War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “You couldn’t if you tried!” Muskigo feinted left, then snapped in the other direction and left another shallow cut on Babrak’s arm. The enormous man clearly hadn’t yet realized that Muskigo’s left side was compromised.

  He’s too busy hoarding gold and eating sweets to train.

  Babrak reared back and threw his warhammer at Muskigo, who dodged left, placed too much weight on his hurt ankle, and slammed hard against the sandstone as his leg gave out again. Babrak then drew Muskigo’s own sickle-blade and slashed.

  Muskigo got the knife up to parry, but the incredible force of Babrak’s swing knocked it from his grip. Babrak went to swing again. Muskigo now had nothing to defend with, so he grabbed Babrak’s forearm and held. However, his opponent had greater raw strength and all the leverage.

  “Traitor!” A fauchard jammed into Babrak’s side.

  Babrak abandoned Muskigo, tore his arm free, and slashed to the right. He cut open Impili’s chest, revealing a long line of red and pink muscle and torn sinew. Muskigo snatched the knife off the floor and stabbed Babrak through the forearm.

  The big man howled, dropping the sickle-blade, then limped back into the waiting arms of his afhemate, who no longer spectated now that Impili had joined the duel.

  “My Afhem, we must retreat!” one of them said. “We have lost the advantage.”

  Muskigo wanted to give chase, but even as he tried to rise, his battered body betrayed him. His knees hit the stone, right beside his sickle-blade—a weapon he barely deserved any longer. Never in his life had he lost a fight, no matter how injured he was.

  Until then.

  “Defend him!” Mahraveh yelled. “Defend Afhem Muskigo!”

  Her warriors had blades at Sir Nikserof’s throat and forced him to the ground. His face was bloody, and his formerly-pristine armor was now dirty and dented. Mahraveh twirled her spear overhead, then went to stab it down through his neck.

  “No!” Muskigo rasped.

  She froze just before dealing the killing blow. Her shoulders heaved as she held in unbridled rage. He’d never seen her like this, like a rabid animal—blood drunk.

  “He killed Shavi, Father. He killed everyone!”

  Muskigo’s chin hit his chest. It was as Babrak said. The Glassmen really had taken Saujibar. Shavi had cared for his family since the day he’d become Afhem, but he knew she’d have died well with the Current if Mahraveh still lived.

  “I know,” he said. “And he’ll pay.”

  “The Glassmen are tricksters, my Afhem,” said a warrior with Mahraveh. He was so young, Muskigo wondered if he was even old enough to fight, though he supposed rules and traditions no longer meant what they had before his rebellion began. “We should end him before he poisons us all.”

  “We can use him,” Muskigo said.

  Mahraveh’s arms shook as she fought every urge to run him through. Muskigo understood it. He’d felt that rage for his enemies more times than he could count. He’d felt it when he and Sir Unger plunged into the icy depths in Winde Port’s canals.

  “Mahraveh, you are, apparently, now my equal. I no longer command you. But you will always be my daughter. I implore you, control yourself—not for my benefit, but your own.”

  She bit her lip.

  Muskigo could practically see the scenarios running through her head. He knew she’d be seeing his crimes in Saujibar. He knew blood would be washing over her vision. She looked at Muskigo for barely a heartbeat, then turned back to the Wearer. In a motion, swift as a sand snake, she used the tip of her spear to unseat the man’s helmet, then spun her spear and bashed Sir Nikserof across the skull, knocking him unconscious.

  Sand mouse no longer, Muskigo thought.

  Beyond her, the bazaar had turned into a bloodbath. Warriors, markless, women—everyone was a target as the Glass army fought through, shouting for retreat with their leader captured.

  It could be declared a victory, though Muskigo wasn’t sure he’d want to call it as such.

  Bloody streams ran across the sand and the stone. Gallons of it. Impili gurgled nearby, rasping for those final breaths before his soul joined the Current. Fighting raged between two sides, scraping to survive, and Mahraveh left Nikserof with her followers to join in. She took control immediately, barking orders and giving some semblance of strategy to the chaos caused by Muskigo’s ineptitude. As a father, he’d never been prouder. As a leader, a part of him wished he’d jammed the ceremonial knife straight into his own heart.

  XV

  The Thief

  “What in exile just happened!” Whitney shouted, pulling Kazimir and Sigrid apart after watching them vanish into thin air and reappear just the same. Sigrid snapped weakly at him, but Kazimir held her back.

  Then Kazimir guided her to the floor. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. It was ghastly, ribs sticking out and bent in ways that seemed unnatural, but there was no blood. Her nostrils flared, and her face was contorted. It was fear, rage, pain, hunger—everything terrible Whitney could imagine all at once.

  “Guh,” Whitney dry-heaved.

  “The Ancient One is dispelled for now,” Kazimir said. “No thanks to you.”

  “Hey, I saved her.” Whitney pointed a dagger at the rattled upyr. Then he shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. What do you mean, dispelled?”

  “I told you, when an upyr closes their eyes all the way, they see Elsewhere.”

  “You don’t blink?”

  Kazimir leered at him. Whitney recoiled. He hadn’t noticed that. How hadn’t he noticed that? He supposed he’d always been so disturbed by Kazimir’s dark, soulless eyes he hadn't even realized part of the creepiness of it was him not blinking.

  “So what?” he said. “You dropped her into Elsewhere, just like that?”

  “Her essence is trapped in Elsewhere, not her. She’s in between. But she isn’t like us. She won’t stay for long. The power of this tower and the Well will draw her back.”

  “Soooo, she’s a ghost-woman?”

  “Only an old wretch who refuses to die,” Kazimir said. “One who sucks the power from all others who may hope to have it. And she calls us cursed.”

  Whitney rubbed his face. “I hate magic.”

  Sigrid tried to stand, and Kazimir rushed to help her. Half her body slowly reformed, but it was taking a while. Both of them seemed about ready to faint. Whitney didn’t know an upyr could be damaged so thoroughly. Sigrid’s eyes remained fully open, but they focused on nothing.

  “She okay?” Whitney asked.

  “She’s too young to carry such power with her to the other side, but she’ll be fine,” Kazimir said. “Now, let’s move before Na returns. I don’t think we can face her again and survive, not like this.”

  Whitney put his hands on his hips. “Kazimir, scared. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  The upyr grunted and shoved by Whitney with Sigrid on his arm. Whitney followed behind.

  “So, where is this Well?” Kazimir asked.

  “At the bottom,” Kazimir said, cryptic as ever.

  He led them just like he said, to the very bottom of the staircase winding down through the tower. They’d descended so many floors, they must have traveled well-below sea level. They even passed one all-white room that extended endlessly in every direction. Any other time, Whitney might have been drawn to enter, learn what treasures might lie within.

  Another couple of flights brought them to a small round chamber before two tall, glowing, stone doors. Moss pushed through cracks in the floor, water trickling along in them, disappearing beneath the doors. And in the center of it all, stood another mystic in yellow. The young man looked like he couldn’t have been a day older than Whitney had been when he’d left Troborough. His skin was smooth—not even stubble. Scars showed at the part of his chest just below his neckline, like something had been jammed into him.

  “You can’t be here,” the man said. Just as he was about to cast a spell, his head snapped back, and Kazimir appeared behind him as if from
nowhere. One of his many daggers pressed against the mystic’s throat. Sigrid lay on the end of the stairs, more coherent now, but still weak.

  “Open the well,” Kazimir demanded.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing,” Kai growled.

  “Would you like to test that?” Kazimir yanked back on the kid’s chin, and a thin line of red appeared on his neck, but he said nothing. Kazimir, on the other hand, looked, like he’d just stepped into a Westvale brothel. The thought of the scent of blood overwhelming someone with such force made Whitney sick.

  “I wouldn’t test him,” Whitney warned.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the young mystic said. “I can’t open it.”

  “Then I’ll break it open.” Kazimir threw the mystic down, then moved to the door. He touched the handle, but as soon as he did, something shot him backward. His face scrunched like he’d never felt such pain.

  He raced forward to try again, holding on longer, and pulling with all his supernatural might. The stone didn’t give, even an inch. Then he was repelled again.

  “Why are you here?” the mystic asked, coughing.

  Kazimir was back on him in a flash. “Ah,” he said, dragging his finger through the young man’s blood. The mystic winced as the upyr dug a sharp fingernail into the wound, then brought it to his lips. Kazimir moaned and said, “I have my own questions for fate. I must gaze upon the waters.”

  “Only the Ancient One may enter.”

  “Is that so? Well, that’s an issue, because she’s taking a nice visit to Elsewhere now. And the rest of your brethren who stood beside her, they’re gone, too.” Kazimir made a spectacle of looking around the room. He dragged Kai’s head, mimicking his own. “I don't see anyone here either, except you. Perhaps you could open the doors. That would be rather helpful to us all.”

  “Be exiled to Elsewhere, you twisted perversion of life!”

  “I am going to kill you, mystic. You cannot change that. However, you can determine how long you will suffer before you die. I have had centuries to learn the limits of a man. One thing is certain, you will let us into the Well of Wisdom.”

  Whitney had seen enough. He approached them. “Kazimir, we didn’t come here to torture anyone.”

  “You are here only because, in the Well, your connection to the girl might provide answers!” Kazimir snarled. “This is precisely why I am here, to fulfill the will of the Sanguine Lords. This isn’t Elsewhere anymore, thief. We are not friends.”

  The words cut Whitney deeper than he imagined they would.

  He cleared his throat and said, "This one doesn't need to die, too.” He turned his chin, remembering all the dead bodies just upstairs. He thought it’d affect him more, all the death. But he’d seen so much of it over the last year, it was like he was numb to it. He hated that about himself.

  “We’ve already won,” he said. It didn't feel like winning.

  Sigrid sauntered forward and eyed the young man under Kazimir’s knife. He, on the other hand, couldn’t look away from the right side of her chest, still burned down to sinew. Grotesque.

  “You are welcome to turn away and go wait with the others,” Kazimir said to Whitney. “But while we are here, I make the rules. You chose this.”

  “And I thought you weren’t supposed to kill for pleasure anymore,” Whitney protested. “Get a hold of yourself, Kazimir. Up there was defense, but do you really want to get exiled again? He’s a kid.”

  “Trust me, thief. More than anybody else in this realm, the mystics in this tower deserve every pain they suffer. The Lords know that, and they guide my hand.”

  “They’re renegades!” the young mystic forced out as Kazimir crushed his throat. “I’ll never help you.”

  Kazimir glared down at the boy, smiled, and said, “You will.”

  Whitney wasn’t totally delusional. He knew his six years spent in Elsewhere was mere minutes to Kazimir. The upyr had never told Whitney how old he was—claimed he, himself, didn’t know. Come to think of it, Whitney knew very little about the man.

  Gods, Whitney thought, he isn’t even a man.

  That thought helped as he watched the creature poke at the boy's neck with his dagger tip, over and over again, little beads of blood forming and taunting Sigrid.

  The scene brought back terrifying memories for Whitney. His first encounter with the upyr had been with Sora in the Panping Ghetto district of Winde Port. They’d stumbled upon Tayvada Bokeo, a wealthy merchant and prominent name in the city, tortured, blood pouring from his body. Then, Kazimir appeared from the darkness and stole Sora. For how short their reunions had been since then, that might as well have been the last time Whitney had seen his friend.

  Friend.

  A strange word—one that carried far too much baggage for Whitney’s weary mind to process.

  “So this is it, huh?” Whitney goaded. “A thousand years on this world and the only power you have to get answers is to torture a kid?”

  “My name is Kai T’zu,” the boy spat.

  “Pain is a great motivator, Kai T’zi,” Kazimir said.

  “So is money,” Whitney interjected.

  “Not for a mystic.”

  There was truth in those words. The mystics couldn’t have wanted for much considering the opulent tower. Whitney just didn’t understand why the Glass Kingdom hadn’t stripped the place to its bones after they won—made a fortune to stock their coffers selling it all to dwarves for gold. But the way Kazimir spoke about the mystics, like they were more wicked than even him, maybe King Liam and everybody else had been scared of what might happen if they had.

  “Let me get him talking, Maker,” Sigrid pleaded. With every passing moment, her strength returned, along with her lust. Watching her face, every bit as horrifying as a dire wolf, Whitney wished Kazimir would put her muzzle back on. If at one time she had been a normal woman, there was very little of her left.

  “You do not possess the necessary restraint,” Kazimir told her. The dagger bit deeper now, and Kai still didn’t even flinch.

  “You know,” Whitney interrupted, “as someone who’s been tortured—many times—I’ll tell you that if he hasn’t spoken yet, he is very unlikely to. I’ve heard torture is the least effective means of obtaining answers.”

  “You’ve never been tortured by me,” Kazimir said, eyeing the tip of a blade and moving toward Kai. “Now shut up so I can concentrate.”

  “If you don’t call six years stuck with you in Elsewhere torture, I don’t know what is.”

  Kai’s head was bright red, not just from the blood. Whitney could imagine the anger and the embarrassment… that in itself must have been torture. With one hand, Kazimir ripped open Kai's robe, revealing a cluster of scars that almost looked like a sundial. Then, he softly dragged the tip of the dagger to his shoulder and slowly pulled, drawing a thin line of red across one. Still nothing. No response.

  Kazimir did it to the other shoulder.

  “I do not know what you expect from me,” Kai said, staying brave.

  Kazimir didn’t respond, just drew another line, and then another. As the blood leaked out, Kazimir licked one of the wounds. His eyes sparkled, and Sigrid looked absolutely rabid. When she approached, Kazimir said, “No, you’ve had enough. This is part of your training. You must learn to resist.”

  She let out a low growl but backed away.

  “Have you ever heard of death by a thousand cuts?” Kazimir asked Kai.

  “Seriously?” Whitney said.

  Kai grunted but didn’t further respond.

  “I will stop at nine-hundred and ninety-nine,” Kazimir went on. “Then, once you heal, I will start again. I know how to keep you alive. You will only sleep long enough to keep your body functioning. You will eat the bare minimum. I have all the time in the world.”

  “I don’t,” Whitney snapped. “Sora is out there somewhere, possessed by the yigging Buried Goddess, and you want to take your time?”

  Kazimir spun around and threw one of his dagg
ers. It literally shaved Whitney’s hair just above his already damaged ear.

  “I am warning you,” Kazimir said, “I do not miss my targets. The next one will be your eye. Or maybe I’ll leave you here, let the Ancient One have her way with you upon her return.”

  Whitney knew enough about the blood pacts to know Kazimir couldn’t outright kill him without risking angering the Sanguine Lords and their desire for balance or whatever Kazimir called it. But looking at Kai in Kazimir's grip, bleeding, Whitney didn’t want to push the upyr. He hated everything that was happening, but if it meant saving Sora, he could live with hating himself for all eternity.

  “S-Sora?” Kai whispered. “Did you say Sora?”

  Whitney ran to the kid. “Yes. Sora. You know her too, like Aihara-whoever?”

  Kai blinked. “Yes, Sora Nothhelm. She was here. She… it was her.”

  “Let him go! Let him go, now!” Whitney demanded, turning on Kazimir.

  “He is lying.”

  “I am not lying,” Kai said.

  “He is not lying,” Whitney said just after, mimicking the boy’s formality. “Look, you wanted answers. This is what we get. Don’t be pissed that I got them and you didn’t. Why are you being such a shog? Showing off for your new girl—”

  Whitney knew he’d gone too far even before Kazimir’s knife tip nearly touched his eyeball. “I warned you,” he said, low and menacing.

  “Look… I just want Sora back.” Whitney backed away slowly. “Please, Kazimir.”

  He wasn’t used to begging, but he didn’t care this time.

  “Information about Sora won’t open the Well,” Kazimir said.

  “It won’t hurt either,” Whitney countered.

  Kazimir muttered under his breath. Then, the same knife that had just been a hair’s breadth from Whitney’s eye now rested securely back in its sheath, and Kazimir released his grip on Kai. The mystic toppled to the ground.

  Sigrid stalked behind Kai, inhaling deeply. Whitney could see the desperation in her eyes… she needed that blood like he needed Sora. Her entire face had healed now and with it, all the dread of her expressions. Whitney had to move fast before she lost control like Kazimir had in Winde Port. He’d had centuries of experience and still could barely handle the power emanated by Sora.