“Get your sword ready,” Whitney told Gentry as he pulled out his new short bow.
“What do they want?” Gentry asked, all his nerves from earlier seeming to have returned in full force.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out either.”
They stared up at Whitney with narrow yellow eyes. One let out an ear-piercing shriek, like a dying galler bird, and the others joined in. As Whitney watched, he neglected to consider the space above them. A grimaur’s head lowered right into his field of view. Without even a second thought, as if he’d trained for it his whole life, Whitney snatched an arrow from his quiver, nocked the bow, and let the missile go. It caught the beast right through the eye and its corpse careened down and into the mass below.
The hoard protested with high-pitched vehemence. They made their way as one, clambering over one another to reach the alcove. With what Whitney knew of the creatures, none of it added up. These ones, the look in their eyes, they seemed rabid.
“Ready?” Whitney asked.
“I’m scared,” Gentry replied.
“Me too.”
Whitney fired down, one arrow after another. Most of them maimed or killed the smaller grimaurs, providing a bit of extra time, but the sheer number of them spelled out death. One, large and ugly, screeched toward him and sliced the bow in two with a fierce talon swipe. Whitney bashed it in the head with one of the bow halves, then drew both saw-toothed daggers, and planted his feet.
A grimaur peeked over the ledge and Gentry stabbed forward. It didn’t die, but if fell backward, knocking a few more down with it.
“Good strike!” Whitney celebrated. “Try and hit it next time.”
Another popped up, and Whitney drove his boot into its beak, it went down, but another grabbed his ankle and yanked. Whitney slipped, falling to his rear and bouncing before getting dragged forward. He kicked with his other foot, desperate to relieve himself of the thing’s grip. Whitney closed his eyes, screamed, and slashed like a madman with his weapons.
An exasperated wheeze sounded, and hot blood sprayed his face. He stopped moving. When he opened his eyes, he saw Gentry removing his short sword from where it was buried hilt-deep in the grimaur’s skull.
“I hit it,” he said.
“You sure did.” Whitney scrabbled backward and got to his feet. He regarded the passage where grimaurs continued to gather. There was a demonic quality to them, reminding Whitney of when Elsewhere opened up to that horde of dark creatures and the wianu.
“Gentry, I’m not going to lie,” he said. “This doesn’t look good.”
The kid stood, sword in hand, trembling.
“I’ve told you once: I have a great plan for the day I die, and this isn’t it either,” Whitney went on. “We’re going to do something stupid. Are you ready?”
Whitney tore his gaze from the monsters long enough to see Gentry nodding.
“Right. Good. On the count of three, we are going to run, and jump over that mess. Bend your knees when you land, you hear? It’ll be just like one of your shows. Got it?”
“Uh-huh,” Gentry said, then swallowed audibly. “Yes, Mr. Fierstown.”
Whitney quickly checked to make sure no more were close to reaching the ledge, then backed up, pulling Gentry with him. “Hold this.” He handed Gentry the mystic’s robe, then sheathed his daggers so he could take the boy’s hand.
“One… Two…”
“Mr. Fierstown, I do not thin—” Gentry didn’t have a chance to finish.
“Three!”
Whitney kicked the nigh’jel lantern at the beasts, distracting them with food in the form of the poor jellyfish within. It went dark almost instantly. Then he pulled Gentry along and, together, they leaped. His shoulder holding Gentry wrenched back and stung with pain. He wasn’t sure why, but he expected the boy to be lighter. He lost his grip, but Gentry was a master acrobat. The momentum was enough for him to flip off, and use the soft, enchanted robe to make a smooth landing behind the grimaurs.
Whitney soared a bit more before falling. Hard. The poultry feathers—which Whitney now knew to belong to these foul beasts—few as they were, did nothing to cushion the impact as Whitney rolled into a rough landing and hit his back on a stalagmite.
Gentry grabbed his hands to help him back up.
“Did you just use the robe!” Whitney scolded.
“You said it’s enchanted,” Gentry replied.
Whitney bit back a response. There was no time to impart to the boy that value went hand-in-hand with condition.
The beasts reacted slowly—grimaurs weren’t known for their smarts. Otherwise, they would have made use of their claws for more than slashing—but a few turned and snarled. Then, a moment later, the rest.
“Go!” Whitney shouted, and they took off, running through the darkness.
He could hear the grimaurs snapping and screeching behind them, and just as they reached the low tunnel they’d passed through on the way in, a talon raked across Whitney’s shoulder blade. He yelped and tumbled, bowling Gentry over with him. Whitney rolled protectively over Gentry and poked and stabbed blindly, only a sliver of light from a gap above providing any ability to see. A grimaur flapped down over them, its talons ready to tear them to pieces.
A man’s deep roar filled the hollow before a short, blurry shape barreled through the cramped tunnel. Then, an oversized warhammer crushed the grimaur against the wall. Whitney checked himself, patting all over with his hands. If it hadn't been for their hammer-bashing savior, Whitney would’ve been ripped to shreds.
“Stay here,” Whitney told Gentry. He didn’t wait for a response before joining in and helping the newcomer, although the dwarf—for that’s what he was—didn’t seem to need help.
Whitney made use of his daggers, favoring his uncut arm. He got a few good strikes in, but took another grimaur claw to the same shoulder. The dwarf handled the rest. It wasn’t long before the surprise of the attack gave them victory, and the rest of the creatures fled, some even squeezing through the grate above, screeching and afraid.
The dwarf turned to Whitney and raised his hammer to his broad shoulder. “Who ye be and why did ye break into me place?” he asked.
Whitney didn’t even have to think about it. He knew that voice as well as he’d have known if it was Sora or Torsten standing before him. For the dwarf was the one person on Pantego whom he was proud to say he’d known for longer—the very same who’d taught him everything he needed to know about fences and thievery the first time he’d visited Winde Port, what felt like ages ago.
“Tum Tum?” Whitney said, incredulous. “Is that really you?”
III
The Knight
“Sir Unger, are you sure they want us here?” Lucas Danvels asked. His charcoal-colored mule whinnied as a gust of cold wind tore through the canyons. It was stubborn—yet more cooperative than most of its kind.
Torsten sucked in a breath, feeling as though ice lined his lungs. He let it out with an exasperated sigh. They were in the shallow north, far beyond the Jarein Gorge, at one of the passes through the Dragon’s Tail Mountains.
Dwarven territory.
Torsten knew these lands. He’d fought in these lands.
King Liam had never shown interest in conquering the dwarven kingdoms, as only men were the children of Iam, and not all Meungor’s children were so eager to do business with Iam’s ilk, especially a conqueror like Liam.
The dwarven kingdoms were countless, filling caverns and hollows throughout the mountains with their subterranean cities. Torsten thought he knew them all, but every so often, a new king popped up in a new hollow, deeper below ground. When it came to dwarves, only bellies filled with ale and coffers filled with gold concerned them, and the unexplored parts of Pantego always had more riches to find. At the height of the Glass, the kingdom’s vast wealth allowed Liam to ally himself with the most powerful of the dwarven kingdoms. They respected a man who could fill a vault. Now, they barely listened.
“I’m not sure of anything,” Torsten said.
Lucas’ teeth chattered. “We’re going to freeze to death out here.”
“You’re a Shieldsman now. You made the climb of Mount Lister in naught but the clothes on your back. You took the oath. This is nothing.”
“I still say we should've brought the army.”
Torsten grunted. Since wearing the blessed cloth over his eyes, he no longer wore his glaruium gauntlets. The frequent need to adjust and re-tie the thing, combined with the bulkiness of the gauntlets, had become too frustrating. Now he wore only thin gloves made from zhulong flesh, supposedly tough as iron, but, it still made him feel partially naked.
He did so now, feeling the frost hardening its wrinkles. With that, his ability to see in shades of white and black was blurred. They needed to get inside, and fast, lest he find himself blind again.
They stood on the precipice looking down into a great valley, sharp rocks rising from the snow at steep angles. Across the valley, a giant, stout dwarf was chiseled into the rock face, arm outstretched with a pointed finger. A marker.
Torsten followed it with his eyes and ran his hand along a flattened portion of the cliffside, his thumb tracing the grooves of some manner of ancient dwarven inscription. The way Celeste’s light reflected off the snow, Torsten’s limited vision didn’t allow him to read it. Not that he could’ve anyway.
“Balonhearth. The Great Mountain. King Logrit Cragrock, Master of the Three Kingdoms,” Lucas read.
“Good to see those evenings with Lord Brosch paying off,” Torsten said. It was kind of the new Master of Rolls to train Sir Danvels. It wasn’t often that a Shieldsman was also given the opportunity to become a scholar, but times were changing.
This wasn’t Torsten’s first trip to the alliance of dwarves at the southern ridge, though he hoped it would be his last.
“The door is right there. Not much of a hiding place,” Lucas said.
“Look around you, Sir Danvels. Do you believe you’d have stumbled upon this place by accident?”
“Fair point,” Lucas said.
Torsten circled his eyes and whispered, “Iam, we’ve come this far out of the way. Lives have been lost. Make it worth it.”
Torsten banged on Balonhearth’s massive door. “This is Sir Torsten Unger, Shieldsman and Master of Warfare of the Glass Kingdom.” He struck once more, harder this time, and a clump of snow fell upon his arm. “I request audience with your king!”
“Let’s head back, Sir Unger,” Lucas said, after a minute or so passed in silence. He fidgeted with the mule’s reins. “We outnumber Mak. You said it yourself, we can take him.”
“They’re dug in,” Torsten countered. “A hundred men or a thousand, it won’t matter at the White Bridge. And there’s no time to waste preparing a siege or requesting reinforcements from Governor Nantby in the East.” Philippi Nantby, the man who’d lorded over Yaolin City ever since Liam defeated the mystics, did a fine job maintaining order, but he was insufferable to deal with. A distant third or fourth cousin to the Nothhelms, he liked to imagine that meant more than it did.
Maybe it does. Only one of them remains…
“I haven’t seen a dwarf in Yarrington in months,” Lucas said, drawing Torsten’s attention back to the present. “Maybe they’re done.”
Torsten couldn’t help but worry the kid was right. Relations had been strained between the kingdoms for a long time. The Crown couldn’t afford payments on open trade agreements, or protection in the northwest against Drav Cra raiders. Iam’s light, they’d barely found a crew willing to rebuild the crypt after Pi’s resurrection. After what happened in Yarrington with the riots, it wouldn’t be a far stretch to believe the dwarves had entirely written off the realms of man.
“They’ll follow the gold,” Torsten said instead, hoping to at least convince Lucas if not himself. “We have that now, thanks to Valin.” Those words came out through Torsten’s teeth. He sighed again. “If we can secure open use of this pass with King Cragrock’s blessing, we can surround Mak, and shipments east to the war front can continue.”
I hope, Torsten thought. However, Lucas was exaggerating. Yarrington and other cities in the Glass still had plenty of dwarven citizens who’d left their mountain dwellings behind. In addition, mercenaries, tinkers, and adventurers who swore no allegiance to any kingdoms remained.
“I still believe we should have traveled south through Winde Port and come up north from there,” Lucas said.
“And strike further fear into a city which barely stands? Borrow ships they need desperately for repairs? This will work, Lucas. Trust me.”
It had to work. Besides, Torsten couldn’t very well admit his hesitance to return to Winde Port due to the horrid events that had taken place there at his hand and under his leadership. If he’d been stronger, Muskigo would have died there, and the rebellion would already be over.
The Kingdom needed all the help it could get now to flourish, and the Cragrocks were step one. Yarrington was secured, and Pi was finally safe from snakes in his own garden. Valin Tehr had been removed, and Lord Kaviel Jolly rose as Pi’s primary advisor. Sir Mulliner always stayed at the King’s side in case of an attack like the one which claimed Oleander. Father Morningweg had received the unanimous vote of every priest in Hornsheim to be named High Priest after word spread of the miracle which returned Torsten’s sight and saved the Kingdom from Valin’s treachery. A Master of Coin had yet to be decided on, but in times of war, sacrifices had to be made.
Most important: the war was coming to an end.
The siege against Muskigo was finally petering out after most of the afhems in Latiapur had publicly declared their opposition to the rebellion. Somehow, the Caleef still hadn’t turned up, though Torsten was now sure Valin had been lying about him. The god-king was likely dead already, drowned by the weight of stones in Autlas’ Inlet like so many of Valin’s other victims.
Drad Mak had claimed White Bridge with what little remained of his Drav Cra horde. There, he claimed he would kill his captives one at a time until Torsten met him for battle. And so Torsten answered the call, leading a small army of young Shieldsmen like Lucas and newly conscripted soldiers. The future of the Kingdom.
When the rebellion ends, and the Glass’ rule over the Black Sands is reaffirmed, peace could take hold again. Torsten would wipe Mak and his heathen murderers from White Bridge and re-open the Kingdom’s primary trading route. Muskigo would then lose, and southern ship routes would open.
“Sir Unger, I—” Lucas began.
“Just be patient!” Torsten’s shout carried through the canyon, enveloping them like a cold sheet of ice. A bit of rock clattered down from above. Torsten thrust his hands against the wall. “Sorry. They’re just…” His voice trailed off when a low, baritone horn sounded. It came like a rumble from below, then rose gradually.
Lucas’ longsword rasped free of its sheath.
“Watch out!” he cried, leaping in front of Torsten and raising his heater shield. A dart plunked off it. The thing was small—too small to be a dwarven arrow. The feathers—waldrooth pharimon—commonly known as grimaur… the same as those which had assailed them in the Yarrington markets.
Something screeched, and Torsten whipped around just in time to bash a creature aside with his fist. The force of his blow sent it soaring against Balonhearth’s great door, breaking its neck.
“What in Iam’s name is that?” Lucas asked, looking down at the dead thing, its limbs twitching.
“Goblin,” Torsten said. “Creatures of the darkness, corrupted by the God Feud.”
“I thought them unthinking beasts?” Lucas asked as another darted toward them.
“We can argue their sentience should we survive,” Torsten growled as he drew Salvation from his back, the sword of Liam Nothhelm. He’d tried to return it to King Pi where it belonged, but the King wanted it in Torsten’s hands, the hands of one who knew how to bear it, to bring justice to enemies of the Glass. Torsten fe
lt compelled to oblige even as he cleaved the leaping goblin in two.
“Fall in,” Torsten commanded.
Lucas lowered his shield and stepped back to guard Torsten. Together, they kneeled behind it, listening to the clangor as more darts pelted the metal. Celeste’s light revealed hunched silhouettes dashing in and out of the nooks and crannies of the massive dwarven effigy carved into the cliffside.
Goblins scurried this way and that, quick as lightning. Hollowed out bones served as blowguns for their darts, which were sure to be coated with the toxin from grimaur talons which rendered muscles numb.
It was true, most people believed goblins to be creatures of the Wildlands—just animals and nothing more. It was a rumor spread far and wide when King Remy sat upon the throne. He believed it would steal away the peoples’ fear of the things by reducing them to myth. After King Liam nearly wiped their kind off the map, it hardly mattered. But it seemed something was stirring them once more.
The northern tribes normally stayed deep within the mountains, attacking dwarven miners in the deep and scavenging their outposts. They were, in fact, irksome, primitive creatures. The size of small children, they were like lizards on two legs. If they spoke, it was in chirps and hisses—easy to mistake for animal sounds.
The mule began bucking, sending one of the goblins over the cliffside. Stumbling, the mule and the cart it pulled, nearly followed.
“Don’t let the beast fall!” Torsten called out.
Lucas moved to grab hold of the mule’s reins and grunted as one of the darts stabbed into the crease opposite his elbow. His grip on the shield lowered, but Torsten used one hand to stabilize it and wielded Salvation in the other. Out of the corner of his vision, he spotted movement and slashed, gutting one of the creatures midair.
Another fell on his shoulder from above. It hacked at his chest with a bone hatchet, but Torsten’s glaruium armor protected him. The thing was impossibly fast, avoiding all Torsten’s attempts to grab it. In less than a second, it was on his other shoulder, slashing away at a new spot.
War of Men Page 5
