“But Sora—”
“But nothing. Muskigo burned down my little shack, and now I have no home. What would make this any different?”
Whitney tilted his head, looked back into Tayvada’s empty home and said, “Fine, it’s the gesture that counts, then. Let’s go.”
“One second.” Sora returned to Tayvada’s door and knelt before it. Whitney couldn’t help but listen in. She set Aquira down in front of the house. “You deserve a chance to say goodbye, girl.”
The wyvern trotted up to the door and gave it a whiff—enough, Whitney assumed, to remember the scent of her former master forever. She let out a squeal and looked back at Sora with her big, yellow eyes.
“I know, girl,” Sora said. “This place will miss him, too. But things will get better, I know it. Now, c’mon.” She extended her arm, and Aquira darted back onto her shoulder. Sora closed the door, then drew a deep breath.
“All right, what are you waiting for?” she said, turning to Whitney. “We’ve got a ship to steal.”
“You have no idea how proud I am to hear those words,” Whitney said. “And Muskigo’s inner circle? By Iam, I demand to know every detail of that story and how you used your assets.”
“Is that jealousy?” she asked.
“Professional curiosity.”
“Shut up.” She chuckled and punched him in the arm again. He had no idea he could miss a sore spot so much.
XXVI
THE KNIGHT
Torsten shifted his stance. Despite the heat beating down on his body from all around, the street was slick with melting ice. His fingers tightened around the grip of his claymore until it felt like an extension of his arm. He drew slow, steady breaths, the air thick with smoke. He wasn’t afraid. So much of his world had become a mystery but this, he understood. Battle. And as he watched Muskigo’s zhulong charging him, gold-clad tusks thrashing, he was both there and at the beginning. His mind recalled when he was but an armiger, and those first few bouts training under Uriah Davies. He remembered the sting of the wooden sword upon his back. Being slammed to the dirt over and over. And of course, he remembered the first time he landed a strike on the then-Wearer.
Kings, queens, and ancient feuds were one thing, but this he understood. This was kill or be killed.
He waited until the last possible moment, then shifted to the right and swung his sword wide, low to high. The side of a tusk smashed him in the ribs just as the tip of his claymore cut through the zhulong rear haunch. Any ordinary sword wouldn’t have pierced its thick, scaly hide, but the glaruium of Mount Lister was strong and its sharpness never dulled.
Torsten caught himself before hitting the ground and turned, half-crouched. His chestplate had a dent the size of a fist, the pain of the blow pulling at his entire left side. The zhulong, on the other hand, went down hard. Muskigo flew from its back, rolled across the street and found his footing in one smooth motion.
“I’ll give it to you, Shieldsman,” he said as he flicked snow off his scimitar. “You are brave as you are foolish.” His left half was horribly burned, and blood oozed out of the wound in the back of his other shoulder where Sora stabbed him. If the pain affected him, he didn’t show it.
“I am a vessel,” Torsten said, having to growl just to cover for the fact that every breath he drew made his ribcage feel like it was going to pop through his skin. “Now, you will see the power of faith.”
Another plangent moan of a Drav Cra horn sounded, and with it, the din of battle escalated. Every clash of metal like thunder creeping ever-closer. Footsteps like raindrops pounding on stone. The coming of a storm.
“Do you hear that?” Muskigo said. “It’s the sound of your army failing. And when they do, I will bring everything I have crashing upon Yarrington.”
“Not if you are dead.”
“Spoken like a true follower of Iam. Peace?” he scoffed. “Your god is a bringer of death. So come, vessel, and do what he does best!”
Muskigo brandished his sword, and Torsten charged. Torsten was larger, as was his weapon, but even with his many injuries, Muskigo was impossibly fast. He ducked right, then spun out of the way of a furious swipe. Torsten immediately recognized the Black Fist style. Muskigo never let the full brunt of Torsten’s claymore land upon his sword, but deflected blow after blow downward. He used his scimitar more like a shield than a weapon, and his lack of encumbering armor always had him one step ahead.
That was the essence of the style—to be as unshakable as a balled fist. To wait, absorb, exhaust your enemy until the time was right to land one perfect, deadly punch.
Muskigo caught a thrust between his blade and hip, then slid forward, slicing Torsten across a weak spot of armor behind one knee. Torsten roared and whipped around, his scimitar cracking the street as it barely missed Muskigo.
“You want to know what I learned from my father?” Muskigo asked, pacing out of range, barely breathing heavily. “Patience.”
Torsten turned with him, struggling to hide his windedness. Between the bruised rib, exhaustion from the ambush, and the weight of his glaruium armor, his muscles were being pushed to their limits. He vowed, should he make it from Winde Port alive, to train more often and focus less on politics.
“The zhulong is a stubborn beast, you see,” Muskigo continued. “When it feels threatened it charges—no matter what. But the sand serpents that inhabit the beaches outside Latiapur, you would barely know they were there, even if you were staring right at them.”
“Are you going to keep talking? I’ve been looking forward to this since the moment I saw you in the Fellwater.”
Torsten took a hard step and swung low at Muskigo’s shins. The afhem’s agile body allowed him to hurdle the sword. He landed, and before Torsten could bring his sword back around, the man had darted forward and sliced his elbow.
It was as if Muskigo’s blade were precisely drawn to Torsten’s armor joints. He pulled a sharp breath through his teeth.
“The serpent buries itself and waits,” Muskigo continued, keeping his distance and circling Torsten like a hunting wolf. “Sometimes for days, sometimes until it starves. It waits for prey to stroll by, unassuming, and then… it strikes like a bolt of lightning.” Muskigo feigned attack.
“Fight me!” Torsten bellowed.
“There is honor in charging like the zhulong as my father did but they are clumsy, mindless creatures happy to be ridden. The serpent, on the other hand, won’t move a muscle. And by the time you realize it’s still alive, its venom is coursing through your veins.”
“No!” Torsten said. “Your rebellion ends here, today.”
Torsten went at him again, throwing every bit of his remaining energy into every attack. Muskigo didn’t even use his sword this time. He dipped and evaded, and as Torsten went high with his claymore, Muskigo’s gray fist shot forward and struck in the center of his chest.
Torsten’s armor caved, and he careened backward, the sword slipping from his grasp. He looked down when he landed. He had taken hits from battle hammers and not suffered such damage. His time for amazement ended swiftly as Muskigo’s scimitar raced toward his head. Torsten did the only thing he could. Used his strength.
He caught it with both hands, the blade driving through the joints of his gauntlets and slicing his hands. He held it there, the edge only inches from cleaving his skull. Now it was Muskigo’s turn to look surprised.
Torsten shifted one hand, allowing the scimitar to continue into the ground at the side of his head. With the other he punched Muskigo hard across the face, the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet splitting his lip. A second shot tore chunks of flesh from his cheek.
Muskigo staggered back. Torsten fought the sharp pain racking his limbs as he scrambled to his feet and drove his armored shoulder into the afhem. They tumbled across the slick street, their tangled bodies spinning. They punched and kicked all the way until their bodies slipped over the edge of Merchants Canal.
They landed on their backs. The thick ice c
overing the water splintered but didn’t break. Torsten’s ears rang from countless blows to the head. The sounds of battle at his back were louder than ever, as if the armies were now warring within the city itself.
Muskigo didn’t seem to be faring much better. And as they both got to their feet, ready to engage again, the ice cracked more.
Half the man’s gray face was carved up and drenched in blood like his torso, but Muskigo’s confidence never waned. “I wonder which one of us will go through first?” He spread his sandaled feet wide to disperse his weight.
Torsten looked down. Cracks snaked away from his armored feet like the webs of a spider. It didn’t matter how he shifted his weight. He reached for the pendant hanging from his neck, only to be reminded it was no longer there.
But he never needed it, not really. Iam was in his heart, always—right there along with the King who helped forge him into the man he was.
“You forget, afhem,” he said. “Only one of our deaths matters!”
Torsten darted forward. He could feel the slick surface giving way under his heavy feet, but he kept pushing. Muskigo got his sword around a fraction of a second too late. Torsten’s massive body barreled into him, and when they hit the ice, this time it gave way.
Icy water and darkness enveloped Torsten as he clung to Muskigo’s waist to try and drag him under. The afhem clawed at the unbroken ice, desperate to stay above the surface. His lack of heavy armor made him fast, but even seconds below the surface might stop his heart.
Torsten could feel it; bitter death seeping through the cracks in his armor. Pushing against his lips to reach his lungs. Yet even with his weight and armor, they didn’t sink. Instead, they began to rise through the ice.
His head emerged from the water. Two of Muskigo’s Serpent Guards had thrown a rope wrapped to a gondola post to the afhem and were hauling him up.
“Yo—u d—die… here,” Torsten said, shivering.
Another warrior, standing at the lip of the canal, threaded his bow. It took every bit of his strength for Torsten to move his head out of the way of an arrow. Muskigo then thrashed and caught Torsten in the face with a foot. His numb arms gave out, and the leader of the rebellion wriggled free.
As he plunged into the water, Torsten watched Muskigo be heaved to the surface and wrapped in leathers. Torsten could hear nothing but the slowing rhythm of his own heart, but he saw the afhem’s now-purple lips rasp orders.
Muskigo stared down into the depths of the canal for a moment. He didn’t seem proud or satisfied, just bowed his head in respect as he was escorted away.
It was Torsten’s last clear sight before the cold started to blur his vision. His entire body went numb, toes to skull. Even his heart was silent. And as the water closed in around him, he couldn’t help but feel this was his path to Elsewhere. He had dedicated his life to the light of Iam, and here he would die, weightless in the dark. A failure.
A spear stabbed through the surface. Torsten couldn’t feel his fingers, but he was able to get a few around the staff. Then the tip of another spear hooked around the back of his armor. Before he knew it, the reddish glow of fire filled his vision. A dozen hands grabbed at him, rolling him up onto the surface.
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move. He could do nothing but shiver as the world came into view again. Shesaitju forces were in a full retreat, pursued by the combined army of Glassmen and Drav Cra. The fire, which had carved a path of destruction all the way to the walls was dwindling as snow fell harder.
A familiar face leaned down over him, pale and half-covered by a spiky, red birthmark. Redstar spoke, but Torsten couldn’t hear a thing. He could only watch as Redstar extended his hand for the warlock Freydis to slice. He placed his bloody palm against Torsten’s chest and began to mutter under his breath until the hand glowed red. His eyes were shut, lids flickering.
Warmth built within Torsten’s heart. He could feel it spread through his veins like a tree laying roots. First, his fingers and toes thawed, then the limbs themselves, and then he gasped for air. Water spewed out, literally steaming thanks to Redstar’s blood magic.
Redstar withdrew his hand. “There you are,” he said. “Breathe. Nesilia tells me it is not yet your time.”
Torsten brushed him aside and rolled over. He still couldn’t find the ability to speak, but he leaned back on perched elbows and stared down toward the docks. The Shesaitju were fleeing to their ships and rowboats, abandoning Winde Port. And now the streets were filled with Torsten’s own people... and the Drav Cra.
They beat their chests and cheered, and on the lips of both peoples, Torsten heard a name that had a part of him wishing he’d drowned.
“Redstar, Redstar, Redstar...”
XXVII
THE THIEF
As Whitney, Sora, and Aquira crested the hill of mansions overlooking Winder's Wharf and the rest of the city, Whitney was sure of one thing—Winde Port would never be the same. That free-loving, gold-flipping place he’d loved had seen the wrath of war. Not just the fire that burned its finest shops and most stately buildings, but a terror would hover over the place that would change it.
Whitney felt it in Panping any time he was there—this weight, as if the spirits of the dead were constantly whispering to the survivors of Liam’s war that they were left behind.
War would ruin another place he loved, but as he looked down upon the battle-filled streets at the walls and heart of the city, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride that he’d helped the winning side. It was difficult to see through the lingering smoke in the night, but the Shesaitju were clearly starting to retreat, eyes set on their rowboats and ships moored on the southern beaches. The Glass Army charged through the city walls like a nail through a ship’s hull.
“He did it,” Whitney said, not even trying to hide his joy. “He really yigging did it!” The war was stupid, a pointless squabble between rich lords over land and forgotten slights. But Torsten, his friend, led this battle. And after everything that had happened to the kingdom he loved for whatever Iam-forsaken reason, Whitney knew the Shieldsman deserved a win.
“Praise be,” Sora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose he’ll give all credit to Iam for saving his hide once again?”
“Oh, you know he will. Never to you… unless… are you Iam and you didn’t tell me?”
“If I were, I’d have created you without a mouth. Now let’s move before the docks are overrun again.” Her fingernails dug into Whitney’s forearm as she pulled him down the hill. Aquira looked back and screeched at him as if warning him not to test her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a moment and knock another mansion off Darkings' board?” Whitney pointed left, at the highest point in the city upon which the homes of Bartholomew and Winde Port’s richest families stood. With the glow of dwindling flames so far off, they were drenched in darkness. A corner here or there glowed under whatever slivers of moonlight slipped through the clouds, but not a candle was lit. Snow piled up in front of their heavy doors.
Most of their inhabitants probably got out safely through their own tunnels like the Darkings. Or they threw their slaves at the Shesaitju and ran. Now, the homes stood as great, big gravestones for the city.
“I think we should stop making enemies,” Sora said, pulling him harder.
“That’s a great lesson,” Whitney answered. “Write that down: friends are better.”
The road flattened out, and he pulled Sora back against a building on the edge of the wharf. A cohort of Shesaitju ran by, screaming and cursing. Whitney noticed, out of the corner of his eye, they were leaning against the Winde Traders Guild Hall. Through a shattered window, he could see all the velvet-cushioned chairs were overturned and plates of delectables strewn across the floor.
Sora peeked around the corner. “Most of the ships are tipped!” she exclaimed.
“About that…” Whitney said. He stole a look as well. The ships used in his distraction were in rough shape. With
the snow picking up, a few of the smaller ones were weighted much too heavily to one side, others were half-sunken in the shallow water from ruptured hulls.
He cursed himself as he looked down toward the beachfront.
The Shesaitju vessels remained in fine condition, awaiting the return of their respective crews out on the bay. It looked like a choreographed dance upon the waters, rowboat oars plunging and pulling in perfect harmony as gray men made their way to freedom. Zhulong and their riders plunged into the ice-cold water, where the hulking beasts proved to be unexpectedly agile swimmers.
A volley of arrows cascaded overhead, then rained down upon the waters, many finding their places buried within the boats and their pilots. The Glassmen were advancing, while brave Shesaitju warriors still on the wharf gave their lives to allow for a thorough retreat.
“What about that one?” Sora pointed toward the small, black corsair vessel at the north end of the dock. It was right next to the one Whitney and Tum Tum had started the chain reaction of devastation upon. Its low stature kept it safe even as the adjacent ship’s hull angled up and over it.
“Good enough.” The small, nimble ship would be easy to maneuver through the crowded bay, even, hopefully, by a crew of only two. “All right, on my count, we run for it.”
Sora regarded the wyvern on her shoulder. “Ready?” Aquira clicked her tongue in response.
“Three…two… one…”
They hurried out onto the quay. Sora’s foot slid out on the icy surface, but Whitney was there to catch her. The heaviest fighting was south of them, by Merchants Row and the beach. They made it to the ship without a hitch and climbed up the lowered ramp. It was only when they were onboard that they noticed the four gray men already on the deck.
“This will be our ship we are having!” one of them said in broken speech. They raised their curved blades.
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