Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Muskigo staggered back. Torsten fought the sharp pain racking his limbs as he scrambled to his feet and drove his armored shoulder into the afhem. They tumbled across the slick street, their tangled bodies spinning. They punched and kicked all the way until their bodies slipped over the edge of Merchants Canal.

  They landed on their backs. The thick ice covering the water splintered but didn’t break. Torsten’s ears rang from countless blows to the head. The sounds of battle at his back were louder than ever, as if the armies were now warring within the city itself.

  Muskigo didn’t seem to be faring much better. And as they both got to their feet, ready to engage again, the ice cracked more.

  Half the man’s gray face was carved up and drenched in blood like his torso, but Muskigo’s confidence never waned. “I wonder which one of us will go through first?” He spread his sandaled feet wide to disperse his weight.

  Torsten looked down. Cracks snaked away from his armored feet like the webs of a spider. It didn’t matter how he shifted his weight. He reached for the pendant hanging from his neck, only to be reminded it was no longer there.

  But he never needed it, not really. Iam was in his heart, always—right there along with the King who helped forge him into the man he was.

  “You forget, afhem,” he said. “Only one of our deaths matters!”

  Torsten darted forward. He could feel the slick surface giving way under his heavy feet, but he kept pushing. Muskigo got his sword around a fraction of a second too late. Torsten’s massive body barreled into him, and when they hit the ice, this time it gave way.

  Icy water and darkness enveloped Torsten as he clung to Muskigo’s waist to try and drag him under. The afhem clawed at the unbroken ice, desperate to stay above the surface. His lack of heavy armor made him fast, but even seconds below the surface might stop his heart.

  Torsten could feel it; bitter death seeping through the cracks in his armor. Pushing against his lips to reach his lungs. Yet even with his weight and armor, they didn’t sink. Instead, they began to rise through the ice.

  His head emerged from the water. Two of Muskigo’s Serpent Guards had thrown a rope wrapped to a gondola post to the afhem and were hauling him up.

  “Yo—u d—die… here,” Torsten said, shivering.

  Another warrior, standing at the lip of the canal, threaded his bow. It took every bit of his strength for Torsten to move his head out of the way of an arrow. Muskigo then thrashed and caught Torsten in the face with a foot. His numb arms gave out, and the leader of the rebellion wriggled free.

  As he plunged into the water, Torsten watched Muskigo be heaved to the surface and wrapped in leathers. Torsten could hear nothing but the slowing rhythm of his own heart, but he saw the afhem’s now-purple lips rasp orders.

  Muskigo stared down into the depths of the canal for a moment. He didn’t seem proud or satisfied, just bowed his head in respect as he was escorted away.

  It was Torsten’s last clear sight before the cold started to blur his vision. His entire body went numb, toes to skull. Even his heart was silent. And as the water closed in around him, he couldn’t help but feel this was his path to Elsewhere. He had dedicated his life to the light of Iam, and here he would die, weightless in the dark. A failure.

  A spear stabbed through the surface. Torsten couldn’t feel his fingers, but he was able to get a few around the staff. Then the tip of another spear hooked around the back of his armor. Before he knew it, the reddish glow of fire filled his vision. A dozen hands grabbed at him, rolling him up onto the surface.

  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move. He could do nothing but shiver as the world came into view again. Shesaitju forces were in a full retreat, pursued by the combined army of Glassmen and Drav Cra. The fire, which had carved a path of destruction all the way to the walls was dwindling as snow fell harder.

  A familiar face leaned down over him, pale and half-covered by a spiky, red birthmark. Redstar spoke, but Torsten couldn’t hear a thing. He could only watch as Redstar extended his hand for the warlock Freydis to slice. He placed his bloody palm against Torsten’s chest and began to mutter under his breath until the hand glowed red. His eyes were shut, lids flickering.

  Warmth built within Torsten’s heart. He could feel it spread through his veins like a tree laying roots. First, his fingers and toes thawed, then the limbs themselves, and then he gasped for air. Water spewed out, literally steaming thanks to Redstar’s blood magic.

  Redstar withdrew his hand. “There you are,” he said. “Breathe. Nesilia tells me it is not yet your time.”

  Torsten brushed him aside and rolled over. He still couldn’t find the ability to speak, but he leaned back on perched elbows and stared down toward the docks. The Shesaitju were fleeing to their ships and rowboats, abandoning Winde Port. And now the streets were filled with Torsten’s own people... and the Drav Cra.

  They beat their chests and cheered, and on the lips of both peoples, Torsten heard a name that had a part of him wishing he’d drowned.

  “Redstar, Redstar, Redstar...”

  XXVII

  THE THIEF

  As Whitney, Sora, and Aquira crested the hill of mansions overlooking Winder's Wharf and the rest of the city, Whitney was sure of one thing—Winde Port would never be the same. That free-loving, gold-flipping place he’d loved had seen the wrath of war. Not just the fire that burned its finest shops and most stately buildings, but a terror would hover over the place that would change it.

  Whitney felt it in Panping any time he was there—this weight, as if the spirits of the dead were constantly whispering to the survivors of Liam’s war that they were left behind.

  War would ruin another place he loved, but as he looked down upon the battle-filled streets at the walls and heart of the city, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride that he’d helped the winning side. It was difficult to see through the lingering smoke in the night, but the Shesaitju were clearly starting to retreat, eyes set on their rowboats and ships moored on the southern beaches. The Glass Army charged through the city walls like a nail through a ship’s hull.

  “He did it,” Whitney said, not even trying to hide his joy. “He really yigging did it!” The war was stupid, a pointless squabble between rich lords over land and forgotten slights. But Torsten, his friend, led this battle. And after everything that had happened to the kingdom he loved for whatever Iam-forsaken reason, Whitney knew the Shieldsman deserved a win.

  “Praise be,” Sora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose he’ll give all credit to Iam for saving his hide once again?”

  “Oh, you know he will. Never to you… unless… are you Iam and you didn’t tell me?”

  “If I were, I’d have created you without a mouth. Now let’s move before the docks are overrun again.” Her fingernails dug into Whitney’s forearm as she pulled him down the hill. Aquira looked back and screeched at him as if warning him not to test her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take a moment and knock another mansion off Darkings' board?” Whitney pointed left, at the highest point in the city upon which the homes of Bartholomew and Winde Port’s richest families stood. With the glow of dwindling flames so far off, they were drenched in darkness. A corner here or there glowed under whatever slivers of moonlight slipped through the clouds, but not a candle was lit. Snow piled up in front of their heavy doors.

  Most of their inhabitants probably got out safely through their own tunnels like the Darkings. Or they threw their slaves at the Shesaitju and ran. Now, the homes stood as great, big gravestones for the city.

  “I think we should stop making enemies,” Sora said, pulling him harder.

  “That’s a great lesson,” Whitney answered. “Write that down: friends are better.”

  The road flattened out, and he pulled Sora back against a building on the edge of the wharf. A cohort of Shesaitju ran by, screaming and cursing. Whitney noticed, out of the corner of his eye, they were leaning against the Winde Trad
ers Guild Hall. Through a shattered window, he could see all the velvet-cushioned chairs were overturned and plates of delectables strewn across the floor.

  Sora peeked around the corner. “Most of the ships are tipped!” she exclaimed.

  “About that…” Whitney said. He stole a look as well. The ships used in his distraction were in rough shape. With the snow picking up, a few of the smaller ones were weighted much too heavily to one side, others were half-sunken in the shallow water from ruptured hulls.

  He cursed himself as he looked down toward the beachfront.

  The Shesaitju vessels remained in fine condition, awaiting the return of their respective crews out on the bay. It looked like a choreographed dance upon the waters, rowboat oars plunging and pulling in perfect harmony as gray men made their way to freedom. Zhulong and their riders plunged into the ice-cold water, where the hulking beasts proved to be unexpectedly agile swimmers.

  A volley of arrows cascaded overhead, then rained down upon the waters, many finding their places buried within the boats and their pilots. The Glassmen were advancing, while brave Shesaitju warriors still on the wharf gave their lives to allow for a thorough retreat.

  “What about that one?” Sora pointed toward the small, black corsair vessel at the north end of the dock. It was right next to the one Whitney and Tum Tum had started the chain reaction of devastation upon. Its low stature kept it safe even as the adjacent ship’s hull angled up and over it.

  “Good enough.” The small, nimble ship would be easy to maneuver through the crowded bay, even, hopefully, by a crew of only two. “All right, on my count, we run for it.”

  Sora regarded the wyvern on her shoulder. “Ready?” Aquira clicked her tongue in response.

  “Three…two… one…”

  They hurried out onto the quay. Sora’s foot slid out on the icy surface, but Whitney was there to catch her. The heaviest fighting was south of them, by Merchants Row and the beach. They made it to the ship without a hitch and climbed up the lowered ramp. It was only when they were onboard that they noticed the four gray men already on the deck.

  “This will be our ship we are having!” one of them said in broken speech. They raised their curved blades.

  “I’ve got these,” Whitney said, holding out his arm.

  “What a gentleman,” Sora replied.

  Whitney was just about to say something smart when he saw one of their knees snap inward. Tum Tum stood behind him, a giant hammer in hand.

  “Not without me ye ain’t,” Tum Tum shouted.

  Whitney charged while they were distracted. He lowered his shoulder, and it connected with one of their stomachs. Luckily, Tum Tum noticed him and dropped to hands and knees at the last moment. The Shesaitju propelled backward, tripped over Tum Tum, and flipped over the railing into the icy waters of the bay.

  The remaining two went back to back. One kept their sword trained on Tum Tum and the other on Whitney.

  “If ye’d told me your plan it’d saved me a heap of trouble,” Tum Tum said.

  “But you love trouble,” Whitney replied.

  The warrior swung at Whitney, who rolled aside and came up wielding the dagger he stole from Fenton. Tum Tum slammed his hammer down on the deck with all his might. The wood planks nearby came unsettled, and Whitney’s opponent lost balance when he went to take another swipe.

  “Watch the ship! We need it!”

  Whitney ducked to the side, then darted forward and delivered a deep slice through his opponent’s hamstring. At the same time, Tum Tum raised the handle of his hammer into his target’s groin, then flipped him, legs first. His head slammed into the floor, knocking him out cold.

  “Uh, Whitney, when you boys are done!” Sora said.

  Whitney looked back. Several more Shesaitju were bounding down the wharf toward the ship, desperate for any suitable vessel.

  “Tum Tum, hoist the mainsail!” Whitney ordered.

  “I won’t be able to reach, ye dolt,” he said. “This ship was made for taller men.”

  “Must I do it all?” Whitney groaned. “Fine, just help Sora.”

  Whitney tossed her his dagger before hurrying to help Tum Tum prep for launch.

  Sora drew a cut along her palm, then raised her bloody hand toward the attackers and screamed. No ball or pillar of flame exploded from her hand as Whitney was used to. Only a smattering of pathetic embers spewed out.

  Whitney stopped by the mast. “Where’s your magic?” he hollered.

  “I… I don’t know,” she said, suddenly sounding faint. “I can’t manage even a spark.”

  Whitney was about to run back to help when Aquira soared off her shoulder. She swept in front of the Shesaitju, blowing a line of fire between the ship and the wharf. She didn’t pack much of a punch, but the heat was palpable.

  Tum Tum waddled over to the ramp to hold them off. The ramp was securely attached, but the dwarf brought his hammer down on it as one Shesaitju braved the flame. Just then, Whitney unfurled the sails, and they snapped up, catching the heady winds.

  The ship pulled away from the dock. The weakened ramp snapped in half, the Shesaitju upon it plummeting into the icy depths. A second later, the vessel jarred to a stop.

  “Sora,” Whitney shouted. “Forget them, get that rope!” He pointed to the single rope still attached to a cleat on the wharf. The Shesaitju must have untied the rest before they overtook them. Sora nodded her understanding. She panted as she slashed at it twice, sending two frayed ends into the wind. A Shesaitju dove toward the ship and grabbed onto the stern before his fingers met Sora’s knife.

  “Jolly fine departure everyone!” Whitney exclaimed.

  “Whit!” Sora screamed.

  Whitney turned quickly to face her as a sword swiped only inches from his head. He heard a hum, felt a sting, then blood sprayed in front of his face. He dropped to his knees and saw a Shesaitju behind him. His knee was a mangled mess, but he stood upright on his good leg. He didn’t get his sword back around before the dwarf finished the job, crushing his skull against the deck.

  “Whitney,” Sora said, running toward him “Are you okay?”

  “What?” He placed a hand on the side of his head. It was bleeding profusely, and his head rang.

  Tum Tum came around in front of him, holding the top half of Whitney’s ear. He lifted it to his mouth and shouted, “Can ye hear me?”

  Whitney ripped it out of his hands. He held it to the portion of ear still attached, and only when they touched did he realize how much it really stung.

  “My yigging ear!” he shouted.

  Sora knelt in front of him. She couldn’t mask her concern, but Aquira looked like she wanted to lick up the blood.

  “Is it bad?” Whitney said.

  “I’ve seen worse…” she lied.

  “Can you fix it?” he asked Sora, holding the ear up.

  “Not right now I don’t think.” She looked down at her bloody hand. “I think I’m completely drained.”

  “Well, you did just light half the city on fire...” His words trailed off. He looked back at Tum Tum, who not only had no idea she could do such magic, but it was his city that burned. If he took offense, he didn’t show it. The Black Sands had overtaken the place, regardless.

  “So ye be a mystic?” Tum Tum asked.

  Sora shrugged. “I’m something. We’re going to Yaolin City if we make it out of this bay alive.”

  “Hello!” Whitney interrupted. “My ear!”

  “Oh, quit whinin ye flower picker,” Tum Tum said. “It’s only a piece.” He slapped him in the side of the head. Whitney yelped.

  “Here.” Sora took the chunk of flesh from Whitney’s hands. Then she buried it in a bit of snow piled around the mast. “We’ll keep it fresh, and I’ll see if I can help after we have some rest.”

  “Sure, I’ll just sail around, earless,” Whitney said. He stood and drew a long breath of the chilly air.

  “You two dump these bodies off the ship. Tum, I’m guessing you’re o
kay with going to Yaolin? Otherwise, I can drop you off in the Boiling Waters.”

  The dwarf stood at the rail and stared longingly back at the wharf and his city, glowing red. “Aye. All I gots be gone anyway,” he said, sadness heavy in his voice.

  “Then I hope you’re ready for a fun ride.” Whitney grabbed hold of the wheel and spun it. The ship lurched and changed course.

  “How do you—” Sora began.

  “What part of ‘I sailed with Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale’ did I not make clear?”

  He knew she didn’t believe him about half the things he said he’d done—which was probably smart on her part—but this one was the cold, hard truth. He knew how to run a ship, though he was glad to have Tum Tum and Sora onboard to help with things. Who knows, maybe by the time they reached Yaolin City, Sora would be a right good sailor.

  First, they had to weave their way through a number of Shesaitju warships and rowboats. He hoped they were too preoccupied with their escape to worry about a small corsair vessel. Still, he kept their course southeast, so it seemed like they were Shesaitju soldiers part of the retreat. At his first opportunity, he could cut the sails to steer them behind the Breakwaters—a tight clumping of dagger-like stones sticking up from Trader's Bay.

  For a large ship, the boulders would be catastrophic, but this corsair would slip right into the strait with no difficulty. Then, it would be off toward the Boiling Waters on the fastest route to Panping.

  “We don’t want to be spotted, so everyone stay low,” Whitney said. “Or, well, Tum Tum, you can just stand.”

  “Very funny, one ear.”

  Whitney grinned and steadied the wheel, feeling the weight of the ship and waters fighting back. “I think we finally found my pirate name.”

  “Too bad you can’t grow a beard!” Sora hollered over from the other side of the deck.

  Whitney glared back at her, then smiled. He’d never been so happy to see someone sliding a body off the deck of a ship before. He’d never been so happy to see anyone.

  XXVIII