Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “You are both powerful magic users,” Whitney said. “I’m sure between the two of you, you can manage something. Dwarves may not care for how you look, but abilities are assets too, and dwarves love shiny magic.”

  “It would not be wise for me to use my particular brand,” Lucindur said. “It might clue Nesilia in on our whereabouts, and her monsters trawl these underground places. We may not be in Glinthaven anymore, but I still don’t want the blood of all these people on my hands.”

  Brouben looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but instead said, “Ye’ve got my thanks for that.”

  “Right you are,” Whitney said, clapping his hands. “I guess it’s down to you, my Panpingese Princess.”

  “No pressure,” Sora said.

  Whitney glanced up at Tum Tum, whose eyes looked like someone had stolen his last gold ingot.

  Whitney knew the dwarves had their pride, and if Tum Tum thought for even a moment that Whitney didn’t believe he could be successful in convincing the dwarf king to hand over the stone, it would crush him like a mineshaft cave-in.

  Yes, Whitney knew dwarves. That bastard Grint had sent him on this fateful path toward being forced to become a hero, after all. “Steal the Glass Crown,” he’d challenged. And who was Whitney to say no to a challenge? He couldn’t regret what happened since though—at least not all of it—because it led him back to Sora and without her at his side, he wasn’t so sure why he’d care to save the world in the first place.

  Whitney also knew Kings. He’d stolen the Glass Crown off one’s head—almost. They were brash, and arrogant, and above all, selfish and greedy. There was no way, no matter what evidence Tum Tum could give—and there was precious little of that—King Cragrock was going to give up his most rare and prized possession. The legendary, preserved heart of a real dragon. If it wasn’t all a sham… the thing would make the Glass Crown seem worthless.

  Whitney’s specialty was separating people from their most valuable things. Looking again to Sora, he realized he’d even done it to himself when he’d lost her. Never again. Come Pantego, the Gate of Light, or the hellish pits of Elsewhere, Sora and Whitney would never be apart again.

  “Tum Tum,” Whitney said. “This isn’t about you, you know? We just can’t chance the King writing off your tale as a lie and… executing us.”

  “Are you all that tired from walking?” Tum Tum said, changing the subject. But Whitney got the point. Tum Tum was full of integrity and he was smart. He wouldn’t let something as silly as pride keep them from changing the world for the better.

  “Their legs are soft from ridin horses everywhere,” Brouben remarked.

  “We got a plan,” Tum Tum said. “Now, let’s do it.”

  Brouben led them onto a platform attached to a rail system. In its center was a seesaw contraption that, when pumped, would send the cart screeching along the tracks.

  “Gimme a hand with this, Dwotratum,” Brouben said. “We’re a bit short on hands since the war in the south and the plague of goblins and grimaur in the mines. I’m thinkin it’s a bit why my father is so disinclined to listen to reason about you-know-who.”

  “A Prince and an outcast, huffin and hoin to King Lorgit’s throne with three fake prisoners in tow,” Tum Tum said. “I can hear the songs now.”

  They both laughed, and each grabbed a wooden bar.

  “Hold on,” Tum Tum warned, raising his hand in Whitney’s direction.

  “To what? Our hands are bound!” Whitney had barely finished his sentence when the platform lurched and sent him stumbling a few steps. They were off at a quick clip, faster than Whitney would’ve expected of something so old.

  The track groaned under their weight, but soon, the cart was off and on its way.

  “These are quite ingenious contraptions, my lord dwarf,” Lucindur said. “We could use them back home.”

  “If ye could build em, have em,” Brouben laughed.

  “Oh, I missed this, I have,” Tum Tum said. He closed his eyes and leaned into the rushing air.

  “You missed careening through sharp rocks on rickety wood?” Whitney said. “Gods and yigging monsters, I should have stayed behind.”

  His eyes fell upon Sora again, who stood in the opposite corner, taking in the sights and sounds of Balonhearth. It was like a dream that they were back together after so long, and now, they’d have one last heist together. One more big ta-da to bid Whitney’s illustrious career as a thief farewell. Either they’d succeed, save Pantego, and be hailed as heroes forever, or they’d fail, and it’d all go up in glorious flames.

  Either way, Whitney would steal that stone.

  As they bounced along the tracks, steadily climbing up toward the Iron Bank and King Lorgit Cragrock’s throne room, the whole city splayed out beneath them, Whitney tried not to puke.

  From so high, the many veins of precious metals looked like a spreading disease. Below, giant braziers burned, smoke billowing up and through ventilation systems, carrying itself out into the crisp, cold Brotlebir air. Zigzagging staircases rose on all sides, connecting the many-tiered city. The track zipped around columns thicker than a giant’s belly. So close to braziers, Whitney felt the sweat on his brow evaporate.

  “Been awhile,” Tum Tum whispered.

  “Never have I seen anything more beautiful,” Sora said.

  “I’ll admit, it is stunning,” Lucindur said.

  “Now you’re on her side?” Whitney asked.

  “Hey, Glinthaven ain’t nothin to balk at neither,” Tum Tum said.

  “Over there,” Brouben pointed. “That’s where Dreligar Bottomsnatch was born.”

  “Bottomsnatch?” Whitney snickered.

  “Aye. That be nothing to laugh about. Dreligar killed ten dozen frost giants with naught but a stick and the tooth of a dragon.”

  “There are no more frost giants,” Lucindur argued.

  “Or dragons,” Whitney added.

  “Not anymore,” Brouben agreed with a knowing smile.

  They traveled further up the mountain. Several times, Whitney found his bound hands gripping the cart with enough force to crush the wood. He was sure the dwarves built the thing well, but he wasn’t confident they’d taken riders of his height into consideration. As it was, the railing only came up to his hip. One swift turn and he was liable to topple right over, and without hands to stop—

  “Get ready,” Brouben said, pointing and interrupting Whitney’s worries.

  Whitney followed the dwarf’s outstretched finger to a gargantuan rock carved in the shape of a dwarf’s head hanging from the ceiling. A deeply recessed, winged crown sat atop the head, overlapping with thick locks of hair. From a long, stone-carved beard, which braided itself around a natural stalactite, water issued down into a pool in Balonhearth’s central hall. Below, dwarves scurried around like ants, swimming, and bathing in the waters.

  “King Andur,” Tum Tum said under his breath, staring up at the dwarf head. He didn’t mask the awe he felt at the sight of the King’s visage. “He be the first of us to call this place home.”

  The cart closed in on the King’s open mouth. Mist soaked them all—which felt nice after the heat of the many fire pots lining the track. An instant later, they were shrouded in darkness, zooming through the King’s throat.

  Sora had inched over to Whitney and caught him off guard. He didn’t mind. She pressed close to him, and he nestled back, but when he glanced over, he saw that fear had crept over her features. She appeared as pale as a Drav Cra warlock.

  “I feel like we shouldn’t be here,” Sora whispered.

  “Oh, stop,” Whitney whispered back.

  “I’m serious. Like, really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Ye shouldn’t,” Brouben agreed, apparently listening in. “But if what ye say is true, and I think it be, then my father ought to hear it from yer own lips. And if he won’t listen, I gotta trust the thief the Master of Warfare himself seems to trust.”

  The idea of Torsten trusting him
brought a balloon full of pride to Whitney’s chest.

  An orange light flickered just ahead, and the cart began to slow as Brouben yanked on a lever. The squeal echoed like a dying zhulong, and the vehicle stopped just as the cavern opened into a circular room. Statues of Meungor the Sharp Axe, god of the dwarves, lined the room as if holding up the ceiling.

  “You’re up,” Whitney said to Sora. “Stick to the plan,” he said to everyone else.

  As the cart halted entirely, Whitney backed into the far corner. He peered over his shoulder to where the track continued through darkness until it exited through a hole at the base of the large head and dipped back down into the city proper.

  One step over a small gap would take them off the platform and into a giant cavern featuring the skeleton of a dragon nearly as large as the room itself. It was curled up like a sleeping dog, spine tracing the wall in a semi-circle, head on one end, barbed tail on the other. Even though Whitney knew it was dead, it was a terrifying sight.

  A large, iron gate wedged within its ribs. Guarding it on each side were two dwarves—four in total—wearing solid black armor adorned with foot-long spikes.

  “Clanbreakers,” Brouben confirmed.

  In the darkness, Whitney slipped his lock pick from its hidden compartment and made quick work of the cuffs. They fell, and Whitney winced as they clattered to the rock below the suspended tracks. However, no one seemed to notice over the shrieking of the cart’s wheels and the whine of the rails.

  Tum Tum disembarked first, followed by Brouben, and Lucindur. Finally, Sora shot a quick glance at Whitney, and he shooed her.

  She took a step toward the platform and missed. As she tumbled, one leg in the gap, the rest of her body hitting hard onto the rock, Whitney almost reached for her, but she winked at him from the ground and blew a kiss.

  That was believable, Whitney thought. I really am a great teacher.

  Sora groaned, writhing, arms still secure behind her back. Tum Tum and Brouben tried to pull her up, but she stayed down, rocking back and forth on the ground. The clanbreakers turned their attention from Whitney just long enough.

  “Ye okay, Girly?” Tum Tum asked.

  While everyone was focused on her, Whitney flipped himself backward over the cart and landed deftly on his feet.

  Their voices were faint, but Whitney could immediately hear them asking if she was alright. He stayed low and made his way through the ditch that held the track in place. Finding a dark corner, just at the edge of the room, Whitney pulled himself up. He could still see the clanbreakers. Now, they were fully intent upon Sora and the others, but neither moved.

  Whitney heard a faint flapping sound. It grew louder until something bigger than a bat tore through the darkness toward him. It rose from the opposite direction they’d come from. With the massive dragon skeleton so close, Whitney’s mind began speaking impossibilities until finally, the creature came into view.

  “Aquira!” he whispered as loud as he dared. “You really can understand, can’t you? Good girl.” He’d whispered instructions for her to join them before Brouben forced them to leave her behind, but she’d been such a pain since Sora returned, he doubted she’d show up. But, he knew he could use her help.

  She landed on Whitney’s outstretched arm. “Stay quiet, now, okay?”

  She puffed her nostrils, and together, they crept along until they reached a flat spot well-shielded from their view, and thrust himself over the ledge. Belly crawling a bit, he watched as Tum Tum finally helped Sora to her feet.

  She started walking again, perhaps a little too well.

  You’re still injured, Sora, Whitney thought hard, as if he could will it to her mind. But no one seemed to notice.

  “I don’t think anything is twisted,” Lucindur said.

  “No, I’m feeling better,” Sora said. “I think I was just surprised. I’m sorry for the shock. I can’t believe… I’m usually more stable on my feet.”

  She wiped her eyes. It sounded like real tears.

  She’s become quite the actress, Whitney said to himself. She’d do great in the Troupe.

  Then again, Sora had plenty of reasons to cry real tears.

  The thought of the Troupe, of Gentry and Talwyn back in Glinthaven, made Whitney picture the faces of everyone he’d ever known and cared about. He hadn’t even realized how many there were—Torsten, annoyingly pious as he might be, Kazimir… he’d died for Sora. How many centuries had he lived on Pantego, only to be killed by Gold Grin? And whose fault was it?

  Mine.

  His mind drifted to others in Troborough like Hamm and Alless—though he’d never given in to her romantic advances, she still meant something. There were so many more, many long gone, dead in the razing of Troborough by Black Sandsmen, and the destroying of Fake Troborough by the demons of Elsewhere. But all of them were real to him, nonetheless.

  “We’re gonna make it,” Whitney whispered to Aquira. “This is gonna work. It has to.”

  XV

  The Knight

  They stood within the main tunnel leading into the heart of the Tal’du Dromesh. Torsten thought he knew what a gathering of thousands sounded like until he heard the racket of Latiapur’s people above, feet pounding, shaking off dust from the ceiling. A cacophony of chattering voices rumbled like the waves.

  Torsten couldn’t tell, within the mess of noise, whether they spoke favorably. Not that it mattered any longer. They were here, and in a short time, the marriage would be official. He had to trust in the future Queen that those who remained in Latiapur were those who most believed her. He had to trust that those who remained might see the victory that this was.

  From a people in rebellion to the kin of a new, mighty Queen.

  The tunnel walls shook louder. King Pi flinched.

  “They are eager for peace,” Torsten said.

  “Or foaming at the mouths,” Lord Jolly countered. Torsten glowered at him, and Jolly rolled his shoulders. “I jest. You’re making their leader Queen of the world. I’m sure they’re eternally grateful.” He leaned over to whisper in Torsten’s ear. “Just like the Drav Cra, eh?”

  “Ignore him,” Torsten said.

  “I simply see all sides of every picture, as is my sworn duty.” He bowed low to King Pi and backed away.

  “I’m not making her be Queen,” Pi said. “Was this not her idea?”

  “An idea solidified the moment she met you,” Torsten replied.

  Torsten marveled at the boy, amazed by how little he had to look down at him these days. Pi was the picture of royalty. A polished steel chestplate with the Eye of Iam emblazoned upon the center covered his snow-white tunic. It puffed out at the elbows and shoulders, making him appear larger than he was. An armored skirt fell to his knees, the plated strips lined by angular crystals that refracted every bit of light around them. And, of course, the Glass Crown sat proudly upon his dark, feathered hair.

  It seemed ages ago now, but Torsten remembered Liam wearing something similar on the day Oleander came of age, and they were wed in the Yarrington Cathedral by Wren the Holy.

  “You look so much like him,” Torsten remarked.

  “Everyone keeps saying that,” Pi said, then frowned. “All I can remember is him stuck in a chair, raving—“

  “That wasn’t him, Your Grace. The Liam I knew would have been prouder than you could imagine. To be here, impressing a Queen on your first meeting, after all you’ve been through. His accomplishments may be favored by bards for songs, but yours will be equal.”

  “I remember the first time he rode into Crowfall,” Lord Jolly said. “The way his armor caught the white light of snow clouds. We Northerners are rarely impressed, but my wife thought Iam himself had ridden through the gates.”

  “I think we all did. His enemies, too.”

  “He wouldn’t have been possessed,” Pi said softly. “He would have resisted.”

  “No,” Torsten rebuked. “We’ve seen how strong Nesilia is. No child could have resisted.”<
br />
  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. I’m only sorry it took me so long to realize your struggle.” Torsten knelt and held him at arms’ length. “You don’t need to be your father, Your Grace.”

  “Nobody can be,” Lord Jolly added. His words didn’t help, but Torsten could tell by his tone that he was trying to. Northerners weren’t known for warmth, not even in their sentiments.

  “True,” Torsten said. “Pantego doesn’t need another Liam. You can only be King Pi Nothhelm, and the bards will sing songs of your name for ages to come.”

  “They sing for every King, no matter what they’d done,” Pi said.

  “That may be so. History will remember your father as the greatest general the world has ever known. Still, it will remember you, I swear it. You told me once, in the castle gardens, how you would aim for peace. Perhaps such things aren’t what make the best songs, but they make the best kings. I see that now.”

  “And hey, claiming victory in a second God Feud won’t hurt,” Lord Jolly added.

  Torsten smiled. “No. No, it can’t.”

  The corner of Pi’s lips lifted slightly as he nodded. “Thank you. Both of you. For everything you’ve done for my Kingdom. I hope you’re right.”

  “We are,” Torsten said.

  “It’s our job to be,” Lord Jolly added.

  Pi straightened his back and dusted off his outfit. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  “You really are, aren’t you?” Torsten asked as he cinched Pi’s chestplate tighter. Then, standing, Torsten nodded to the Shieldsmen lined up on either side of them, and so began their slow march.

  The crowd reacted as the first of the Shieldsmen emerged, more dust than ever pouring from the ceiling. Pi never flinched again. Not once.

  Torsten wished Oleander could’ve been alive to see this. Not Liam. The thought of his only son with a Shesaitju might’ve sparked another war, but Oleander would have approved. In fact, Torsten imagined her loving Mahraveh like her own child. A woman that could be all the things she wasn’t, who could fight like she always wished to, and how she did at the end.