Stubborn bunch, Meungor’s pets.
As soon as reason met them, they charged with a thunderous shout. The doorway acted as a funnel, making numbers count for nothing. With her natural magic, and Sora’s mystic blood, Nesilia could have slaughtered them in a heartbeat, but instead, she watched.
The Drav Cra may have had the height advantage, but the dwarves knew the terrain. Meungor’s little runts bounced off the walls, rolling like boulders into the Northerners’ ranks. Freydis cut herself and sent more balls of fire hurling through the tunnel, burning the dwarven front lines. Then she used vines to halt their tumbling marauders and ground them in place. Dire wolves leaped over the closest skirmishes, tearing the little men behind to pieces and tossing their mangled bodies.
Axes clashed, metal on metal, bone splitting and blood splattering. Nesilia saw enough death, but she had to sate the bloodthirsty nature of her followers, forced to live like rabble for so long. Forced to be angry by Iam’s ignorance.
She raised her arms, and all at once, hundreds of grimaurs flew out of the darkness, soaring overhead. The sound was like a hurricane. They grasped dwarves by the shoulders with their talons, hauling them back over the dwarven city, and littering the passages between their carved structures with dropped bodies.
From mezzanines, and overhangs, floor to stone ceiling, the inhabitants of the city became aware of the situation. Cries of alarm rose. Dwarves started throwing things at the grimaurs, but it was useless.
And just like that, the dwarven army broke, and the Drav Cra were unleashed. They ravaged the hollow, slaughtering anything in their path while Nesilia casually strode forward, wading through the carnage. Her people tore through their structures carved into massive stone pillars supporting the great hollow. Dwarves fled into offshoot surface tunnels, into their mines, anywhere they could.
“Please, no!” A running dwarf screamed, before a grimaur dug into his back and hefted him away. Nesilia stepped aside to let them pass. Another dove out of a second-story window at her, but vines lashed overhead, controlled by Freydis, and whipped him at the building. The impact shattered his body and the stone wall.
Nesilia stopped before a tunnel leading down into the mines. The iron ore within was precious—hence the Strongiron title of this kingdom’s ruling family. However, the dwarves could only mine so deep before the heat of Pantego’s core became unbearable for any mortal being. But there wasn’t only iron. In the deep, ore containing silver was plentiful. It would prove invaluable in her upcoming war.
Grimaurs landed all around the maw, atop the dwarven equipment and mining carts, breaking the wood of the tracks.
“My lady, they flee like ants,” Freydis said, stopping next to her and breathing heavy from exertion. Fresh blood coated her arms, down to her elbows. “Shall we send the wolves to hunt them down?”
“Let them run,” Nesilia said. “A message for the Dragon’s Tail.”
“As you wish.”
It was one that Meungor’s kind would not soon forget. They would either have to join with the Glass, keep hiding, or eventually pledge themselves to her. It didn’t matter which. For all his brashness, Meungor was a coward—perhaps even more so than Caliphar, if that were possible.
The dwarves inhabited her earthly domain. They’d be no concern.
“Gather the others, there is no time to waste,” Nesilia said. “We move, east, through the mines. Through the heart of our world.”
“What awaits us there, my Lady?”
Nesilia smiled at her. “You’ll see.”
She strode forward alone, steeling herself against the fear of being trapped again. She was free now and forever more. Skittering creatures moved through the shadows, their eyes glinting like tiny diamonds in the dark. Goblins. More forgotten creatures drawn to her power, like grimaurs, seen only as pests by Iam’s chosen children.
Nesilia turned a corner, into the heart of the dwarven mines. Their tunnels stretched in every direction, cart tracks running through each of them. Miners and inhabitants of the city could still be heard up ahead, screaming—but the lizard-like goblins and their crude weapons attacked them from cracks in the walls, feeding on their flesh.
She headed for the deepest chasm, where a faint reddish glow emanated from the bubbling magma deep within. Where dwarves would never dare dig lest they boil alive in the heat, her magic would allow her people safe passage.
For in the east, on a long trek beneath the earth, the hidden Citadel of the Dom Nohzi awaited. The first of the fallen mystics—the one they called Mammon the Mad—had formed the upyr an age ago. The undead beings were the oldest in Pantego, living centuries more than even Aihara Na. They had taken control of the wianu, imprisoned and fed on them to draw on their power.
Nesilia would find them, and their meddlesome Sanguine Lords, and ensure that they couldn’t stand in her way. Then she’d free the wianu, the most powerful of her forgotten creations—beings of two worlds, twisted to serve her from the god’s she and Iam had defeated in the feud. Now they’d help destroy him, the great deceiver she was such a fool to ever love.
With them at her side, and the upyr removed from the equation, all Pantego would soon be well within her grasp…
II
The Thief
When Whitney Fierstown considered recovering one of his many stolen items, those he’d spent years hiding and burying all over Pantego, he figured this one would’ve been the easiest. However, as he and Gentry crouched in the small boat on Lake Yaolin, looking up at the cliffside where there’d once been a small cave entrance, it became abundantly clear to him that nothing was going to be simple ever again. Now, a grand, massive structure, stood there, looming over the lake like a god.
“Shog in a barrel,” he said.
“What do you think it is?” Gentry asked.
“In our way.”
They looked up at what appeared to be a giant ship under construction, but more than half of it was on dry land, and the portion which extended onto the lake hovered above the water like a dragon in flight. It wasn’t like a real boat being built at the docks. No, this looked… ornamental. Extravagant.
“So, now what, Mr. Fierstown?” Gentry asked.
Whitney bit his lip in frustration. He’d long since given up on trying to get Gentry to call him Whitney. They’d been together for weeks and about the best he’d been able to achieve had been ‘Mr. Whitney.’
“I buried it in a cave beneath that monstrosity,” he said, pointing. “Of course, that monstrosity hadn’t been there when I’d done it.”
Whitney thought over their next move for a bit. The artifact was easily the most accessible and valuable item he’d ever stolen and hidden in this region. He’d need it if he ever hoped to repair Lucindur’s enchanted salfio, and contact Kazimir, the only being he knew who’d be familiar with the nuances of whatever existed between Elsewhere and the living world. The instrument’s string had been broken by Nesilia’s power and required a special type of string created from the hair of a magical beast present only in Glinthaven. An expensive item, requiring a lot of gold they didn’t have.
Whitney missed the simplicity of being a thief. Warlocks, demons, other realms—it was all getting ridiculous. But, he’d been there with Sora in that realm between, and he had to get her out. Whatever it took.
Whitney considered stealing something else instead. He was, after all, in a city filled with wonders and people too rich to care if those wonders suddenly went missing, but he wasn’t that simple, petty thief any longer. Even if the papers proving he’d been ennobled had been burned by that bastard Darkings, he knew it within him—he was Whitney Fierstown, once Blisslayer, now guardian to a small child and Sora’s only hope of salvation.
Water lapped at the side of the boat, the waves creating a dizzying effect as the light of the moons danced across the surface. It was quiet. Although, for this side of Lake Yaolin, this late at night, it wasn’t unexpected.
“It’s about time to put your small siz
e to our advantage, young Gentry,” Whitney said. “You see that little porthole?”
“You do not mean for me to climb through there, do you?” Gentry asked.
“That is precisely what I mean for you to do. Then, once you’re in, you need to find a way to get me in.”
Gentry looked around like he was being surrounded by monsters. “There has to be another way. We did not even look.”
“Do you expect a ladder and an open door?” Whitney laughed.
“What about the street?” Gentry asked. “Perhaps there is a door.”
“And risk being spotted by the guards? Gentry, I didn’t make it this far as the ‘World’s Greatest Thief’ by getting caught.”
It wasn’t exactly true. Whitney had been caught and imprisoned more times in the past year than all his days combined. Not that he’d told Gentry all those stories, not yet. The Pompares had tasked him with looking after the boy. It was better to have his undeniable trust.
“This is the way in without being seen from the streets,” Whitney assured him. “And here I thought you wanted to learn the ways of the world.”
“I… I do, Mr. Fierstown, but I do not think I am capable of such an act,” Gentry said.
Whitney waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ve seen you tumble around on stage better than anyone else in the troupe. I’m beyond confident in your ability to do this. Now, less talking and more climbing.”
Whitney grabbed an oar and started paddling toward the ship.
A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. In an instant, the sky turned black, the sea a sickly shade of crimson. As close as they were to shore, Whitney could hardly see the city anymore. All torchlight was gone, leaving only darkness as if he were in a cave, alone, at night.
In the distance, he saw a wianu like the one from Elsewhere—the colossal sea creature’s countless tentacles and teeth sharper than any blade. Looking back, Whitney couldn’t see Gentry either. Pressure under the water fought each pull of his oar, like it was hitting something solid. Whitney gripped the oar tighter. Fear, like a thousand snakes, constricted his chest.
“Mr. Fierstown?” The voice was far off, distant.
Forms rose from the midst of the water. Dark shapes wavering just beneath the surface. Specters floating in the deep. The dead in their realm. They closed in on Whitney, growing, then shrinking—ebbing, then flowing. In and out. Up and down. Whitney felt an odd sensation of longing. Longing for the darkness. The cold, wet, crimson sea beckoning him forward. If he would only take the plunge, he would be where he belonged once more.
He could be home.
I have no home…
A sound gurgled within him and then without, like a swarm of locusts on his father’s farm. It festered in his ears and pounded in his chest, battling with his thumping heart for dominance. Then he realized, it wasn’t buzzing… not humming. They were whispers. Whispering his name. Calling for him. Drawing him in. Deeper. Deeper.
The shapes gathered beneath him. Purple, sallow skin, vile, yet inviting, reaching out to him. They wanted him, and he wanted nothing more than to let them take him.
Overwhelming loneliness poured over him. He felt every hurt, every pain that ever was. He felt as if they’d take it all from him, like those shapes would take away the anguish of losing Sora yet again, the knowledge that he was the reason she was lost deep within her own mind, tormented by Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. They’d take from him the memories of his parents, and Rocco’s death because of Whitney’s impulsiveness in Elsewhere. Fake as that had been, it felt real to him.
As they drifted closer to him in the inky black, their indistinct faces took shape within the murky water. He saw the Black Sandsman he’d killed in Troborough, and every other man and woman who’d died because of him, whether directly by his hand or not.
And then he saw his mother.
Lauryn Fierstown. Beautiful, loving, kindhearted Lauryn stared back at him. Her milky white eyes bored into his. Pleading. A plump arm stretched out for him, and his heart banged harder around in his chest. Her voice called out his name in a low, mournful wail. He could smell pie, blueberry and ginger, apple and cheese…
Whitney felt himself drifting. It was so much like it had been with Sora, lost in the recesses of her mind, but even that thought was merely a sliver of a memory—so far out of reach.
Without warning, his mother vanished beneath the surface. Bubbles gurgled up as he cried out, grasping for her, feeling the water with one hand, but his other… something was holding it. Pulling him.
Mother!
“Mr. Fierstown!” The voice came again, louder this time. Closer. “Mr. Fierstown.”
Whitney’s snapped back to reality. His head pounded. Sweat soaked him as if he’d fallen in.
“Mr. Fierstown, are you okay?” Gentry asked.
He’d been there: the Sea of Souls in Elsewhere, with Kazimir and the strange old geezer called the Ferryman. Cold, purple hands reaching up from the blood-colored waters, always grasping but never obtaining their goal. It was just like the place itself. Whitney had spent six long years there, always grasping, always trying to escape, always trying to learn a lesson that never truly came. Or perhaps it had…
“Gentry, I’m…” Whitney lost his train of thought. He clutched at his chest and the racing heart within.
“It’s okay, Mr. Fierstown,” Gentry said. “You do this at night sometimes.”
The words came as a shock. Whitney knew he dreamed of the place, but never that he’d showed signs of it.
“Okay, well. Enough of that, don’t you think?” Whitney said, wiping his brow with the hood of his cloak and forcing a smile. Their little boat was now almost directly beneath the galleon-like structure and drifting. Whitney used the oar against the wood to steady them.
Out of his peripherals, he saw Gentry eyeing him, but Whitney ignored the pitying glance. He laughed and said, “Looks like something Gold Grin would cruise around in.”
“Who is Gold Grin?” Gentry asked.
Whitney clapped his hands together, thankful for the distraction. “Oh, sweet, innocent Gentry. Sweet, sweet, child. Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale is only the world’s most renowned pirate—besides yours truly, of course.”
“You? A pirate?” Gentry asked, head cocked to the side incredulously.
“For a time! The best there was. I’m credited for stealing The Sea Hawk right out from under that big brute’s nose. Left him with another ship, mind you. I’m not a monster.”
“Wow.” All the boy’s concern washed away and was replaced by the genuine sense of awe that Gentry reserved for when Whitney told him of his many adventures. He was the anti-Sora, who would just roll her eyes and assume Whitney lied about everything.
It had been too long since anyone took interest in Whitney’s great moments. It felt good. Possibly too good.
Then, it felt equally awful when Whitney considered how much he’d give to see one of Sora’s eye rolls again. He subconsciously rubbed at the spot on his arm where she’d always punch him whenever he said something foolish. He’d give anything to feel that mild sting again, too—all the treasures he’d ever stolen.
Whitney cleared his throat. “Alright, up we go. Those slats will be perfect handholds.”
The enormous ship rose at a steep angle, and it would be difficult for anyone to scale, but Whitney didn’t mention that. Gentry was a pro. He’d make short work of the climb, be inside, and find a way for Whitney to join him in no time at all. Otherwise, Whitney never would have taken him on as a companion. He had an eye for talent. Always had.
Whitney boosted Gentry, holding him high above his head. Immediately, the kid had his fingers and toes finding every crack in the ship’s facade with practiced ease. It was a thing to behold.
“Got it!” Gentry whisper-shouted down as he reached the porthole and began squeezing in.
Keeping one eye on the streets above, hoping no Glass soldiers were roaming the streets, Whitney wa
tched Gentry until he made it inside. Once the kid’s foot disappeared into the dark hole, it was just a matter of waiting.
He let himself plop onto the boat’s bench, and did the only thing he could manage to do lately. He thought about Sora. Wondered where she was, how he was going to get to her, and what he would do once he did. He thought until darker possibilities crept in. Like, what if she was already lost, and Nesilia already had taken over? What if there was no way out of her prison of darkness. What if—
“Aye! You there!” The voice nearly startled Whitney into the water. Amber, flickering light washed over his boat from above. “What are you doing?”
A Glass soldier stood, bright lantern in hand. Whitney had been so distracted in his thoughts he hadn’t been paying attention.
Squinting, forearm raised against the light, Whitney said, “I—uh. Fishing! Still no crime against that, right?”
“It’s past midnight! Where’s your net?”
“In the water… where a net ought to be when fishing.”
“Don’t get smart with me, you whelp.”
Just then, Gentry’s head popped out from the porthole above.
“Yes sir, Mr. Guard, sir,” Whitney said loudly as a warning to Gentry. “Though I’ve been accused of many things, smart has never been one of them. Just trying to feed my family.”
“Well, do it during the day. Eerie things going on around here lately. The Governor wants the city clear at night. Go home, now. If you’re here when I come back round, it’ll be trouble for you.” The guard didn’t even wait for Whitney to respond before he turned back to the road.
Whitney breathed a sigh of relief and held up a finger to Gentry, urging him to wait until the guard had fully moved on.
The moment Whitney lowered his hand, Gentry said, “Mr. Fierstown, there’s a hatch at the top of the ship.”
“The top of the…” Whitney sighed again and shook his head. “What about the front door?”
War of Men Page 3
