As Muskigo watched the sentry post they targeted, he felt better than he had in weeks. He knew the Glass commander—this new Wearer of White named Nikserof Pasic, couldn’t garner that kind of respect from his men. Maybe Torsten Unger, but Muskigo had broken him at Winde Port, and he’d do the same to Sir Nikserof if given the opportunity. He’d break all of them, and show his people what true strength was.
“We’re in position, my Afhem,” Impili said.
“Why are you still here, Impili?” Muskigo asked.
“Me? I—I’m sorry if I’ve offended you—”
“No, no. Not like that, my friend. Here, with me. Fighting this impossible battle, when so many of our people seem like dogs, eager to eat scraps off the floor.”
Impili stared at him. His hard face was made harder by more than just the lumpy scar up his neck. His front teeth were broken from a helmet to the face many years before. He had so many signs of past injuries, it was impossible to know in the limited light which of them were merely wrinkles, and he’d earned each of them serving Muskigo without question.
“Where else is there to be, my Afhem?” Impili shrugged.
Muskigo smirked. He took his old friend by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake. “And that is why we fight rather than bow to cowards. Caleef or not.” He unlatched his sickle-blade from his back and eyed his men. Fear showed on none of their faces, all of them ready to die if God commanded it.
Not today, Muskigo thought.
He waved them along, and they skirted down the ridge like a pack of desert wolves. The Glassmen had grown too comfortable in their luxurious tents, around their warm fires, drinking, carousing, and playing their silly card games. This was war, and they thought they had time for games of chance.
None noticed as Muskigo and his men descended upon their most vulnerable point. They likely didn’t even know it was the weakest, with influence over their entire location.
Muskigo stayed low, pushing his muscles to the brink of exhaustion. He was first down to the flat, first to sneak up behind one of the watchmen, cover the man’s mouth, and slash his throat. Only, as he brought the soldier to the ground, there was no warmth of blood, nor muffled gurgling. Just dead weight.
Impili and the others made quick work of the rest while Muskigo flipped the body over. His eyes went wide. The man’s skin was gray but robbed of color, and it stunk like old death. The moment Muskigo inhaled, he fought every urge to vomit. It was a Shesaitju corpse dressed in Glassman armor.
One of his own.
“Impili, fall back to the ridge,” Muskigo ordered. “We have to go.”
He stood, but it was too late. All around them, the green glow of nigh’jel lanterns rose. Tongues trilled, warriors howled, and they found themselves surrounded by Shesaitju warriors with barbed arrows trained. It was too dark to see their tattoo, to tell which afhemate’s marking they wore on their necks. Not that it mattered.
“We’ve been betrayed,” Impili growled.
“Back to the ridge!” Muskigo shouted.
Again, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t allow heartbreak to slow him. They raced back up the incline. Bowstrings thrummed, and the ambush commenced. Muskigo deflected an arrow right before the barbs shredded his face. Others howled in agony.
A Shesaitju warrior and a Panpingese archer charged down a hill, side by side. Muskigo made short work of both, leaving a string of their entrails on the red rock. His men fought at his side, desperate to push their way back up toward the passage. Arrows rained down from behind.
“Impili!” Muskigo shouted as he noticed his commander dash back toward the campfire.
Muskigo rolled, then followed, gutting another traitorous Shesaitju on his way. A spear zoomed at his head as he came to his feet. He twisted and slid just in time, feeling the gust of wind from the weapon. He hooked it with his sickle-blade and brought it down to use as a vault to launch himself over the man. Landing feather-light, his blade whipped around and slashed the man’s neck as if the thing had its own mind.
Impili used his range to repel a group of attackers by the fire.
“Keep them back!” Muskigo ordered. He then returned down the incline, arrows from Panpingese archers clanking off the rock, zipping overhead. The easterners were once known for their accuracy, but Muskigo was grateful Liam had killed off most of them in his conquest.
Muskigo shouldered a Glassman in the back and sent him colliding into another, sending them both tumbling over the ledge. Screams echoed through the city below, and more screams rose to meet them.
“Muskigo!” Impili shouted and tossed a canteen filled with highly flammable whale oil.
Muskigo caught it, bit off the stopper, and dumped the oil all over one of the planted, rotting corpses. “Your death will not be in vain,” he whispered before he and Impili pushed the corpse through the campfire. It ignited, then rolled over the ridge and into the Glass camp below. It stopped at one of the supply tents, causing it to erupt in flames.
“That should send the message,” Muskigo said. “Regroup at the top. Find another—”
Impili suddenly pushed Muskigo with the butt of his spear. For a split second, which felt like a lifetime, Muskigo thought his betrayal was complete, that his closest friend, the second in command of his forces, had joined with the other traitors. Then, a Shesaitju arrow raced up from the main camp at incredible velocity. Even with Impili’s quick thinking, one of the barbs caught Muskigo’s cheek, and the force spun him around. His foot slipped, and his fingers just missed clasping Impili’s spear before he lost his footing and tumbled ten meters down the incline.
Muskigo landed at the edge of their camp, face bloodied, arms bruised, facing a wall of Glassmen. These didn’t appear like they’d been busy sitting around, playing cards and waiting out a siege, but were prepared for battle. Muskigo recovered quickly. He’d learned long ago, when he mastered the black fist, to conquer his pain, to be as a stone in Boiling Waters.
“Muskigo!” Impili called down amidst the echoes of more fighting.
“No!” Muskigo shouted. He didn’t need to look up. He knew the loyalty of his afhemate, and that Impili would gladly leap to his death in service to his afhem. But he also knew he would never ignore an order. “Go back. Defend the city at all costs.”
Muskigo spat out the fresh blood filling his mouth from the gash in his cheek. He slowly swept his foot across the patted sand, drawing a line, and extended his curved blade. All the Glassmen arrayed before him were painted in the light of the growing fire, wielding blades and shields, no bows, no arrows. That meant they wanted him alive.
“Afhem Muskigo, you are defeated!” Sir Nikserof, Wearer of White, called out, smug look on his pink face. The coward wore more armor than any man should ever need. Muskigo wasn’t surprised, considering he let his men do all the dirty work for him while he sat on his tall steed at the bank of the ranks.
“You hide behind a shield,” Muskigo bellowed. “Face me, coward!”
“Did you really think you could take us all alone?” Nikserof asked. “The arrogance of you heathens never ceases to amaze me.”
“Give your men the order to stand down, and I’ll show you arrogance.”
“Didn’t you look closely at the bodies we left for you? Didn’t you recognize them? They’re from your precious Saujibar. You got them killed. Now your own people want you dead. Lay down your blade, Muskigo. It’s over.”
He didn’t let the revelation settle. If those men were from Saujibar, it would be something to deal with later. Now, there were more pressing needs.
“It’ll be over when your boy king loses his head!” Muskigo shouted, charging straight at them. Their spears met him, but he leaped, slashing down with his sickle to push aside the shafts. In their metal coffins, they were too slow to keep up. He landed in the heart of the ranks, carving a circle with his blade and knocking legs out from under those closest to them.
He snapped a spear in half with his foot and wielded it in his offhand. Not t
hat his was inferior. Masters of black fist trained so they could fight with any weapon, in either hand. The moment he wielded the new weapon, it became an extension of him.
He carved out a throat with his sickle, then threw the spear straight at Nikserof’s horse. A whinny sounded, followed by the thump of it collapsing.
Muskigo crouched, his sickle-blade held out.
As one, the Glassmen shuffled back. They were scared. Their armor might as well have been musical instruments as they quivered. Muskigo positioned his foot under a fallen longsword and flipped it up into his offhand without ever breaking eye contact.
“That’s enough, Muskigo,” a deep, basso voice spoke. Even with the crackling fire and the din of the battle above, Muskigo thought he recognized it. Then, his enemies parted, and through them, appeared a familiar face—a man who looked more like a boulder: Babrak Trisps’I, a powerful afhem commanding the largest land army left in the Black Sands.
“Babrak,” Muskigo spat. It was hard for him to speak that name without venom. They’d had their share of feuds ever since Muskigo became afhem. His refusing support for a rebellion and now fighting alongside the Glass army was merely the last straw.
The big man lifted a warhammer off his back, then tossed it to the side. He raised his arms and showed his empty palms.
“How many more must die, Muskigo?” Babrak said.
“Was this you?” Muskigo asked.
Babrak frowned. He was a good actor, but Muskigo saw right through it. He knew the man wanted to grin from ear to ear. He’d hated Muskigo ever since the woman he’d considered his own chose Muskigo over joining his harem.
“Unfortunately, I know all your tricks,” Babrak said. Not a full admission, but not a denial either.
“You would dare throw in with them?”
“And you haven’t?” Babrak barked. “I met your Darkings toy. He’s as unimpressive as your daughter, Mahi.”
“Don’t you dare speak her name!” Muskigo stomped forward. The Glassmen around him shuddered and raised their weapons higher.
“Enough games,” Sir Nikserof said, recovering from his fall to walk up beside Babrak. “You promised me the rebel, and you delivered.”
“You’re a coward, Babrak,” Muskigo snarled. “Always have been.”
“I’m giving you a chance to save the rest of the fools who joined this war against the will of the Caleef and the greater afhemdom.”
“They would gladly give their lives,” Muskigo said, though he had to admit, he wasn’t sure.
“And what of your daughter and Shavi?”
“I fight so they don’t need to.”
“Too late Muskigo,” Babrak said, shaking his head in mock sympathy.
“What are you talking about?”
“He means that they’re dead,” Nikserof said. “You taught them to be fools.”
“Watch your—”
“Like you,” Nikserof continued, “they refused peaceful surrender. But it can end now, without more bloodshed. You’ve already lost. The sooner you accept that the sooner we could all be back to paying tributes to the King with gold instead of lives.”
“No…” Muskigo squeezed the handle of his weapons so tight his nails dug into his palms.
“It’s true,” Babrak said. He removed a long braid of hair from his belt and tossed it at Muskigo’s feet. With the tip of his blade, Muskigo lifted it and gave it a whiff. The scent—her scent—transported him to days gone by when he’d held her, kissed her head. It was a father’s instinct, and it had awakened fire within, blood stirring like a sandstorm.
“No!” Muskigo roared. He leaped at the nearest soldier, bashing him in the face with the butt of his sickle-blade. With the sword he’d stolen, he slashed at anyone who got near as he continued to smash the man’s face into a bloody pulp of red and loose teeth.
Mahraveh.
She was everything.
The very reason he fought.
So she could grow up in a world where the fathers of her generation weren’t cowards who sacrificed everything to kiss the Glass boot and lose what it was that made them Shesaitju.
Mahraveh.
“No!” He cast his weapons aside and punched, one quaking fist after another into what was now a corpse, his face so mangled, Muskigo’s fist pounded the rock beyond. Blood coated his gray skin until the surrounding Glassmen grew the nerve to grab and pull him off.
He’d been fighting nonstop for months, but he couldn’t fight them. Not anymore. His muscles were too weak from malnutrition and overexertion. And his heart… he could no longer feel it beating.
V
The Thief
“Who in Meungor’s name are ye?” Tum Tum asked, pointing with his hammer.
For a heartbeat, Whitney was confused. How did his friend not recognize him? Sure, it was dark, but dwarves could see well in the darkness. Had he changed that much since Winde Port? Then a tickle against his ear—the one whose lobe he’d lost the last time he’d seen the dwarf—reminded him of the blood and feathers covering him.
“Tum Tum, it’s me. Whitney.” Whitney brushed furiously at his face with one hand, trying to uncover it enough for his friend to be convinced.
“Well, stab me with the fiery end of a sharp poker. Whitney Fierstown! Back from the dead! Get yer arse over here!” The next instant, Whitney was wrapped in a crushing dwarf hug that robbed him of what little breath he had left after the fighting.
Pain shot up his neck, and Whitney pushed off.
“What, are ye mad at me?” Tum Tum asked.
“No. That thing must have gotten me good.” He turned and tried to view the scratch on his shoulder, but to no avail. It was too dark, and the angle was wrong. A second later, the dagger he held in that hand slipped through his fingers with a clank.
“I can’t… uh… feel my arm.”
Tum Tum picked up the dagger. “Ye takin things that don’t belong to ye again, Whitney?”
“Tum Tum, my arm,” Whitney said, more urgently.
“Oh, keep a hold of yer trousers. They’re grimaurs. Haven’t ye read? Their talons paralyze. Glintish doctors make a nice little cocktail out of em." He pointed to Gentry. “Don’t this one know?”
“I grew up on the road Mr…”
“Tum Tum,” the dwarf finished for him.
“Is anyone else going to worry about my arm!” Whitney shouted.
“Quit bein a baby. One of me workers got a scratch the other day. It passed it, oh… a few hours. Knocked him clean out though. We’ll head upstairs to me bar and wash it out.”
“Your bar?” Whitney slurred.
“Aye! Everything on the other side of this here tunnel. C’mon.” He waved them along, and only had to crouch to pass through the opening. Same with Gentry. Whitney pretty much had to crawl with one arm, and all the while, he could feel his head getting woozier.
“How’s the robe,” Whitney asked Gentry up ahead.
The boy unfurled it a bit. Whitney couldn’t see much in the darkness, only the glimmering embroidery, getting blurrier by the second.
“It’s… uh… fine,” Gentry said. Before Whitney could respond, Tum Tum reached back and helped the boy through the rest of the way.
He then extended his hammer to drag Whitney along, and Whitney hugged it with his good arm. Tum Tum pulled him through puddles, around stalagmites, up small inclines, and finally, they could see the soft moonlight blooming down a ways, through the broken wall they’d passed through.
“Sorry about the wall,” Whitney said.
“No bother,” he said. “If a fool like ye could break through, so could them beasties. We’ll build it stronger. Yer lucky I came down and heard screechin. Takes a bit to chase them off.”
They reached the break in the wall, and Whitney lost his grip on the hammer. Gentry bent down to examine him. “Mr. Fierstown, you don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.”
Whitney pulled himself to his feet and staggered through the opening, but Tum Tum hel
ped him, wrapping one of his burly arms around Whitney’s waist. Once inside, he peeled back Whitney’s shirt. Whitney couldn’t feel the action in the slightest.
When they made it back upstairs to Tum Tum's bar, the dwarf said, “That’s a mighty fine scratch ye got there. We’ll need to get that cleaned, no biggie.” He helped Whitney up the stairs. “By Meungor, when did ye get so heavy?”
“I’ve been working out,” Whitney said.
“Found someone new to impress, eh?” Tum Tum shut right up the moment he said it. He turned to Whitney, scratching his beard as if to say he was sorry.
Whitney nodded. He couldn't expect everyone to walk on glass around him.
“Who’s the boy?” Tum Tum asked.
“An apprentice of sorts.”
“Ye never will learn.”
Tum Tum groaned as he helped Whitney into a plush seat at one of the tables upstairs. Whitney leaned forward. His head felt like an anvil. He now felt the venom from the talons in his neck, slowly making its way to his head. He felt sleepy and squeezed his eyelids tight and shook his head to try to wake himself.
“All right, shirt off,” Tum Tum said.
Whitney swatted at his hand. “Only for ladies.”
“Ye ain’t pretty enough for any dwarf. Let’s go.” Tum Tum grabbed his collar and yanked the shirt, pulling it down his numb arm. Gentry sat across from them, eyes rapt with fear.
Whitney heard a slap. “Feel that?” Tum Tum asked. Gentry winced from the sound.
“Nothing,” Whitney replied. All he could sense was the pressure of Tum Tum’s fat fingers as the dwarf examined his back. “So, how in Elsewhere did you afford this place?”
“After ye disappeared—where did ye go, anyway? Sora send ye out?”
Whitney groaned. “A story for another time.”
“Well, Sora was a gods-damned mess,” Tum Tum went on. “Didn’t leave the captain’s quarters on that upyr’s corsair ship for what felt like years. We were about as shog shucked as ever I been, and then Gold Grin Gale sailed up.”
Whitney ran his working hand through his long hair, then dragged it down over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Gold Grin?”
War of Men Page 8
