Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Lucindur smiled.

  Talwyn wrapped her arms around her mother and let out a gentle sigh. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye,” she said.

  “None of us did,” Tum Tum said. “But we can say it now.”

  They all stood there, staring at the statue for as long as it took for them each to make peace in their own way. Gentry sobbed into Aquira’s scaly neck. Talwyn absentmindedly toyed with the laces of her corset while muttering under her breath.

  If nature was to be sad along with them, no one had mentioned it. The gallers had finally stopped feasting, and the gentle sounds of gulls filled the air, along with the clatter of hammers and other tools.

  Bees buzzed merrily in a vast garden of flowers and greens spread across the front of Godkiller’s tavern. Never before had Dockside smelled so good. The reek of death wasn’t so bad anymore. Sora healing so many wounded and infected before setting off for the East didn’t hurt with that. Someday, that stench would be gone for good. Tum Tum liked it, though. It reminded him of his friend somehow.

  “The statue will be done just in time,” said Brouben as he approached from behind them.”

  He startled Tum Tum, who whipped around, then bowed. Brouben had lent some of the Three Kingdom’s finest masons to building the memorial to their mutual friend. Cost wasn’t an issue. With his brother still serving as the Glass Kingdom’s Master of Coin, it was considered a gift. An apology for being late to the battle.

  “Relax, old friend,” Brouben laughed. “If yer here, I ain’t yer King.”

  “I still be a dwarf.”

  Brouben patted his back. “Aye, a dwarf welcome home whenever he pleases. There’ll always be a seat in me court for the one who helped save the world.”

  Tum Tum raised his head and fought back tears. “Thank you, brother. But I have some unfinished business out here. For now, a night of free drink will have to do.”

  “Did ye think I was payin?” Brouben laughed again.

  “Never would have dreamt it.” They tapped their foreheads together, then Brouben returned to his entourage. His brother, Al, was giving him a tour of the new buildings and the harbor. A Shieldsman, wearing freshly forged glaruium armor, snuck away from their group and made his way toward Tum Tum’s gathering. The stuff shined like it was made of pearls. Enough to make even a simple dwarf like Tum Tum envious.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I send in another unit to inspect?” Sir Mulliner said. He was one of the last remaining Shieldsmen in all of Yarrington. Now, he served as the Wearer of White, leader of all the new King’s army.

  Torsten had disbanded the King’s Shield before the Battle of Yarrington, but now, they’d been reinstated. Though, Tum Tum rarely saw many outside of Sir Mulliner until today. The Shield’s new purpose was the hunting down of demons still haunting Pantego and possessing good people. But with two kings to be present at Godkiller’s Tavern, they’d been summoned back to serve as their namesake demanded.

  Tum Tum was just relieved that Caleef Mahraveh was too busy cleaning up the mess in the Kingdom of the Black Sands to attend. Her terrifying Serpent Guards would have put a damper on the entire affair.

  “By all means,” Tum Tum said.

  “Security is paramount. The new King and all the Royal Council will be attending. Everything must be perfect for him.”

  “This ain’t about him, and he knows it better than anyone,” Tum Tum argued.

  “Even so,” Mulliner said. Then he glanced at Whitney’s statue and sighed. “Things will never be as they once were, will they?”

  “I reckon not.”

  Sir Mulliner grunted, then huffed along to keep up with King Brouben. The Shieldsman didn’t move as fast as he once might have after injuries sustained in the battle, even with the miraculous work of Sora’s hand. But Tum Tum knew nobody would be more dedicated to ensuring that this evening went off without a hitch. He’d been establishing the protection plans for a month now, before Godkiller’s Tavern was even close to done.

  The squeak of the tavern door drew Tum Tum’s attention to a middle-aged man and woman walking through the garden to stand before Tum Tum.

  “That’ll have to be addressed,” Tum Tum grumbled.

  The woman wore an apron, stained and covered in flour. The man had his arm around her waist. They both wore expressions that were the perfect representation of how everyone in Yarrington felt. It was a restrained joy. So many had lost so much, but as horrible as things had been, there was an excitement and hope that came with the restoration efforts.

  “Horace, Vanelope, is tonight’s menu ready?” Tum Tum asked.

  “I can promise you that Yarrington has never tasted anything so delicious,” Mr. Danvels said, eyeing his wife. “Mrs. Danvels really outdid herself this time.”

  “In memory of my boy,” Vanelope Danvels said. She stared off across the water, not at Whitney’s statue, but just in that direction. Tum Tum went to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.

  “We’re in need of more sugar,” she said, without averting her gaze.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Tum Tum replied, but she was already heading back to the tavern without awaiting a response.

  “Oi, Hamm!” Tum Tum called over to the man helping unload a cart of supplies. They needed all the help they could get in handling the crowds, and it seemed only right to invite the people who ran the Twilight Manor back where Whitney was from. “Send a runner for more sugar!”

  “How much more could you possibly need?” he groaned.

  “Ye flower-pickers love things sweet.”

  Hamm rolled his eyes. Tum Tum thought he saw him mutter “dwarves” under his breath in that same way Whitney used to. Letting it slide, Tum Tum returned his focus beyond the docks.

  “Ye sure are quiet,” he said to Lucindur, who now sat on a bench, tuning her salfio.

  “I’m saving my voice for later.”

  “I just thought ye’d be more excited to hear that King Torsten was comin.”

  “Stop it,” Lucindur said, color filling her face.

  “No, really. I think he’s got his... uh... blinded eye on ye, too.”

  Talwyn glanced back at her mother, eyes wide. She now sat with Gentry at the edge of the rebuilt docks, their feet swinging over the water.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Lucindur said.

  “Mother, he’s the King!” Talwyn said.

  “And a damn good one at that.” Tum Tum said. “So far, at least.”

  “I suppose he is rather handsome,” Talwyn admitted, smiling widely.

  “And brave,” Gentry added.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Lucindur said. “Don’t you and Gentry have some practicing to do?”

  “Oh, you’re never any fun,” Talwyn said. “Come on, Gentry. Let’s go. We need to get our second transition right, anyway.” She pulled the boy and his wyvern along, complaining that his timing was off while hers was perfect.

  Tum Tum watched as they left, wondering what they had planned for opening night. In addition to the Pompare Troupe, he’d hired Fabian “Feel Good” Saravia to come and be a part of the week’s festivities. Rumor had it, the bard had even written a song in Whitney’s honor—a duet which Lucindur would play with him. It was sure to be an evening to remember.

  The finishing touches were being done upon Whitney’s nose. Tum Tum ducked to view it from a low angle. He clapped his hands. “Pretty shog-shuckin close,” he said. “Even Sora may not be able to tell the difference.”

  “It’s too bad she can’t be here,” Lucindur remarked.

  “Aye. But that lass is destined to do great things. She’s got her own ways of honorin his memory. We’ll be sure to toast to her tonight.”

  “Why not now?” Lucindur said, stowing her instrument and pulling a flask from her belt.

  “Ye devil,” Tum Tum said.

  “Breklian brandy,” she said, lifting the flask toward the statue. “To Whitney Fierstown, the Godkiller, and the Queen who ruled for a day.”
<
br />   She took a sip.

  “Here, here,” Tum Tum said, stealing it from her hand and throwing back a swig of his own. “To the best friends this dwarf has ever had the pleasure of knowin.”

  Torsten felt robbed, though he knew he shouldn’t. Sora hadn’t taken anything from him, in fact, quite the opposite, yet still, he did.

  Is that what all of Whitney’s victims felt like? he wondered.

  He circled the Glass Throne like a wolf, its prey. He wasn’t sure if anybody had realized yet that he hadn’t even sat in it. Even after the coronation atop Mount Lister, when a glass and glaruium crown, forged by Hovom Nitebrittle from the melted armor of former Shieldsmen, had been placed upon his head by the High Priest—he hadn’t sat.

  It felt wrong. Sure, the throne had undergone a transformation after substantial repairs. However, it was still the same seat filled by Liam Nothhelm and dozens of Kings going back to Autla the First. Now, Torsten was supposed to share it. A man whose ancestors were not from Yarrington. The son of nobody. Sole member of the noble house of Unger.

  “Whitney trained you all too well, you clever witch,” he said to himself, referring to Sora. He’d hinged the entire fate of the Kingdom on her. Even if all of them didn’t believe Sora was who they claimed, Hovom’s word went a long way. He was nothing if not loyal and honorable.

  They barely had a priest left alive or healthy enough, but after reluctantly agreeing to become Queen, Sora insisted they rush the coronation, under Iam, atop Mount Lister, as well as the legal paperwork. And the moment she attained the Nothhelm seal, she made her first decree.

  Sora Nothhelm, Queen of the Glass Kingdom, renounced the throne and named Torsten her successor. He recalled the way his jaw dropped as she spoke the words in front of the entire court. The world seemed to stop. Everyone was in complete shock, except Sora. She simply smiled a thin, placid smile.

  That was when Torsten knew she’d planned it from the moment they’d first talked. He’d studied her in their time together, learned how she ticked, what affected her and what made her worthy despite her upbringing—she’d done the same. Sora knew that Torsten’s vows to serve the Nothhelm family with honor until his end would mean he couldn’t refuse a royal decree.

  And so, here he was, fresh off his own coronation, tricked into being named King.

  A King who couldn’t manage to sit in his own throne.

  “You’ll grow into it, Your Grace,” a soft voice spoke.

  He turned and saw Dellbar the Holy shuffling into the Throne Room, tapping along with his cane. Healing him was Sora’s final gift before departing to the East, where she would fix what Nesilia had corrupted in the Red Tower. He’d never recovered completely. His voice was gruff and grating now, and he walked like an old man. Every day, he seemed more and more like Wren the Holy than the carefree drunkard he was when Torsten first met him.

  “Like you did?” Torsten asked. He itched the top of his bald head, digging a finger under the glass band of his crown. It still irritated his skin, and the material was unexpectedly cold.

  Dellbar shrugged. “I never asked for this. Never wanted it. All I did was hand a suffering man my blindfold, and here I am.”

  “And all I did was try and make things right.”

  Dellbar chuckled. “What a couple of old fools we are.”

  Torsten grunted and nodded. He moved back around the throne and returned to staring at it. “How am I supposed to do this?”

  “With your eyes open.”

  “Very funny.”

  Dellbar arrived beside him and touched his shoulder. “Whether or not you believe this is where Iam always intended for you to be, here you are, Torsten Unger. No Liam to lead you. No Uriah to guide you. Only you.”

  “I liked you better when you spoke in riddles.”

  “And I miss drinking. Who would’ve thought the two men sitting in Valin’s dungeon would wind up here?”

  “That almost seems preferable,” Torsten said.

  Dellbar hooked Torsten’s hip with his cane and turned him around. “Oh, stop it, Your Highness.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Torsten grumbled.

  “Only you could find a way to wallow about being King. You were a street rat, and now, you’re the most powerful man in Pantego.”

  “Yeah. A King whose first act was granting the Black Sands their independence.”

  Tucking his cane under his arm, Dellbar clapped his hands once, as if to stir Torsten’s attention. “Maybe if you left these walls, you’d see that the people celebrate their new King. They know it was you and Caleef Mahraveh who helped save their Kingdom.”

  “It’s not our statues being built in Autla’s Inlet, Your Holiness,” Torsten stated.

  “No, but it was your armies,” Dellbar countered. “Your leadership. You give the people too little credit. You were one of them, after all. They’re tired of wars and rebellions. Who better to protect them than the Wearer of White from South Corner?”

  “You’re relentless.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  Torsten laughed nervously, his hand sliding along the arm of the throne. “It’s not like I can relinquish the crown. Two monarchs doing that back-to-back? The noble houses would all turn their hides on their pledges.”

  “They would, wouldn’t they? She really is—what did you say—a clever witch?”

  “I should’ve seen it coming.”

  “Maybe, however, she still has her part to play. Elsewhere can’t remain open, and her support will help return the East to its former glory. A true union between Glassmen and the Panpingese will do wonders in restorations.”

  “Are you a strategist or a priest?” Torsten asked in jest.

  Dellbar tapped his cane. “Enough of this, Your Grace. You spend any more time lurking here, and you’ll be late.”

  “I’m not sure why I even agreed to this.”

  “A coronation is one thing, but the people need to see their King. You know that better than most. Tonight is about looking forward as we remember all those who were lost in the Battle of Yarrington—the Pantego War. And Whitney the Godkiller is a hero amongst the people.”

  “I think it’s just Whitney Godskiller... like a name,” Torsten said.

  “Ah, yes. Well, that’s silly. However, it wouldn’t hurt your standing with them to see you celebrating his legend.”

  Torsten sighed. “Even from the grave, he tortures me.”

  “Just smile and drink,” Dellbar said. “I’ll show you how.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Maybe you’ll even meet a Queen. It’d be a shame for the House of Unger to die with you.”

  “Watch it, Your Holiness,” Torsten scolded.

  “Iam works in mysterious ways.”

  Torsten imagined a wink if the priest had any eyes left to do it with. Dellbar snickered to himself as he stepped down from the dais, clacking along the marble. “Are you coming, Your Grace?”

  “In a second,” Torsten replied.

  He faced the throne and took a few long breaths, then turned around. His legs went wobbly as he stood there. The crown continued to irritate.

  He could almost feel the spirits of all the old Nothhelm Kings watching him as he bent to sit, Oleander behind them, wearing her permanent scowl. It’d be easier if he could know all their memories like Mahraveh was blessed with, but he didn’t have that.

  He could only start from the beginning…

  It had been many months since Mahi had been in the Black Sands—the longest time away in her entire life. And yet, it was only then, as Latiapur appeared on the horizon through a thick layer of fog, that it felt like home.

  As a woman, going there had always been a battle, a fight to impress her father’s warlords, to convince afhems to join Muskigo’s cause after their minds had been already poisoned by Babrak, to become a Caleef worthy of the title.

  Like seemingly everywhere in Pantego, the buildings dotting the bluffs along the coasts were in ruins. From the Ta
l’du Dromesh, cracked open like a clamshell and flooded to the great rocks carved in the likeness of the Sirens supporting the Boiling Keep, pieces broken off by the tentacles of invading Current Eaters.

  Now, she had one last fight, to take back a home that finally felt like a home to her after so much time away.

  Ships flying the standard of Babrak’s afhemate marked the sea. Banners, branded likewise, unfurled down the pointed-arch windows of the palace—her palace. He’d made himself comfortable in the short time he ruled the city he helped destroy.

  “It breaks my heart, seeing Latiapur like this, my Caleef,” Bit’rudam said, climbing up behind her on the prow.

  Mahi turned back, using her spear to keep balance against the waves and the whipping winds. She eyed him. A light beard covered his chin now, his body finally learning to grow one. An eyepatch over the eye he’d lost fighting for Yarrington made him look like one of the ruthless pirates in the stories fathers told to scare their children. The rest of Bit’rudam’s body wasn’t yet covered with as many scars as Muskigo’s had been, but he was on his way.

  “Really?” Mahi said. “I find it quite beautiful. A reflection of its people.”

  “Not for long. The men are ready, my Caleef. The imposters will surrender and serve you, or they will die.”

  “You think I should have executed everyone who stood against us in Yarrington, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “It would have been the safest move.”

  “Since when have you ever known me to be safe?” She spun around and grinned impishly, then hopped down to the main deck. Her gaze swept across the sea. The Battle of Yarrington didn’t leave them with much of a fleet—a single warship, a few fishing boats, and supply vessels Babrak had anchored off-coast before invading. But King Torsten had been generous with his provisions after upholding a promise he’d made to her at White Bridge.

  He’d set her people free. No tribute required. No strings attached. It was everything Muskigo had ever wanted, given freely and without further bloodshed. They were the independent Kingdom of the Black Sands once more. And it was then, when a Glassman proved to be truly honorable, that she’d decided to spare her enemies. To show ‘mercy,’ as Sora had called it.