“Sir Unger, what’s going on?” Lucas asked, hurrying over.
“This pile of dog excretion,” Torsten said fuming, “is Bartholomew Darkings. First and only son of Yuri Darkings, former Master of Coin and traitor to the Crown.”
“Son, exactly!” Bartholomew said. “I had nothing to do with his betrayal. He dragged me along. Smeared my good name through the mud.”
“So, you had nothing to do with the death of Sir Wardric, in your own carriage!” Torsten punched him across the jaw. With his glaruium gauntlets, the blow might have killed a weak man like him, but even with his new zhulong leather, it was still enough to knock a few teeth loose. Torsten drew Salvation and extended the blade to the man’s heart.
Bartholomew coughed up a gob of blood and rose to his hands and knees. “I would never. I am a loyal servant of the Glass Kingdom. I was traveling west to convince my father to turn himself in when the savages caught me.”
“And Caleef Sidar Rakun?” Torsten demanded.
Hearing the name made all of Bartholomew’s features scrunch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Rand Langley would tell me differently.”
“Is that worthless sack of shog in there? Rand! Rand Langley the Redeemer,” Bartholomew scoffed. “Come out here and tell the Shieldsman the truth.”
“Rand is…” Lucas caught himself and looked to Torsten.
Torsten nodded slowly. He’d hoped to keep his presence a secret, for Rand’s sake more than anything. “This has nothing to do with Sir Langley. This is between a protector of the Crown and a man who betrayed it.”
“Like I said, I betrayed nothing!” Bartholomew protested. “Whatever you heard was yig and shog.”
“They’ll be the judge of that.” Torsten shoved the man down onto the stone with his boot and looked up. Shieldsmen and soldiers were gathered before him, mostly confused. Yuri’s repugnant son looked like any highborn who thought no laws could touch him, and he looked just like his father.
“This is Bartholomew Darkings!” Torsten shouted. “You know his father. You know what he did. This man conspired with Valin Tehr, kidnapped the Caleef, started a damned war. But worse, he was there with Yuri when Sir Wardric was murdered in cold blood. Your brother!”
A wave of resentment stole over the army. Some spat. Others spat curses. Brouben shoved through them, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. Clanbreakers stood on either side of him, spiked armor looking as menacing as ever.
“Dwarf!” Bartholomew said. “Whoever you are, I’ve always known yours were a just people. This Shieldsman has lost his gods-damned mind. You must help me.”
“This be the child of the Yuri who came begging to me father?” Brouben asked.
“The very same,” Torsten answered.
“I see the resemblance,” he said. “Both look like an anvil fell on them as babies. Nothing to see here, boys.” He waved for his men, and they returned to their work on the bridge.
“Pitiful, tiny imp!” Bartholomew barked. “I swear to all of you. I had nothing to do with Sir Wardric’s death, or the freeing of the Caleef, or anything. I’m merely a victim of the Drav Cra.”
“No, you are a liar!” Torsten shoved him back down, harder this time. “Just like your father.”
“I’m not! I swear it, in the name of Iam and my poor, deceased mother. On all that is holy. The one you seek is somewhere here. Sir Rand Langley. He’s been working with my father the entire time. They’re the traitors.”
Rumbling about Rand broke out. As far as the people were concerned, Rand had already been redeemed. He’d helped save the Kingdom. Parts of the truth were left out, as now Torsten knew all too well, but it wasn’t a complete lie.
“Do not dare accuse anyone but yourself,” Torsten said. “Only Iam shall be your judge—sadly, for you, I am his hand. You are accused of murder and conspiracy against the Crown. The punishment for such crimes is execution.”
“And what of the Shieldsman you murdered?” Bartholomew asked. “I hear everything. I know what you did. You may be a hero today, but they all know what you are, too.”
A flicker of doubt passed across the faces of some of the Shieldsmen. Torsten knew that look far too well. He leaned down to Bartholomew’s ear. “An accident I will spend a lifetime redeeming myself for. But I saw Sir Wardric’s body, gutted like a fish. Betrayed!”
“And I. Didn’t. Do it.” Bartholomew snickered through a mouthful of blood. “Is this how we conduct ourselves? Condemn men based on nothing? My family resides upon the Royal Avenue—we are Old Yarrington. One of us may be wicked, but I deserve to stand before the Royal Council and defend my innocence!”
Torsten clenched his fists. He could see the tide of the crowd shifting. It wasn’t all of them, but enough exhibited their agreement. It was what separated them from the Drav Cra who crucified anyone who didn’t believe as they did.
“Then why did you send me away?” a soft voice asked. Torsten saw that same sister who’d approached him in the makeshift infirmary, now standing at the broken entry of the tower. She called herself Nauriyal, and now he remembered why she knew him. She had come to the capital, and Lord Kaviel Jolly nearly had her imprisoned just for being Bartholomew’s daughter.
“Nauriyal?” Bartholomew asked. He tried to crawl toward her, but Torsten didn’t let him. “Nauriyal, Daughter, I never thought I’d see you again.”
“You banished me to Hornsheim!” she said. Sisters rarely allowed their emotion to show, but her pretty face was teeming with it. Betrayal, pain, loneliness—Torsten knew all the signs. He’d been like her, a child unwanted by a parent.
“To protect you because of what your grandfather did,” Darkings said. “Isn’t it clear? These people don't know how to separate us from him!”
“‘We killed a Shieldsman,’” she said. “That’s what you told me. Not him, ‘we.’” The disposition of the crowd turned like a sudden storm. All those who’d shown doubt spun back to Bartholomew, eyes narrow and brimming with ire.
“Yes, I… because I was there with him. I had nothing to do with it. You know how we felt about each other, Daughter. Yuri hated me, and I, him. I didn’t want any of this!”
“You smiled,” she said like a taunt.
“What?”
“When you told me. You smiled.”
“I-I. It’s… I was.” He made a low wailing noise as he gained his composure. “I was trying to be strong for you! As your father.”
Nauriyal stepped forward, the wind catching her white dress. She looked up to the sky. “Iam is the only Father I have now,” she said. “You have only yourself to thank for that.”
She regarded Torsten. “Sir Unger, you are a man of honor. He is not. He never has been. I know you’re angry over what happened to your friend, but don’t let monsters like my father make you into one. Show the mercy only children of Iam can.”
She traced her eyes in prayer, then turned to return to tending to the injured.
“Nauriyal!” Bartholomew yelled at her. “Come back here right now! Dammit. Listen to your father!”
She never turned back, not once. Bartholomew watched her go, completely dumbstruck. The very sight seemed to break him as he crawled to the bridge wall and leaned against it. It had the opposite effect on Torsten. As she spoke, he felt Iam’s presence. His rage began to settle, and he could think clearly.
“Murderer!” Sir Marcos shouted, spitting at Bartholomew. A few others joined him, then more until the whole army was stirred into bloodlust. As Torsten saw them, he realized what it reminded him of: the ravenous, bloodthirsty Drav Cra desperate to watch Mak kill him in battle. Then he saw another vision: himself after accidentally murdering Sir Havel Tralen, and the flocking Shieldsman calling for his execution.
Torsten sheathed his sword. Then he stepped forward before his eager men.
“Lord Darkings will pay for what he’s done,” he announced. “But sister Nauriyal is right. He will stand before the Royal Council, before the brother of
the man he is accused of murdering, and under the gaze of Iam, justice will be served.”
Bartholomew let out a relieved sob and wiped his snotty nose.
“Sir Unger,” Sir Marcos said. “You know the sentence as well as I. Why not save the time. Do it now?”
“If we resort to spilling the blood of noblemen on the streets, we have become no better than the filth we wish to rid this world of,” Torsten countered.
Then turning to Bartholomew, he said, “How it is such a wise daughter came from someone like you, I’ll never understand.”
“I only wish I’d shipped her away sooner,” Bartholomew spat.
Torsten bit his lip and turned to Lucas. “Sir Danvels, take a horse and deliver him to the capital. Bring him before the King first, not Lord Jolly.”
Lucas regarded the fat slob with disgust, then said, “Yes, sir.”
“There is still a chance that his father has a heart. We will use Bartholomew in one last effort to get Yuri to turn himself over. If he agrees, his son will keep his head, and instead, live the rest of his days stripped of his name and possessions as a servant in Hornsheim.”
“Well, aren’t you merciful,” Bartholomew bristled. “I’d rather die.”
“That choice is no longer in your hands. Take him.”
Lucas walked over and kicked him in the gut for good measure, playing it off as an accident. “I hope your father says no, you piece of shog,” he cursed, then grabbed Bartholomew by the back of the shirt and heaved him up.
Torsten saw it happening, all too fast, but he was too far away. As Bartholomew rose, he reached underneath him. His hand emerged gripping a Drav Cra dagger that must have been left lying on the bridge, the real reason why he’d crawled after his daughter. The blade zoomed toward Lucas, who'd been too busy focusing on Bartholomew’s face to notice his hands.
“Lucas!” Torsten shouted.
Before it hit, a body plummeted from the window above, knocked Lucas aside and crashed onto Bartholomew. Legs and arms thrashed as they wrestled for the blade. Lucas’ savior bit Bartholomew’s wrist like a rabid dog and wrenched the dagger free.
Lightning couldn’t have moved quicker than Rand's hand as he drove the knife through Bartholomew’s throat. “You made a deal for her!” He stabbed over and over, gashing Bartholomew’s neck until blood poured from his mouth and his eyes froze open, just how Wardric’s had been when Torsten found him. It took Torsten and Lucas’ combined strength to pry Rand off Darkings. More soldiers arrived to help, but none of them seemed in a hurry.
“Stop!” Torsten ordered. Everyone obeyed and backed away from Darkings’ corpse. Rand remained on his knees in the middle of the bridge, covered in blood.
“Some men don’t deserve mercy,” Rand said. He raised the dagger to his own throat, but Lucas was there to grab his arm. The others seized him again and jerked the other arm behind his back. Rand didn’t fight it as they dragged him away. His entire battered body seemed to go limp, and the blade clattered harmlessly against the stone.
Torsten wasn't sure if Rand meant Bartholomew, or himself.
XVIII
The Immortal
Kazimir Mikohailov had heard of the Well of Wisdom’s magic but never before had he experienced it. If he hadn’t known the shift between mortality and immortality, he’d have considered entering the waters the most jarring event of his life. A life that was already centuries old.
Warm water swirled around him. It was like drinking the blood of the mystics, only it enveloped the whole of his being. Flowing over him and through him, it tickled at something on the inside that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He found himself caught between a snarl and ecstasy. For the first time since he’d been turned, he felt alive. Really alive, not just living on someone else’s lifeblood. It had been so long, he’d forgotten what it meant to have his own blood pumping through his heart. To feel it beating. He’d forgotten the sensation of air within his lungs.
In these waters, he had all of those things.
Shapes and colors materialized all around him. He saw things within the rush that he hadn’t seen since those early days. Faces of men and women he’d just as soon have left in the past.
It was now that Kazimir’s ears dialed into the screams. To his right, Whitney, the damnable thief, floated beside him, mouth open in abject horror.
Beyond him, he could see Pantego as it had once been, long before the world of men rose up around its beautiful rolling hills, mountains, lakes, and rivers. He saw Glinthaven in all its former glory. Not that it had changed much, but Kazimir remembered the emotion—the feeling of being there before the kings of Glass grew comfortable in their power.
The Pikeback Mountains reached up from the earth, stabbing into the sky like driving spears.
He saw it all—Brotlebir, the land of dwarves… but this was before the dwarves sought refuge there. Enormous winged beasts, the dreadfires, dragons, and wyverns circled the Dragon’s Tail Mountains’ ice-capped peaks.
Then suddenly, it all stopped, and he stood in a small dark room, Whitney by his side.
“Is that… you?” Whitney asked, out of breath.
Kazimir—a former version of himself, with golden-blonde hair and skin not so washed out, swore again and again as he pulled his britches over his hips.
“Gross,” Whitney said.
A gorgeous woman lay sprawled out on the mattress. Zoya, daughter of Adrian and Sasha Bergiovek, a rival family. They were well-to-do. Kazimir could remember every detail of that night as if it had just been yesterday. The blood, his blood, burned hot as he watched her lying there.
As she’d slept, his former self climbed through an open window. That hadn’t been the first time he’d slipped away in the cover of night and it sure as Elsewhere wouldn’t be the last. He’d have to answer for it later, but for now, the night was young.
Kazimir followed his younger, naïve self out onto the tiled rooftops. Whitney stayed close behind, but Kazimir didn’t care what the thief was doing. His mind raced with the implications of this evening. He knew what would happen all too well.
The cold darkness of night was masked by Celeste’s reflection in the thick fog. Orange-hued light bounced off the snow-covered surfaces, and the other Kazimir slipped his shirt on as he carefully but quickly scurried along the rooftops. Behind them, it seemed the young woman had awoken. She stood at the window, calling for his return. Kazimir—both versions of him—ignored her.
There’d been a time when such carnal pleasures mattered. When obtaining the fairer flesh had been his only goal. Kazimir was good at achieving his goals, no matter what they were. This had been his third dalliance in as many days and Vidkaru, the capital city of Brekliodad, was in no short supply of willing partners for handsome sons of Dukes, as Kazimir had been.
They cleared a wide gap between buildings. Kazimir watched his younger self in disgust, acting as if Vidkaru was his own personal playground. But still, he remembered the exact pitch of each tiled roof even now, knew which roofs presented dangerous conditions, and knew which ones to avoid altogether.
The wind picked up, bringing biting cold and snow along with it. Young Kazimir pulled the hood of his cloak up, its tail flapping behind him as he ran. He was a shadow, a blur, barely perceptible as he leaped from place to place.
Kazimir realized that he and Whitney weren’t running, but instead, floating along with the vision. They were watching as the event unfolded before their eyes. Kazimir eyed the spot upon which a silver-clasped boot came down with expert precision. Leather touched ceramic, but something happened that never again happened after this night. His younger self’s ankle twisted on a loose tile, and he fell headlong, face slamming against the roof with the force of a battering ram.
Whitney let out a yelp, then asked, “What is this?”
“The night everything changed,” Kazimir replied.
The young, virile man slid from the rooftop. It was almost as if Kazimir could taste the warm blood spreading across his f
ace, the snow mingling, cold and hot, the sickening gurgling feeling entering his belly. Kazimir could feel it all happening to him. In an instant, he was weightless again, the solid roof no longer beneath him. Then, in the span of a star’s twinkle, he lay broken on a snow-laden street.
“Seriously, what’s going on?” Whitney asked.
“Just watch,” Kazimir said.
They did, for a long time—an agonizingly long time. In the distance, wolves sang to the moons, and crickets laid a foundation for their melody. Cold Brek nights were filled with beauty, but not this night.
“So short, the life of man, no?” spoke a man on the street, shrouded in darkness. His long shadow stretched far to cover Young Kazimir’s prone form. His voice was nearly as cold as Kazimir remembered the stone beneath him being that night.
“No more a man than a boy, and already your life is drawing to an abrupt end,” the man went on. “Do you not wish for more?”
Young Kazimir said nothing. Kazimir remembered being unable to speak, like his tongue was tied in knots, the sharp pain in his side stealing every breath from his lungs and all hope from his heart.
“Do you not wish for more?” the voice repeated.
Young Kazimir, broken on the streets, produced a weak moan.
“Yes,” the voice growled, drawing the word out. “Yes.”
“Yes,” the young man managed to answer.
High above, Kazimir winced, remembering what came next. Remembering how little he’d thought about the choice. How all he’d wanted in that moment was a few more days of his lavish lifestyle, seducing the daughters of nobility, using his looks and his status to do whatever he pleased.
The hooded stranger bent over Kazimir’s broken form and the young man’s eyes no longer allowed light to enter into his soul. Only darkness and night were his companions. But then there had been the pain. Overwhelming agony and ecstasy, together, mingling like the salt sea into rivers of sweet water. They should not have mixed, but when they did, life was given a new habitat to conquer.
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