War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “All right then, a deal’s a deal,” Torsten said, then swallowed the lump forming in his throat as he grabbed the flagon. This received an eruption of cheers. Lucas squeezed Torsten's shoulders with jubilation, then backed away slowly, probably thinking he’d crossed a line. He probably had, but in that moment, Torsten couldn’t find it in him to care.

  “Wait!” Brouben said. He banged the table again, and his server brought him an ale. The flagon looked massive in his small hands. “No good friend of a dwarf should ever drink alone.” He raised the cup. “Rock below, rock above, a drink too many and I’ll join ye with love.” He tapped the pint on the table, then brought it back to his lips and started chugging.

  Torsten tried his best to follow him. It’s not like he hadn’t had ale before, but never dwarven stuff. The first swallow was like hot coals down his throat—Dragon’s Draught, indeed. But once he started, it went down easy, and the raucous cheers didn’t hurt. Before he knew it, the flagon was empty, and he slammed it down.

  Brouben had already long since finished, at least, if the ale covering his beard didn’t count. Torsten opened his mouth to say something, and a loud burp snuck out. He couldn’t believe himself. Sure, he grew up on the streets, but it’d been decades since he was anything but a proper Shieldsman.

  Only he seemed to care. The celebration amplified, and dozens of soldiers came by to show their support. He’d been victorious in many battles, but never anything like this. Shieldsmen had always remained above all this, and he was more than that now. The Glass Kingdom’s Master of Warfare, but wars were won by these grimy-faced people who'd helped dig holes around campsites, and Torsten wasn't above any of that.

  Dusk hit, and Torsten didn’t leave. He, Lucas, and Brouben all stayed in the camps, drinking and reveling. He even ate the same slop the others did. By the time exhaustion set in, and he’d had his fill, Pantego’s moons were already sinking, and dawn approached.

  “The gray men will shake at the sight of Torsten the Triumphant!” a soldier cheered as Lucas helped Torsten to his feet.

  “I had too much, didn’t I, Lucas?” Torsten asked, slurring his words slightly. The feeling was made even stranger by being stuck without his true vision. It was less dizzy and more lost. Through his blindfold, he saw through the presence and absence of pure light, but now it merged together, making his entire world appear spilled across itself.

  “Only a bit, sir,” Lucas replied. He got under Torsten's shoulder to help walk him back to his makeshift quarters at the bridge.

  “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

  “Nonsense,” Lucas said. “Glad to. The men… they loved that. You’re a good leader, Sir. Best I've ever known.”

  “I’ve known better.” Torsten slipped out of his grip and had to lean against the wall of the bridge’s gateway. He looked up. The light still swirled, but he noticed that a large shipment of food had arrived by carriage.

  “Not me, Sir. Not me.” Lucas helped him back upright and toward the broken tower.

  “Wait,” Torsten said.

  “What is it?”

  “Rand. I need to tell him something.”

  “Sir, I—”

  Torsten pushed free and moved to stagger down the wooden stairs leading to the dungeon. He couldn’t voice it, but he was grateful Lucas followed close behind, a hand on his arm to steady him.

  Darkness hit them, and they pressed deeper. Finally, a small, flickering torch brought a meek illumination to the space.

  “Sir Unger!” Dellbar said, seated across from Rand’s cell. “Look at you, finally enjoying life a little. I’m so proud.”

  “Sir, you really should go to bed,” Lucas whispered.

  Torsten strode in farther until he could see that Rand was seated right in front of the bars, actually paying attention to whatever it was Dellbar was saying.

  “What are you doing down here?” Torsten asked. He stumbled, then caught himself on the wall.

  “If I’m being honest, I’m not used to having to keep up with soldiers. I needed a slow night. Though, now I see what I’ve missed.” He looked up, smiling. “Oh, Iam, why have you led me astray?”

  “Lord Brouben challenged him,” Lucas said, excitedly.

  “Don’t listen to the priest, Rand,” Torsten said. “He’s insane.” Torsten made it a few more steps, then plopped down near the cell, though it was hard to know if he was sitting or lying down.

  “That might be,” Dellbar admitted. “But Rand here was just telling me about his lovely sister. I believe I met her at her tavern or in the Vineyard once or twice, but I wasn’t so practiced at holding my alcohol then. A lot like you now, Sir Unger.”

  Torsten half-grunted, a sorry excuse for a laugh. Then his head bobbed. Lucas shook his shoulder to try and get him to stand and leave again, but Torsten didn’t have the energy.

  “I’m sorry, Rand,” he said softly.

  “For what?” Rand asked.

  “For what happened to your sister.”

  “It was my fault,” Rand whispered. “I should’ve never trusted those men and left her behind.”

  “It was nobody’s fault,” Dellbar said. “Nobody still living at least. Even Iam cannot hold back all the darkness in our world. Sometimes, it seeps through. Trust me, I know.”

  “The moment I met her at the Maiden’s Mugs—”

  “Thoughtful title,” Dellbar said with a snicker.

  Torsten went on. “When she would keep me, the very Wearer of White, from seeing you… I knew she was special.”

  “She sounds it,” Dellbar agreed.

  “Aye, she does,” Lucas added.

  “Not special enough…” Rand lamented.

  Torsten ignored him and allowed his head to tilt back against the wall. Anything to stop the spinning. “No wonder the upyr turned her.”

  Bars rattled, and Rand was on his feet, face shoved his face between them. “What do you mean turned?”

  “Okay, Sir, let’s get you back,” Lucas said.

  “Yes… I uh… I think maybe that’s smart,” Dellbar added.

  “What do you mean?” Rand said. “Torsten, you tell me what you meant."

  “I’m sure it's nothing, Sir Langley," Lucas said, still tugging at Torsten. “He’s very drunk.”

  “Upyr—you mean like the bloodsucking undead assassins from the old stories?” Rand asked. “I overheard some men saying they were what killed Oleander.”

  “Not they.” Torsten hiccuped. “Her.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, here we go.” Lucas forced his arm around Torsten and started lifting. Dellbar joined him. They got Torsten to his feet, where exhaustion set in.

  “Sigrid’s not dead?” Rand asked, voice hopeful.

  “Worse than dead…”

  “Ignore him,” Lucas strained to say, now bearing Torsten’s full weight. “He’s speaking nonsense.”

  “Wait, come back here!” Rand shouted. He shook the bars again. “Bring him back here!” His screaming echoed up the stairwell as Lucas and the blind High Priest helped Torsten ascend. By then, his vision was speckled blackness, swirling like a vortex. He fought to reach up and pull the enchanted blindfold from over his eyes.

  “How do you function like this, Morningweg?” Torsten asked, feeling himself being shoved upstairs, feet barely operating. By the time they'd reached the top, Rand’s yelling seemed as if it came from across a canyon. Torsten couldn’t even understand what he was saying.

  “Practice, my friend,” Dellbar said. He groaned as he raised one of Torsten’s massive arms a bit higher to re-adjust its position on his shoulder. “And staying away from drunken dwarves…”

  XXXI

  The Immortal

  Kazimir had endured many things for many centuries, but none were more insufferable than the thief, Whitney Fierstown. He was sure of that now.

  “Why isn’t she better yet?” Whitney asked for the thousandth time in the day since the attack that had left the Lightmancer, Lucindur, paralyze
d. She lay on a table covered in rags used for makeshift blankets. The Dom Nohzi had no use for those or beds. The wyvern kept her warm, curled up between her legs.

  The deep, chestnut color was returning to her cheeks. A bandage covered Lucindur’s chest, stained red. Kazimir had caught Sigrid eyeing it a few times, and Sigrid had caught Kazimir catching her. Now, he didn’t allow her even near the bedside.

  Prishka had been a healer in her old life, and the auits—the nearly microscopic insects native to Brekliodad—she had cleaning out the wound were fast-actors.

  Lucindur was, in fact, getting better. Quickly, considering the depth of the scratch, but nothing was ever fast enough for the thief. He was becoming more and more belligerent as the hours passed. If it wasn’t Lucindur, it was griping about Sora, or even how dry the air was.

  “She is healing,” the upyr Prishka said. “These things take time.”

  Prishka’s words seemed to do very little to comfort Whitney, who had returned to pacing the room.

  Skryabin had gone off to gather the rest of the Dom Nohzi upyr throughout the vast Citadel, and contact those beyond. They’d need all of them if Kazimir’s worst fears were true.

  “We are running out of time,” Whitney said.

  Tum Tum agreed.

  “You mortals are always so concerned about time,” Kazimir said. His fists were clenched. Being in a room, waiting with Whitney, reminded him of his failures, of the lost years. But he had to oversee everything. Lucindur’s ability to use her powers would be crucial. If it came to it, he’d even offer her his blood, allowing her the strength to last until the job was done, or she could devour the flesh of a wianu and become like him. Nesilia was coming to destroy everyone and everything—a problem for everyone involved and those not involved as well.

  “But in this case, you may be right,” Kazimir added. “Skryabin can’t be much longer.”

  Whitney paced again. “Couldn’t she have just sent a galler to your friends like everyone else in the world?”

  “There are formalities one must adhere to when dealing with the intricacies of—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that shog!” Whitney interrupted. Tum Tum placed a hand on Whitney’s arm, but he yanked it away. “I’ve had just about enough of these Dom Nohzi, better-than-everyone—”

  Sigrid hissed a curse, and Kazimir shifted his weight. If there were any mortal on Pantego he’d call a friend, sadly enough it was Whitney, but even still, Kazimir’s long fingernails were on their way to slicing a neat line across the thief’s face when he stopped. Kazimir’s eyes bored into Whitney’s like a dwarven pickaxe. “We will make believe that didn’t happen. Come with me.”

  Kazimir watched Whitney’s narrowed eyes flicker toward Lucindur’s unconscious body, and then to the dwarf. Tum Tum acknowledged the unspoken request and Kazimir led Whitney out into the antechamber.

  Prishka was right outside, leading a sallow slave who carried a bowl of water for the mortals. She looked to Kazimir.

  "You brought mortals in here, and now you let them talk to you like that?” she whispered, shaking her head. “The Lords will not be pleased.”

  “The Lords won’t matter if we can’t stop what’s coming,” Kazimir replied.

  “So you say,” Prishka said. “You'd better be right.”

  “I wish that I were not.” Without another word, Kazimir pushed by her. “Come,” he addressed Whitney.

  “This better be important,” Whitney griped.

  Kazimir kept walking, giving him no choice but to follow. They moved into a hall leading deeper into the Citadel. The same smooth walls drew deep lines into the mountain.

  “This place has stood longer than any other stronghold built by man,” Kazimir said. “The combined ages of the upyr living within these walls out-age cities… kingdoms even.”

  “What’s your point?” Whitney asked.

  “My point is that the preservation of this world means far more to us than to any of you.”

  Whitney stopped. “That’s a mighty big claim.”

  Kazimir kept walking and wasn't surprised when Whitney followed. They moved through chambers lined with thick columns, down a set of marble stairs.

  “Think this place is big enough for all what… three of you?” Whitney remarked.

  Kazimir took a sharp left through a passage behind an opulent-looking chair set at the back of the great hall they’d crossed, once used by the Lords when their bodies remained corporeal. There were no candles or torches, but Kazimir held a small blue orb to cast a bit of light for Whitney to see.

  “A man is dwelling in another man’s home when a fire breaks out and devours the walls, furniture, and the thatch of the roof,” Kazimir said. “When the flame has done its wicked deed, all that remains is ash. Who has lost more—the landlord, who built the home with the sweat of his brow, or the tenant?”

  There was silence for a moment before, voice fraught with irritation, Whitney answered, “The landlord, I suppose.”

  “Wrong,” Kazimir said. “They have both lost equally, for one is without a home, and the other has watched his creation destroyed.”

  “And we are back to the question, ‘What is the point?’”

  Kazimir sighed. He’d lived as an upyr so long, but simply couldn’t let go of certain humanisms—sighing, swallowing, even breathing.

  Kazimir looked around the room, at the large tapestries covering the walls, telling the stories of the Sanguine Lords, the first upyr who gave their bodies to end the Culling an age ago. He knew his superior eyes could perceive what Whitney couldn’t. It was so representative of the truth. Mortals would never see things the way the upyr did.

  “Darkness is coming,” Kazimir whispered, “like none we’ve seen.” He looked to Whitney, who despite his attempts at being calm, looked terrified. “They call us Children of the Night… true night is on its way, and even I am afraid.”

  “You? Scared? I don’t believe it.” Whitney smiled. It was an uncomfortable, awkward expression that Kazimir had seen many times in their years imprisoned together. The thief covered up his true emotions with humor.

  “Many things can be made light of,” Kazimir said. “But, sadly, Whitney Fierstown, this is not one of them. I’d rather be trapped in Elsewhere.”

  “It wouldn’t be very fun, there, without me.”

  Kazimir ignored him. “Nesilia is powerful. Apart from Iam, she is the most powerful being ever to walk the face of Pantego.”

  “She’s not unbeatable.”

  “How would you possibly know what she is or isn’t? Now, here, in the face of such ancient power, is where we must accept our truths. The Sanguine Lords humbled me in condemnation to Elsewhere with you, but you, Whitney, are a thief. A good one or a bad one, it’s irrelevant. You know nothing of gods. You can’t.”

  Whitney stuck a finger into Kazimir’s chest. “For one, I was a thief—and a damn, yigging great one. And, I’m not saying that because of me. I spoke to Sora. She was resisting Nesilia, and maybe she’s got magic, but she’s mortal, too.”

  “Her bloodline is strong. It drove me to act blindly. It helps her to resist the goddess, but in the end, everyone breaks in the face of such supremacy. It is inevitable.”

  “So, what do we do?” Whitney asked. His voice betrayed it all now. Every doubt, every fear, every sadness. “We can’t kill Sora.”

  From somewhere behind them, a woman cleared her throat. They turned as one. Skryabin stood, hand on her hip.

  “Kazimir, they are here,” she said.

  Kazimir went to follow her when a hand turned him around.

  “We can’t, Kazimir,” Whitney said. “We can’t kill her. No matter what. You promised.”

  Again, Kazimir wondered how life had led him here, making a deal with a mortal. Most insane of all was that he meant it. Those six years in Elsewhere with Whitney were the purest form of exile. They felt longer than a century on Pantego. Yet, as much as Whitney challenged his nerves, he’d also done what was necessary to
free them, when even the Sanguine Lords turned their backs on Kazimir for how he’d strayed.

  “We won’t,” Kazimir agreed.

  Back through the halls and chambers of the immense Citadel, they went, Skryabin leading the way. They kept quiet, passing old relics on pedestals—reminders of the deep, rich history of the Dom Nohzi, reminders of all that would be lost if it all came to a cold, bitter end.

  “Thank you, Skryabin,” Kazimir said, once they were back to the cool blue light of the antechamber. “Get the cattle and prepare.”

  “Of course, Imperio,” she nodded, then hurried away.

  Kazimir hadn’t noticed, no upyr would, but Whitney brought attention to the sudden shift. His teeth started to chatter. “It’s s-s-so c-cold.” He shuffled toward the fire blazing in the hearth, the only source of light in the room—a courtesy for their mortal guests and the few servants that milled around.

  “Weak mortal,” Sigrid hissed from the shadows. She leaned on the wall outside the room where Lucindur recovered, no doubt needing a break from those inside. Kazimir couldn’t blame her.

  “They are here,” Kazimir said.

  “Who?” Whitney said.

  Kazimir shushed Whitney and looked to a set of oaken doors, which opened without being touched.

  “Where are they?” Whitney said. He then leaped a meter vertically when the air around them popped, sizzling like lightning.

  Ten men and women appeared, the Imperios comprising the Dom Nohzi. Kazimir was another, and by the look of it, the twelfth, Imperio Vikas, hadn’t yet arrived. Each was ancient, though few as much as Kazimir. They all wore clothing far better suited for an earlier era, modest in appearance, but high quality, and very expensive. Kazimir refused to play dress-up, much preferring practical armor and cloak to blend in.

  Whitney’s eyes went wide. “How did they? Were they invisible?” he asked Kazimir who ignored the question.