“It is my sworn duty to protect you,” Torsten said. “I will never stop until my time here is over, and I find myself at the Gate of Light, Iam willing.”
“It should be you, up there,” Pi said, nodding toward Father Morningweg’s ceremony. “The orepul. Mount Lister. Valin. It was your persistence which showed me Iam.”
“I am honored, Your Grace. You have no idea. But a man of the cloth should not have seen the things I have. Done the things I’ve done. I felt doubt too, Your Grace. Thought we were forsaken. But I know Iam is with us now, and I am happy to serve as His sword.”
“And what if I want a world where he doesn’t need a sword?”
“Then my time here is done.” Torsten turned to the young king and smiled. “Trust in the new Holy Father. Much as I love and miss Wren, there’s never been a priest like Dellbar the Holy. In more ways than one, He’ll need you as much as we need him.”
“The reading is beginning,” Lord Kaviel Jolly leaned over and whispered, making no effort to mask his annoyance. It was rare to hear a man so comfortable with taking that tone with a king, but Torsten knew that was exactly what was needed. King Pi, finally, was in good hands. Unorthodox ones, perhaps, but good none the less.
“Shog shuckin…” Alfotdrumlin Cragrock cursed as the mule beneath him momentarily lost its footing on a bit of stray rock.
Torsten was stirred from the memory of his last day with King Pi before setting off to be the Sword of Iam once again. From atop his tall chestnut mare, he glanced over at the young dwarf riding beside him, on the inside so Torsten was nearest the ledge. Age was a difficult thing to determine when it came to the dwarves. Truth be told, Torsten hadn’t ever seen a baby dwarf, but he’d heard tales of them coming out fully bearded, male and female alike.
However, this one, judging by his lack of patience and proneness to sudden outbursts of anger, was young.
“You’re in control of the beast,” Torsten instructed, “not the other way around.”
“Easy for ye to say,” Al grumbled.
As they moved to reach Torsten’s camp set up on a plateau just west of the Jarein Gorge, it wasn’t lost on him how blessed he was. Months being led around like an old blind wretch, now the light of dawn guided him, and it was he who now did the leading once more.
He’d never seen the gorge walls in such a way. Not painted with the beauty of countless shades of reddish stone, but instead, with light. Through his blessed blindfold, Torsten could see the way it played across the crags; a dance with shadow. He wondered if this was how Iam once saw the world he helped create. Such purity. Such grace.
One night spent in a dwarven inn had him more well-rested then he’d felt in ages. Salted pork, water so pure it could only be drawn from melted snow traveling through kilometers of natural filtration to finally settle in the deepest subterranean trough. The bed barely fit a man his size and was firm like dwarves like it, but after shoving two of them together, Torsten slept as soundly as he could ever remember having done. For so long, his Kingdom felt on the brink of destruction, but that deep-seated fear was dwindling.
Oleander’s death wasn’t in vain. It helped remove snakes like Valin, and insert trusted lords like Kaviel Jolly at King Pi’s side. With the boy no longer worried about his mother’s condition, Torsten had left him in Yarrington in a better place than ever. Ravenous in his studies of both history and scripture. The priests had returned from Hornsheim, and fresh faith, Torsten knew, would do good for both him and the realm.
Even now, Torsten wished he could’ve stayed at Pi’s side, guiding him, but he couldn’t deny Mak’s challenge and let more people die. Torsten had killed Redstar. Now, the last of the deceiver’s ilk would fall. Reacquiring the trust of Liam’s old dwarven allies would ensure that.
Brouben traveled east around the gorge with Lucas. Torsten looked back at Brouben’s younger brother Al, covering his eyes against the rising sun. Sweat poured from his forehead like he’d never felt such warmth. A clanbreaker walked on each side, decked out in their spiked armor, faces as hard as the stone which they called home. Two more went with his warrior brother, around to the east gate of White Bridge.
“So, is this your first time outside your kingdom’s walls?” Torsten asked.
Al nodded. “My father thought it was time for my Commute.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Torsten remembered. When all dwarven men celebrated the arrival of their manhood—the day they could heft the weight of Meungor’s axe—they spent a year outside the three kingdoms. They were meant to learn everything they could about the world, gathering information on future allies or enemies. Some found the life beyond the mountains so enticing, they’d leave and never return, making their homes in places like Yarrington which was accepting of all races and peoples as long as they bent the knee to the king and bowed their head to Iam.
“No better place to learn about Iam’s world than Yarrington,” Torsten said.
“Is it this hot?” Al asked. “And this bright?”
Torsten chuckled. “You’ll get used to it. Your father raved about your skill with coin over supper. Our coffers could use the expertise.”
“Are ye sure he wasn’t talking about Brouben’s fighting?”
“I’m sure.”
“That’s a first,” Al grumbled.
Torsten could see the lines of regret written all over the young dwarf’s face. “Trust me. Warriors like your brother and me are as common as house rats. Bright minds like yours? Now, those are the ones who truly bathe in Iam’s light. You’ll get along well with our King. Barely thirteen and his mind is keen as any grown man I’ve met.”
Al nodded but said nothing. His gaze darted up as a flock of gallers flew overhead, then back down as wind rattled a lonely tree along the winding road.
“They’re not dangerous,” Torsten said.
“I think I prefer goblins,” Al replied, then shuddered. “What happened to yer last Master of Coin, anyway?”
Torsten winced as he pictured his blade cleaving Valin Tehr’s head from his shoulders, then the body of his fellow Shieldsman Wardric, murdered by Yuri Darkings, Valin’s predecessor.
“The position comes with many… pressures,” Torsten said, trying to mask his true feelings. “Greed takes a heavy toll on men. There’s a lot to learn, but I think you can help us find someone worthy while making great strides, yourself. King Liam’s often declared the importance of a fruitful relationship with our dwarven friends. We won’t ignore it again.”
“Halt!” someone shouted.
Torsten looked up and saw a dozen Glassmen, bowstrings pulled taut from the ridge above. Behind Torsten, dwarven hammers and axes slid free, but Torsten knew the clanbreakers wouldn't even need those weapons. Al panicked, and so did his mule, causing the beast to dart forward, and him to roll off its side. All his compressed, dwarven muscle resulted in a thud and a grunt that echoed across the gorge.
“Sir, sorry sir!” said Sir William Marcos, who led the unit. He waved for the others to lower their bows.
Torsten ignored them and went to help Al, but the clanbreakers didn't back down a hair.
Al cursed in ways Torsten’s human ears didn’t understand as Torsten helped him to his feet. Sir Marcos skidded down the rocky slope to join in.
“Is that how ye greet all yer guests out here?” Al grumbled.
“My humblest apologies,” Sir Marcos said. “Some goblins tried to raid our supplies overnight.”
“Goblins again. This far south?” Torsten questioned.
“Scared off easy down the cliffs, but not without some of our spiced meat.”
“They’re a pain these days,” Al said. “But the grimaurs are worse when they sneak in through the upper tunnels and lay eggs.”
“Well, my friend, I can assure you that we have neither in Yarrington,” Torsten said. He placed his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, noticing how slender it was. A life without mining or wielding an axe had certainly stunted his growth.
“Now, come,” Torsten said. “I’ll have a cart prepared for you. Rest here the night, and you can depart with morning's light. I’d have you escorted by some of my finest men, but I think your guards will do just fine.”
Only now did the clanbreakers stow their weapons once more.
“By the time you reach Yarrington,” Torsten continued, “word of your father’s desire will have reached the Royal Council. You’ll be welcomed with open arms.”
“Isn’t that great for father?” Al shrugged Torsten off and continued up the path on his own.
“Pretty proper for a dwarf, isn’t he?” Sir Marcos asked when Al was out of earshot.
Even without eyes, the look Torsten shot young Sir Marcos had him slinking back.
They’re the best we have, Torsten reminded himself.
They reached camp shortly after sundown. A legion of the best soldiers and Shieldsmen Yarrington could afford to lose awaited—young, green soldiers like Sir Marcos. Half had been transferred down from Crowfall now that the Drav Cra raiders in their homeland seemed to be avoiding the Glass Kingdom at all costs. Now, Torsten knew, they were focusing their wrath on northern dwarven kingdoms. Additionally, spring was rapidly waning to summer, and the Drav Cra tended to remain above Winter’s Thumb during the hottest parts of the year.
Torsten looked around. When he’d first received his blessed sight, the strange effect the firelight was having on the men would have made him a bit dizzy, but now he was used to it. Two hundred men, and a dwarven contingent just as large accompanying Lucas.
All reports on Mak’s movement with his remaining warriors after their defeat outside Nahanab told him the Drav Cra dradinengor had fewer men than he; that Torsten should have enough to reclaim the heart of the Glass Road which connected all of the kingdom, from Yarrington to Yaolin City, and even south to Winde Port. Word from Sir Nikserof was that their siege would end soon. Muskigo’s supplies were running out while more and more potential allies abandoned his cause, and no Caleef surfacing to help turn the tide either way, no matter how many search parties scoured the land.
“Sir Unger!” Dellbar the Holy called over. “The blessed Shieldsman returns.”
Father Morningweg, now the High Priest of Pantego sat by a pot of porridge being warmed by fire, entertaining a group of soldiers. The way his words slurred and his head tilted—Torsten could tell he was drunk, as usual. His breath reeked all the way through the ceremony that had named him High Priest. Torsten remembered Pi recoil from the stench as they embraced.
Dellbar Morningweg stood, nearly tripped over a log, and was steadied by a few soldiers. Ale sloshed out of his tankard and onto his hand and sleeve.
The men laughed and slapped one another's backs.
“Never met a priest like him!” cried one of the Glass soldiers.
“He’s like one of us,” said another.
There is no priest like him, Torsten thought.
“And you return with dwarves,” Dellbar the Holy said. “So, it seems once again, Sir Unger has good fortune.”
“Your Holiness.” Torsten bowed his head and circled his eyes in prayer. “This is Lord Alfotdrumlin Cragrock, son of King Lorgit Cragrock.” Between getting used to calling Morningweg by his new name and title, and trying to recall Al’s full name, Torsten’s head swam. However, he had been sure to get it right as anything else would have been highly insulting to the dwarven prince.
Al didn’t say a word as the High Priest circled him. Dellbar’s chain made up of a dozen Eyes of Iam jangled, and his bright white robes dragged through the dirt as he moved. His eyes were bloodshot, beard unkempt. If ever there was a man who didn’t appear holy, here he was.
“Scrawny for a dwarf, isn’t he?” Dellbar the Holy remarked.
“Excuse me?” Al questioned.
“Your Holiness.” Torsten clutched him by his loose sleeve and towed him to the side. As he sucked in a breath to talk, the stench of alcohol wafted over him. “I thought we discussed your drinking,” he whispered.
“We discussed a great many things on the way here, Sir Unger,” Dellbar said, then lost balance for a moment.
“You’re High Priest now. People look to you for guidance. All of these men.”
“And I’m one of them. Here, here!” He raised his ale and cheered, and soldiers joined him. He went to take a drink, and Torsten tore the mug from his hand.
“Your Holiness, people expect—”
“What?” Dellbar interrupted. “I’m sure old Wren was sober, and all that got us was Redstar in the Glass Castle.” Torsten’s lips narrowed to a bitter line. Dellbar stared for a few seconds before he smiled and patted both of Torsten’s shoulders, having to lean up on the balls of his feet just to reach.
“Sorry,” he said. “But this was my state when I blessed that cloth which made you see again. Clearly, it’s how Iam wants me.”
A handful of responses reached Torsten’s lips before he sighed. “Surely, you should return to the capital now? Perhaps you can accompany our new ally. As High Priest, one of your many responsibilities—”
“Is to be where Iam asks,” Dellbar interrupted again. “I apologize Sir Unger, but I hadn’t spoken to our great Lord in many years. Then, the first time I do, I find you. We can’t possibly know his will, but I know that Iam wants me here by your side. We owe it to ourselves to find out why.” He flashed another crooked grin, then used the distraction to swipe the ale from Torsten’s hand.
“We’re headed to war, Father. It’s no place for a man of the cloth.”
Dellbar, like all priests of Iam, had removed his eyes. He no longer wore a blindfold like Torsten now wore, but even still, it was as if the man looked directly into Torsten’s soul. “There are tales of Liam’s wars,” he said, “when the priests marching with the army called upon Iam’s protection against the magics of fallen gods, when they received his light to their very hands to shield his people.”
It wasn’t a lie. Torsten had been at war with Panping when Liam led the charge. He hadn’t been on the front lines, but he’d seen it. He’d always wondered if it was just the confusion of war that made him see what he’d wanted to see, but this confirmed it.
“And here you are, a blind man with sight.” He raised his own hands. “And here I am, alive, despite what happened to my home. We don’t go seeking miracles, Sir Knight. They confront us when we least expect it.”
The High Priest raised his tankard, then staggered back to his seat. Torsten stared, dumbfounded, unable to argue. The Church of Iam Torsten knew was formal, refined; a reflection of their God himself. He remembered being a child growing up in grimy Dockside, and how, when he stepped into a church, it was like being transported to another world, a better world.
To him, it was inspirational. But as he watched the way his men caroused with their High Priest, he couldn’t help but wonder if the time for a priest of the people instead of just for the people had come. Perhaps, this would be the cure for those who’d turned to blood magic and cults, to false gods or none at all.
“I like your priest,” Al remarked on his way by. “Do they all drink like dwarves?”
“He’s one of a kind,” Torsten muttered.
“Meungor would be proud.”
Al’s mood brightened for the first time since leaving his father’s halls. He joined the men and downed an entire tankard so fast Torsten wasn’t sure how it was possible. The soldiers cheered the dwarf on, offered him another, and again until his beard was dripping wet.
“If Yarrington is like this, I'll be happy as a goat on a spit!”
A smile touched the corners of Torsten’s lips, but he didn’t let it last for long. Then, turning to the east, toward their objective, he watched a pillar of smoke cut the moonlit sky, rising from the area of White Bridge. He hoped it wasn’t what he feared, for the Drav Cra burned their dead, turned them to ashes and spread them across the earth.
Torsten inhaled deeply, unsure if the smell of cinder and the faintly sweet scent of burning flesh w
as just his imagination or not. Then he shouted, “Warriors of the Glass Kingdom! Our brothers await us across the White Bridge. It’s time we rid our lands of murderers and heretics. Find your peace with Iam, with yourselves, for in the morning, we march. And, in truth, I know not what awaits us.”
VII
The Daughter
Mahraveh al’Tariq hung onto the mast of her new fleet’s flagship, the Shavi, with one arm. The cool breeze kissed her half-shaved head. She still wasn’t used to it, or the many tattoos inscribed along it and her neck marking her as the new al’Tariq afhem, which still felt like her skin had been burned by fire. She’d taken the name as well, as was custom—a fresh start.
She extended her spear with her other hand, its razor-sharp tip cutting through the thick layer of fog settling in all around them as they neared Trader’s Bay. Wisps of gray and white swirled about it, creating a trail as if a spirit followed along with her. She knew the souls of those lost rested in the current beneath the creaking wood of the vessel. However, she couldn’t help but picture Jumaat up here with her.
She’d been awaiting the fog, sitting on the coast of the Nipaval Islands, her new home, letting the waves run against her thighs, asking the God of Sand and Sea to cover their approach to Trader’s Bay with Siren’s Breath.
Finally, he’d obliged.
She could hear the rhythm of oar-men rowing below her and around her from the fleet she’d won in Tal’du Dromesh. In addition to those dozen, more ships had been delivered by the Jalurahbak Afhemate, when their afhem, Tingur, declared his allegiance.
She wasn’t sure exactly what awaited them at Nahanab or in the bay, even so close as they were. The Glass had tightened their grip and kept messages from coming in or out. Mahraveh wasn’t even sure if any of the letters she’d sent reached her besieged father. Even Yuri Darkings’ birds or spies couldn’t seem to break the defenses.
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