“You think he has a plan?” Sora asked.
Whitney patted the lump in his pocket—the Brike Stone.
“Not like the one we have, I doubt,” he said, still hoping his confidence would inspire a real plan of his own. “We’ve gotta find him. He clearly needs us... again.”
“How?” Sora asked. “In this mess, we’d be lucky to even find the front gates.”
Whitney surveyed the landscape. “Gates are that way. We should start off, then.”
“That’s it? Just waltz right up to the gates and hope someone opens for us when they’re makin all these people wait?” Tum Tum asked.
“You got a better idea?” Whitney asked, looking at each in turn. “Didn’t think so,” he said when no one responded. “Now, come on. If I know Torsten—and I do—he’ll take one look at me and haul us in for a banquet.”
“You’re delusional,” Sora said, laughing.
“This is no time for laughter, Sora,” Whitney scolded, then smiled and took off toward the gates, practically dragging the others in tow.
“You don’t think this Torsten fellow of yours has summoned my people, do you?” Lucindur asked, not even trying to hide the worry in her voice.
“Sure hope he has,” Whitney said without thinking. “They could use all the help they can get.”
“I’m sure your daughter is fine, Lucindur,” Sora chimed in.
“Oh, right,” Whitney added, thinking about Gentry. “You know what? I’m sure he knew they’d be safer there in Glinthaven. Nesilia is headed here. Plus, I don’t see many of your people here.”
He was right, of course. There were plenty of pink-skinned men and women, from seemingly all over western Pantego, but sparse few brown, gray, or any other colors present.
The crowd thickened now that they were pressing toward the gates, making it hard to push through. Rumors and theories about what was happening flew around. Whitney recognized accents from Westvale, even a handful as far up north as Crowfall, or south as Winde Port.
“What if this isn’t about safety at all?” Lucindur asked.
“She’s right,” Tum Tum said. “If he be smart as ye say he be, he’s buildin an army.”
Silence prevailed for a moment before Whitney said, “All the more reason to leave Glinthaven out of it. You saw those folks; none of them could swing a sword if their lives depended on it—present company not included.”
The look on Lucindur’s face told Whitney he wasn’t fooling her. Rarely did she appear worried, but the emotion was clearly etched there on her pretty face.
They soon came to a cloud of white robes, priests by the look of them, eyes burned out, all old and grumpy-looking. So many, in fact, Whitney wondered if every last holy man and woman on Pantego had arrived for whatever this was.
“Must be full inside if even the priests are bein forced to wait out here,” Tum Tum said.
As they continued to shove through, more than a fair share of those who could still see jumped when they caught sight of Aquira. Some circled their eyes in prayer as if warding off a demon.
“Relax,” Whitney said. “Haven’t you ever seen a wyvern? Geesh!”
Aquira retreated, burying her muzzle into Tum Tum’s hood.
“Father?” a voice said. There were so many ‘fathers’ present, but for some reason, this voice broke through the din. “Father Gorenheimer?”
Sora turned first to view a sister of Iam hurrying toward them.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.
“What?” Whitney whispered. “Who’s that?”
“Father Gorenheimer! I’ve looked for you all over Hornsheim,” the sister said. “I thought for sure you’d be there during such trying times—Blessings of Iam! Your eyes! It seems Torsten Unger wasn’t the only one to receive a miracle.”
Was she talking to Whitney? He was at a total loss. His eyes? Based upon Sora’s reaction, he figured he should know this woman, but he didn’t recognize her at all. Then, he realized she must have been the victim of one of his many grifts.
He swore internally, then took a breath.
“Oh-oh!” Whitney said. “Father… Father Gorborhibbon—you must be thinking of my… my brother!”
“Brother?” the young lady said.
“Yes, yes. He went onto the priesthood. Twins. Identical. New name, everything.”
“Is that so?” the young lady asked.
“Sure is,” Whitney said. “Me? I’m a vagabond. So sorry to disappoint.”
Before the young lady could speak again, Whitney rushed everyone along.
“Who the yig-and-shog was that?” Whitney asked Sora when they were safely out of earshot.
“You really are oblivious sometimes,” she said. “Nice save though. Twin? Do people actually believe that?”
“You’ve just witnessed the answer yourself, my dear. So, who was that?”
“Nauriyal,” she said.
“Hmmmmm.”
“Nauriyal from Bridleton?”
Whitney thought for a moment. “Nope. Nothing.”
“Nauriyal Darkings, daughter of Bartholomew Darkings, the governor of Bridleton!”
“Shog in a barrel. You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Whitney said.
“That’s what I said.”
“Man, I forgot about that one.” He laughed to himself. Sora’s scowl didn’t wane. “What? Six years in Elsewhere, remember? I remembered everything about you, at least.”
“Oh, golly. Aren’t I the luckiest.” Sora rolled her eyes.
“Are ye two done playin social club? We got a world to save,” Tum Tum grumbled, pushing forward to make a path. “Look out! Comin through. Comin through!”
There wasn’t much complaint from anyone as they noticed Aquira and the stocky dwarf elbowing hips and thighs.
“I guess we should follow,” Lucindur said, passing them by as well.
“After you,” Whitney said to Sora with a flourish of his hand.
Just then, horns sounded, loud and crisp, and playing a royal fanfare. Whitney followed the noise to the ramparts above the front gate. They were still pretty far away, but the dark-skinned, well-armored man standing over the entrance couldn’t be mistaken.
“Torsten!” Whitney said.
The horns died down, and Torsten began to speak, though they were so far back they couldn’t understand a word of it. That added to the confusion as everyone around them began to complain that they too couldn’t hear what the new Master of Warfare had to say.
“This could’ve been better thought out,” Whitney remarked. “Let’s try to get closer.”
Everyone else had the same idea, which made it like a school of fish swimming upstream. Countless complaints filled the air, and suddenly, it made sense to Whitney why they didn’t just let them all in. People were a pain.
“We’re baking out here!” a man shouted.
“You let gray scum in ahead of fellow Glassmen?” barked another.
“We’re never going to get close enough,” Sora said as they ran into a blockade of complainers.
The people may as well have been holding torches and pitchforks. They’d feel differently when Nesilia’s demon army arrived. They’d all be grateful for the refuge then.
Look at me, taking the side of the nobles, he thought. Who am I?
A commotion rose behind them, and a gruff voice said, “Move aside. Move aside. High Priest coming through.”
The voice belonged to a middle-aged priest who looked half-dead and used a white cane topped with an Eye of Iam to guide his steps. He smelled like his not-so-white-anymore robes had been soaked in rum, but he didn’t appear drunk. Unlike other priests, he wore no cloth over his eyes, just let the gruesome holes in his head out for all to see.
Several other priests joined him, as well as monks and sisters of Iam, Nauriyal, too. One member of their holy group stood above all the others, though—a literal giant with a crooked nose and missing teeth, and a face like an anvil.
“Moooove,” he dr
oned, voice like wind through the deepest cavern.
“Follow them,” Whitney whispered as the group pushed by.
Hiding within the holy company, Whitney marveled at how the people parted without question. He wanted to believe it was because of the man claiming to be the High Priest, and a few people did indeed circle their eyes and bow. Though, he imagined it was more due to the giant and his thunderous footsteps and a desire to not be crushed beneath them.
In Yarrington, you saw them from time to time, working the docks or on a construction site. In the towns and villages surrounding, however, they were pretty rare. Troborough occasionally had some pass through, employed by troupes or merchants. Still, he imagined a lot of these folk would have gone their whole lives without ever seeing a real giant.
It wasn’t long before Whitney and the others were closing in on the gates. Torsten had just finished giving his speech with the words, “Everyone will be allowed inside in due time. Trust in Iam, and He will protect us.”
The people up front who had been able to hear didn’t seem at all pleased, pushing against the Glass soldiers lined up before the entry like a wave. More than a few brought up the fact that Shesaitju had been allowed in before them, and that such disrespect indicated the Nothhelm line was truly gone.
“What else do you think he said?” Whitney asked.
“Maybe the truth for once,” Sora said. “Now that would be a new look for the Crown.”
“Well… nobody is wearing the crown right now.”
The robed man who claimed to be the High Priest and his giant companion stopped before the gate, and their easy ride toward the entry ceased. Whitney bumped into some brawny farmer’s back who had the same idea.
“Some help please, my dear Uhlvark,” the High Priest addressed the giant.
“Nooow?” the giant replied.
The High Priest nodded.
The giant lifted his leg as high as he could, then brought it slamming down. The mud from so many trampling feet made him stagger and catch himself on the wall. Guards looked on in confusion.
Torsten was in the midst of turning away but stopped when he heard the resounding stomp. He returned to the parapet and looked down. The sight of the white cloth over his eyes stole the words right off Whitney’s tongue. His old friend looked like a priest, like Father Drimmond, the version of Torsten from Elsewhere.
“Sir Unger,” the High Priest shouted, without facing up. He couldn’t see, so Whitney supposed it didn’t matter where he looked. “Is that you up there?”
“Your Holiness!” Torsten shouted back. He circled his eyes over his blindfold. “You made it. I was beginning to fret.” It looked like he was staring right at the group of them, though.
The High Priest hurriedly circled his own eyes, but it was sloppy.
“Worry not.” He spread his arms and gestured to the priests surrounding him. Whitney noticed then that many of them appeared less than pleased to be there. “I bring all Iam’s Light with me. Let us hope it’s bright enough.”
“It has to be. Open the gates!” Torsten shouted. “Let the company from Hornsheim in.”
At this, the crowd lost all semblance of passivity, shoving toward the gates so much that the Glass soldiers drew their weapons.
“Stay back!” they ordered.
Whitney and the others used the distraction to sneak back into the group. Just as they were about to pass the raised portcullis, he felt a hand grab his cloak and yank.
“Oi! You! What’s your business here?”
Whitney turned to see a scar-faced guard, big and brooding.
“We’re with them,” Whitney said and started forward. Again, he was jerked back.
The guard stared him down. “You’re with the priests?” he asked.
“No, they aren’t,” Nauriyal said without even a second glance.
“Oh, c’mon!” Whitney protested as he was shoved back out into the maddening mob, the others not far behind.
“Torsten!” Whitney shouted up. He called again and again until finally, Torsten’s bald head peeked over the wall and stared down. This time, it was exactly like he looked at Whitney.
“Torsten, it’s me—your very best friend, Whitney Fierstown!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Torsten said, loud enough to hear.
“That seems to be a theme,” Whitney muttered to himself.
“I know who it is,” Torsten said. “I can see you.”
“You can—what? Never mind…” Whitney said. “Just let us in.”
“Not a chance,” Torsten said. “You can wait your turn like everyone else.”
He quickly vanished again.
“Well, that’s that!” Tum Tum threw up his hands in frustration and began turning away.
“Wait a second,” Sora said to Tum Tum. This time, she called for Torsten. Seconds later, he reappeared.
“What now?” Torsten growled.
“Sir Unger, it’s me, Sora. Maybe you don’t remember me, but we have grave news and believe we can assist in…” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Please, hear us out, Torsten. We think we can stop Her.”
“Sora…” Torsten said, barely loud enough to be heard, but Whitney saw her name on his lips. Then, louder, Torsten said, “Fine. Let them in.”
Whitney smiled, turned to the others, and said, “And that’s how it’s done. I told you we were close.”
“Aye, close like piss and shog,” Tum Tum said.
Whitney bowed to each guard in the line, taking a bit longer on the scar-faced one. They mostly ignored him and reformed their blockade for all the angry folk waiting on the fields.
“The Master of Warfare is Glintish?” Lucindur asked.
Whitney wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Lucy, you have a lot to learn.”
“And you have a lot to learn about women,” Lucindur said, before shaking him off.
Lucindur looked back at Sora, and Whitney realized she’d fallen behind them. She didn’t seem upset, just deep in thought. Her very posture was strained.
He couldn’t blame her. Here they were, Yarrington, where this whole awful adventure had begun, and where, now, it would come to its end. And if they failed, the entire world would too.
No pressure. No pressure at all.
XXXIV
The Knight
Whitney Fierstown. He was the last person Torsten wanted to see in a time of crisis. Sure, they’d come to terms with each other in their previous meeting, when Torsten lay bruised, bloody, and blind from the fight with Redstar atop Mount Lister. But trouble seemed to cling to the thief like a shadow.
Worse yet, he was back with Sora, the very blood mage who’d caused all of Winde Port to burn down with her vile, uncontrollable powers. At the time, he thought she’d been sent there by Iam to turn the tide of battle when all hope seemed lost. Just as she had when Torsten battled Redstar for the first time in the Webbed Woods.
Now, he saw it differently. Sora was a precursor for dark magic returning to Pantego as Nesilia regained her foothold. From Redstar to the return of mystics like he’d witnessed in Latiapur to the creatures of Elsewhere itself.
Torsten pushed through the square toward Uhlvark, whose bulbous head rose high above the crowd. Shieldsmen wearing leather and iron helped Torsten make his way. Anything but glaruium. Under the Royal Blacksmith Hovom Nitebrittle’s guidance, soldiers had already gathered every bit of glaruium-reinforced armor and weapons and tossed them into the Torrential Sea.
The metal, like so many things in the realm, had gone from blessed by Iam to cursed by Nesilia. Touching the cloth wrapped about his eyes, Torsten almost prayed he wouldn’t be next.
The mob in Yarrington’s markets grew daily. There wasn’t enough room in the city for everyone, especially with the Shesaitju being accommodated in the castle grounds. Better that than them out in the open with all the townsfolk who’d lost their homes and families to them in Muskigo’s rebellion.
Another nagging thought beat on
Torsten’s brain. Was he as naïve as Pi had been when he allowed the savage Drav Cra into the castle gates? Were these people any different? Enemies somehow turned ally in the face of an attack. The irony wasn’t lost on him that these were precisely the enemies Pi had entreated Redstar over.
He shook the thought away. Had to. This was the only chance against an enemy they had no natural hope of beating. Besides, at least they weren’t slicing themselves open in the courtyard and watching as their blood filled the cracks on hallowed ground.
But still, Torsten thought to himself. In the castle?
The inns—filled. Cathedral halls—filled. Every home in Yarrington was to house as many as it could, by royal edict—whatever that meant without a King. Even the mansions of Old Yarrington were forced to help. Some of the nobles resisted, citing precisely that—there was no King—but Torsten had no problem bashing their doors down.
He didn’t need to keep everyone happy. Just alive.
Still, complaints and rumors spread through the mob like wildfire. From people saying the dwarves were attacking to others claiming that Mahraveh and the Shesaitju had usurped the throne. Torsten tried to be truthful, that the Buried Goddess had returned and marched on them with an army of demons and rebel Shesaitju, but the more people arrived from outside the city, the more lies came with them. He’d even heard rumors that some ancient goblin king had returned from the dead to turn Pantego into his own kind.
Again, it didn’t matter. As long as they knew that war was coming. It was just taking forever to get them all into the city. Every man of age had to be sorted out and ushered to the armory, then fitted in preparation to defend the city. And not every man wanted to fight.
They didn’t have a choice.
It would have all been easier with Pi around, but this was where they were.
“Toooorsten,” Uhlvark’s unmistakable drawl hung on the air as Torsten bulled through yet another crowd of conscripts saying they’d never fight alongside a gray man.
The giant jogged at Torsten, a string of drool on the right side of his toothy grin. His boisterous footsteps cracked stone and scattered the mob.
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