Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Look, over there,” Whitney said.

  Silhouetted in one of the alleys, two figures wrestled. One was large, and wearing furs, the other, small, slight, and shoved against the wall, whimpering.

  Without warning, Whitney snatched Rand’s sword. The Shieldsman protested quietly, but it was too late. Whitney was already halfway to the alley. The Drav Cra was distracted with hiking up his victim’s dress against her will. He didn’t even see the longsword stab through the side of his neck. A spurt of blood covered the young lady, and she squealed before collapsing to the ground, sobbing.

  Whitney lowered the sword down and wrapped his arm around the Glintish girl. “It’s okay,” Whitney said. “Franny,” She was the troupe’s cook, who he’d admittedly probably never said a word to away from the campfire.

  “Oh, thank you, Whitney,” Francesca said, throwing her arms around him.

  “Are you hurt? Why are you out so late?”

  Francesca sniffled and shook her head slowly. “I saw them coming. I was… I… he… he… grabbed me.”

  “You’re fine now. Where is everybody else?” Whitney asked.

  “Still at the Five Round Trousers, well… except for Madera and Fadra. Nearly the whole town was there watching Gentry perform.”

  “All right. Just stay here; we’re going to get everyone.”

  “Whitney…” She sniveled, grabbing his arm. Whitney flinched. He wasn’t used to anyone relying on him, especially those who were basically strangers. He hated it.

  Is this what Torsten went through every day?

  “Just stay here and hide. Trust me. And if anyone else comes, you run fast as you can and don’t look back.”

  She reluctantly followed his instructions, and a moment later, Grint and Rand stood behind him.

  Rand picked up his sword. “Don’t do that again,” he said.

  Whitney pulled out his dagger and waved it around. “I needed something longer.” With that, he bent down and snagged a short bow and quiver from the dead Drav Cra as well as what looked like nothing more than a shapeless piece of metal sharpened to a fine edge. Then he kicked the man for good measure.

  “What can you see?” Rand asked Whitney who was closest to the alley’s mouth.

  “Do ye see the big’uns?” Grint asked, trying to shove his way to the front.

  It was too dark to see much, but there was commotion down the road, toward the Fettingborough square. Whitney squinted, then a bolt of lightning struck a lightning rod atop a building at the edge of town.

  “There’s twenty of the Northmen, at least,” Whitney said, quickly analyzing the scene. “They have zhulong-drawn wagons. Huge things. The size of small houses. Big cages built onto the backs of them and they’re piling the people in, one at a time.” Whitney had never seen Drav Cra with the southern-inhabiting beasts, but he assumed that they were stolen after their defeat in the south.

  “I counted a few dead bodies, but not many,” Whitney went on. “All town guards outside the barracks looks like. Your big brutes are locked away, Grint, not putting up much of a fight I might add.”

  Grint swore.

  “The Drav Cra usually come in hard and burn things,” Rand remarked. “This is careful for them. Quiet. Twenty can’t be all that’s left after Sir Nikserof drove them off, so this can’t be all of them.” He turned to Grint. “Do you think they know who we…”

  “How could they?” Grint said.

  “This shoghole doesn’t have much to fight back with,” Whitney said, half-ignoring them. “We make it so damn easy.”

  Whitney squinted. It was dark, and there was very little light. For once, Whitney missed the green glow of the nigh’jels the Shesaitju carried in Winde Port, at least then he could better make out what he was looking at.

  “Talwyn…” Whitney whispered.

  “Who?”

  “My troupe. There’s Lucy, Benon… They’re all there already. Shog!” A dire wolf circled them, snarling, leaving them no choice but to get in a wagon. Just the sight of one of the terrifying beasts sent a chill up Whitney’s spine. He tried to ignore it and scanned the area, searching for Gentry and Aquira. The wyvern wouldn’t go into a cage for anyone, which had him fearing the worst.

  “It’s a relief they’re not dead,” Rand said. “The savages aren’t known for their mercy. Let me see.” Rand pushed down on Whitney’s shoulder so he could get a better view.

  “Do ye yigging see him?” Grint asked.

  “Not yet. You foul-mouthed, pint-sized piece of…” Rand groaned in frustration. “If we don’t get him back safely, my sister…”

  “Enough of yer sister,” Grint said. “There’s a pile of gold bigger than a giant’s scrotum waiting on the other side of this delivery.”

  “Sigrid is worth all the gold in the world!” Rand said.

  “They’re gonna hear us,” Whitney said. “I’m trying to count how many of them…” his words trailed off as amongst the darkness and the Drav Cra prisoners, he spotted one ugly mug being imprisoned that he’d never forget.

  “Darkings,” Whitney whispered, voice dripping with acid. The man who’d ruined everything, Bartholomew Darkings stood a hundred yards away, being prodded at by a fur-clad Drav Cra warrior.

  “What about him?” Rand asked. “Wait, how do you—”

  “I’ll kill him!” Whitney started forward, but a steady hand on his shoulder held him back and pushed him against the wall.

  “Stop,” Rand said. “He’s with us.”

  “Why would ye tell him that?” Grint said.

  Whitney’s face went slack. “Uh-ph… I… you… uh-ph,” he stammered.

  Rand merely stared at him.

  “You’re working with the worst family on Pantego,” Whitney forgot to whisper, and Rand covered his mouth.

  “I’m not working with him. Just stop.”

  “You don’t get to order me around anymore. If Torsten knew about this…” Whitney let the warning hang in the air a moment. “You’re in trouble. Yeah. Shog-deep kind of trouble. What the hell could you possibly be doing with him? Moving their traitorous gold? Taking him to his father. Is he really working with Muskigo like the rumors say?”

  “Cut it out, thief. You don’t get to judge,” Rand warned.

  “Cut it out? Next, you’ll tell me you all are sneaking the missing Caleef around.” Rand glared but said nothing. “You know what? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should turn yourself in when this is over. And Darkings.”

  “Stuff it,” Grint grumbled, throwing his hands in the air.

  “No, I’m serious—he owes it…” Whitney turned back to Rand. “You owe it to the Crown, to Torsten. You owe it to yourself.”

  Rand looked aghast. “Sure. Turn myself in. Better yet, why don’t I just walk out there right now? Give myself up to the slaughter. Then my sister can die for my failings.”

  “Again, with the sister,” Grint groused.

  “It’s your gold too,” Rand addressed the dwarf. “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t gone after the thief, we could have protected them.”

  “My fault? I didn’t tell ye to follow me. This was my business.”

  “I’m in charge of this expedition,” Rand stated.

  Grint got up on his toes in front of Rand, and his hands balled into fists. “Is that so.”

  “Quiet,” Whitney said. “Both of you.”

  Rand and Grint turned to him simultaneously and snapped, “What!”

  “All your complaining gives me a plan,” Whitney said.

  “I’m not turning myself in,” Rand replied. “We need to find out who the savages have and free them. Everything depends on it. You can help us, or you can run like I told you.”

  “Run, now?” Whitney said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to have words with old Barty. So, let’s go save him too.”

  XXIV

  THE DAUGHTER

  Mahraveh’s spear clacked against Jumaat’s. They sparred on that same promontory by the cliffs where
she’d waited for Jumaat on her last trip into Latiapur, where the lapping of waves hid the sounds of blackwood against blackwood. All the other combatants trained within the distant Tal’du Dromesh, but Mahraveh didn’t want to reveal any secrets yet. That’s what she told herself at least. Mystery was better than them saying how small Jumaat still was. How raw.

  She went high on her next stroke, but he ducked by and stabbed. She twisted out of the way, and before she could stop herself, rammed a knee into his gut. Jumaat gasped for air and folded forward.

  Mahraveh cursed. “I’m so sorry.” She knelt at his side as he gathered his breath.

  “Don’t be,” Jumaat said. “That Rajeev beast will hit way harder.”

  Mahraveh lifted him and patted his chest. “The spear isn’t the warrior’s only weapon. Their entire body is.”

  “I know. I just… I thought you wanted me to avoid fighting?”

  “For as long as you can. But you’ll need to fight eventually. My father taught me this strategy. Now, remember, aim for their legs first, slow them down, then the neck, right here.” She brushed aside a braid of hair to reveal her neck.

  “With the tip of my blade only, I know,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I get too close, they’re stronger,” he said.

  “So, we weaken them first. A predator hunts the weak and wounded first.”

  “Isn’t that always me?” Jumaat asked, an awkward laugh tinging his words.

  Mahraveh swung at him with no reservations. He ducked just in time, then rose, aghast.

  “What was that, Mahi!” he shouted. “You could have taken my head off.”

  “They never target the fastest either. Know your strengths.”

  “I know them, all right.” He threw his spear down.

  “Jumaat… I.”

  “I need a break, okay? Just for a little.” He hopped down a few rocks and sat, staring out across the Boiling Waters.

  Mahraveh thought about joining him, then stopped. He hadn’t been the same since they ran into Babrak and his men at the arena. He trained harder but grew frustrated quickly. Probably because he knew that somewhere out there, in the water, was the sea-bound afhemate that might save their people—her father.

  They’d been training for nearly a week now, and he was admittedly much better. His anticipation had improved even if his own sword-work remained adequate. Is it enough? All the other combatants had been preparing for the sands for their entire lives. They were hand-picked warriors. The best. She knew that because they’d seen them outside the arena.

  “Is this really your plan, girl?”

  Mahraveh whipped around to see Yuri Darkings standing upon the path, looking down at her.

  “I don’t see you helping,” she said. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “That arrogant bastard, Babrak, has no need for gold. But when the Caleef arrives, Babrak and his ilk will have to listen to him. I imagine he won’t be keen on letting the Glass get away with this.”

  “If or when he arrives,” Mahi said, “my father might already be dead.”

  Yuri sighed, and climbed to join her. He needed to use his hands for balance even though it wasn’t steep—the rich pampered Glassman.

  “I know you don’t trust me,” he said.

  “I don’t,” she replied.

  “I don’t blame you. But I’m on your father’s side now. I have to be. There has to be a better plan than sending that poor boy into an arena to die. I’m a student of gold, not war, but I know a poor bet when I see one.”

  “You want to earn my trust, Lord Darkings? Your people attacked my village in the night like cowards. Slaughtered everybody. Use all your great wealth to send carts so the dead may be put to rest in the Boiling Waters like all worthy Shesaitju.”

  “Haven’t you told anybody?”

  “Who? Babrak laughed it off like my people deserved it,” Mahraveh said.

  “You should have come straight to me,” Yuri said.

  “How dare you?”

  “Learning that the Glass murdered innocents could help sway some afhems to our cause.”

  “They left no proof,” Mahraveh said. “It could just as easily have been raiders.”

  “You underestimate the power of rumors. I will do as you ask, and spread news about this atrocity. This can be exactly what we need.”

  She glared at him. “My people dying, you mean?”

  “A poor choice of words. But perhaps, they will not have died for nothing. I’ll focus there. You try to win this insane tournament with that… child.”

  “Unless my father could get another man out and here in time, our best chance was Farhan. Jumaat’s all that’s left.”

  “I’m sure Babrak knew that too.” He lay his hand upon her shoulder but backed away when it earned a scowl. “I won’t pretend to understand your culture, or why a fleet can be earned without riches, but winning is the smart move. Place that responsibility in that boy’s hands if you must but in times of crisis… drastic measures are sometimes needed.”

  “Says a man who probably hasn’t worked a day in his life.”

  “Do not assume the only work that can be done is done with hands. I made good choices, right decisions. Until that day I chose to betray my kingdom before it rotted from within.”

  “How brave.”

  Neither said anything for a few seconds until Yuri changed the subject. “I received word by galler from Nahanab. They’re still holding out, but don’t have the supplies to last more than another month under siege. The Glass aren’t risking an attack. They’ll wait your father out.”

  “Or break him with Shavi.”

  “Who?” Yuri asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Then I hope you’re doing the right thing, placing your faith in the boy. Just like I hope I did right trusting my son to accomplish anything. The return of the Caleef could sway many.”

  “The Caleef is weak.” Mahraveh couldn’t believe she was echoing the words of Shavi. She wondered if the old handmaiden spoke like that around her father, or if he too believed her.

  “My people don’t seem to think so.”

  “Your people don’t know anything.”

  He chuckled softly. “You have fire, like your father. It’s too bad you were born a woman.”

  She didn’t bother offering a response. Instead, she stared down at Jumaat, who now was pretending to thrust with a spear. She could read the frustration all over his face, even from far away. It was easy to talk about stepping onto the sands until the moment loomed. Dozens entered, most died, only one claimed anything.

  When she turned back, Yuri Darkings was gone. Off to lurk in more shadows. There was no question what he’d been implying, but she couldn’t trust a word he said. She wondered if it was him all along who’d convinced Muskigo to attack the Glass Kingdom without the support of the Caleef or any powerful afhems like Babrak or al-Tariq.

  “Mahi, are you ready?” Jumaat asked.

  She spun back around and saw her closest friend bending down to retrieve his spear. He twirled it in his hands, and pointed it at her. His smirk spoke of brashness, but his eyes told a different story.

  Mahi forced a grin as she brandished her own and threw back her head to get her braids out of her eyes. Her heart sank as she saw his future right in front of her eyes. He was trying his best—trying to be the warrior all Shesaitju men were supposed to be—but if he stepped into that arena, he was going to die.

  “You must eat this,” Mahraveh said to Jumaat as she entered the chamber he’d been summoned to in the bowels of the Tal’du Dromesh’s caverns. Each warrior was kept there on the eve of battle, alone, to make peace with the God of Sand and Sea. Seawater rose calf high throughout, natural stalactites hanging all around. Baby nigh’jels filled the shallow waters. Their green bioluminescence didn’t come in until they reached adulthood, so they remained white like a starry night sky.

  “How did you get in?” Jumaat asked as h
e readjusted the bracers of the armor he’d been given, ignoring her. Every combatant wore the same, a scaled zhulong leather cuirass with a tasseted skirt, sandals suited for sand, and golden bracers with colorful coral from the Intsti Reef inlaid in bands.

  “That’s none of your business,” she said, forcing a smile. Mahraveh had claimed to be a gift from her father on the eve of battle for his champion. The fauchard-wielding guards upstairs had been happy to allow a woman down to please one of the champions. Why wouldn’t they? She had to hold her tongue as they snickered, studying her from head to toe.

  “Now, like I said, eat this.” She shoved a large clamshell filled with still-hot zhulong stew into Jumaat’s gut. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  “Right, thank you.” He dipped his fingers in and fished out a chunk. Mahraveh tried not to stare as he did.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Something thundered above, causing a bit of sand to spray from the ceiling. Jumaat looked up. His hand trembled as the crowd came to life overhead. He tried to hide it by shoving his fingers back into the meal.

  “As I will ever be,” he said. He gave a tug on his cuirass with his free hand. “If only father could see me now.”

  “He’d be as proud as I am.” Mahraveh slid closer to him. “Who’d have thought that little Jumaat would be our last chance.”

  “I am not so small anymore.”

  “No,” she chuckled. “You’re not.”

  Jumaat swallowed another mouthful of his meal, then turned, his eyes boring into hers. “Thank you for believing in me, Mahi.”

  “I always hav—”

  Jumaat suddenly leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She recoiled, eyes going wide. It wasn’t because she didn’t care for him—she did—enough to not want him to be the one to die. It was because of what he had in his mouth. She spat.