Shog on him. Shog on them both. This Fierstown carries the Glass Crown instead of manure.
In the middle of the village, between the chapel, the bailiff’s house, and the Twilight Manor was a large town square. As always, it was the busiest place in a town that rarely was. Hitched outside was the armored trade caravan run by the no-good, wobbly-eyed dwarf Grint Strongiron who’d challenged Whitney.
Everyone stopped as Whitney arrived on his horse. Hushed voices broke out all around him.
“Is this about King Liam?” asked Carlo, the town drunk.
“By Iam, it’s true… he’s gone.”
News normally traveled to fringe towns slowly, but word had apparently already reached them. Even long expected, the death of King Liam was sure to cause great waves of change throughout the kingdom.
Whitney glanced down at his outfit and realized why Liam was all that came up. It was sewn from silks only a noble or an envoy of the Crown could afford. So, he walked the horse directly in front of the Twilight Manor and stood on the stirrups.
"Grint Strongiron!" he shouted. "Come out of your drinking hole and behold your thorough defeat!"
After a few beats, the door to the tavern thudded open, and the dwarf came waddling out beside his mates. Whitney barely remembered what they looked like, and definitely not their names. There was the reedy, Shesaitju fellow with skin the color of ash, two scarred-up mercenaries who looked like twins, still wearing so much armor it must have been filled with sweat despite the temperature, and a plump old man in silks. The trader they all protected, no doubt.
"What say ye, farmboy?" Grint asked, wobbling from too much drink already. Only thing he’d be able to protect the poor sap from was an angry ant.
Whitney produced the Glass Crown from the folds of his cloak, its gems gleaming in the sunlight.
"Gaze upon my greatest achievement." He placed the crown on his head. It was a perfect fit.
"Bah!" the dwarf said. "Anyone could buy one of them fakes. Ain't no one—including you—done robbed the King."
"The King is dead," Whitney said, then immediately regretted it.
The crowd gasped as all the rumors were confirmed. A woman started crying as if she’d ever even laid eyes upon Liam the Conqueror. The town’s priest fell to his knees and traced circles of prayer around the white cloth covering his eyes. Whitney didn’t recognize him, but the same plague that killed his parents probably took the priest he remembered. The church usually cared for people in such times of crisis, often getting themselves sick when nothing could be done. It was things like that which led Whitney to believe that if there ever was an Iam, he wasn’t looking down on his so-called children anymore.
“Ye killed the King over a bet?” the dwarf asked, incredulous. “I knew I liked ye!”
“No that’s not—”
“Blasphemer!” Carlo barked. All his blabbering about serving in the King’s army, judging by his expression, maybe it was true. He could barely hold back tears.
“The Grace of Iam is dead because of you?” asked a woman.
"No, no," Whitney said. "I didn't do it."
The town’s confusion over Whitney’s arrival gave way to anger. Troborough had no militia, only a worthless bailiff stationed there by the Crown, but he forgot that these were small-town folk who likely believed all the grand stories about their king. Worshipped him as much as they did Iam, maybe more. Grint and the caravan watched in bewilderment as the townsfolk, all wearing scowls, closed in around Whitney’s horse. All that was missing were pitchforks and torches.
Whitney hadn’t even gotten to the part of his triumphant romp where he tossed the crown’s many gems to the children so they might seek out more for their lives like he had.
He backed his horse away slowly, then noticed flakes of something wavering in the air above him.
Early in the season for snow.
Then, the smell came. It was like a campfire but far stronger. Ash fluttered on the currents of a southern breeze. He craned his neck to see around the chapel and found billowing smoke filling half the sky.
A pair of screams stole the mob’s attention.
Whitney fell back down in the saddle and pushed his horse toward the smoke. The sky grew darker and the pungent, yet sweet smell of burning wood and thatch met his nostrils.
Where the path opened, just beyond the delta, he saw it. Sharp, whipping tongues of fire reaching like demons of Elsewhere, devouring the eastern side of town. He couldn’t even see the now-empty farm where he’d grown up, tears welling in his eyes from the heat, a thick cloud of darkness looming over the community.
“The Black Sands are attacking!” a man screamed as he ran down the road. “The Black Sands are—” He hit the dirt and flipped, head over heel, an arrow sticking out of his back.
Whitney wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly, but the arrow was revealing enough. The town square exploded into panic. Whitney tried to turn his horse around, but frantic villagers darted everywhere, causing it to rear back. The crown flew off his head and fell at Grint Strongiron’s feet. The dwarf glanced up with his drunken, crossed eyes, grinned, and picked it up.
“Thieving, runt,” Whitney swore under his breath. He tried to push his horse forward through the chaos when an arrow tipped with fire shattered the Twilight Manor’s window.
The wood caught fast.
“Time for us to leave, boss!” one of the trading caravan mercenaries said. He and his twin grabbed the old trader and hurried him onto their wagon, Grint following close behind. Their Shesaitju companion tried to do the same, but Carlo grabbed him. By the looks of his cherry-red cheeks, he was drunk as they were.
“You bring your ash-skin friends here?” Carlo said. “Eager to lose again?” He reared back and punched the man across the face. The Shesaitju hit the dirt hard, then reached out for the wagon. Grint hauled him up just before they raced away. The trader thrashed on the reins, and they took off in the direction opposite the fire and screams.
Whitney finally convinced his horse to leap over a fallen villager and took off after them. Grint hung onto the side of the wagon with one hand and admired the crown in the other as if the sounds of death filling the air were merely another day at work.
“No good son of the mountain!” Whitney grabbed the other side of the crown and tried to pull it free as he rode. The dwarf was stronger than his size suggested.
“Let go of it, farmboy!” Grint yelled.
Whitney felt his grip slipping, then the elegant crown snapped in two. The recoil sent him sliding off the saddle, and as he tumbled, he saw the damnable dwarf grinning and waving with half the crown on his head. A villager screamed for them to let her on, but one of the armored mercenaries kicked her away.
Whitney slammed into the side of Liora Dodson’s pig farm, the roof already alight. The smell of pork greeted his nostrils, confusing his stomach. Flames lapped at him from the windows of the farmhouse as the wood burned and popped. The heat was overwhelming, and sweat soaked him through. He couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of fire and screaming townsfolk, so he squinted through the heaviness of the smoke back toward the chapel.
He looked around for his horse, but it was smart enough to flee.
“Traitorous beast,” he whispered, stowing his half of the crown.
He spun a slow circle, trying to figure out his next move, then quickly jumped back behind cover and peered back around the corner. An army stampeded his way, numbering in the dozens, carrying the standard of the Kingdom of the Black Sands. The tattered banner—nothing more than solid tan with specks of black—flapped tauntingly above the helpless Troborough villagers. It was the very same flag the Shesaitju had flown before being conquered by Liam and the Glass Kingdom.
Whitney cringed as he heard the screams of men and women, many of which he’d grown up with. Leaning out further, he saw the gray hands of Black Sands warriors groping Troborough women and slaughtering the men.
He drew a breath of air and stifled a coug
h as the black smoke filled his lungs. A group of Shesaitju shouted as they set fire to the chapel.
What are Black Sandsmen doing in The Glass Kingdom?
The two peoples hadn’t been at war since he was a child. When Liam marched on them, they suffered significant losses and eventually, the Kingdom of the Black Sands bent the knee. Fair trade, yearly annuity, and an agreement to send troops to the Glass Kingdom’s aid whenever they asked for it were the foundation of an alliance that greatly favored one side. Rebellions among their people who refused the terms were frequent in the early days of Liam’s reign, but not since.
An alliance was only an alliance until the interests of one party outweighed the benefits of the union.
Presently, one Black Sandsmen stood apart from the horde of ash-skinned warriors, riding a beast with orange scales, a mane of the same color, and thick legs like a warthog. It had a snout, wet and turned up but it was the size of a horse with the face and tail of a dragon. Whitney knew the creatures well from his travels in the Shesaitju lands. The zhulong rider gave orders which Whitney couldn’t hear over the loud snap-crackle of the fires, now threatening to set the surrounding forest ablaze.
He sucked in another breath, ignoring the sting, and leaned back against the wall. It was time to go. The King was dead only a few days and the Shesaitju were already rebelling?
This isn’t my fight. Whitney turned to bolt toward the other end of the alley, away from the fight, when he heard a cry from the middle of the road.
“Mama!”
The girl couldn’t have been more than five years old. Whitney peaked around the corner and saw a crew of Black Sandsmen pointing her way.
Move girl! Whitney thought. It's time to move.
He looked back at the attackers. The zhulong rider sat, head above most roofs, galloping toward her, but she merely stood there and cried.
“Don’t be a hero, Whitney,” he whispered to himself as he stared at her. “Just run like she ought to.” Flames grasped for her from the building, causing her to shriek as it licked her arms. Still, she didn’t move.
“Shog in a barrel,” Whitney cursed before taking a step, then another, willing each foot to do its part. He begged his limbs to move faster, but he was used to fighting in the shadows, not in open battle. He didn’t even have a weapon.
The zhulong and its rider closed in, the latter screaming something in Saitjuese. Whitney grabbed the little girl and ran, but the mount picked up speed behind him. Its thick paws hammered the earth as quickly as Whitney’s heart did his rib cage.
He glanced back.
Never look back, you dolt!
Dust kicked up, and the sound of the man’s roar was so near, it overpowered the sound of flames. He twirled a razor-sharp scimitar high above his head.
Whitney turned away and drove his feet harder into the ground. It was no use. The shadow of the beast arced in front of him, and as he prepared to dive, a whiff passed by his ear followed by a thunk. The rider screamed and crashed to the hard dirt path. An arrow stuck out of his neck, still wobbling.
The great beast continued running, knocked Whitney off his feet, and continued aimlessly. Whitney was able to shield the girl just in time to absorb the brunt of the fall. She escaped his grip and fled so fast he wondered why she ever needed him to carry her.
He rolled over, still in a daze, until he felt something sharp dig into his side. He threw open his cloak and saw the half of the Glass Crown. A curse bubbled up from his lungs as he remembered the thieving dwarf.
A loud clash of metal drew Whitney's attention to a legion of Glass Kingdom soldiers on horseback just arriving. They crashed into the Shesaitju raiders, and Whitney found himself caught right in the middle of the fray.
A Black Sandsman spotted Whitney and charged. His blade sliced down toward him, but Whitney rolled, ignoring the sting of the crown poking him. He reached and grabbed the sword of the fallen zhulong rider, then brought it to bear, surprising his attacker. It caught the man across the neck, but dug in at an odd angle and got stuck.
The gurgling corpse dragged Whitney as it collapsed, but Whitney yanked on the hilt until the blade came free. Blood saturated his face and he dropped the sword to paw at his face, desperate to wipe the blood from his eyes and lips, willing the vomit to stay in his stomach.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a man die in battle, not by a long shot, but it was the first time he’d been holding the weapon. Killing was a thief’s last resort, and Whitney was good enough to avoid doing it.
His gaze darted from side to side at the fighting soldiers. He’d never seen such chaos. Dirt swirled in the air, dyed red from blood and the glow of flames. Clashing blades sparked, screams echoed, and it was impossible to tell who was winning. He went to take a step, then an archer lost his head to a Glass soldier.
Whitney spun, searching for a way out. He heard movement beside him and turned. A gray fist plowed into his jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground.
"As brittle as glass without your king, eh, my Lord?" said a heavily accented voice, laughing. The Shesaitju brute was a towering stack of corded muscle.
Whitney rolled onto his shoulder and used his momentum to shoot back to his feet. The warrior closed in on him. Whitney took a step back and tripped over a bow. Now that was a weapon he was proficient with. In one fluid motion, he grabbed an arrow from the quiver on a dead man’s back and notched it. The warrior brought his sword up just as Whitney let the arrow go. It stabbed through the Shesaitju man’s chest, but he didn’t slow a bit. Instead, he grinned as he snapped the shaft, stalking forward. Whitney groped for a second arrow but found none. The warrior pressed a heavy boot down on Whitney’s chest and drew back his sword.
This is how the greatest thief in Pantego is going to die? On my back, with the broken crown of a dead conqueror in my pocket, in a fight I have no horse in.
A part of him felt it was fitting. The other part closed his eyes and prayed to Iam for a miracle. Whitney wasn’t a religious man, but a good thief always hedges bets.
The weight suddenly lifted. He reopened his eyes and found the man’s tree trunk of a neck without a head on it. He collapsed on top of Whitney, hard, knocking what little breath he had left in his lungs right out of them.
Hooves clip-clopped behind him, then skidded to a halt, dust kicking up.
"I don’t think that belongs to you, thief,” said that same young King’s Shieldsman who’d had the handmaiden fetch new clothes for Whitney. Sir Rand Langley sheathed a fine longsword and hopped down from his steed. Behind him, Whitney heard the cheers of Glassmen as the Black Sands attackers were forced into retreat.
Rand knelt and reached into Whitney’s open cloak without bothering to free him from the heavy corpse first. His eyes went wide as he grasped the Glass Crown and only one half came out.
“The Black Sands stole it,” Whitney wheezed. “Was just on my way to return it, I swear.”
The man ground his teeth in frustration, glanced up at his fleeing foes, then back at Whitney. "Tell it to the Wearer of White,” he said, right before bringing his foot down into Whitney’s head.
IX
THE KNIGHT
King Liam was dead, and Queen Oleander shed real tears, though not for him.
Torsten had trouble sleeping ever since he’d carried Pi’s nearly lifeless body up the West Tower to the Queen’s chambers, out of sight. He couldn’t get that gruesome vision out of his head. The poor boy, driven to attempted suicide by Redstar’s curse, and now he lay in fitful sleep from the fall.
I should have listened to her about him…
For once, Torsten actually wanted to engage Oleander in a discussion regarding Redstar and that night a year ago. He had been plotting for a way to broach the subject without angering her but couldn’t find a moment alone. King Liam’s funeral overwhelmed the capital while Pi’s fate remained secret.
Torsten watched the servants toiling to transform the Grand Hall into a viewing chamber. The casket itself w
as crafted out of glass and ornately decorated. The King’s body was covered by a thin sheet of light blue silk. It was all employed to ensure that Liam would be remembered as he was when Torsten fought at his side and not as he now was—frail and rotting.
Flowers filled the hall, hydrangeas and larkspur, always blue and white. Incense burned; a sweet, almost too-sweet smell. At least the room no longer stank of death.
Once everything was set, Torsten took his place at Oleander’s side.
“Your Grace,” Wren the Holy, High Priest of Iam, addressed her on her throne which had so long stood beside Liam’s. The Glass Throne itself remained empty. “Is the Crown Prince coming?”
The old man had been High Priest since before even Liam was coronated. His long, white beard was likely a foot shorter then, and hadn’t needed to walk hunched over with a cane. Scorch marks around his eyes left them white and useless, for as any ordained priest of Iam, he had taken a vow of sightlessness. His was the Eye of Iam and no other. Some priests chose to cover their burned-out eyes with a cloth, but Wren left his bare for all his flock to see.
“My son mourns in private for his beloved father,” she answered, not missing a beat.
“But, Your Grace, it is customary for the Crown Prince to be present at the burial of his father. And being that Pi is Liam’s only—”
“My son, your future king, wants to be alone.”
“I understand, Your Grace. These times of loss are never easy for the young.” He bowed, then turned to face the amassed crowd. They were nobles of the Glass Kingdom, from the wealthy families within the walls of Yarrington to the members of the Royal Council.
“Esteemed people of Yarrington and beyond!” he bellowed with timbre and clarity not expected from a man his age. “We gather here under Iam. May he watch over us and guide our steps.”
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