped his arm out, quick as death, and Whitney felt cold, clammy flesh against his wrist.

  "Whoa!" Whitney said. “It’s okay. You’re back now.”

  Kazimir’s grip let up, but only slightly. It went from bone-crushing to skin bruising as Whitney grasped onto Kazimir’s shoulder and dragged him to the edge of the pool.

  If Kazimir had experienced anything like Whitney had, Whitney could only imagine what it might have been. The upyr had seen centuries on Pantego, and the things he must have encountered would've made any of Whitney's memories look like a casual stroll through a peaceful meadow—perhaps even that of Nesilia.

  "What else did you see?" Whitney asked.

  Kazimir finally moved. His gaze shifted ever so slightly, soulless as always.

  “The beginning of all things,�
� he said softly. “The end of all things.”

  “Cryptic as ever,” Whitney remarked.

  “I saw the start of this life. You were there.”

  “Yeah, that part I was with you for. Actually, saw a bit more of you than I ever hoped I would,” He shuddered. “But then, everything changed and then you were gone. It was just me… and Sora.”

  “You saw her?” Kazimir asked, back to grinding Whitney’s wrist to a fine powder. “Where was she? Was it her, or the goddess?”

  Whitney sucked in a breath through his teeth and tried to pry Kazimir’s fingers loose while saying, “It was her, but not now-her. Ow. Ow. Let go, would you?”

  Kazimir obliged, then rolled out of the water and laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Who’s being cryptic now?”

  “I just mean… like yours, it was a memory of her. Of us. Shortly after we killed Bliss in the Webbed Woods and returned Redstar.” Whitney recounted what he’d seen, then went on to describe the gruesome scene in the tower and the personal message from Nesilia.

  “You’re sure it was really her, not a memory?” Kazimir said.

  Whitney shrugged. “How could it be? I wasn’t there.”

  “Then she knows of the pact. Nesilia…” In an altogether not-Kazimir way, the upyr sat up beside Whitney and said, “Sora’s going to be okay. We will stop the Buried Goddess. Don’t worry.”

  His hand rested on Whitney’s arm—just rested, not squeezing, crushing… just… rested. For a beat, Whitney wanted to believe his friend’s words… until he remembered…

  “What do you care?” he said. “You said we weren’t friends, remember? ‘This isn’t Elsewhere,’ you said.”

  Kazimir's hand pulled away, and he stood. “You are more foolish than I first believed, Whitney Fierstown. I knew you were stupid, but I never imagined it was like this.”

  “What?” Whitney asked, standing as well.

  “I am Kazimir Mikholov. I have seen nations rise and fall. I remember when the dwarves ruled most of what is now called the Glass Kingdom. I survived the Culling in my Motherland when all the dead rose, and all the living died only to be raised again. Did you expect that I would show any kind of weakness in front of my apprentice?”

  The words hung until Kazimir muttered, “You, stupid as you might be, are the closest thing to a friend I have in this world. A millennium of living, for this… What a sad life.”

  A small smile spread on Whitney’s face, and he started to speak, but Kazimir cut him off. “Speak of this to anyone, and I will slash your throat.”

  Whitney motioned locking his lips with an imaginary key. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Like I could ever believe that.”

  They chuckled together, and for a fleeting second, all the horrors of the Well of Wisdom fell away. Then, they all came rushing back.

  “So, what do we do?” Whitney asked.

  “She said she’s going to the Sanguine Lords?”

  “Yeah…”

  “While I was in the Well,” Kazimir started, “I said I saw the end of all things. Ghastrin de Dahkel, and my first encounter with the beast. It was the end of my days as a mortal. It gave me an idea. The upyr believe that to devour the corporeal form of the wianu grants eternal life—and by my example, we know it to be more than myth. But they also believe that to be devoured by one means eternal damnation in Elsewhere.”

  Thinking he saw where Kazimir was going, Whitney said, “Surely, not for a goddess though?”

  “Why not? Your precious Iam exiled so many others there.”

  “Do you know me at all? I don’t give two breaths and a shog about Iam, or any of these other gods. All they’ve done is cause havoc in my life. If this’ll kill the wench, I’ll be the one to throw her down the thing’s gullet. But you have to be sure.”

  Kazimir was pacing now. “If she is going to Brekliodad… even so, it will not be easy.”

  “I killed Bliss—”

  “For the final time: Bliss was a shell of who she’d once been. Do you think she always bore the form of that monster? That she always commanded tiny arachnid children?”

  “They weren’t very tiny,” Whitney said.

  “They were ants compared to what Nesilia will bring with her when her full power is realized.”

  “I saw the demons in Elsewhere.” The memory of the needle-toothed beasts which had attacked him in Elsewhere crashed through Whitney’s mind. The hounds… the wianu.

  “You would have seen the weakest of them all,” Kazimir said. “Those who have been trapped in Elsewhere for thousands of years, unable to feed on life, cursed only to suffer alongside the dead.”

  “Worse than that?”

  “Far worse, and far more. Nesilia might command millions of the creatures, desperate for vengeance after the God Feud. And I suspect she will seduce many of the living to her side just as she has the Drav Cra, Aihara Na, and all those worthless mortals wearing masks across the city.”

  “Shog, that’s right,” Whitney swore. “We’ve got to get back there. What if those cultists overran Tum Tum’s pub?”

  “Then your friends will already be dead,” Kazimir said, his tone a bit too matter-of-fact for Whitney’s liking. “You chose Sora over them. Now, you are stuck with your choice.”

  Whitney bit his lip. He hadn’t consciously thought it was one or the other, but Kazimir was right… as always. All Whitney had was the belief that Tum Tum, Lucindur, and the others were strong enough to hold out. He hoped they were, but he’d been wrong a few times before.

  “You’re right.” It hurt to say it, but Sora was more important to him than everyone in Panping—everyone in Pantego even. He had to get her back. “So, we somehow feed Nesilia to a wianu?”

  “We may be able to reach Brek before she does… before she can summon the wianu to her cause. The Sanguine Lords will put up a fight, though I fear even they will not be a match for her, and we still must get Nesilia out of Sora if we are to have any hope of killing the goddess without betraying my pact.”

  “When I saw her…” Whitney swallowed. “…killing all the mystics. Nesilia looked scared of something. That necklace-thing Kai was talking about. What was it called?

  “A bar guai,” Kazimir offered. “You must have imagined it. Why would she care about a necklace?”

  “Kai said it could store ancient magic, right? Mystic powers from their dead souls and whatnot? What if it can store more than magic?”

  Kazimir’s white brow furrowed. “You mean Nesilia herself?”

  “Kai said things changed when Sora broke the bar guai, right? Maybe it kept Nesilia from possessing her or something. Maybe Nesilia was scared of Sora wearing it again?”

  “It’s possible. If we can split Sora and her mind, we may be able to separate them. One for the body, one for the stone, and contain Nesilia until she can be banished. You said you've entered Sora’s mind before, so we’ll need the Lightmancer.”

  “She won’t be eager to use her powers again,” Whitney argued.

  “Then we’ll make her. For reasons I don't understand, Sora cares for you. She is compromised around you, and, therefore, Nesilia is as well. They are still joined. If the Lightmancer sends you in, it’ll give us an opening.”

  Whitney chewed on a fingernail, then nodded. “She’ll do it. She has to. I know… it’s all a long shot but—”

  “But it’s the best we have,” Kazimir said. “The Well of Wisdom is said to give the diver the information needed to overcome the obstacles before them, if they have the wisdom to find it. It is the combined memories of every mystic who’d ever drawn on its power. Every story ever told lies within those waters. If the Well showed me the beginning of my life as an upyr, granted to me by a wianu, and to you, the beginning of Sora’s captivity and the bar guai, I have to believe they are connected somehow.”

  “Then we need to talk to Kai. We have to get a bar guy—whatever-thing.”

  When they reached the Red Tower’s main entry hall, Kai appeared mo
rtified. Sigrid had gagged him, which was a smart move. Considering it seemed the only way the kid could cast magic was through the use of an ancient language, Whitney was surprised she hadn’t just lopped his tongue off and eaten it.

  Sigrid was in the corner, trying desperately to force the blood of the dead mystic acolytes past her muzzle.

  “Sigrid, stop,” Kazimir ordered.

  Sigrid turned to them. A feral quality ravaging her features. She looked positively crazed.

  “That blood is too old,” Kazimir went on. “They’ve been dead for hours. Only fresh blood carries the stream of life. This… it is tainted by death. It will not provide what you desire.”

  She breathed out a mournful wail, then dashed to Kai, still tied up. He tried to scurry away, but his back found the wall.

  Kazimir placed himself between Kai and his apprentice, then grabbed Sigrid by the neckline and tossed her aside. “We still need him,” he said. “Any sign of Aihara Na yet?”

  Sigrid shook her head but never looked away from Kai.

  Kazimir then turned to the young mystic. “I will remove this gag, but at the first sign of rebellion, I will cut you down. Understood?

  Kai nodded. When Kazimir untied the gag, Kai shifted his jaw around in a circle. “She’s insane!”

  “Quite,” Kazimir admitted. “But it is not her fault. The transition to unlife is a difficult one. Many never recover the minds they knew. They can’t reconcile the power.”

  Something in Kai’s eyes told Whitney he understood that feeling.

  “Can you untie him?” Whitney asked. “I don’t think he’s going to try to run. Besides, how far can he get with you here?”