Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Lucy,” Whitney managed to force through trembling lips. “I think it’s time to start.”

  “I—I agree.” She strummed a chord. “Relax your mind, Sora. Let the music flow over you, through you.”

  The door blew off its hinges, a body bursting through and sliding across the marble. The white-haired form of Nesilia’s upyr body crouched over it, twisting the corpse’s neck at an unnatural angle as she drank from its throat.

  “I’m beginning to enjoy the taste of your people,” she said, her voice swirling about the Throne Room like a serpent’s hiss. “Perhaps I’ll keep some around. Enjoy feasts right in this hall like your corrupt Kings.”

  She let the body fall with a clank, then licked her lips as she sauntered forward. “This is something beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She looked upward toward the painted ceiling.

  “Except that,” she said, pointing. “Iam casting down some hideous beast to the depths of the mountain. Who developed this depiction of me?”

  Whitney recalled the murals upon the walls in Redstar’s ruins—the first time he’d seen the Buried Goddess represented as anything other than a monster.

  “And Iam,” she laughed. “Of course, he would be nothing but a blinding light to your people. You worship a god without even caring what he looks like?”

  She shook her head and focused on those assembled in the room. No one spoke.

  “Look at all of you. Gathered here to die.” Her gaze snapped toward Sora. “I’m so disappointed in you. Did you think it poetic? Burying me?”

  “I thought it was what you deserved,” Sora said.

  “Perhaps,” she said. Her face went rigid, and she rushed across the room with blinding speed.

  “Now!” Torsten thundered.

  Lucindur’s fingers started to pluck, sounds like the ocean washing across a beach. Pleasant and harmonious in a moment when chaos and suffering ruled. Whitney watched as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, wondering if he, too, looked like that when he went under the Lightmancer’s spell.

  Nesilia fell to one knee, grasping at her head within meters of the guards surrounding Sora. Her upyr speed would have had them all cut to pieces in no time, but Sora’s connection seemed to be enough to slow her.

  “Fools,” Nesilia growled. “Attempting this pathetic move again? It won’t work.”

  Torsten glanced back at Whitney. “When you see the opening, get that stone in her hands.”

  “I’m really better at taking gems out of hands,” Whitney replied.

  “Now, isn’t the time. Take her!”

  Torsten brandished his claymore, and together with the Shieldsmen and Serpent Guards, they charged. Nesilia may have been hampered by the magic, but she still wasn’t completely useless. She drew Sigrid’s own Breklian knives and sprang to action.

  She deflected and stabbed, mowing through the guards one at a time. It may not have been with lightning speed, but still, other than Kazimir, it was unlike anything Whitney had ever witnessed. She couldn’t be hit.

  Her shoulder collided with a Glass soldier’s knee, toppling him. As he fell, she gashed his throat while, at the same time, ducking under Torsten’s mighty swing, bending backward in a manner that seemed impossible while sliding forward. As she twisted, she flung a knife at Lucindur, still seated. But Tum Tum had guessed right and jumped. It caught him in the leg with enough force to hurl him, spinning against the wall as if he’d been hit by a catapult.

  “Tum Tum!” Whitney screamed. He clutched his silver daggers and went to join the slaughter when a deafening crash above sent him diving, hands over his head. Glass throughout the spire shattered, raining down like sharp, deadly hail.

  A wave of grimaurs flowed through, flocking down in a tornado of talons and screeching. Whitney knew why. As always, Lucindur’s power drew them, and he abandoned his charge to rush back to her. Aquira darted up, blowing flame to keep them at bay, but there were so many. They spread around her blast, others diving at her, sending her fleeing.

  “Defend the Lightmancer!” Torsten ordered right before Nesilia caught him in the chest with an elbow. His chestplate cracked, and he flew back against the Glass Throne, causing a crack right up the center. Nesilia attempted to advance but was stalled by Lucindur’s magic once again, staggering back with her hand over her temple.

  “Is this all you have, Sora?” Nesilia said, eyes and lips twitching as they shared an unheard conversation. “A tired-out old trick that barely worked the first time? Maybe I was wrong about you. You are weak. Sigrid wants this at badly as I do. All she has known is suffering, thanks to this castle. We will bring it crumbling down!”

  A Serpent Guard stabbed at her, but Nesilia recovered quickly and caught the blade between her hands. She broke the shaft, took the spear herself, and skewered three guards with it.

  Before Whitney could see any more, a group of soldiers closed in around Sora and Lucindur, creating a shell of shields. Grimaurs pounded against the steel like thunder, a storm all around them. Talons broke through and incapacitated some, but more guards with shields filled in. Eventually, they’d run out.

  Whitney glanced at Sora, her eyes twitching, chest heaving. She was no longer at peace under the spell but struggling. Nesilia was fighting back, almost like she’d expected this feeble attack. Maybe she did. Maybe, she’d wanted to gather all their leaders, all those who’d wronged her, like pigs for the slaughter.

  Hitting the floor, Whitney crawled through the legs of the guards. A grimaur squawked at him, snapping its razor-sharp beak. He rolled away from it, and someone stepped on its wing. It turned to free itself, and Whitney stabbed it through the eye, then emerged into the torrent.

  Tum Tum had roused now. “Die ye foul beasts!” he bellowed as he leaped, swinging his hammer like a madman.

  Whitney sliced a wing. Then a tail. Then, one grimaur smashed into his side. He fell back, grasping one of their ankles to keep talons from stabbing into his face. A violent blast of flame incinerated the thing’s head, scorching Whitney’s brow and hair. He turned over to avoid the heat, and things went suddenly dark. It only took a moment to realize the Brike Stone had fallen from his pocket.

  He scampered to grab it. A grimaur plunged for it as well. The moment before either could grab it, however, Aquira zipped by and scooped it up. The grimaur crashed into the floor at full speed, its neck snapping.

  “Nice one, Aquira!” Whitney cheered. He popped up, ready to keep fighting, but Aquira made a sound he’d never heard—a curdling squeal from deep in her gut that sounded more pained than proud.

  She sputtered across the room, a ball of darkness and fire swirled together like a precious orb. She hit the wall, flapped a few times, and without the Brike Stone in his hand, forcing him to very dark thoughts, Whitney came up with them on his own. They hit him much harder.

  “Is that the toy you brought to stick me in this time?” Nesilia asked as she snapped the neck of a Shieldsman with a sharp twist.

  Grimaurs suddenly swarmed Aquira, only, they couldn’t get close. Fire spewed out from the wyvern, not only from her mouth but all over. Vicious, violent pillars poured from her, burning through walls, singeing columns, melting glass.

  Whitney couldn’t believe his eyes. With the Brike Stone in hand, Aquira wasn’t oppressed by sorrow but transformed. The form of an elemental dragon entirely made of fire broke free. Where her heart would be, the Brike Stone pulsed blood red as she now swept across the room, reducing a whole cluster of grimaurs to ash.

  “The heart of a dragon,” Tum Tum whispered, extending his hand to catch the ash of the very beasts he’d been battling.

  Whitney marveled as the elemental beast that was Aquira circled up the spire, melting the hide and feathers from grimaurs as well as the debris falling from the devastated spire.

  “Aquira, you clever girl!” he exclaimed.

  He whipped around to face Nesilia. Many of the guards had the same thought. This was their opening. Whitney charged at her, and
by then, Torsten had recovered to join him.

  “Perhaps, you should have spared your sister,” Torsten taunted. “Your arrogance will be your undoing.”

  Nesilia licked her bloody lips. “No. More fun for me.”

  Whitney swiped at her, met only air. In that brief moment, as he came around again, two guards were collapsing to the ground, dead by her hand. Torsten swung as well, a downward slash. She flipped back, landing behind a Serpent Guard and sinking her fangs into his throat before tearing it out.

  “Do you hear the sounds outside these walls?” she asked as she dodged and blocked with ease. “That’s Iam’s Kingdom meeting its inevitable end. How many times will all of you fail? Iam needed new heroes.”

  Torsten missed an attack. Whitney timed it perfectly—they were best friends after all—and slid in low as a Serpent Guard also stabbed. Nesilia dipped back, below Whitney’s swiping dagger, causing him to just barely shave her side. The skin steamed as silver made contact.

  She whipped around, bearing her fangs in a feral hiss as she seized Whitney by the throat. His airway closed in an instant as her knife sank toward Whitney’s eye. This wasn’t the way he’d planned to die, but he’d take it. Nesilia’s rage toward he-who-stole-Sora-from-her drew her focus.

  The knife, however, stopped a fingernail’s length from him. His heart stopped. Her hand shook. She winced and grimaced.

  “Get. Out. Of. My. Head!” Nesilia screamed.

  More glass from the spire shattered but turned to droplets of slag by Aquira’s fire. A loud, misplayed chord sounded from Lucindur’s salfio before a wave of energy from the instrument broke the connection between her and Sora. Both barely clung to consciousness. The shockwave sent Whitney flying back out of Nesilia’s grasp. White spots danced across his vision. Guards fell too.

  Torsten alone, however, was large enough to withstand the blast. His claymore raced toward Nesilia’s head. But with Lucindur’s spell broken, the full extent of powers returned. She dodged it with no room to spare, grabbed Torsten’s arm on the downswing, and snapped the bone, even through his armor.

  Salvation fell free, and as it clattered on the floor, she stomped on the blade with her heel, breaking it in two. A second blazing-fast move sent a kick into Torsten’s midsection, and he was sent rolling across the room into a column.

  “Is that all?” she asked, laughing. “All the great heroes of Pantego, this was all you could muster against me? How pathetic.” Guards closed in around her one second and the next, all were on the ground, grasping at bleeding throats while she crouched between them, fresh blood upon her teeth and nails.

  Aquira roared. Any other time, the sound would have made Whitney proud. She blasted the last grimaur out of the way, and her fiery form dove toward Nesilia. A single flick of a knife and it struck the Brike Stone, knocking it away. The elemental dragon broke apart, and from it fell Aquira, one of her wings torn. She slammed the floor and slid to Tum Tum’s feet. The dwarf bent and lifted her into an embrace. He sucked in through his teeth. Smoke billowed off Aquira’s flesh. She must have still been hot, but to the dwarf’s credit, he didn’t let her go. The Brike Stone landed near Lucindur without bouncing, far heavier than it appeared. Light flickered and began to draw itself toward the stone.

  Nesilia clicked her tongue. “I’m so disappointed. I saw so much potential here. A part of me thought that, perhaps, some of you might stick around to forge this new world at my side.”

  “We’d… never… join… you,” Sora moaned, barely able to pick herself up.

  “Oh really? Then where is beautiful young Mahraveh?”

  “She’s destroying your uncaged beasts,” Torsten moaned. His first attempt to stand failed.

  “Is she?” Nesilia cackled. A guard charged her, and she caved in his chest with a single blow. “She and I had a nice chat before this. If I had to gamble, she’s already turned against you, slaughtering all of your precious followers in my name.” She closed her eyes, lower lip quivering with ecstasy. “Yes. She will be a worthy servant. Unlike you!”

  Whitney lunged from the ground, but he was too far away. The few guards remaining around Sora and Nesilia were killed in an instant. Then Nesilia stood right in front of Whitney, Sora on her knees before her.

  “I learned a bit about this body,” Nesilia said, addressing Whitney directly. “It is said that the blood of a mystic empowers it beyond belief. And well… my sister’s ghastly body hadn’t enough power to offer much. Sora is a true mystic now, isn’t she?”

  “Whitney…” Sora whispered. Fear flooded her face as Nesilia kneeled and sniffed her neck as Kazimir once had, like she were a Dawning Feast.

  “Don’t touch her…” Whitney said. He clenched one of the daggers and swung. Without a chance to counter, Nesilia stole the blade and stabbed it down through the center of his hand so hard the blade jammed into the marble and pinned him down. He screamed in agony as she pushed it deeper.

  “How will you steal anything without this?” Nesilia asked.

  “Stop it!” Sora shouted. A wave of elements exploded from her fingertips, and she bolted to her feet. Ice, burning coal, sleet, stone, it all landed harmlessly upon Nesilia. Sora was simply too weak, and an upyr too resistant to her magic.

  “Enough,” Nesilia said. She shoved Sora back to her knees and wrenched her head to the side. She leaned down to her ear. “I offered you everything, and you chose this laughable excuse for a man. This thief.”

  “Sigrid,” Sora whimpered. “If you’re in there, listen to me.”

  “She couldn’t hear you before. She won’t now.” Nesilia bit the side of Sora’s neck and drank from her, holding her upright as she did. Her eyes twitched with delight. Sora’s fingers jerked, fire dancing upon them, but unable to summon. The color fled her cheeks. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry—but the sight of her pained face was unbearable.

  Whitney could do nothing. Nobody could. They were either too injured or dead. And the horrid sounds from beyond the castle told of a similar tale. Wianu roars were close now—recognizable in their awfulness. The shrieks of people fighting and dying seemed endless.

  “Let go of her!” a new voice growled.

  Nesilia released Sora and stumbled. Steam poured from a silver-induced wound on her back. This strike hurt her. Her face contorted like she’d never experienced anything like it. Her jaw dropped in utter shock, and she slumped to one knee.

  Sora collapsed forward, and Whitney embraced her with one arm. His other hand remained pinned by the knife. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I have you.” As her head lolled over his shoulder, her blood all over him, he peeked.

  He expected to see brave and mighty Torsten standing behind Nesilia. Instead, he saw another familiar face. Sure, it was gaunter and more bearded than it had been on their last adventure together, but this was Rand Langley—deserter of the King’s Shield, no doubt. For some reason, he wore all the armor of a Shieldsman except a breastplate. And in his grip, coated in black upyr blood, was half of Torsten’s broken sword.

  “Rand,” Nesilia spat, turning on him. He backed away slowly, nearly tripping over a body. “You couldn’t help but be the traitor you’ve always been, could you.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rand said. He looked around the room, destroyed and filled with dead and broken bodies. Torsten crawled for a fallen weapon. Tum Tum was crushed beneath a mound of grimaurs. Aquira chirped in pain. Lucindur cradled her salfio, barely able to breathe.

  “My sister wouldn’t have wanted this,” he said. “I’ll never see her again.” He swung at Nesilia, but her hand shot forward to catch his forearm. She squeezed and bent it back until Rand lost his grip. Blackness oozed out of her back and from her mouth as she then forced him down and rose to her full height before him.

  “You’re right,” she hissed. “You never will, because your pathetic life has come to its end.”

  Whitney gave Sora a look while they talked. He didn’t need to tell her the plan. It was like they shared a mind.
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  In one smooth motion, Sora lunged and drew her silver shortsword. It took everything she had, but she slashed the back of Nesilia’s knees. She collapsed forward, and as she did, Torsten raced to grab Rand and drag him away toward Lucindur and Tum Tum.

  Nesilia remained on her hands and knees, steam and black blood shedding off her. Sora crawled toward her. Nesilia started to laugh.

  “You should have aimed for the heart,” she said. She raised a fist and punched the floor. The force made the marble ripple like water and threw Sora back. The knife pinning Whitney tore free with it, and he rolled over, clutching his hand and groaning.

  “I always knew you’d be the one to save me,” Nesilia said as somehow, she stood. “Your mystic blood. I can feel it coursing through me. Your mortal tools can do nothing against me.”

  Slowly, but impossibly fast for any human, her wounds started healing. Whitney knew it shouldn’t be possible based on everything he’d learned from Kazimir. Silver should have caused her injuries to heal like any other person. But Sora’s blood was strong, and she’d had plenty of it.

  Nesilia cracked her neck. “I think… I’ll kill you all now.”

  As she vanished in a blur, a beautiful chord chimed. Whitney glanced over and saw Lucindur, barely able to move and with Torsten supporting her. He lifted her one arm so she could strum her salfio. Rand sat before her. Both their eyes rolled back into their heads.

  XLVIII

  The Traitor

  Rand looked from side to side. Last he remembered, he was in the Throne Room. He wasn’t sure why he ran there after Torsten left him battered in that bakery. Something deep inside called to him, like when he used to know his sister was in trouble with vagrants down in Dockside.

  It wasn’t hard to enter. He was human, after all, dressed like a Glassman, without possessed eyes. And nobody was defending the gates after what Nesilia did to those inside. He knew he should have aimed somewhere fatal when he went after her, but it was hard enough to bring himself to stab Sigrid’s body.