Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  The city itself was built on a small peninsula jutting out into the mouth of the bay where it narrowed to Winder's River. Northerly, it cut up to the Jarein Gorge, through the Great Ravine. A web of manmade canals ran through a hodgepodge of buildings. Unlike Yarrington, where all the stone matched, or in the Dragon’s Tail where everything was undeniably dwarven, Winde Port was just stone, clay, and wood—some from the North on Winter’s Thumb, Crowfall, Fessix and the like, and some black, like the trees of the Shesaitju lands. Thatched roofs and Panping tile. In fact, the only thing that gave the place even the slightest resemblance to a city of the Glass Kingdom was the tremendous cathedral standing proudly in the skyline, its Eye of Iam glistening under the morning sun.

  Whitney leaned over the side of the wagon and snagged a large chunk of meat skewered on a stick from a vending cart whose owner’s back was turned. He held it out, offering Sora a bite. She recoiled in disgust.

  “Don’t know what you’re missing,” he said with a full mouth.

  “This place is disgusting,” she bristled.

  “This place is freedom.”

  Whitney meant what he said, but saw her point. It wasn’t Old Yarrington—it was hardly South Corner—but it was the one place in the Kingdom where race and heritage didn’t matter. Everyone was welcome so long as they had a few autlas and a dream.

  “You should love this place,” Whitney said. “No difference between me and you here.”

  “So what? Here nobody will call me knife-ear?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, but they won’t say it with such… I don’t know… scorn.”

  Sora rolled her pretty, amber-colored eyes and reached out for the stick.

  “I knew you’d come around,” he said.

  She took a bite and juice dribbled down her chin. “Oh, by Iam, that is delicious,” she garbled.

  Whitney just smiled and turned back to the road. She reached for it again, but he pulled it away. “Get your own.”

  He waited a few seconds for good measure, then offered the stick again only to find that she was no longer next to him.

  “Sora?”

  He spun until he saw her walking toward the meat vendor. He clicked the horses to a stop, and hopped down, hastily looped the reins around a post.

  “Wait up!” he shouted, running to catch up. “I was kidding. Have a bite.”

  “No, you’re right. I want my own.”

  She reached into a small bag they’d found in the carriage and pulled out a silver autla. “One, please.”

  The vendor, talking and chiding with another customer, turned only a little faster than it had seemingly taken Whitney and Sora to get to Winde Port in the first place. His face scrunched up at the silver, and then, Sora.

  “Ain’t from round here?” the vendor asked.

  “Just rolled into town,” Whitney pointed at their caravan.

  “Oh, you picked a bad time to visit Winde Port. Glass transferred a bunch of soldiers just last week. Been rounding up all the rainclouds.”

  “Rainclouds?” Sora asked.

  “Ya know, the Shesaitju, gray skin and all.” He laughed, then said, “Been a mess, so, price is twice that until the threat dies down. Just not enough people buying any more.”

  Whitney and Sora exchanged a sidelong glare.

  “What threat might that be?” Whitney asked.

  The man laughed again. “Where you been, in the woods?”

  “Actually—” Whitney started, but Sora slapped him in the arm. “That spot is getting sore!” he snapped under his breath, rubbing it.

  “Please, continue,” Sora said.

  “You ain’t heard about the Black Sands rebel army mounting?” the trader asked as he lifted a butcher knife and sliced a chunk of carcass—looked like deer. “There’s been attacks. Towns burned to the ground.”

  Whitney couldn’t believe they’d somehow forgotten what Torsten said about a giant army of Shesaitju gathering in the swamp. Of course, Winde Port would be feeling the consequences of the Black Sands attacks. It was the largest trading hub in Southern Pantego, along Trader's Bay, with tributary access into Eastern, Western, and even Central Pantego through Winder's River and the Walled Lake.

  “Rumor was some noble from Bridleton came to the city since his estate was turned to ash,” the trader went on before turning to grab another piece of meat.

  Whitney swallowed hard, then mouthed the name, “Darkings,” to Sora.

  She nodded.

  “Anyway, do yourselves a favor and leave town. Especially you.” He pointed to Sora with his cleaver. “When people get scared of one foreign face—they get scared of all of ’em.”

  Sora’s features darkened. Whitney imagined after the bigots she’d endured in Bridleton and beyond, she was a bit more wary of warnings such as that. She feigned a smile, and turning to Whitney said, “You’re right. I should love this place.”

  Whitney thought he saw her eyes begin to water as she pulled up her hood and walked a few steps back to their carriage. He brushed flecks of swiftly accumulating snow off the carriage bench as he climbed. He’d spent many a winter month in Winde Port and couldn’t remember another so cold. At least there was one thing to be thankful for—in the snow, Sora’s drawn cloak would look less conspicuous.

  After a few moments of silence, Whitney leaned in and said, “Look, let’s just get to the harbor and charter a boat. We’ll be out on the open sea and away from all this in no time at all.”

  “Fine,” Sora said, offering no argument.

  Their wagon rolled down Merchants Row toward the city proper. Winde Port might have been part of the Glass Kingdom, but it had always been far from the grasp of the law. It was never uncommon to find a table where dwarf, Shesaitju, Panpingese, and regular old Glass folk like him could sit down and enjoy a game of gems.

  It appeared all that had changed.

  A palisade wall now wrapped the city all the way to the coast on either side. The northern end was still under construction. It covered one of the canals that ran out alongside Merchants Row to make transport easy, and he only then realized the water on their side was dried out by a makeshift dam.

  The wooden walls boasted blue and white standards, and soldiers from Yarrington were everywhere. It made Whitney queasy. He wondered if Torsten might be fumbling around in his bright white armor, ruining yet another thing Whitney loved.

  Ahead, several Glass Soldiers gathered at a gateway. A gateway in Winde Port. Whitney scooted closer and put his arm around Sora, slowing their pace so as not to draw attention.

  “Aye!” one of the soldiers shouted. He was more decorated than the others, with a feathered helm and shiny, King’s Shield armor. And Whitney knew, when Shieldsmen were watching the gates, that was when things in the kingdom were about to run afoul. “Stop the cart.”

  Whitney exhaled. “Another one of these,” he mumbled, remembering how impossible Torsten could be. “What can I do for you today, Sir Knight?” he asked, bowing his head with a flourish.

  “Commander Citravan of the Winde Port legion,” the man corrected. “You heading in?”

  “No, we’re g…” Whitney cut off his sarcasm before getting them into trouble. “Yes, sir,” he said instead. “Silk traders on our way to Yaolin City.”

  “Don’t care where you’re going.” The commander signaled to one of his men, and a soldier hopped up onto their wagon without even asking. He peeled open the canvas and rifled through some of the goods inside. Sora seemed nervous, but Whitney wasn’t sure why. He’d already stashed his half of the Glass Crown somewhere nobody would ever think to look.

  The guard stepped out and nodded to the commander.

  “All right, move along,” Commander Citravan said.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Whitney replied. “Keeping the Realm safe. There’s no higher calling under Iam’s Eye.”

  “Move along.”

  Whitney bit down hard, forcing himself to not test the man. He looked to Sora as their wagon rolled forw
ard, expecting her to be joining him in frustration. Instead, she stared off to the left.

  Another shorter, spiked barricade bowed away from the main wall on the opposite side of the city. Pikemen stood guard at every entrance into a vast camp filled with gray-skinned Shesaitju. Men, women, and children all huddled together in wooden shacks and tents, despite the cold. No warm hearths, just fire pits out in the open to keep warm.

  “So much for freedom,” Whitney said.

  Sora didn’t answer. She simply stared, expressionless.

  “Serves them right for what they did,” Whitney said, thinking of the day they’d burned Troborough and taken from Sora everyone she’d ever known and loved—though he wasn’t sure he meant it.

  He locked eyes with one of them, a little gray-skinned girl of about five years, eating scraps of rotten meat by a dwindling fire. That little girl had done less to Troborough than he had.

  “Yeah...” Sora said softly.

  “By all the fallen gods, what did you do with my Sora? You’re supposed to be telling me we should abandon all our plans and try to help them.”

  Sora was silent, again.

  Shesaitju were led in a long single-file line through the gate and toward the detainment camp. Rusty, silver chains strung them together at the wrists and feet. The sound was horrifying, like they were all being led to execution. Behind the line, a soldier of the Glass poked and prodded them.

  “In you go, rainclouds,” he chortled. One of the Shesaitju cursed at him in his native tongue and earned a club to the stomach. The guard reached down and wrenched the man’s hair back as he heaved for breath, and spoke directly into his ear loud enough for Whitney to hear. “My sister died in Oxgate, you swine. You’ll rot in here.”

  “Aye!” Commander Citravan shouted. “I said, move along.”

  ”Sorry, sir,” Whitney said. “It’s just… my wife is from around here and she’s never seen the city... well... like this.”

  “All Shesaitju west of the Great Ravine are to be detained until the rebel Afhem Muskigo surrenders,” he explained. “It’s for their own good. They’d get torn to pieces otherwise. Now, I said move along. I won’t ask again.”

  Whitney got the wagon rolling, but Sora didn’t stop staring at the sad state of the Shesaitju until they were beyond the palisade.

  “Just forget about it, Sora,” Whitney said once they were in.

  She glared at him. “Typical Whitney Fierstown—”

  “Blisslayer.”

  “Would you shut up with that already! Just because you got some letter sealed by the Crown doesn’t mean you can just throw away who you’ve always been.”

  “Technically, it does, but that’s beside the point. I—we—worked hard for that name. You can’t just go forgetting it.”

  “Well, it’s not right, locking them out there. It’s cold.”

  Whitney sighed. “There she is. A second ago you wanted to burn their whole camp to the ground.”

  “It wasn’t their fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But out in the world, it starts to get hard telling, doesn’t it, knife-ear?”

  He winced impulsively, but she didn’t strike him. Instead, she shot a glower his way that made him feel like shriveling into a cocoon.

  “I’m just making a point,” he said. “Out in the world, if you stay somewhere too long you’ll wind up wrapped up in the affairs of lords and ladies. It’s the same thing I told you back in Yarrington.”

  “What, and there are no lords in Panping? What’ll we do when we get there and my people are locked up thanks to some rebel warlord thinking about no one but himself?”

  “We move on to the next place.” He placed his arm around her, knowing full well the risk he was taking considering her mood. “You think I fancy myself a Glassman because I was born outside Yarrington? I’m as much one as you are Panpingese.”

  “Not according to that piece of paper in your pocket.” Sora either cleared her throat or chuckled, Whitney wasn’t sure which.

  “All I’m saying is that in our line of work, we’re all on our own. Yeah, make that lesson number… whatever number we’re on: it’s us against the world.”

  “And what exactly would you call our line of work?” Sora asked. He could tell by her tone she was starting to cheer up. Which was good, because a month-long voyage across the Boiling Waters to the land of her ancestors would be worse than Elsewhere if she was in a sour mood. And if seeing a group of Shesaitju forced to live in a camp, thanks to a possible rebellion, was the worst she’d ever seen... she had no idea what she was in for if pirates attacked.

  “Thieving?” she went on. “That’s too simple. We did burn down Darkings' mansion. What about scoundreling. Is that a word?”

  “We’re beyond description.”

  “Scoundreling it is, then,” she said.

  He slowed the wagon down beside an amassed crowd watching a street performer—a Panpingese kid juggling torches. He let the fire come as close to his face as possible, egging on a crowd of wealthy Glassmen in the merchant district. After he finished and earned a chorus of applause, he pointed to Sora.

  “You!” he called. He had the voice of a proper showman, booming, yet inviting all at the same time. Impressive for his age. Whitney had run with a few performing troupes in his time. The acting was fun, but distracting a whole crowd of men and women with full pockets was even better.

  Sora glanced between Whitney and the kid, then laughing, stopped the wagon.

  “Go on,” Whitney said. “You’re part of the act now.”

  The crowd parted to let Sora pass. Whitney heard a few lewd comments about her looks. Lucky for them, he couldn’t see who’d said them. He hopped down and watched from the back.

  “I uh... wow…. she’s gorgeous enough to be Empress of Panping, isn’t she?” the kid asked, earning a mixture of laughter and cheers. Sora’s cheeks went as red as the walls of the Jarein Gorge. Whitney gave a nod of approval, even though he knew the kid wasn’t watching him. He was probably half her age, he was so young, but he was good.

  “Now, stand right here.” The kid took her by both hands and led her to a tiny stand.

  “Here?” she asked, so embarrassed she could barely get the words out.

  He gave her one last adjustment. “Right here.” He bent down, and from beneath the stand, drew two curved daggers. They looked Shesaitju in design.

  Only in Winde Port, Whitney thought, smirking.

  Sora’s face drained of color. Two Glintish women dressed in feathery gowns yelped.

  “Now, whatever you do,” the kid said, “just don’t move.”

  Sora looked to Whitney, but there was nothing he could do. The performer began juggling the blades all around her. She closed her eyes as one twirled up over her head, the kid catching it on the other side. Ooos and ahhhs filled the air as he danced with blades, each one closer to cutting her than the next. Until one sliced her arm. Just barely, but enough to make her howl. Half the crowd lunged forward to help her, but Whitney didn’t budge. He waited patiently until he felt the faintest pressure against his side. Reaching back with cat-like speed, he caught the hand of a pickpocket.

  He shook his head in disapproval as he looked down at the performer’s younger running mate. The boy looked like he was going to fill his trousers with shog. It was probably his first time getting caught. Whitney remembered his younger days of honing his quick fingers on the streets of Winde Port. Traders and wealthy shoppers were the easiest targets around—easily distracted and usually with too many things on them to notice if something went missing.

  Whitney however, was neither. “C’mon kid, oldest trick in the book. Never go for the man at the very back of the crowd because he clearly has trust issues.” He released the boy’s arm and gave him a light shove. “Now scram.”

  Whitney continued watching for a moment, then bulled his way through the crowd toward Sora. She was hunched over, holding her arm while the performer tried to assess the damage. He looked nervou
s too, and Whitney could see why. A stream of blood ran from the cut down her arm, trickling over the hem of her glove. He’d nicked her far deeper than was planned.

  Whitney wanted to smack the kid upside the head, but his attention was drawn elsewhere. Smoke poured out of Sora’s clenched fists. It was faint, but there was no question it came from her.

  Within her?

  He still barely understood how magic worked, blood-based or not, only that it drew on Elsewhere, the realm of banished gods and demons created by Iam after the God Feud.

  The fabric over her fingertips began to sear. Whitney quickly hooked his arm around her and rushed her back through the crowd. The performer grabbed at Whitney’s arm, asking if she was okay.

  “You juggle knives like my grandmother,” Whitney said, then added. “And your little brother has fingers as light as a zhulong. I sent him running that way if you’re looking.”

  The performer looked both ways, then snagged his tin of autlas donated by the gathered crowd and bolted. Whitney leaned Sora against the carriage.

  “You okay?” Whitney asked. “You need me to chase down the knife-ear?”

  She managed to break her grimace for a second and smirk. Then shook out her arm. There was a long cut across her forearm over a row of ghosted scars he’d never noticed before.

  “Seriously though,” Whitney said. “You’re not going to explode again, are you?”

  “I’m fine. That area is just tender from… growing up.”

  She flexed her arm and a bit more blood oozed out. Whitney had to turn away to avoid gagging. He made it look like he was just getting one of the silk blankets from their wagon. He wrapped it tight around her arm.

  “There you go...” He coughed, again to cover for the sick feeling in his stomach. “Most expensive bandage ever.” Blood soaked through the fabric quickly. “Those scars—”

  “Are where Wetzel used to cut me to help me tap into my abilities. It brings up bad memories.”

  “Of him dying?”