Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  In a panic, Whitney stood, but ducked just as quickly, narrowly avoiding an axehead as it hummed through the air above him. But the move left him vulnerable. A hard knee rose to meet his face. Whitney reeled back, then felt another punishing his gut. Doubled over, world spinning, Whitney saw the axe coming at him again. He fell aside, avoiding it once more. Whitney grasped for his dagger, but it wasn’t there—still lodged securely in the first man’s chest.

  His new attacker pursued him. Whitney weaved between gravestones, fighting back the gags as he tried to catch his breath. The Northman didn’t hesitate to turn the giant stones into pebbles.

  “That was someone’s loved one!” Whitney heaved as another stone crumbled.

  “Takostchivo entr’zt, bareese!”

  The man swung his axe again, but Whitney caught it by the shaft. It surprised even him, having never been much of a fighter. The raw wood splintered into his palms, and the Drav Cra gnashed his teeth like a rabid wolf, but Whitney let the man’s momentum carry him, pulling him close. With a scream, Whitney drove his forehead into the bridge of the Drav Cra’s nose. Blood poured freely from both of them, and the man relented his grip on his axe to cradle his nose. Whitney brought the shaft-end of the axe around and drove it into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold.

  Whitney stood, stumbling, feeling the contents of his stomach—which he realized was little more than a bucket of ale—roiling around, his brain swimming. Locating the body containing his dagger, he snatched it and shoved it down into its sheath. He had no doubt another attack would come imminently, but he leaned against the lone tree in the center of the graveyard to catch his breath.

  In the distance, Rand was engaged in swordplay with a Northman. Ex-Shieldsman or not, he moved like a dancer and his opponent with the power of a ram. Whitney would have appreciated the skills of both men had he the time, but one of the savages now charged him, crude blade high above him, mouth open in a roar.

  Whitney put aside his weariness and advanced on the man who was a good head taller and had the reach. But Whitney was no weakling anymore—no longer just a pretty face with dextrous fingers. He slid to the right, keeping distance and drawing a semi-circle in flattened grass to keep from being skewered into the tree like a meat stick in Winde Port.

  The Drav Cra warrior lifted his foot twice, each time placing it down just a fraction of a span from where it had started. Whitney couldn’t tell if he was feinting attack or planning one. One thing was sure: the man showed restraint, likely due to the presence of two of his ilk, dead near Whitney’s feet.

  “Are we here to fight or dance?” Whitney taunted, pointing his blade.

  The warrior growled and swiped down. Whitney lashed out with a punch to the man’s inner arm. It wasn’t meant to do much damage, but to continue to anger his opponent. The angrier someone was, the dumber they’d become—yet another lesson Sora might never learn. But this one was smart; he spun his sword with a flick of his wrist and gave a half-hearted swing, just to create distance once again. Whitney stepped back, playing the game. Then the warrior drove in, fast as lightning, elbowing Whitney across the face, sending him spinning back into the tree.

  Whitney ducked on instinct just in time to hear the metal sink into the wood above him. He kicked out, catching his opponent in the gut, then looked up to ensure the blade was still wedged into the tree before turning to grab hold of the man’s head. Whitney punched him several times until his knuckles hurt. The problem was, Whitney could needle away at the man all day and make little progress, but the Drav Cra needed only one solid hit to end the whole thing.

  “Je’zt u bet, bareese,” The man shoved Whitney away, then said, “You will die, quim licker.”

  Whitney didn’t know what a quim was—but he was sure he didn’t want to lick one no matter what.

  The Northman circled Whitney. He was a moving wall of corded muscle, flexing and contracting with each step. Whitney leveled his blade but kept his off hand by his dagger sheath. He waited patiently while the Northman sent fast, compact jabs, then brought his sword around. Whitney rolled with the first punch, letting the others glance by. He dodged the sword strike and weaved, but the bigger man continued his assault. Whitney managed to deflect the blade with his own, but it sent him reeling, and the Northman had the upper hand.

  Just then, lightning struck the plains somewhere behind them. Judging by the flash, and the deafening crack, it was close. The Northman, who Whitney realized probably wasn’t used to thunderstorms, froze momentarily. His eyes went wide with fright.

  Whitney smelled the opening and charged. He dodged a half-assed attempt at a swipe as the Northman came too, forced himself inside the man’s reach, drew his dagger, and shoved it hard between the warrior’s ribs, twisting it in a half-circle.

  The weight of the soon-to-be-corpse dragged Whitney down. Whitney scrambled to rise, unwilling to get caught off guard again.

  “Drop the weapon,” said a thickly accented voice as Whitney stood.

  Whitney spun to see Rand squarely in the grasp of a Northman, blade tight against his neck, but Whitney didn’t drop his sword… didn’t even flinch.

  “Drop it or I death him.”

  A quick glance around told Whitney it was just the three of them. Whitney had killed two of the men. How many Drav Cra had Rand taken down by himself—three, four? Where was Grint? Already dead? Whitney imagined the stumpy little dwarf, headless in the grass.

  “Well?” Whitney said. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’ll do it. Bareese, mutek, I’ll do it.”

  “I trust you will,” Whitney said, stumbling forward. “But I don’t give two shogs in a dirty barrel about him. He tried to kill me. So, please. It’ll save me the trouble.”

  The Drav Cra warrior looked puzzled for just a moment, then said, “I will not fall for your bluff—” The man stopped talking as the edge of an axe blade tore through his face. When the man fell, Grint stood behind him.

  “I told ye we should’ve woken up the twins,” Grint growled. He spat on the body, then rubbed the blood off his blade on the man’s furs.

  Rand let out a lungful of air. “Thank you,” he said to Grint. Then, turning to Whitney, he said, “How’d you know he was there?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You—what?” Rand asked, still out of breath.

  Whitney shrugged, then turned back toward Fettingborough. “Great job everyone.”

  “Where are ye goin?” Grint asked.

  “We’re going to need horses if we’re to catch up to the zhulongs,” Whitney said.

  “That’s yer plan? Get horses and chase down the wagons? The rest of them Northmen’ll be waiting with bows ready.”

  “Well, then we’ll just have to have our bows readier, won’t we?” Whitney was several strides ahead of the dwarf, nearly back in town.

  “Wait a yiggin minute!”

  Whitney whipped around and stretched the crude blade out straight. The tip grazed the dwarf’s red mustache, and the flat of it rested against his big, round nose. “You can do whatever the yig you want, but I have friends on that caravan, and I’m going to rescue them,” he said. “The only reason I don’t skewer this sword straight through your rock-filled head is that somehow, by luck or destiny designed by some god, you saved my life by kidnapping me. This is the last kindness I’m going to show you. Is that understood, dwarf?”

  Grint bit his lip. Then he pushed the blade away with the side of his hand, snorting as little mustache hairs tickled his nose. “This isn’t worth it,” he said to Rand. “We did our best.”

  “Use your head, Grint,” Rand said. “If we don’t get you-know-who back, we’re dead anyway. I swear to Iam, if he’s dead already…”

  “Then it’s yer head. I’ll be vanished in the Dragon’s Tail. I’m tired of the sky anyway.”

  “This is your fault! We should have been with him.”

  Rand threw himself at the dwarf, tackling him and driving a fist into the side of his
furry cheek. But Grint had a low center of gravity and flipped the tables. His thick elbows pounded Rand in the gut. Whitney grabbed him by his hair at the back of his head and tore him off.

  “What are you two on about!” Whitney said. “Trust me, Barty Darkings isn’t worth any of this, but if you help me save everyone, maybe I’ll just bruise him up instead of killing him.”

  Grint spat up blood and wrang the mud from his beard. Rand stood, panting wildly.

  “Right then,” Grint said. “Well, that about settles it. No amount of gold is worth dyin for, lads.” Grint bent down to pick up his axe. He turned specifically to Rand. “Good luck, Langley. Anywhere’s better than with that thievin fruitcake. I hope ye get yer sister back, so ye stop complaining.”

  With that, Grint Strongiron turned and walked toward the darkness and the endless plains of grass.

  “My sister is worth it, you ingrate!” Rand shouted. “Sigrid is worth it! Get back here.” He picked up his sword and ran after him, but Whitney grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked him back.

  “We don’t need him,” Whitney said. “Go on, coward!” he called after Grint. “Go pout your way back to the Dragon’s Tail like the sad sack you are.”

  “Dammit!” Rand roared. He threw his sword against one of the gravestones, the clank masked by the rumbling thunder. Then he fell to his knees and ran his hands up over his face in frustration, covering his cheeks in mud.

  “Oh, get up,” Whitney said, kicking him in the heel. “We’re better off without him slowing us down.”

  “You don’t understand,” Rand said. “I made a deal.”

  “Oh, I understand. You think I enjoy helping a man like you? But a bunch of savages have people we need to save. Shieldsman or not, that should be enough. Now wipe your face, and let’s get after them so you can do whatever you need to do and save your damn sister.”

  Rand’s hands balled into fists, mud and blood squeezing through his fingers. He exhaled and grabbed his sword. “Too many lives have been lost due to my cowardice,” Rand whispered, head drooping like he was talking to himself. He peered up at Whitney through the rain. “We can’t let all those folks die, too. Let’s save them all.”

  XXVII

  THE KNIGHT

  “It’s been too long, my King,” Torsten said. He knelt before Liam Nothhelm’s grave, deep beneath the Glass Castle in the Royal Crypt. It was one of the few times he preferred being blind. With sight, he’d see all the stuffed corpses’ frozen eyes watching him, belonging to king’s both famous and infamous—heroes and monsters those above wished to forget.

  He wondered how future knights might think of Oleander when they saw her in the family crypt, if she’d be remembered for a streak of failures and brutality brought about by fear and loneliness or for helping Torsten rid the kingdom of her brother’s curse when all seemed lost.

  Torsten imagined the former. People seemed to remember the bad more than the good, especially when it came to anyone but Liam. He who built the mighty Glass—the greatest power in Pantego, raised high atop the rotting corpses of a thousand enemies. Oleander’s family among them.

  “You were more than a mere man to me, my King,” Torsten said. “I saw you as I saw Iam Himself, but perhaps that was the problem. All the women who snuck into your tent in Shesaitju, the North, and especially in Panping… I should have said something. Uriah was right about a great many things, but he wasn’t right about that. Oleander nearly drove the Glass into Elsewhere after your mind went, and it’s all because you kept her in the dark.”

  Torsten’s fist ground into the stone floor. Down where spring’s lips couldn’t touch, it remained cold as winter. A shiver ran up his spine, and Torsten slid closer to Liam’s grave, where the warmth of the torches on either side could kiss his frigid cheeks.

  “It took many years for me to understand why you chose her, my King,” Torsten whispered. “The world gave her that name, but the truth was, you didn’t want a flower, did you? You wanted an axe.”

  He imagined a tear falling from his now-useless eyes, splashing against the plaque denoting Liam’s name and many honored titles. Torsten gathered his breath.

  “At least you thought you did until you watched the blade sharpen,” Torsten said. “Why couldn’t you share your kingdom? Why couldn’t you share your light with any but those we conquered?”

  Torsten swallowed against a dry throat. He pawed at the floor for his cane and used it to rise. His entire body remained sore from dealing with the assassins… Rand’s sister, he reminded himself. Redstar was gone, but monsters remained in his wake, made from the darkness he wrought. Torsten just hoped that same unforgivable fate of being turned into a bloodsucking fiend hadn’t fallen upon Rand as well.

  “I’ve learned something, my King,” Torsten said, his head hanging. “As much as I love you, I know now that we’re all just… men. Even you. Few will shed a tear for your wife; many will fake them. They’ll say she got what she deserved. I had the honor of seeing her, the real her—I didn’t need eyes to do it.”

  Torsten lifted his head. He knew from experience that if he’d had eyes, he’d be staring straight into what had been preserved of Liam’s, frozen open for all of time.

  His mind brought him back to those streets where the citizens Torsten had sworn to protect did nothing to protect him, nothing to protect their queen. He thought about the feeling of helplessness as he lay buried beneath Iam’s church, listening in frustration to the Queen’s pleas.

  “She thought of me as her knight,” he said. “Sweet, loyal, Torsten,” he repeated the words he’d heard her speak so many times before. “Loyal.” He let out a disgusted breath. “Loyal!”

  He punched the wall next to Liam’s sarcophagus.

  “Loyal to who? The man who stole her from her people? Made her suffer under the hate of so many so he could treat her like a rag? Did you even know what you had in her? No, of course, you didn’t.”

  “They’ll all say Pi is better off, but we both know that isn’t true,” Torsten said. “I hope he has the best of both of you in him. You opened so many eyes, Liam Nothhelm, but perhaps Pi can help them actually ’see. Truly, feel it.”

  Torsten tapped along the wall, then pressed his lips against the glass lid which sealed Liam’s mortal body away for eternity.

  “May you see her again in the realm of light,” Torsten said. “And this time, know what you have before it’s lost. Goodbye, my King. Perhaps you would have hated this, but I vow to stand at Pi’s side and make sure that when the great Kings of Glass are remembered, his is the first name that comes to mind. Over King Autlas, over King Remy, over you…”

  He kissed the tomb a final time, then turned and headed for the exit. It was easy to locate. The stale air in the crypt only flowed in a single direction. It made the skin around his eyes itch worse than usual.

  Days had passed since Oleander’s murder, and this was the first time he’d been able to drag himself from his quarters. With Lucas injured, Torsten needed to borrow one of the scribes. Desperate to learn more about the Dom Nohzi and the upyr, they pored over every scroll and tome that even mentioned them in passing. But even the new Master of Rolls could locate very little on the subject. Most throughout history didn’t even think them real.

  “Sir Unger,” Lucas greeted as he entered the tunnels.

  “Lucas,” Torsten said. “I told you, you could spend another few days in the infirmary.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Lucas took Torsten’s arm, and he didn’t fight it as the young man led him through the castle’s undercroft. Lucas’s every other step lurched as he withheld putting weight on his injured foot.

  Torsten exhaled. “How frightening we’ll be, a blind knight and his hobbled guide.”

  “I couldn’t listen to Lord Jolly groan about burning Brekliodad to the ground for another night.”

  “He should be happy he’s alive,” Torsten said.

  The Lord from Crowfall had to have his left arm amputated just bel
ow the shoulder after his wound got infected. Torsten cursed himself every time the thought that the man deserved worse crossed his mind. He’d only been trying to help.

  She’d have been safe in the castle without his brand of help, Torsten thought.

  “So, is it true?” Lucas asked, stirring Torsten before his thoughts turned darker. He knew Lord Jolly had to feel guilty, even if he wouldn’t admit his role in exposing Oleander while she was drunk and helpless.

  “Is what true?” Torsten said.

  “That the killers were the…” He lowered his voice. “...Dom Nohzi.”

  “It seems so.”

  “But why would they make a move like this after so long? I didn’t think they were even real.”

  “A question Valin Tehr’s man Codar might have known before he died so frivolously.”

  Lucas slowed “You think Valin had something to do with this?”

  “I don’t know what to think, but I do know that Codar knew the killers personally. Even called one ‘grandfather.’” Torsten didn’t mention that he knew one of them as well. In fact, he hadn’t yet told anybody about Rand’s sister’s involvement. Rand’s redemption had provided hope to a hurting kingdom, and Torsten didn’t want to destroy that before knowing exactly what was going on. The Sigrid he knew was no fighter, at least not with anything but words, and certainly not a supernatural assassin for hire.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Lucas said. “To be his grandfather, no way he’d be able to move like that. Or even be alive. Codar wasn’t that young a man.”

  “Well, men don’t drink blood either. The killers were upyr, Lucas. None have been sighted in generations. Yesterday, Master Caspar—the new Master of Rolls—had his assistant read me a few legends in which their presence is noted. Not since Liam’s Great Grandfather are they discussed.”