Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  I

  THE THIEF

  Flames raced through the air, one after another like shooting stars. The heat bore down on Whitney like a rabid wolf as sweat poured from his brow. His back and neck were sore, arms burning from exertion, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Children were counting on him.

  “Five, four, three, two, one.” They all counted down together as they’d been doing for what felt like an hour. Finally, Whitney caught the torches, two in one hand, one in the other, then bowed with a flourish, hands out to his sides.

  “Good show, Master Fierstown!” called a voice from the crowd.

  Whitney looked down at the still-burning torches, then dropped them headfirst into a bucket of water. Steam rose like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils as the fire sizzled out.

  “Thank you, kind people of…” He leaned back to one of his fellow performers and whispered, “Where the yig are we tonight?”

  “Grambling,” one of them replied.

  Whitney returned to the crowd and shouted, “Grambling! It was an honor performing for you this evening.”

  The crowd was filing out even as he spoke. He heard clinks as a humble few autlas landed in his cup.

  Once all the Gramblites who’d come out for a show dispersed, Whitney picked up the container and gave it a shake. “Good show,” he scoffed. “Not good enough it seems. Ungrateful…”

  For as long as Whitney could remember, he’d wished to be a part of a traveling troupe, performing night after night, soaking up the peoples’ applause and hard-earned coin like a cotton towel on a rainy day. He’d even run with a group early on in his thieving career, but truth be told, he’d done little more than carry the actor’s props.

  Presently, he sighed, rolled his head back, and tried to recount the events that led him to this mud-sodden town just west of the gorge. As he did, he tried not to remember the fictitious-but-all-too-real-to-him six years he’d spent living in Elsewhere, tending his parents’ farm with Kazimir the Breklian upyr. He tried not to remember being so close to Sora after all that time only to watch her torn away and whisked back to whatever hidden mystics she’d—apparently—found in Panping. He tried to forget the sight of his only friend, Torsten—gods he hoped no one ever heard him say that out loud—blind as a bat, lying in bed and waiting for Iam to see fit to spare him the misery of life.

  The Webbed Woods and the terrors of the spider queen Bliss seemed so distant now. So trivial. So pointless. Shallow, even, the way most of his life had been. The World’s Greatest Thief was no more. Now he was merely Whitney Fierstown, a man obsessed with finding the woman he loved.

  That meant traversing the entire world from Yarrington, where that damnable portal had spit him out on the top of Mt. Lister, all the way to Yaolin City where he had to assume Sora still would be. All he had was the vision of her in a stone-walled room filled with frightened looking Panpingese men and women garbed in the robes worn by mystics in paintings.

  He removed his mask, the brand of the Pompare Troupe. It was a dark gray and purple fragment of wood that covered the left half of his face, part of the mystique, the show.

  Whitney had always said, “A good disguise hides a thief better than shadow…” It was lesson number eighty-two that he wished he could’ve taught Sora. She’d played the role of his apprentice, but she was so much more than that.

  If only he’d told her.

  Still staring down at the measly coins, Whitney fought the temptation to snatch a coin purse from one of the fine citizens of Grambling or even one of his fellow performers. But that was the old Whitney Fierstown thinking. He was a thief. The new and improved Whitney was not. At least, not at the moment.

  He’d done a lot of thinking since his time spent in Elsewhere—what else does one do while stuck in their own personal exile within the supernatural confines of Troborough?

  He’d done even more thinking when the troupe passed through the real Troborough a few weeks prior. The village remained in ruins, most buildings burned to ash and cinder, but the church stood proud and intact. Torsten would’ve called it symbolic, a church of Iam withstanding enemy attacks. Whitney just figured it was the only building in that shoghole, Iam-forsaken town made out of stone instead of thatch and wood.

  There’s no such thing as divine providence, Whitney thought. Just luck and shog.

  Lately, Whitney felt like he lived more on the shog-end of things. Luck had been his lady for years, but not since he’d met that dreadful dwarf, Grint Strongiron. It seemed so long ago when Whitney’d sat in the Twilight Manor, drinking and enjoying himself, minding his own yigging business.

  “Steal from the King,” that little piss of a dwarf had said. And Whitney had been stupid enough to take up the challenge. From there, it was downhill. He’d been imprisoned more times in the last months than his whole life combined, and that wasn’t counting Elsewhere.

  Alless was there in Real Troborough. Quite a bit older now, but still pretty in her particular way. In Fake Troborough, Whitney and Alless flirted some, although his love for Sora made sure it never went any further. But the real Alless, like everyone else at the Manor—which they’d done a damn fine job rebuilding—didn’t remember him any better than Haam had all those years ago in The Lofty Mare in Old Yarrington.

  All those years ago, Whitney though. Gods and monsters, it was only a matter of months on this side of Elsewhere.

  And that’s the way his life had been. The whole world had barely passed a season, suffering only months under the torment of a warlock named Redstar and the petulant little child, King Pi. But Whitney: he’d had years to grow and mature only to be thrust back into a Pantego that now barely felt familiar.

  That was part of why he knew he needed to reach Sora, besides how terrified she looked when the mystics tore her out of Elsewhere. He imagined that maybe, just maybe, a few moments with her would help him feel like he belonged again.

  “I’m on my way, fast as I can,” he whispered. Then he packed up his things and headed for camp. Trinkets mostly. Since joining the troupe, he’d been given precious-few opportunities to act. Instead, the Pompares, the overfed wretches they were, had him doing the sorts of magic tricks and feats of dexterity a life as a thief teaches a man.

  When the other performers also working the south part of town and the ogling crowds had wholly abandoned the area, Whitney clicked his tongue a few times. From behind a stack of crates by the general store, a small, brown reptile scurried out. She stuck out her tongue as if tasting the air, then scampered over to Whitney.

  “Good job lighting the torches and not burning my hands this time,” Whitney said, bending over to scratch the wyvern, Aquira, behind the frills on her neck. “I know you preferred Sora, but I think you’re great, too.”

  Aquira showed up just a week or so after Whitney had set out from Yarrington to find Sora. He woke up to the wyvern’s big eyes staring at him while she perched on his chest, damn-near giving him a heart attack. He had no idea why she was there, but no matter what he did, she followed him like a shadow.

  He was certain that with all her clicks and squeaks, Aquira was trying to tell him what had happened, where Sora was, and why Aquira wasn’t with her. He was also certain that made him crazy, thinking a wyvern could communicate on such a high intellectual level… but she was, except Whitney didn’t know how to understand her. For the weeks they’d been together, Whitney had tried everything to develop a form of communication they could share. But so far, nothing worked.

  He looked down once again at his cup. There weren’t even enough coins inside to pay for his place in the troupe. Hadn’t been for a few stops now. It wasn’t Whitney’s fault; that yigging, half-naked Glintish dancer kept stealing all the attention! She and her mother, the bard.

  He spotted them, bidding farewell to a crowd in the Grambling Inn, a rat-infested dump if he ever saw one. If I could just swipe a few silver autlas… but he couldn’t. That would only leave them short. If Elsewhere taught him anything, it was h
ow every rotten thing he’ ever done affected somebody, even if he’d never realized it.

  His selfishness had caused more trouble than ever he could’ve imagined. Before Elsewhere, he’d only heard stories of his parents’ deaths. But there, even if they weren’t his real parents, he’d watched his father suffer and die because of decisions Whitney had made. He watched his mother grow old without Rocco there to take care of her, and ultimately, he watched everyone in his hometown die at the hand of sharp-toothed, red-eyed demons.

  It wasn’t much different in real life, though. The demons from the Black Sands had brought the fires of Elsewhere with them when they decided King Liam’s death was worth the lives of a hundred more.

  Whitney wasn’t used to thinking about others. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it felt good. Sometimes he imagined that after he retrieved Sora, maybe, together, they could go back to Troborough and help rebuild things once and for all. They could dig up all the stolen trinkets and priceless items buried throughout Pantego which he’d stolen over the years and either return them to their owners or sell them, giving the gold to the less fortunate.

  Maybe Torsten, in his disabled state, would settle down there as well. Perhaps there was something prophetic about Whitney’s time spent in Quasi-Troborough, where Torsten had been the local priest. Whitney could see his stubborn friend fathering the masses. Yig, he wouldn’t even have to burn out his eyes like Wren the Holy. His were already gone.

  Maybe providence wasn’t all hog shog.

  Whitney regarded the darkening sky. It wasn’t the deep purple of Elsewhere, but the blue and green skies spoke of the rain that would be coming. Springtime in Pantego was the time of rain and storm, and thus far, it did not disappoint.

  You’re here, he reminded himself, as he often did when his musings wound up far too reminiscent of life in Elsewhere.

  A brisk wind blew in as if to further remind him, and Aquira nestled up against Whitney’s neck. She was warm, but also kind of itchy. Whitney pulled his cloak tighter between him and the wyvern. The Glintish performance troupe had him decked out in beautiful clothing from their homeland of Glinthaven. They were flashy folk, with a lust for intricate design—especially Benon and the rest of the actors. The lot of them walked just ahead of Whitney, leading the way back to their camp just outside of Grambling, each one dressed in sparkling clothes meant to draw the attention of the simple people of these simple towns.

  Whitney didn’t think it was altogether fair. There were so many Glintish, so few Grambling citizens and even less coin to go around. That each of them, including Whitney, had to pay the same for their spot in the caravan was an injustice. Nobody would pay to see me strip down and dance.

  He stopped himself; he was starting to sound like the noble he’d pretended to be. A man had to earn his keep, no matter the cost.

  But the cost was so high. He absentmindedly shook the can again.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it, Mister Fierstown,” said a small voice from behind him, moving quickly to his side.

  Whitney turned to see a young Glintish boy garbed in purple and yellow robes. His head was covered with a bandana of the same colors, and coins and charms cascaded down from it in a ring around his skull.

  “How’d you do, Gentry?” Whitney asked.

  “No better than you,” he answered. “Modera Pompare will take into consideration the state of this town when collecting dues. Don’t worry. Most men here went off to war, they say.”

  “It’s not Modera I’m worried about,” Whitney said.

  “What? Fadra? Fadra Pompare is a… what is the word? Stuffed animal?”

  “Sure. If stuffed animals were known for fits of anger and drunken rages.”

  “Oh, he’s not that bad,” Gentry said, dismissing the idea with a wave. “I know you’re new to the troupe, but Modera and Fadra have taken good care of us for decades.”

  “Us?” Whitney asked. The boy wasn’t even two decades old himself.

  “Sure,” Gentry said. “The Troupe. You know, everyone.”

  “And you?”

  “Awhile,” he said, but that was all. The boy was rather secretive about his time spent with the Pompares. Whitney had his suspicions why but kept them to himself. Gentry was his only real friend out here. The only one he could trust who hadn’t seen enough of the world to know backstabbing was the way of it.

  They walked together down the main stretch of Grambling. Whitney’s eye fell upon a small establishment a few doors down from the inn. Its walls were brick, with vines growing up the front, purple flowers beginning to blossom. Its shutters were the color of a morning sky with a door to match.

  A memory of the place hit him like a deluge. To him, it was more than six years ago when he and Sora sat down at that very chowder house on their way to Winde Port. To the rest of existence, it was mere months.

  He closed his eyes. He kept trying to ignore thoughts of Elsewhere, but he couldn’t. His brain hurt when he considered the implications. Had he aged six years more than everyone else? Did his physical body age—hair, bones, teeth… heart? He had to imagine it had. If his mind retained all the memories and lessons he’d learned, and his muscles, thick and firm from years working his twice-deceased father’s farm, hadn’t disappeared, then it was only fair to believe he was six years closer to the grave.

  Aquira shifted on his shoulder, but Whitney hardly registered the movement.

  Gentry must’ve noticed Whitney eyeing the chowder house because he said, “Don’t worry, Ms. Francesca will have something good for us to eat back at camp. We’ll have to finish it quickly if we hope to avoid getting rained on, though.”

  “It’s not that…” Whitney started, then said, “How long until we reach Myen Elnoir?” He immediately felt stupid asking a boy so young to judge the distance to a city so far away. The troupe was headed there for some Glintish festival. Yaolin City was on the way, which was why he’d chosen to travel with them in the first place. It was his only option considering he hadn’t even a bronzer to his name after leaving Elsewhere. Moving south and east across the seas was far too dangerous with the Shesaitju at war. And stealing a horse and traveling alone across Pantego wasn’t in the cards. War brought the worst sorts of people to the roads, from greedy bandits to mule-headed Glass soldiers—not to mention rumors of marauding Drav Cra and Shesaitju east of the Jarein Gorge.

  In these uncertain times, traveling with a group was the best way to ensure he’d reach Sora alive, and he had to.

  “One thing you gotta learn about the Glintish: we’re never in a hurry,” Gentry said.

  “So I’ve seen,” Whitney groaned.

  “A month?” Gentry guessed. “Two? If everything goes all right.”

  Whitney grunted. He liked the kid, reminded Whitney of Torsten, and not just for the color of his skin. For all Torsten’s piousness, he was kindhearted and selfless. Gentry, no matter how young, shared those same attributes. Whitney knew Torsten had never stepped foot in the home of his heritage, having been born in the South Corner of Yarrington, but he wondered if all Glintish men were kind.

  Then he remembered Fadra. Whitney didn’t know the man’s actual name. At first, he thought it was Fadra, but after some time with the troupe, he learned the word Fadra meant Father and Modera, mother. Modera and Fadra Pompare were the leaders of this ragtag team of performers. Whitney was lucky enough—which, considering the circumstances was a horrible thing to say—that the group’s juggler died from rioting cultists in Yarrington and they needed a replacement. Lucky as well that he’d always a knack for juggling. He taught himself with farming tools as a child when his dad thought he was working.

  They’d only been traveling for two weeks or three—it was easy to lose track of time on the road—but Whitney kept finding himself lost in the fun of it. It took the not-so-gentle reminders like the chowder house to break the once-carefree Whitney Fierstown from his meditations and force his attention back to the mission.

  Find Sora.

>   What he knew was Sora had been there in Elsewhere. She wasn’t just contacting him through some strange mystics. They’d kissed, actually kissed, though who knew if that meant anything? A kiss while surrounded by the demon-hounds of Elsewhere wasn’t much of a romance.

  None of it even made sense. Whitney had been in Winde Port when he… died. Then, he was in Troborough after a brief voyage across the Sea of Souls where he was attacked by a giant sea monster called a wianu, and then, finally, somehow, he wound up back in Yarrington beside Torsten.

  If there were one person who might understand, it would be Kazimir. But that damnable upyr disappeared along with everyone else. For all Whitney knew, Kazimir might still be in Elsewhere suffering for all his monstrous murdering. Even though the two had forgiven each other their debts, maybe even become friends, Whitney sort of hoped that was the case. The moment he woke up back in Pantego, he remembered how it was Kazimir’s fault any of them were in these situations to begin with.

  Some friend…

  If not for Kazimir, Whitney would’ve been together with Sora in Panping, scouring for mystics. Torsten might’ve still had his sight for all Whitney knew. It was a farfetched thought, but still—who knew how many things would’ve gone differently if not for that vile upyr.

  Then Whitney had another thought: Kazimir wouldn’t have come to Winde Port in the first place had it not been for that tub-of-lard Bartholomew Darkings. None of his years in Elsewhere altered his regrets for not just murdering that arrogant bastard in cold blood.

  “Must be some daydream,” Gentry said.

  “What?” Whitney replied.

  “Oh, I dunno. I’ve been talking to you since the middle of town, and now we’re at camp, and you’ve been quiet, like I wasn’t even here. You’re never quiet.”