Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Sorry? Shog-shuckin brilliant it was,” Brouben said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “I meant me words. Me father ain’t worthy of the title or that throne no more.”

  Lucindur shushed them. She was right, there was no telling who might be listening. Though it would be hard to imagine anyone hearing anything with all the hustle and bustle of dwarves working to extinguish the fire. Cart after cart rumbled up, hauling massive tanks of water and thick, sturdy dwarves. The rails all rattled, people shouted, and through it all, King Lorgit and his clanbreakers trudged along like nothing was wrong.

  Sora thought about what she’d done up there and how easily the fire had bent to her will.

  She hadn’t needed to draw blood. There were no command words like she’d learned in the Red Tower anymore, either—which had been true ever since Nesilia left her body. The power surging from her wasn’t like it used to be. Up there, in the throne room, she hadn’t felt Elsewhere calling—Elsewhere was weak now compared to her.

  A few minutes passed as they all watched the carts, occasionally earning a prod by one of the clanbreakers. By now, the first of the brigade reached the throne room, and steam could be seen taking the place of smoke.

  “Ye think he’ll be able to do it?” Tum Tum asked.

  Sora was still fixated on the zooming carts, but when no one answered, she returned her attention to her friends.

  All eyes were intent upon her.

  “Me?” she said.

  “Aye, who else?” Tum Tum chuckled. “Ye known him the longest, ain’t ye?”

  Sora supposed he was right, but not truly. “Maybe in number of years… but both of you have spent more time with him, especially lately. Lucindur, you traveled the last several months on the road with him. All the time.”

  “A fact I needn’t be reminded of,” she said with a sly smile.

  “And Tum Tum, you’ve probably heard as many stories—or more—than I have. You know his… exploits. And you also have the unique perspective of what it means to…” She lowered her voice. “… steal from the Iron Bank.”

  Tum Tum shook his head, cleared his throat, and tried his best to look innocent. “I never done the sort.”

  Sora smiled now, but hers was as mirthless as they come. “The last thing we’d stolen together was a ship from an upyr. That didn’t go very well.”

  “I was there, Lass, and that’s talkin kindly about the event. But here’s the cold truth of it: if that boy can’t get what we came for, we ain’t got any hope, anyway. It be this, or we gotta come up with a whole new idea before the whole world goes up in flames.”

  “Shut your ale holes,” one of the clanbreakers said, giving Tum Tum a shove. Sora was surprised it had taken so long.

  They were beyond the city’s grand hall now, and moving toward a particularly dark passage. It was nothing like the streets of Panping or Yarrington, and so far removed from a place like Myen Elnoir that they could hardly be considered in the same class. Balonhearth was all one color: slate gray. Gray walls, gray ground, gray ceiling, gray buildings. It was all the mountain, every bit of it.

  Jutting out beside them, small homes lined the path if it could be called a path. The closest thing Sora could use to describe the city would be an ant mound or hornet’s nest. Deep pockets or alcoves housed more “buildings” although they were really just a few walls carved into the side of the rock.

  She felt like eyes were watching them through the short, squat windows, and probably were.

  They all let a moment pass before Lucindur whispered, “So, what now?”

  “I don’t know,” Sora admitted, and the words pierced her like knives. “I never was the plan-maker. That was Whitney’s job, terrible as he was at it.”

  “You know, I don’t know if that’s true,” Lucindur said.

  “It is. I just followed his lead—“

  “Not that,” Lucindur said. “The part about him being horrible at it. Do you know how many times that boy saved my life or someone else’s?”

  She wasn’t wrong. Whitney had saved Sora many times as well. If it hadn’t been for him, would any of them be alive? Even Torsten Unger would likely be dead if not for Whitney’s hairbrained schemes.

  “Those’re the dungeons,” Brouben offered, pointing at the darkness ahead.

  “Shog in a barrel,” Sora said.

  “Shhh, you hear that?” Lucindur said.

  “Aye, she’s even startin to sound like the thief,” Tum Tum said.

  “No, not that,” Lucindur said. “Listen.”

  Sora didn’t hear anything, but she felt something rumble beneath her feet. Then she heard something; the voices of every dwarf in Balonhearth questioning what was going on as the ground began to shake beneath them. It intensified until they were all thrown to the side.

  “What’s this!” Lorgit shouted. He whipped around and stuck a finger out at Sora. “This your doin, witch?”

  Each of the clanbreakers drew their weapons.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear!” Sora said.

  Brouben gave her a look that said, “Are you sure?”

  Small rocks cascaded down while goods from various shops toppled off tables and shelves, crashing against the ground. King Lorgit took two violent steps toward Sora, no doubt ready to deal some punishment. But then, a tremor sent him reeling, and he hit his head on the stone wall. His clanbreakers rushed toward him.

  “This is our only chance. Go!” Sora shouted.

  No one hesitated, not even as they heard shouting behind them, nor when they heard the clattering of clanbreaker armor. They shoved through crowds, sending many a dwarf scrambling. The mountain itself was heaving, and Sora found it hard to run in a straight line. Her ankles kept buckling, and she worried that they’d snap in two, especially after she’d already twisted one in the throne room.

  She had to push the pain aside. Their pursuers were closing in.

  “Run!” Sora said, and picked up the pace.

  Sora and Lucindur’s long legs carried them far faster than any of the dwarves, Tum Tum and Brouben included, but even her dwarven companions outran the armor-encumbered clanbreakers. Everyone else was too caught up in the earthquake to worry about them.

  They ducked between two buildings and took a breather. An instant later, the shaking ceased, and they were left alone in eerie silence. Then, murmurs broke out in the distance, and Sora said, “Where do we go?”

  “Follow me,” Tum Tum said, and stay low… try to blend in.”

  They emptied out of the alley, and Tum Tum skidded to a stop. There stood Gargamane the Gold.

  “Stop there, Dwotratum, and I won’t run ye through,” he said.

  Tum Tum swore, but Sora had had enough. She strode right up to the dwarven commander.

  “Like you did last time?” she asked, bold as one would expect the daughter of Liam the Conquerer to be. “You’re going to move aside, or you won’t see tomorrow.”

  Her threat was real. She could feel the fire welling up in her, begging to be released and char his little dwarven bones. And worst of all, she liked it. The dichotomy between the old Sora and the new, goddess-scorned Sora was jarring, even to her.

  Gargamane reached for his weapon, but Sora didn’t give him the chance. She focused her energy on Gargamane’s sword, and as soon as his hand hit the hilt, he yanked it back like he’d stuck it into a bonfire.

  He squealed, then his face contorted to a mixture of anger and fear.

  “Ye ain’t welcome here, witch!” Gargamane growled.

  “I don’t want to hurt you any further, but this whole city is mad,” she said.

  “Mad? Ye think I don’t know ye did that up there?” he asked. “King said, ‘No one in. No one out’ and it looks like he was right.”

  Brouben stepped forward, but Sora threw her hand up.

  “We’ve come with everything but tangible proof that the Buried Goddess is back,” she said, “and your coward of a King can’t be bothered to be a part of it.”

 
Gargamane looked to Brouben. “Yer gonna sit by while she talks about yer King and father?”

  “Just listen to her,” he said, though, lacking the vim of a Prince giving an order. Clearly, he was still conflicted.

  Sora took another step toward Gargamane and said, “Are you going to let us pass, or do I need to do to your armor what I just did to your blade?”

  Gargamane looked around. Sora didn’t dare take her eyes off him, but she knew what he was seeing. Chaos, destruction, and that was just a tiny sliver of what Pantego would look like if they didn’t succeed in stopping Nesilia.

  “What happened to the Strongirons?” Gargamane asked, quietly. “That weren’t the Drav Cra—or at least, not them alone?”

  Sora breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, some of these people were open to reason. “As I said on the pass, the rumors are true. You’ve seen the grimaurs and goblins infesting the mining tunnels—I may not live here, but I know it’s not normal. The Buried Goddess leads not only the Drav Cra, but all manner of beasts, and we need to stop her.”

  “Me own cousin is a Strongiron,” Gargamane said, head to the ground. “Was one… I never even got to say goodbye.”

  “She’s right, the grimaurs, goblins, all of it… Nesilia’s controlling them,” Lucindur said.

  Gargamane looked around again.

  Sora almost felt bad for him, until his attention suddenly became hyper-focused and he shouted, “Aye! Over here!” Then he looked at Sora and smiled. “They sure took long enough.”

  Sora glanced over her shoulder and saw an entire continent of clanbreakers heading their way. They were still a great distance off, but they’d be on them in no time.

  “Ye shog-shuckin bastard,” Tum Tum swore.

  “Ye don’t know what yer doin,” Brouben said.

  “Ye gonna burn us all, witch?” Gargamane asked.

  “I don’t need to,” Sora said. Then, in one motion, she thrust her hands forward, and a gust of hot air exploded from them, hitting Gargamane square in the chest. The dwarf went flying, tumbling hind over teakettle until he slammed against a nearby home.

  Then, Sora turned and sent another shockwave at the ground right in front of the clanbreakers. A large crack zig-zagged across the rock, tripping them up and crumbling the wall beside it, veiling them in dust.

  Sora turned back to the others. “Let’s go!”

  XXIII

  The Traitor

  Rand swam through the chaos of the Latiapur markets. He had no weapon, but as a Glassman, he looked like an ally. That didn’t make it easier. Citizens of Latiapur ran from the arena in a frenzy while warriors ran toward it. Rand didn’t have to see to know some were being trampled.

  Market stands broke. Canvas shredded and drifted in the air. Goods rolled across the stone and floated in puddles. Food stores were squashed. The Shesaitju were lucky that they rarely used fire for lighting. Otherwise, the whole place might have gone up in flames like Dockside had, even with all the water. As it was, enough dust and sand was kicked up to make visibility extremely poor.

  Rand had to squint and block his face just to see anything, all while bouncing off bodies left and right. He threw someone aside and finally spotted Pi’s slight, white-clothed frame again, weaving through the crowd with his guard to the right.

  Rand veered in that direction when a bloodcurdling wianu roar sent the masses into more of an upheaval. A heavyset man bashed into his side, and Rand went sprawling. He scrambled to his feet, searching through legs for Pi.

  There he was… A squealing zhulong had trampled his guard, leaving him on his own. The young King stood, gawking at the pulverized body. Then, another zhulong darted by. The scared little boy rushed into the nearest alley.

  Finding his footing, Rand continued after Pi. He couldn’t try and blend in anymore, there were too many people. Pushing, shoving, he made it to the alley. Another wianu roared, and a booming crash shook Pantego and heaved him against a wall. Every part of him was still sore from the clash with Lucas, but there was no time for a break.

  “Move!” he barked at a woman and her daughter running down the alley.

  A frightened zhulong blew through the clay wall of the building to his right, canvas stuck to its tusk. Rand whipped around, grabbed the girls by the back of their clothes, and yanked them to the ground, so it didn’t crush them.

  He didn’t wait for gratitude.

  Pi vanished around the corner on the far side of the alley. Rand pounded dirt and sprinted as fast as he could. With every moment that passed, the din of war and destruction grew. It made what the cultists had done to Dockside seem like a child’s prank.

  He emerged into a smog of dust that scratched his throat. More Shesaitju ran on this narrow street, though it thankfully wasn’t nearly as crowded as the markets. Rand searched from side to side, then saw the King only a cart’s length away, against a wall, chest heaving. Blood and dirt coated his thin cheeks.

  “My King, we need to get you out of here,” Rand said, approaching cautiously.

  Pi glanced over but didn’t make eye contact. His gaze darted in every direction, toward every scream, squeal, or roar, toward the terror-stricken zhulong trampling through anything in their paths.

  “My King, please,” Rand insisted.

  Pi swallowed audibly, then reached out and grasped Rand’s hand, still not looking. His touch startled Rand, even though he expected it.

  Is it really this easy? Rand wondered. Throughout history, all the tales of regicide came with epic stories and otherworldly assassins, like what his sister had become. The kings never willingly took the hands of their killers.

  Rand snapped out of it and studied his surroundings. There were too many people around to risk it here. He had no idea who any of the Shesaitju were or if they’d recognize what was happening. And no matter what, Rand had to survive this. Seeing Sigrid again depended on it.

  “This way!”

  He clasped tight and dragged Pi across the road. They dodged a zhulong, mounted by a warrior who couldn’t control it. Shoved by more people. Rand occasionally glanced back to see massive wianu tentacles thrashing over the dust.

  The words “Retreat!” echoed over screams of death. Fleeing Shesaitju warriors appeared in the distance. A handful of Shieldsmen were with them, pearly armor like beacons against the all-brown-and-black city.

  “Come on!” Rand pulled left down another alley then another until they reached a small clearing.

  “Which way?” Pi asked, squeezing Rand’s hand so tight he could hardly feel his fingers.

  Ahead, a blackwood fence was being pounded from the other side by more scared zhulong, locked in their pen. Otherwise, they were on a backstreet with only a child crying on a balcony above and a blind beggar trembling behind a blanket. In a city under attack, this was about as alone as he could get without a plan.

  “Sir Unger told me to get to the Keep,” Pi went on. “Which way is it?”

  Rand closed his eyes and drew a deep, grating breath.

  He’s just a child, a part of him said within.

  He started a war, answered another. Got thousands killed.

  Rand’s free hand quaked uncontrollably. He himself had done many things he wasn’t proud of for the sake of his Kingdom and sister—killed men, hung women, including the one he loved. Never a kid, though. Even if Pi was starting to look older, that’s what he was.

  “Answer your King,” Pi yelled, pushing against Rand’s side.

  Rand shoved it all out of his head and pictured him and Sigrid sitting on the docks of Yarrington. Pictured her soft, freckled skin, and the way her wild, red hair never seemed to stay still.

  Before he knew it, he stood behind the boy, his arm wrapping Pi’s throat and constricting. The boy immediately retaliated, but Rand withdrew against a wall to brace himself and wrenched Pi’s arm behind his back.

  Pi had truly grown bigger, though, and his bony elbow caught Rand in one of the wounds Lucas had left him with. His grip loosened, and Pi’s he
ad slid down enough for him to sink his teeth into Rand’s arm.

  The King broke free but didn’t make it two steps before Rand grabbed the neckline of his overly elaborate cape and tore him back. He hit the ground hard, the wind fleeing his lungs with a loud gasp. Rand jumped on top of him, both hands throttling the boy like he was tying off a rope to dock.

  Slapping, kicking, Pi did everything he could to break free. Rand closed his eyes as he squeezed, feeling the boy’s windpipe beginning to collapse beneath his fingers. He remembered all those awful moments of his life. Everything he’d lost—his sister’s eyes as he told her he’d return for her…

  As the resistance lessened, Rand peeked once through his eyelids. The sheer dread in Pi’s crystal blue eyes arrested him. His mind was reminded of those poor souls Oleander had forced him to hang. To Tessa, a handmaiden he’d cared dearly for, begging him to ignore his duty, begging him to stop.

  She’d offered that same feeble look before he’d hanged her. He heard the rope creaking while she swung in the wind, left to be food for gallers. Now again, someone who wasn’t his sister had him playing executioner.

  “What am I doing?” Rand asked himself. He staggered away. His hands peeled from Pi’s flesh, grits of sand sticking to both his and Pi’s sweat. The boy gasped and coughed, squirming to get free.

  All Rand could manage was to gape at his trembling hands, the hands of a young boy from Dockside who wanted to grow up and become a great Shieldsman who looked out for the small, defenseless people of the world. Even if they were the King.

  “Sigrid couldn’t—“

  Pi cut him off with a heel across the jaw. He pulled free, still coughing and clutching his brushed throat.

  “Help me!” the boy rasped and tried to run.

  Rand lunged and grabbed him by the sleeve. “The Boiling Keep isn’t that way,” he said. “I’ll show you. I won’t hurt you.”

  Pi punched at his arm, the exertion making him hack. Rand caught a kick in the shin this time and bit his lip to fight against the burst of pain.

  “I won’t hurt you!” he said.