War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I thought she’d be the one we followed until the end,” Bit’rudam said, voice quaking. “The one to change our fortune. To bring power to the islands again after the Glass trade routes forgot us in our rough seas.”

  “Mahraveh was unlike anyone before her,” Muskigo said. Just uttering her name made his heart sting, his throat dry, and his muscles seize. “And anyone who will come after. I see that now, all too late.”

  “I never trusted that pink-skin from the start,” Bit’rudam growled. “We should have never brought him with us. It was my job to protect her.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was mine. Mahi, Pazradi—Mahraveh’s mother—Shavi. I’ve failed them all. Saujibar and all those who called it home. My entire afhemate.”

  “Why would the Current want this?” Bit’rudam asked. His already-red eyes were beginning to tear up again.

  “I don’t know, but you won’t find out down there.” Muskigo pointed at the hole and the disgruntled sages. “The al’Tariq Afhemate remains strong. Soon, blood and water will be spilled in its name. I’ve seen you fight. You can win.”

  “Or I could lose. What does it matter? A new alliance is coming. Haven’t you seen? There’re more markless than ever. More traders and merchants. The age of the Shesaitju warriors is passing. My father told me it was coming long ago, that he didn’t want this life for me. I didn’t listen.”

  “Then listen to me, boy.” Muskigo clutched Bit’rudam’s jaw and forced him to stare into his eyes. There was resistance, but Muskigo only squeezed harder and pulled him closer. “I have seen every horror this world has to offer. I found victory snatched from me by flame and wicked magic. I have won, and now I have lost. But the one thing I know for certain is that no matter who rules us, the Black Sands needs strong men like you. Grieve the life of my daughter as if you loved her. For perhaps you did, or still do, and her father wouldn’t blame you, but whatever you choose, don’t throw your life away on a prayer to a god whose voice remains absent after so much death.”

  Bit’rudam swallowed hard. “Maybe, he’ll offer me the power to change things.”

  “If he has that power, I have not seen it. Only we can change things. Wise men who follow the Current, float with it. Embrace it. However, the sharks cut through it to find their prey. They make their own survival, and maybe their lives burn short, but they burn bright. And boy, you have the heart of a shark. You’re not meant to sit and listen. You’ve been called to hunt.”

  Muskigo cupped the back of the boy’s neck, pulled him in, and leaned forward. Their foreheads met. He said nothing else, just walked away. But Muskigo knew, deep within, that Bit’rudam wouldn’t leap. He was a young man willing to stand up against the legend of the Scythe. Whether it was out of bravery, brazenness, or lust, it didn’t matter. He was an afhem in the making. A true warrior.

  That was Muksigo’s people’s greatest export. Not carpets, or gold, or fish, or anything else they traded with the Glass Kingdom and beyond. Warriors. For centuries, kings around Pantego would hire afhemates like mercenaries, would back some, ally against others—watch in awe as they killed each other with relentless passion and unparalleled skill.

  The Shesaitju’s finest were trained from birth. They survived the great desert on their own as children, hunting their own food, learning the land. At least, Muskigo’s generation had, and all those before. Things weren’t so simple once all the trading started.

  Yet, in rebelling alone, with only his allies and not the backing of all the Shesaitju, Muskigo knew now that he'd merely fed the stereotype that his people were fractured warrior tribes which could never expand behind their desert. When even the Drav Cra could find a common leader, the Shesaitju were just tools to be played with and traded by rich lords.

  In trying to undo that, Muskigo had made it worse. He’d allowed false afhems like Babrak to rise.

  No more.

  Sweeping out of the throne room, retrieving his weapon, he burst out onto the palace courtyard. His long strides quickly brought him to the bluffs overlooking the Intsti Reef to the south and Latiapur to the east. Ships docked, and men and women flocked to their great city on the coast, all in the name of a new Caleef. There were traders everywhere, peddling wares from every corner of the world. No Glassmen were foolish enough to show their faces in these times, but there were dwarves, Panpingese, Breklians, anyone who thought they could take advantage of the loss of the Caleef and make an autla or three.

  Sellouts and whores.

  While Muskigo was out trying to claim a crown for themselves, they’d festered in his home like a virus—a sickness fed by Babrak and the greedy afhems at his side.

  No more.

  Muskigo delved down through the markets. His ears were assailed from every direction by Shesaitju who’d forsaken their ways. Soft men. Women who couldn’t even stand in Mahraveh’s shadow. It didn’t even feel like the city he knew. A city built on respect and honor. Now, it felt like Winde Port, a place the gods saw burned down for good reason.

  No more.

  He pushed through all of it until he reached the outer arches of Tal’du Dromesh where his legacy began. That hallowed concourse was like an extension of the markets now, filled with stands and traveling carts, selling luxuries that weren’t necessities, selling weapons made in faraway lands, nowhere near as sharp or sturdy as the one hanging at Muskigo’s hip.

  A wave of sickness blended with his rage. He wanted to tear the place down. Instead, he kept moving into the aisle of afhemates. Surrounded by a flood of seawater, the place was home to the palaces erected long ago to house afhems upon visiting the capital. A needless luxury. Muskigo could count on one hand how many times he’d visited that which belonged to the Ayerabi. The dust and webs covering its portico displayed that well enough.

  Many homes were presently occupied with so much happening in Latiapur, zhulong rolling about in the stable’s mud pits, children playing in the streets. Muskigo wondered if perhaps he should have spent more time here over the years, shaking hands and making friends. More time playing these modern political games the Glass Kingdom plagued his kind with.

  Too late now.

  Rage carried him like a storm right up to the Trisps’I palace’s blackwood doors. Babrak’s door. One guard bearing the marks of the Trisps’I Afhemate stood along with two Serpent Guards being used as Babrak's own personal protection.

  Within, drums pounded, lutes strummed, people caroused. While the Black Sands mourned the loss of afhems and a Caleef, Babrak was throwing a feast. Dozens of dignitaries and women filled the place, gorging themselves on his riches.

  “Afhem Muskigo,” one of Babrak’s guards addressed him. “I’m so sorry, but you must leave. Babrak hosts a private gathering of the most trusted members of his afhemate and beyond.”

  “Gathering?” Muskigo said, seething. “I must have missed my invite.”

  Each palace was identical on the outside—equal—but Muskigo could see through the man’s windows at the rooms illuminated by both nigh’jels and torches—something no Shesaitju would consider using. Wood was scarce in the Black Sands, and to waste it in such a way… it sickened Muskigo how Babrak displayed his fineries with no care in the world.

  If that wasn't enough, one sight sent Muskigo’s ire bubbling over. A Glassman sat on a silk couch being attended to by a Shesaitju woman. Maybe one of Babrak’s own wives. This was the Glass courier, being shown the night of his life courtesy of the afhem who would bring peace. And, judging by his physique and the exquisite clothes lying at his feet, he was more than a messenger, maybe even a Shieldsman.

  “Do you have a message to convey to my afhem?” the guard asked.

  Muskigo snickered. “Must I hire a courier to bring him messages, too? Step aside, boy. Now.”

  “I’m under orders.”

  Muskigo sighed and cracked out his neck. He’d remained calm, collected even, but…

  No more.

  “At least his men are loyal,” he muttered to himself. Then he u
nsheathed his sickle-blade. The Serpent Guards drew their weapons in response.

  “Step aside,” Muskigo demanded.

  “How dare you draw your weapon here?” the guard said. “There are to be no feuds between afhems within these sacred walls.”

  “Nothing is sacred anymore.”

  “Go home, Afhem Muskigo,” the guard ordered. “Do not make things worse.”

  Muskigo raised his blade to the moonlight. He studied the curve, the engravings along the side made in their ancient tongue. It was perfectly balanced, forged from black iron. “You’ve heard how I got my name, yes? All my life, I thought the Current was at my back,” he said. “I wonder how long I can swim against it.”

  The guard drew a scimitar. “Muskigo, turn away.”

  “He wanted my wife, but couldn’t have her,” he said, still more to himself than anyone listening. “So, he took my world instead. Babrak!”

  Muskigo flounced forward, and one of the Serpent Guards thrust a polearm at him. He twisted out of the way, snapped the shaft in half, and used it to deflect the strike of the other. Sliding back, low, under the slash of Babrak’s guard, his sickle-blade caught one leg and swiped the man from his feet. A spear split a gash in his shoulder but missed the rest of him as he flipped back off a column.

  He landed behind a Serpent Guard, then jammed the broken edge of the spear through the base of the man's skull, and it burst through his mouth.

  Muskigo let the spear go as the guard collapsed. The other Serpent Guard’s fauchard rushed at Muskigo, but he deftly ducked behind the body, then flung it forward at the guard. Two things happened next: Muskigo’s knee came up, and his scythe went out in a smooth arch. A second later, the Serpent Guard’s head was crushed against the stone by Muskigo’s knee, and Babrak’s guard’s chest was split open, throat to navel.

  Muskigo staggered back against the door, blood pooling in his mouth. It’d never felt so good to kill. It was almost like he was drunk.

  He spit and bellowed, “Babrak!” then kicked the fallen warrior as hard as he could, sending the body into the front door and it splintered off its hinges. Shrieks filled the room as the bloody corpse skidded across the marble floor. Naked men and women fled in every direction. The moment Muskigo was inside, he knew what the torches were for. They burned incense, masking the putrid stink of this unholy orgy celebrating Babrak’s glory.

  “Babrak!” Muskigo shouted again.

  One of Babrak’s men charged him from a room on the left, wearing only a loincloth. Muskigo hopped back, caught him by the throat, and snapped his neck. Another charged from the front. Muskigo parried high, then punched out and shattered his windpipe.

  Muskigo caught a glimpse of pale skin in his peripherals. The Glassman scrambled for a window, naked as the day he was born. Muskigo kicked one of the fallen men’s sword up to his hand and threw it. It spun end over end three times before sinking straight into his back. He tumbled forward, already dead, and his body slumped against the sill.

  Muskigo turned back and saw Babrak hurrying down the main stairs, struggling to put on his robe. What must have been ten naked women ran down with him, more than just his wives. This was the life he would have had for the one woman Muskigo chose to love—to be a tool of pleasure and nothing more. Everything and everyone was a tool to him.

  “Babrak, it’s over,” Muskigo snarled.

  “Kill him, you fools!” Babrak yelled. “He’s finally lost it.”

  Muskigo heard more attackers before he saw them. Warriors flooded through the living area. He whipped around, slashing open a nigh’jel lantern, sending the water spilling out, mixing with blood, and making the floor slick. He stepped out of the way of a wild swing, sliced a warrior across the chest, and threw him into the opening to block the others.

  “You can’t run from me, Babrak,” Muskigo said as he came around the corner and saw the man, still tying his robe. He was in a dining hall. The walls were covered in tapestries and paintings—luxuries from places far away.

  “Are you insane, Muskigo?” he asked. “You’ll die for this.”

  “I’m already dead. Isn’t that why you showed me those demands?”

  Babrak grabbed a vase and threw it at Muskigo. It shattered against his raised bracer, then he tracked Babrak’s eyes, and saw that they focused behind him. Muskigo twirled his sickle-blade and thrust it back, gutting a warrior trying to sneak up on him.

  “Muskigo, think about what you’ll be doing to the good name of your afhemate,” Babrak said.

  “You’ve already destroyed that name.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  Muskigo made a move toward Babrak around the table, and the big man edged the other direction, flinging more antiques, more for effect than anything. Shards of clay slashed Muskigo’s skin, but nothing deep enough to stop him.

  “It’s all too late!” Muskigo shouted. “You’ve sold us out, one by one.”

  “She died because of you!” Babrak yelled.

  “Every word out of your mouth is poison. Why did you show me that letter—to taunt me? Yuri was loyal until he got around you. I wonder what you offered to make him murder my daughter. Perhaps to get the Glass to spare the life of his son?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Muskigo grunted and shoved the table aside. He lunged forward and slashed, catching the big man across his gut. Babrak howled, but he was too massive to go down from the graze. He reached beneath the wooden table and flung it with only one hand. Muskigo drove his blade down, splitting the wood, but not before it shoved him back into one of Babrak’s men who’d been trying to take him from behind.

  The man grabbed Muskigo, but Muskigo kicked back, cracking the man’s shin. His elbow rose to the man's nose, and blood gushed as he collapsed.

  “No more!” Muskigo shouted as he lurched forward and kicked Babrak in the gut. Still, he didn’t go down. Babrak slapped one of the fire basins, and hot embers peppered Muskigo’s face. It caught him off guard and sent him staggering.

  “Out of my way!” Babrak roared, clearly determined to take advantage of the distraction.

  But Muskigo recovered fast and swiped wildly with his scythe. Babrak grabbed one of his wives and flung her at him. Any lesser warrior would have decapitated her out of sheer instinct, but Muskigo’s discipline allowed him to pull back just in time and shave only a thin cut across her neck. His foot caught debris and the ankle-injury he’d received in the battle of Nahanab flared up.

  He fell, rolled out of the way of a thrusting spear, then kicked up to his feet and shouldered his attacker back. Pain didn’t matter any longer. It couldn’t.

  The spear came at him again, and Muskigo pushed off with his bad foot, then used his other to spring off the attacker’s shoulder. He soared across the main hall, grabbed hold of the nigh’jel lantern hanging from the domed ceiling, and swung over Babrak’s men.

  Portions of the ceiling rained down, cracking under his weight. He let go and landed at the front entry and nearly toppled from his ankle pain. He didn’t let it stop him. With wounded back and belly, Babrak did what passed for running for the stables, and was now mounting a zhulong. A sword slashed at Muskigo’s head on his way through the front door, but he ducked in time and raked his blade across the warrior’s hip.

  By then, horns and alarm drums sounded throughout the afhem district. It wouldn’t be long before they spread across the whole city.

  Serpent Guards marched in while Muskigo hopped down from the portico and limped to the stable. A young stablehand wielding a small dagger stood before the gate, trembling. Muskigo took one more step, and the boy tossed the weapon and forsook his post.

  Muskigo hopped on the first beast he could find. Zhulong were notoriously stubborn, but it was as if the creature could feel his wrath. It lowered its back in trepidation, and with one kick to its hide, it barreled forward through the fence. A few of Babrak’s men tried to stop it, only to be trampled.

  “Babrak!” Muskigo
’s scream pierced the night. The big man was up the street, rounding a large fountain. He glanced back, uncharacteristic terror filling his eyes.

  Muskigo chased after him, swerving around a group of Serpent Guards come to put an end to the feud. Muskigo batted aside one of their polearms and swiped down. Another with a bow fired. The barbed arrow just missed, but still left a deep but non-fatal gash on Muskigo’s thigh.

  They raced beneath an archway sculpted to depict two clashing zhulong, and Muskigo spotted Babrak tearing down the streets toward the markets. Muskigo’s mount was faster with his lighter weight atop it. He took a better angle and cut Babrak off before he could disappear into the crowded dusk-time markets.

  “Stop running from the inevitable!” Muskigo yelled. “Our age is finished.”

  “You’re a lunatic!” Babrak said. He grimaced and clutched his side. Mahraveh had started the job of killing him in Nahanab, and now Muskigo would finish it.

  Babrak yanked on his zhulong’s mane and turned it back toward the afhem district where the guards and his men were grouping. Muskigo snatched a fishing spear from a tradesman’s barrel and gave chase. He launched it in front of Babrak’s mount, frightening the beast and causing it to veer right toward Tal’du Dromesh. Traders cleaning their wares dove out of the way as it barreled through a stand and onto the concourse. Its hooves slid, and it squealed just before slamming into a column and hurling Babrak off and down through the open gate.

  Muskigo watched as Babrak rolled down the stands and out of sight. Then, peering left, he noted a group of Shesaitju warriors charging toward him. He hated how they’d view him. Like a traitor. Like a madman. But he’d never cared when people bowed to him. He only wanted his people to be strong again; to build a world for his daughter that belonged to them.

  He gripped tight to his zhulong's mane and directed it toward the same column that Babrak’s had struck. It hit at full speed, and Muskigo used the momentum to launch himself down across the stands. The column cracked. A portion of the ceiling loosened and down came an area of the concourse, blocking off the entrance. Dust and sand smothered the area in a thick fog.