War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  King Lorgit’s dark eyes glinted like two obsidian stones. He stood, ignoring his son’s protests, and approached the gold, as if drawn to it by some unseen force.

  “Yuri Darkings brings promises,” Torsten said. “I bring proof of our willingness to work with your great kingdom once more. Under Liam’s reign, we all saw wealth beyond measure, and, of course, peace.”

  Lorgit ran his hand lovingly atop the pile of gold. Torsten half expected him to lift one and hug it like his own darling child.

  “All of this as a gesture of faith?” the King asked, breathless.

  “Consider it an advanced payment in hopes of a lasting alliance. All we need in exchange is a portion of your army and open passage through this route. Together, we can surround White Bridge, eliminate the Drav Cra presence choking our kingdom, then bring an end to the rebellion in the south.”

  Brouben joined his father in admiring the gold, and they exchanged some hushed whispers. Lucas stepped back and offered Torsten a questioning look.

  Minutes passed. Torsten waited calmly, tapping his foot. Dwarves are never in a hurry.

  Finally, King Lorgit exclaimed, “And a fine gesture it is! Killin Drav Cra, why didn’t ye say so? Ever since ye lot shooed them pale bastards, they been raidin my people. Me other cousin Muzmol Strongiron was murdered by a crew of ’em just the other day.”

  “And we hope to work together with all the northern kingdoms to end that,” Torsten said.

  “Bah, that’s their problem, ain’t it just? Ye save all this here for old Cragrock only—the Iron Kingdoms alone.” He turned, grinning from ear to ear, all the wrinkles on his face deepening. “Me boy here will march with ye and free White Bridge. He’s been achin for a real fight.”

  Brouben shrugged. “Goblins go down too easy.”

  “And the Black Sands?” Torsten asked.

  “From what I hear, that war’s endin. But if it ain’t, they’ll learn how quick dwarves can tunnel under a wall.” Lorgit laughed. “Meungor’s axe is yers, but only under one condition.”

  Torsten bit his lip. Always something else with dwarves.

  “Ye send me younger son, Alfotdrumlin, back to Yarrington to serve as yer temporary Master of Coin,” King Lorgit said. “Ye flower pickers keep throwing away gold on bad deals. It makes me stomach roil.”

  “I’m not certain, I—”

  Lorgit smacked his younger son on the back. “It be all numbers with him, ever since he was a boy. Won’t even touch an axe.” The young dwarf blushed. “But he won’t be the first son I sent out into the wild to learn a thing or three. He’ll get yer coffers back in order so we can keep this… arrangement… going.”

  “King Lorgit,” Torsten petitioned, “I’m not heading back to Yarrington. Your son won’t be safe—”

  “Nonsense. Ye take the boy as far as yer goin.” He snapped his fingers, and the two spike-armored dwarves marched over. “The clanbreakers’ll take ’em the rest.”

  After a short hesitation, eyeing the strange dwarves, armor covering every inch of them, Torsten said, “Very well, King Lorgit. I will draft a letter for King Pi and the Royal Council. Though, it might take more than a few words to convince them. Betrayal runs deep in that position.”

  “Bah, he’s as loyal as a mule.” Lorgit laughed yet again and slapped Lucas’ mule on the backside.

  “Father…” Al grumbled.

  “As Master of Warfare, in these perilous times, I’m certain they’ll heed my recommendation,” Torsten said, “until we find a worthy successor ourselves. Our king is eager to learn from worthy men—or dwarves—and build a fruitful alliance between our kingdoms.” Torsten stood, approached King Lorgit Cragrock, and stuck out his hand. “May the Light of Iam extend into the mountain deep.”

  Lorgit gave the gold one more stroke, then took Torsten’s hand, and they shook. “And may it keep the Meungor’s axe sharp.”

  IV

  The Rebel

  Afhem Muskigo Ayerabi felt the cool air beneath him as he climbed one outcrop to the next, all the way up the bluffs which enclosed the city of Nahanab. He did his best to ignore his groaning stomach and strained muscles.

  They were starving. Months under siege now, and still, there was no sign of reprieve.

  Even with the Glassmen’s Northern allies disbanded and their forces cut in half, there was still no way out. More ships had arrived to block the bay. Archers from Panping had been summoned, and every night or so, they fired over the walls of Nahanab, pounding away at Muskigo’s dwindling forces. Siege weapons ravaged the walls, and the buildings within were leveled. Had the city not been enclosed by tall, natural cliffs, he and his men would have fallen already.

  Despite the many calls to the capital for help; for assistance from the afhems who hadn’t yet joined Muskigo in this rebellion, none had come. This was their last attempt to disrupt the siege, Muskigo’s last chance to get word out to Latiapur. The Glass had thwarted all his messages, by courier or bird, ever since he got Yuri and Farhan out.

  They were on their own.

  That’s what I get for trusting a traitorous pink-skin like Yuri Darkings.

  His strong fingers used a small jut of rock to heave himself up. From so high, he could see far to the south, black sands reaching out eternally. To the north, the M’stafu Desert and the coming together of the Kingdoms, black and white sands intermingling in a way neither side had seen in years. Stifled screams drew his attention to the left, where one of his best soldiers faltered and plummeted. His gray body vanished in the darkness before the soft thud signaled an impact that no man could survive.

  Muskigo winced. They couldn’t afford to lose a soul now.

  He sucked in a shuddering breath and returned his eyes upward. He and a hundred of his best men were about three quarters up the cliff on the north side of the kingdom. These were good men—warriors who had been with him since he’d stepped into the sands of Tal’du Dromesh, and claimed the Ayerabi Afhemate.

  The plan was simple: they would reach the top of the cliff, move in behind the Glassmen, and raid their camp, taking out their stores and as many soldiers as they could. But climbing so high without nigh’jels to illuminate the path provided a significant challenge. Doing it with barely an ounce of food or fresh water in their stomachs, even harder.

  Even the moons offered no aid. As if Iam were defending his chosen people, a thick blanket of clouds obscured them. The God of Sand and Sea, however, kept the wind calm, at least. Trader’s Bay was still as a northern lake. All Muskigo could hear was the sound of hands and boots scraping rock, like countless tiny spiders clambering up a wall.

  “Afhem Muskigo,” Impili Mansoor said as he skittered down the wall. It was so dark, Muskigo couldn’t even see the grisly scar wrapping his commander’s neck like a snake. With Farhan Uki’a gone, and still no word from him, Impili—a man who’d be ready to claim an afhemate for himself if they survived this—was Muskigo’s second.

  “What is it, Impili?” Muskigo asked, short of breath. Saujibar, the oasis he called home, was in the deep desert, where there were no tall cliffs to climb, only rolling dunes and the occasional pit lizard. He was better suited to zhulong-back than mountain-scaling.

  “They have sentries posted along the ridge,” Impili said, air whistling against his broken front teeth. “A collocation of soldiers, heavily armed. If we don’t take them out fast, they might alert the camp.”

  “They thought of everything, didn’t they?” Muskigo grumbled. There was one thing Muskigo had learned over these past months—the Glass was not as fragile as he’d once believed it to be. “Have the archers at the top first. We need to take them out with one shot each. How many?”

  “Twenty. Maybe more.”

  “We move fast and quiet,” Muskigo whispered.

  “Yes, my Afhem.”

  Impili climbed away. He had long limbs and thin fingers, a man built for climbing, having grown up in this region.

  Muskigo’s afhemate was unique in that way. Wher
eas most afhems led men who’d rarely even traveled outside their lands, Ayerabi boasted warriors from all seventy-nine afhemates. When he’d taken a stand against Liam, all those years ago, in Tal’du Dromesh, he’d inspired others to forsake their leaders, to flock to him. It had given him the strength to mount this rebellion without waiting for approval from the cowards and sycophants who called themselves afhems these days; who surrounded the Caleef and kept themselves fat off trade with the Glassmen.

  Muskigo exhaled slowly, his stomach rumbling again, then continued the climb.

  It took an hour longer for all his men to reach the ridge just below the crest. Luckily, no others fell. Pulling them into a line along the edge, a hundred meters above Nahanab, Muskigo looked from side to side at all his bravest men—or at least those that yet lived. A break in the clouds and Celeste revealed all. Sweat glistened on their brows and backs. Their ribs showed as their muscle tone gave way from malnutrition.

  Each one bore countless scars from countless battles, thanks to countless decades of fighting amongst their own people while their rulers watched from their Glass Castle. He was glad his men now had some scars courtesy of the real enemy—the men who’d pounded their fathers into submission and made them bend the knee.

  Even the sight of them now filled the pit in Muskigo’s stomach.

  Muskigo slowly rose to peek over the ledge, which was about chest high. He saw the Glass sentries, camped in the moonlight at the summit, huddled around small, crackling fires to combat the chill of the desert night. Most were there, a few others paced along the plateau, longbows slung over their shoulders.

  From this vantage, Muskigo could also see lights from the Glass blockade on Trader’s Bay, and the dark streets of Nahanab behind him. Even most of their nigh’jels were starving and had to be released back into the bay where they would likely die from cold. Muskigo’s army had been forced to camp in the markets—but now, most of those who still remained, fit within the walls of the late Afhem Dajani Calidor’s mansion.

  Civilians kept to their homes, more of a drain on supplies than anything. Muskigo had long considered sending them out, but he feared what the honorless Glassmen would do to them. All he needed were the fishermen who trawled the city docks, just outside of range of the Glass ships. They couldn’t get much, but anything was better than nothing.

  Now, Muskigo was in charge of all of them, from warriors to withered old men. All people without afhemates, their leaders dead in battle. After Winde Port, he saw his great victory unfurling before him, and now it seemed hopeless. His fight—once a valiant plan designed to free all the Black Sands—had been reduced to saving those who remained.

  Muskigo raised an open hand to the side. A slight rustling sounded as those of his men armed with blackwood longbows drew their weapons and cautiously rose. He peered over the ledge again. The Glassmen sat around a fire with a series of spits turning above. It looked and smelled like rabbit.

  “Gotta piss,” one of the Glassmen above said, his voice carrying on the still air.

  “The gray men ought to be thirsty,” another answered pointing to the ledge.

  They all shared a laugh, then the guard strolled toward the edge of the cliff overlooking Nahanab, right toward Muskigo and his men. Muskigo motioned for his men to draw back into hiding and bit his lip. He kept his hand open. His men leaned back, each carefully drawing a second barbed arrow to hold in their mouths while another remained nocked. One lost a grip, and his arrow clattered down against the cliffside.

  Muskigo froze, grimacing and holding his breath. A moment passed, but the Glass soldier didn’t seem to hear as he shuffled to the ridge and unbuckled his belt.

  “Long way down,” he muttered, kicking a pebble. “If only me mum could see me now, looking down on savages.”

  Muskigo closed his fist. At the same time, he reached up, grabbed the man’s ankle and dragged him off, no hesitation. His archers sprung up, steadied their bows and let loose, then immediately loaded the next and fired.

  Muskigo rolled up and drew his sickle-blade. The very same he’d claimed from the undercroft of the arena when he’d earned his nickname as the Scythe. The Glassmen went down one after another, with expert precision.

  One of the soldiers on the other side of the narrow plateau took a barbed arrow to his quad and collapsed, but he didn’t lose grip on his bow. The Shesaitju archers lost view of him behind the campfire, but Muskigo took off. The Glassman crawled for the fire to ignite an arrow. He aimed it toward the sky, but Muskigo threw his weapon and caught the soldier’s arm in the sickle-blade’s curve. The arrow sputtered only a few meters up, then toppled straight to the ground.

  Muskigo launched himself, catching the man's head between his legs and twisted down, snapping his neck. He rolled over, retrieved his weapon, and whipped around to observe his men’s handiwork. His archers had done their jobs, disabling the enemy counterparts. The rest of his men killed the Glassmen while they were down. Impili knelt near a pink-skinned soldier with a hand over the man’s mouth. The whole thing had happened quickly and silently, there’d barely been time for anyone to scream.

  Muskigo and Impili exchanged a nod, then the former turned toward the enemy camp. The rocky landscape extended for miles around Trader’s Bay, even more treacherous on this side. He spotted ropes, which the Glassmen had used to climb up, leading to a lower plateau, then another. The Glass army’s camp rested in a clearing east of the city, with another rock formation at their backs to defend against a rear attack. Torches dotted all the high points nearby, making them impossible to sneak up on. But, as Muskigo watched, the clouds rolled back in, more oppressive than ever. It would cover their advance. In light leather armor, speed was their ally. They could get in, inflict havoc, and escape back up the rocks before the Glassmen knew what happened.

  “Fire is their signal,” Muskigo said to Impili. “That one tried to send a flaming arrow up, no doubt to inform the others of attack. Make sure this does not happen.”

  A few of them carried what little whale oil they had left from Nahanab’s stores—the kind the Glass loved trading for so they could burn their torches and campfires all through the nights, fueling their weakness. As soon as they torched the enemy camp, a handful of couriers would use the distraction and ride to Latiapur. Muskigo would beseech his peers one last time to stop suckling at the teat of the Glass Kingdom and its new boy king, and claim the freedom that was rightfully theirs.

  One last courier was to go to Saujibar, Muskigo’s afhemate, to find his daughter Mahraveh and her caregiver Shavi. The message was for them to travel somewhere far. He knew what would happen if his failure became complete. The Ayerabi Afhemate would have to pay. The Glassmen wouldn’t show mercy after Winde Port, and his own people would have to prostrate themselves to earn favor.

  Muskigo’s family and his most loyal followers would join him in death.

  Our fathers surrendered, he recalled. I cannot.

  “What are your orders, my Afhem?” Impili asked, tightening his grip upon a long spear, the blade made from the sharpened rib of a zhulong. Seeing it froze Muskigo momentarily. His daughter had always favored polearms to make up for her stature. As the days under siege ticked by, he started to fear he may never see her again, that he’d never get to hug her again, or even scold her, and see that impetuous smirk she wore after being caught breaking one of his many rules.

  My little sand mouse.

  “Afhem Muskigo?” Impili said.

  “We’ll use their path down and follow it,” Muskigo said, burying the fond memories of Mahi deep where he buried any other happy thing. There was no room for softness in war. “We’ll take out that post overlooking the western side of their camp.”

  “That close?”

  “The weak Northerners and their fire. We’ll spill the coals over their tents and set the blaze. We’ll hit them with every arrow we have to keep them from dousing it, then fight from the high ground and retreat back this way.”

  “The narrow
inclines make their numbers meaningless,” Impili offered. “A few of us, we can hold them off.”

  “If it comes to that,” Muskigo said.

  Together, they turned and saw their men crowded around the Glassmen’s small camp, pulling the rabbits off the spits. They didn’t even appear to care that they hadn’t fully cooked. Upon noticing Muskigo, they stepped back and bowed.

  “You first, my Afhem,” one said.

  Muskigo stared at the food as he stepped over. There wasn't just rabbit. There was bread and dried meat, too. He hated bread—that Northern food which was as soft as they were. Grown without struggle, not hunted or pulled from the Boiling Sea, but still, nothing had ever looked so appetizing.

  “No,” Muskigo said, fighting every survival instinct he had. He had to think back to when he was young, just of age, shortly after Liam took everything from him, how he crossed the heart of the M’stafu with nothing but the clothes on his back, only to see if he could.

  “Eat your fill, all of you,” he went on. “I’ll take the scraps. Be fast. Then, we move as swiftly and quietly as the shifting sand.”

  Muskigo’s feet were cut and battered by the time they made it to the outcrop overlooking the camp. They’d been calloused by sand, though, not enough for this, and they needed bare feet to feel every nook on the sheer rock face. A fall to either side spelled certain doom. The God of Sand and Sea certainly didn’t intend to watch Muskigo torn apart by sharp rocks.

  He was pleased with his plan. His men had eaten—not enough, but it would be better than a battle with starved bellies and wounded hearts, and they’d even saved him a large portion despite their own hunger.