Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Mak raised his axe high and brought it crashing down. Rand was able to roll out of the way just in time, but the blade broke through stone as easily as rotting wood. Rand slashed as Mak pulled it free, slicing a bit of the Northman’s leg and leaving a shallow cut. It was superficial but seemed to infuriate the Drad beyond control.

  He swung with all his might. Rand blocked it, but the strength sent him staggering. Mak didn’t stop. A flurry of powerful blows rained down upon Rand. His arms felt like they were going to break, but the shaft of his axe did first. He flew back and landed against the dead zhulong, Jaraud’s glassy eyes staring at him.

  Rand could hardly breathe now, hardly raise his arms he was so battered. He let the two halves of the axe fall from his grasp, then rolled off the beast to his hands and knees. He panted as he tried to get to his feet, watching Mak’s fur-clad boots stomp closer, stirring up ash and dust.

  “You killed her!” Rand screamed. He punched at Mak, but the savage grabbed his hand and wrenched his arm to the side. His boot slammed into Rand’s gut and sent him soaring into the bridge railing.

  Every part of him burned with pain. He groped for the rail, anything to provide purchase so he could get back to his feet.

  “Die!” Sir Reginald screamed and ran at Mak, a broken arrow still sticking out of him. Mak hopped out of the way, clutched the Shieldsman by his head with two hands, and squeezed until Reginald’s skull popped like a melon.

  Rand threw up, then rose to his wobbly legs. As his face rose over the stone railing, he could see the black depths of the Jarein Gorge. Somewhere down there was the Caleef’s body. Somewhere down there, was Sigrid’s only chance of survival.

  “You don’t give up, do you?” Mak said, stalking forward. Blood drenched his pale face.

  Behind him, the Drav Cra horde began to cheer. The last of the Glass resistance had either been killed or surrendered.

  “Unhand me you filthy animals!” Bartholomew shouted as two of the savages lifted him and tore apart his fine tunic, laughing the entire time. “You’ll all pay for this.”

  “What could you people and your false god possibly have to fight for?” Mak said. “The Buried Goddess isn’t defeated, her plans are merely delayed. Soon, she will free your world from the bindings of civilization.”

  Rand steadied himself against the railing. Pain pulled at his side with every breath. It took every ounce of him to get words out. “Family,” he growled. He charged again, and Mak swung his mighty axe.

  Rand hit the ground as the flat of the blade connected with his temple. His head rolled to the side, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a woman; the barmaid from Fettingborough, who, apparently, wasn’t lucky enough to escape.

  “Siggy,” Rand said as his consciousness faded. She was all he could picture, tied up in Valin’s playground, used like cattle. He’d failed her. He’d failed everyone. Tessa, the Order, Sigrid… everyone.

  “Lock them all up,” Mak said. “We need a present for when Sir Unger arrives.”

  Rand felt people lifting him by his shoulders. “Sigrid…” He mouthed again as he was torn away from the woman. “I failed you…” Then his world went dark.

  XXXVII

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten pulled down Father Morningweg’s blindfold and again found a world of darkness. He quickly drew it back up, and glimmers of light filled in. There was no color, even to the fire on the nearest torch. Only shades to give form to his surroundings. He could see the spaces between the cell’s bars, the gaps in the stone walls, though not the little imperfections like rust or moss. But it was something.

  Torsten held his hand out in front of him and rotated it, watching as his fingers wriggled, the light of the torch bouncing off each one. It was like he and everything beyond were drawn in the deep blacks and white of Glintish charcoal art.

  “It can’t be…” Torsten stammered. He still couldn’t cry, but he felt like he could. Instead, an ecstatic laugh slipped through his lips. His bruised limbs experienced a surge of energy, and he sprang to his feet.

  He patted along the wall, taking everything in. He never imagined he could marvel at the way stone blocks fit together. Or the joint where a metal bar met a fastener.

  Torsten laughed again and ran to the other side of the cell, amazed that he didn’t have to take care with every step or worry about slipping on a loose stone. He shook the prison bars, watching as they vibrated, the torch-light playing off them. He wondered if this was how the artists or the Lightmancers of his ancestral homeland saw the world, then remembered.

  “Iam is still with me,” he said. He looked up, seeing the gentle shimmer of water pooling within a crack in the ceiling. “You’re still with me.”

  “Would ye quiet up down there!” someone shouted from the other end of the dungeon. “Fight’s about to start!”

  As Torsten regarded his own hands again, grasping the bars, he finally realized what it meant that he wasn’t in chains. A blind man like him, they’d have little trouble controlling him. One bang of metal with a club and he’d be too disoriented to accomplish much.

  The one time Valin shows mercy, Torsten thought, sneering. He forgot that even down here, Iam sees.

  “Who’s fighting?” Torsten called. No answer. He banged on the bars again. “Hey, who’s fighting?”

  “That’s none of yer business,” the guard finally answered.

  “Well, I’d like to say a prayer for them.”

  “How about ye say one for yerself.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a…” Torsten paused. Being in this awful place was affecting the looseness of his tongue, “…shog.”

  “What did ye call me?” A chair slid, and the man lumbered down the passage toward Torsten’s cell. He was a big one with a belly so large he looked about ready to give birth if he could. Torsten imagined this had to be the guard who he’d knocked out in order to break into Valin’s office, now sent down to the dungeons for his failure.

  “Oh, I recognize your voice,” Torsten said. “You’re the one—”

  “I went easy on ye, cripple,” the man interrupted. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “I suppose it’s my fault you’re down here?”

  “Yigging right it is.” The man leaned against the bars and Torsten backed away. With the torch eclipsed, he couldn’t make out the man’s features behind his bulbous silhouette, but he could imagine the expression he wore.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Torsten said. “Why don’t you let me out of here and I’ll put a word in for you with the city guard. Get you a nice post topside.”

  “The only man ye’ll be putting a word in with is Iam.”

  “If you say so,” Torsten said. “That’s my last offer. When I get out of here, you’ll join Valin in the gallows.”

  “Get out of here?” he chuckled. “Ye and that boy should have run when ye had the chance. Ye’ll rot in here.”

  “And you right along with me. You already failed him once. Where do you think Valin will throw a slob like you if you fail him again? Straight into the pit, then float your body out into the Torrential Sea when you can’t keep going. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Well, ye won’t see it ever again, Shieldsman. Won’t see nothin’.”

  “Fine by me. I can only imagine your ugly mug. It’s hardly the last thing I’d want to see.” Torsten couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. He felt like Whitney those nights in the Glass Dungeon when they’d first met, goading and prodding for weaknesses. He hated admitting it, but a part of him understood why Whitney enjoyed what he did so much, playing people.

  This place is ruining me, he immediately countered the thought.

  “Got quite a mouth on ye for a Shieldsman,” the guard said.

  “Amazing what the mouth can do when it’s not full of food,” Torsten replied. “You know, I’m glad you said no. The city guard would take one look at your belly and laugh. I can hear it jiggling from here.”

  “That�
�s it.” The big man fumbled through his keys and found the lock. “Valin said to make things hard on ye, so how’s about I get started.” The gate swung open, and the man stomped in, gripping a wooden club.

  “Ye just couldn’t make things easy,” he said. He banged the club against the bars. The sound was grating, and Torsten wasn’t faking as he covered his ears and staggered backward.

  For a moment, he forgot he could see, but then found the source of light from the torch again. His back foot slid against a wall, and there, he found his bearings.

  “Not so mouthy now, aye?” the guard barked. “This oughta shut ye up until Valin gets back.”

  He reared back and swung at Torsten’s head. Torsten ducked beneath it, feeling the whoosh of air against the top of his head. The light played across the guard’s face, revealing his eyes spread wide in shock. Then he growled and swung again. Torsten evaded it, sliding right. The man whipped around, remarkably fast for his size, but Torsten dipped again.

  “How’re ye—” the guard grunted in frustration. “Get over here!”

  He unleashed a flurry of mad swings, and Torsten dodged each of them in turn. So long out of practice, it still felt like he’d been in Shieldsman training only yesterday. His weary muscles remembered everything.

  He backed up against the metal bars. The guard took one last swing, throwing every bit of energy into it. Torsten slid right and drove a fist straight into the man’s fatty necks. The guard coughed, heaving for breath as he folded over, allowing Torsten to catch the club and bring the handle down on the back of the man’s skull in one smooth motion.

  The floor rumbled as he landed, out like a candle between clenched fingers. Torsten grabbed his keys, closed the cell door, and worked through them until the lock clicked.

  Whitney would be proud, Torsten thought, again having to shake away the notion.

  He checked the two cells on either side of his. He couldn’t help but wonder if Lucas was in one of them, but each was empty. He imagined the poor kid was back at the castle, meant to eventually be used as Valin’s pawn in the King’s Shield.

  Valin’s Shield, Torsten thought grimly.

  Torsten’s grip tightened on the guard’s club, and he continued down the tunnel. Even with his semi-returned sight, it was difficult to see. The darkness was oppressive, with only a few torches dotting the path.

  He reached the corner and peeked around. He saw nobody, but the ceiling shook violently. He winced until it quaked again, then stuck out a palm. Motes of dust coated it, becoming invisible as they merged with the shape of his hand. The ceiling continued to vibrate like feet were pounding above, and he thought he heard chanting.

  “I guess Valin’s arena is back up and running,” he whispered. He took one step, then was forced back behind the corner by voices.

  “Mister Tehr says to strap some rocks to her and ditch her in the harbor,” a thug said.

  “It’s been weeks since a fight,” another said. “I wanted to watch.”

  “Wanting to risk his bad side right now, with all the traitors around?”

  “No, please.” The voice was soft, pleading. “I’ll leave. You’ll never hear fro—”

  It was Abigail.

  “Shut up, wench,” said another. Then Torsten heard the explicit sound only a slap across the face made.

  “Just tie her up. We’ll do it after. He won’t know the difference.”

  Torsten threw the door wide and charged in, screaming. The two didn’t even stand a chance. Torsten grasped one by his neck and bashed down with the club. The thug’s neck snapped and Torsten dropped his corpse, then turned to focus on the one futilely beating on Torsten’s shoulder. The crowd thundered above, which helped to keep the man’s screams and garbled pleas unheard as Torsten strangled the life out of him.

  “By Iam... Abigail?” ” Torsten said as he knelt by her side.

  Her arms wrapped around him, shaking.

  “Thank you," she cried. "Thank you. Oh, Iam, thank you.”

  “You need to get out of here. Now.” Torsten reached down with both hands and cupped her face like a child. She was beaten, bruised, barely recognizable. But she was alive, and that's all that mattered. No one else would die thanks to Torsten's failures. “You’re done with this life, clear?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Now hide here,” Torsten ordered. “Don’t make a sound. I’ll clear a path. Then you run. You run damnit, and you don’t look back.”

  Torsten unconsciously found himself standing in the doorway, squeezing the club so hard his knuckles lost color. All the rage from his run-in with Valin Tehr decades back returned in full force. He panted wildly until he was able to find focus again.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to Iam. “But that man is going to pay for what he’s done. Even if it means Exile.”

  He hurried out of the room, drawing deep breaths as he moved, struggling to calm himself. He didn’t dare look into any of the next rooms he passed. He had to stay focused.

  Above him, the crowd grew louder. Darkness closed in on him once again until he could see a grated gate at the end of the way and the light filtering through. Another guard stood, face pressed against it. With the guard’s back exposed, Torsten barely had to creep. His muscled arm closed around the man’s throat, and in no time, he was unconscious.

  A leg, literally the size of a tree trunk, slammed down in front of the gate. The crowd erupted as someone inside screamed the name, “Uhlvark!” Whatever the fight was, it seemed the giant was involved, fresh off the incidental chaos caused by Abigail unlocking his chains.

  Torsten studied the arena. It was nowhere near as grand as the Tal’du Dromesh in Latiapur, but that only meant everyone was closer to the action—more a chance for unintended injuries. Stands carved out of the rock wrapped the cavernous space on two sides, and the others were wood and canvas scaffolds. A whole section was destroyed from the day’s early activity in the room, but the rest was filled with grimy faces of Yarrington’s commoners but for one area that was separated by guards and rope, where exquisitely-clad nobles attended. Torsten hoped to Iam he wouldn’t recognize any of them.

  Although he knew, as Liam had, that sometimes people needed to unwind. It was better not to know how.Up above the stands were carved apertures through which he saw beaded curtains, and a few men watching over the arena with near-naked women draped over them. Torsten imagined that’s where he’d been earlier with Abigail, in the private viewing boxes now being used for Valin’s brothel.

  It was suiting that the riot had inspired Valin to realize that blood and perversion need not be separated. The very thought gave Torsten a shudder.

  “Me no waaant to fight,” Uhlvark said, barely audible over the voracious crowd.

  “You don’t fight, you don’t eat,” someone snapped at him.

  “But I huuungry. Eat first?”

  “You know how it works.” Whoever the man watching him was, stabbed him with something. Uhlvark stumbled, holding a fresh wound on his shoulder. Chains rattled, still attached to his wrists, and Torsten now saw the spikes in them that dug deeper whenever the giant pulled.

  “Make a mess of that man, and you get your pick from the box of a nice, juicy bovine,” Uhlvark’s keeper said. “Or would you rather go another week without eating.”

  “No, no no,” Uhlvark whined. “Me fight, me fiiiiight.”

  Torsten had difficulty focusing on the rest because when the giant moved, he spotted his opponent. Lucas stood across the sunken pit, face bloodied. He gripped a rusty halberd with two quaking hands, the shaft broken to cut its reach in half.

  “Now, try not to kill him too fast,” the keeper said.

  “Kill fast, eat sooner,” Uhlvark replied.

  “Kill fast, piss off Valin. And you don’t want to do that, do you?”

  “No, never make papa mad!” The fear in the giant’s voice was unmistakable. Torsten could only imagine what Valin had put him through to make him his own personal
killing machine. Despite their size, giants were known for being docile and kind-hearted, more apt to crush a man by accidentally stepping on them than outright murder in a fight.

  “Hands up,” the keeper said.

  Uhlvark did as requested, like a toddler stuck in his shirt. Locks clicked, then the cuff’s fell free from Uhlvark’s wrists. The giant groaned as he rubbed them, the stench of blood, both fresh and dry, impossible to mistake.

  “Today, on this day our gracious host reopens this time-honored tradition, he brings you a grand spectacle!” The speaker was none other than Curry. “Today, a traitor to Dockside shall face down our undefeated champion. May Iam have mercy on his soul.”

  “Go!” the keeper demanded. “Kill the bastard slow, and I’ll throw in a chicken.”

  Uhlvark smacked his lips, then squealed again as the keeper prodded him. The dance began as Uhlvark lumbered forward, and Lucas stumbled back. The latter’s weapon slipped from his fingers, and he scurried to pick it back up, earning roaring laughter from the crowd.

  Torsten was furious with the young man for keeping things from him, but not a soul deserved this. No Shieldsman training would prepare someone for facing a giant.

  Torsten grabbed the lever to the gate, pulled, and ran out. There was no time to think. No time even to ask for Iam’s guidance. He knew his God was with him, and that was all he needed.

  Surprised gasps sounded all over as Torsten came into view. Everyone but the giant heard or saw him coming. Torsten charged Uhlvark full speed, then smashed him in the anklebone with the club he’d stolen.

  It felt like hitting a pillar of stone. Uhlvark cried out, then hopped on one foot. The shockwaves sent Torsten staggering before he could attack again, once nearly stumbling beneath the giant’s foot.

  “This is a surprise,” a guard in the crowd said. “The blind knight is back.”

  “Guess Valin didn’t want to make it too easy.”

  Torsten found his balance and brandished the club. Uhlvark stomped down.

  “You huurt mee,” the giant said. The features of his oafish face slowly contorted until anger was written all over it. He stuck out his lower lip, saliva spraying, then slammed his foot down again. Again, to the delight and laughter of the crowd, Torsten lost his balance.