War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Kazimir, this better be worth it,” said Imperio Teryngal, just as brazen as always.

  He belonged exiled to Elsewhere for failing balance. Not me, Kazimir thought.

  “Teryngal, brother, in more than a thousand years, have I ever called upon you for help?” Kazimir asked.

  Teryngal tilted his head in response. Then, with thoughtful calculation said, “No. But now, all ten of us have been beckoned to your side like children?”

  “Trust me, I’d just as soon never see any of you again.”

  The other Imperios’ faces scrunched into rage, and they showed their teeth. Sigrid took a defensive step forward, but Kazimir stuck a hand out to quell her anger.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Teryngal said.

  “Where is Imperio Vikas?” Kazimir asked, looking around.

  “He was not in his wing of the Citadel,” Skryabin said from behind.

  Each Imperio had their own wing in the expansive complex that incorporated the entire Pikeback range. Even at Skryabin's supernatural speed, it had taken the better part of a day to reach all of them.

  “What do you want, Kazimir?” Teryngal asked.

  “Have you not seen?” Kazimir replied.

  “What we have seen has happened before, and none of us believes it was worth this upheaval.”

  “Upheaval? Did I interrupt something more pressing? You sound like a mortal, Teryngal. Elsewhere is empty.”

  “Yes, we know,” Teryngal said. “Skryabin told us as much.”

  “You know? It is not just sparse,” Kazimir said as if speaking to a child. “It is bare. Upon some of you, I have hundreds of years, and in all of them, I’ve never seen this. Only the wianu fill the dead seas.”

  There were murmurs from the gathered upyr.

  “That means nothing,” Teryngal offered. Then he turned to the others to quiet them. “It means nothing.”

  “The last time we saw this, the old gods were stirring, and you know it, Imperio Teryngal,” Kazimir said. “They are stirring again. The Goddess of the Material Plane is with us once more, unburied, and she threatens to bring all of Iam’s creation against his children.”

  “This does not concern us, Kazimir,” Teryngal said. “The gods will play their games just as they always have. It is not our place to involve ourselves.”

  Kazimir opened his mouth to argue when Whitney cleared his throat, stepped forward, and bowed his head. “Oh, great and holy Sanguine Lords, I beseech you…”

  The whole room burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Whitney stopped talking, head on a swivel. Kazimir even smirked.

  “What…” He turned to Kazimir. “What are they laughing at?”

  “Settle down,” Kazimir ordered. He turned to Whitney. “These are not the Lords. Together, plus one who is not with us, we are the twelve Imperios of the Dom Nohzi.”

  “And now this?” Teryngal said with obvious disgust. “Skryabin said you brought mortals, but seeing it is so… different. I’ve heard of playing with one’s food…” He moved toward Whitney, sniffing the air. Sigrid took a hard step in his path. And while Kazimir hoped it was for the right reasons, serving her maker, he knew it was more likely her defending a feast she hoped she’d get to enjoy herself one day.

  “Who is this fool you dare bring here?” Teryngal asked. “To our home!”

  The other Imperios joined in.

  Whitney made a small sound of protest.

  “This is Whitney Fierstown…” Kazimir started.

  “Interesting,” Teryngal said, scratching his chin. He looked around at the other Imperios who quieted. “The same Whitney Fierstown who killed the beast?”

  “Ah-ha, even they know I killed Bliss!” Whitney declared. “See Kazzy?”

  “Yes,” Teryngal said. He leered at Imperio Zlata. “Our servants in the Webbed Woods said that it had upset the balance of things.” He glared down his sharp nose at the thief. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve not yet been killed.”

  “Perhaps we will mend that oversight,” Zlata said, licking her lips.

  Whitney gulped. “It… it was really a sort of a group effort?” he added, the last word sounding like a question.

  “Nevertheless…” Teryngal brought the conversation back around. “Why is he here in the Citadel? Why are the mortals not in chains with the rest of the cattle?”

  “The old gods stir once more,” Kazimir said. “I fear it is already too late, but we cannot sit back and allow another God Feud.”

  “And how do you expect to stop it?” Zlata asked.

  “We must separate Nesilia from her host and destroy her once and for all.”

  Teryngal chuckled. “There is no way to separate a goddess from her chosen vessel.”

  “There is.” Kazimir grew timid for breath, then said, “We have, with us, a Lightmancer.”

  Instantly, the features of every upyr in the room changed. Each of them went from being pale, mostly attractive, and docile to feral, beastly, furious. Once again, Sigrid dropped into a fighting stance, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

  “Now I know you’ve lost it, brother,” Zlata said.

  “Let me finish,” Kazimir said, pushing the air with his palms. He gestured to Whitney. “The Lords saw fit to accept this fool’s blood pact against the goddess herself, and so, I do what must be done. We looked into the Well of Wisdom, and this is the way.”

  “That is preposterous!” Teryngal interrupted.

  “You communed with mystics?” Zlata asked.

  “Commune’s not really the best word…” Whitney chimed in, quietly.

  “Traitor,” Teryngal hissed.

  “Do not dare accuse me of twisting our Lords' will,” Kazimir snarled at Teryngal.

  “Like you did to get yourself banished to Elsewhere?” Zlata asked.

  “A mistake for which I have dearly paid, and which has swollen our ranks.” He nodded toward Sigrid. “Pantego remembers the Dom Nohzi now because of the queen she killed. We’re out of the shadows. Perhaps, just in time to keep light in the sky. Or would you rather question the Lords?”

  Teryngal’s lip curled, but he nodded.

  “This will go much faster if I’m not interrupted again.” Kazimir walked toward the cask of blood set on a mahogany cart in the center of the room, twelve crimson roses rising from a vase in the center. He hadn’t seen one of the cattle roll it in, but they were adept at keeping out of sight. Kazimir slowly poured a goblet only for himself and sipped it before continuing. “Now… where was I?”

  Kazimir told the others of all that had occurred, of how the Lightmancer had breached the mind of the goddess, how the thief’s presence had allowed her to do so, and how, within the Well of Wisdom, Nesilia had said she was coming to the Citadel. He told of her threat to bring ruin upon the Sanguine Lords and all those who could face her.

  “She dares threaten us?” Teryngal said. “We exist only because of the depths she and her love descended to in order to win the feud.”

  “She dares do whatever she wishes,” Kazimir said. “It seems you’ve gone unopposed for far too long, Teryngal. She is no Imperio. She is a goddess, and her power is almost fully realized once more.”

  “So what—we somehow force her into the bar guai and throw her to the wianu?” Zlata asked. “You think to stop Nesilia using the very beings she and Iam cursed with half-life?”

  “I believe Elsewhere is on the cusp of eruption, and we are all in grave peril for the first time in many centuries. We must do whatever it takes to stop her. If she destroys us and frees the wianu again… it will be the end of Pantego, and we will cease to exist in either realm. Erased.”

  “The Citadel is unbreachable,” Teryngal attested.

  “Which is why this is where we stand,” Kazimir said. “Hubris and revenge drive her here. She’s susceptible so long as her host loves this man.” He pointed to Whitney, who swallowed hard in response even as he forced a nervous grin. It was nice to see him scared into silence.

  “Imperio Kaz
imir,” Teryngal said. His voice was soft and lilting, as if he was in negotiations. “You are how-many-centuries old, and you wish to die upon the hill called love?” He looked around the room. “Love! Oh, how powerful it must be to harness the strength to destroy a goddess!”

  “Love destroyed her once before, Teryngal!” Kazimir said, slamming his goblet down.

  The other Imperios had been smiling, but no longer.

  “It was love that ended the God Feud,” he went on. “It was love which has ended a thousand wars. Love, whether real or contrived, holds a power all its own.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Whitney added, earning every Imperio’s glower. For what it was worth, he didn’t cringe in fright of them this time.

  “Love,” Teryngal said again, dismissively, but almost a whisper this time.

  “If you don’t trust me, trust the Lords,” Kazimir said. “They accepted the pact, but this will take more of us than a king or queen.”

  A prolonged bout of silence passed as the threat sunk in.

  “Have you spoken with the Lords?” Teryngal asked.

  “I had hoped we would all do so together.” Kazimir lowered his head. “But we are not all here, are we?”

  “Vikas will have to answer for his absence,” Teryngal said. “But the Lords cannot wait. If this is true, we must move quickly.”

  “We are safe here in the Citadel,” Zlata said, her voice commanding. “We should wait it out, and pick up the remnants of this world. Help them rebuild again in balance.”

  Some agreed.

  “The glamour will not work on Nesilia,” Kazimir said.

  “What would possess you to make such a claim?” Zlata asked.

  “When we arrived, the valley was alive with goblins and grimaurs. Even the Glassmen were heading up the path before the beasts took them to their graves. Goblins, grimaurs, they are weak, but they’ll be drawn to her power.”

  Frenzied voices whispered and argued, and finally, Teryngal spoke up again. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Kazimir admitted, “but it cannot be good.”

  Kazimir took another sip of the blood. Once he finished, he put the goblet down and raised the cask toward the other Imperios. Several of them broke rank to pour their own.

  Teryngal, however, didn’t move. “You really think this the work of the goddess Nesilia?”

  “I do not think,” Kazimir said. “I know. Brothers and sisters, the end of all things is upon us. If we do not stand against her, we will fall before her. She will break the balance.”

  “There is another option,” Teryngal said.

  “Not one worth voicing,” Kazimir warned.

  “Brother—”

  “I am not your brother if you speak another word of it!” Kazimir roared.

  Teryngal didn’t back down. “I am only saying that if we join her—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Whitney interrupted.

  “Not now, thief,” Kazimir snapped. “Be quiet.”

  Whitney took a step forward anyway. Kazimir had to admit, he was either brave or stupid. Probably both.

  “No way am I just going to sit around while you people… or whatever you are… debate about whether or not to join forces with that evil witch,” he said. “We made a pact.”

  “This is none of your concern, mortal,” Teryngal spat.

  “This is all of my concern!”

  “Back off, Whitney,” Kazimir warned.

  Sigrid eyed Kazimir. She’d been busy sharpening the broadhead of a bolt, listening with one ear. But now, she was practically begging for the chance to gut the thief, or Teryngal, or anyone.

  “No, no,” Whitney said, staring right into Teryngal’s soulless, black eyes. If he was afraid, now he didn’t show it. “You said it yourself: I killed a goddess. I upset the balance. You think I did that by luck? Kazimir said we have a Lightmancer. We do. And we have a plan. Now, for once in your privileged, far-too-long life, shut up and listen.”

  Teryngal turned to Kazimir, biting his upper lip, rage etched all over his smooth face. He was ready to tear open Whitney’s throat, which the foolish thief probably didn’t even realize. “If you think we are going to let your pet speak to us like this—”

  If Kazimir’s heart could beat, it wouldn’t have pulsed twice before his fingers were entwined with Teryngal’s hair, wrenching his neck back to expose his throat. Kazimir’s silver-coated knife rested against the upyr’s soft, pale flesh. He kept the blade buried at the bottom of his bandolier, out of sight, insurance for if Sigrid got out of control again like she had with Oleander.

  “You know what this is?” Kazimir asked as Teryngal’s skin blistered from the touch of the blade.

  Teryngal nodded vigorously. Upyr had few weaknesses, but silver had been conjured long ago by mystics keen on fighting them—a fact few knew, and fewer who found out, stayed alive long enough to talk about. This blade had been made by them hundreds of years ago, and Kazimir had killed its owner.

  “Then you know I am serious,” Kazimir said. “The goddess will not spare us—she will spare no one. We have tasted of the wianu—and anything born of her and Iam’s former love is now her sworn enemy. Now, are you prepared to listen to the will of our Lords, or shall I kill you all right here, and save her the trouble? I imagine none of you has fought so much as a fly in centuries.”

  “You presume much, Kazimir,” Teryngal said through clenched fangs.

  “I felt her,” a weak voice spoke. All eyes snapped toward the Lightmancer. She leaned against the dwarf in the entry of her room. Though she was on her feet, she looked anything but refreshed. An inch deeper, and that talon would have stopped her heart. Then, unlife would have been the only option.

  Even in her weakened state, she showed fortitude.

  “Lucy!” Whitney exclaimed and ran to her. “You’re all right?”

  “These old bones have experienced far worse than a little grimaur toxin,” she said weakly. The dwarf handed her salfio over, and she strummed a chord. The fire in the hearth waved in response, and behind her, the wyvern’s ears perked up, and it soared to the dwarf’s shoulder.

  Teryngal didn’t seem impressed. “And here I thought all of your kind were wiped out.”

  “A Lightmancer should not be here,” said another Imperio. “Are we to forget all they’ve done?”

  “She’s really the one on trial here?” Whitney scoffed.

  The dwarf muttered something about the undead. His ever-vigilant gaze darted from side to side, ready to fight all of them if he needed to, like the fool he was.

  “I play music, and am cursed for it,” the Lightmancer said. She gripped her side and grimaced. “And it dies with me. But I’ve seen into the mind of the goddess, and I fear nothing in this room in comparison.”

  “You would dare—"

  “Enough, Teryngal!” Kazimir bellowed. “If I’m wrong, then I will walk into the mouth of Dakel un Ghastrin myself, and you can feast on the mortals to your black heart’s delight.”

  “Yeah,” Whitney said with undue confidence, then paused. “Wait, what?”

  Teryngal’s jaw set, eyes thinning to narrow slits. “What would you have us do, then?”

  Kazimir lowered the silver knife. He knew he could get them to listen. He’d been banished, but at least he was out in the world fulfilling blood pacts while the rest of them ignored the call, delighting in the decadence of immortality, acting as if balance had already been achieved. They feared him, as they should.

  He met the eyes of each Imperio present, raised his cask of blood. “This place—it has been the home to our Lords for longer than any mortal lives. Only the gods remember its founding. And now, our very walls are threatened because of a millennium-old spat between lovers. It’s time she tastes Elsewhere as we all have.”

  One at a time, seven of the Imperios stood and drank from Kazimir’s cask, nodding their agreement. The others didn’t drink but stood nonetheless. They’d do what they had to, for without the Lor
ds and the wianu, the immortality the upyr had grown so accustomed to, would cease to be.

  “I can feel it,” Kazimir said. “She is close. Let us go and speak with the Lords.”

  XXXII

  The Daughter

  Mahi closed her eyes and tried to feel the wind on her cheeks, screeching through the sea door. She fought to remember the way loose sand would brush against the exposed parts of her body. The way it found its way under clothing and got entangled in her hair—became a part of her. The chill when a breeze touched sweat on the back of her neck.

  Ever since the nigh’jel blood coated her, she couldn’t—not the way she used to, at least. The more time passed since her rebirth, the more she forgot how things used to feel. Her mind stopped filling in the blanks.

  “My Caleef, are you ready?” Bit’rudam asked.

  She regarded him and the nearly one hundred Serpent Guards around the throne room. She had no idea how they weren’t sweating to death in their cumbersome, gilded armor and masked-helmets. As a young girl, she’d been terrified of them—the way all their heads seemed to move in unison, like snakes lost in a melody.

  A part of her was afraid of them still. She knew she shouldn’t be, but it was hard when around them, all the former afhems in Latiapur rode with dried blood crusting their heads over patches of peeled skin. The idea of removing the marks came while trying to piece together the fragments of memories, her own and ancestors beyond. The Serpent Guards had agreed before she could even second guess herself.

  Not one voiced opposition to wiping away generations of historical significance. They couldn’t. The afhemate tattoos were works of art, added to for centuries and recorded nowhere. They could never be perfectly reproduced. Yet, not one Serpent Guard showed the slightest hesitation in sawing skin away, nor remorse after having done so. And when they were finished, nobody dared stand against them.

  Their work still stained the floors. No matter how the sages tried to scrub it away, it was too substantial. Blood found its way into even the slightest seams and cracks in the stone surfaces.