War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  All she knew was he was meant to be painted black, naturally, by the blood of the nigh’jels who helped the chosen Caleef survive the Boiling Waters. And he was meant to be garbed in gold, face covered by beads; unworthy of being looked upon by mere mortals.

  All she saw was a starving, pathetic man covered in cuts and bruises.

  XVII

  The Knight

  “You did a fine job not dying, my friend.”

  Torsten’s eyes opened to find Dellbar the Holy seated at the end of his bed. White robes, spattered with red draped off his slender shoulders and his hands still showed the stain of blood, dried chunks of it bunching under his fingernails.

  “Are you—” Torsten asked.

  “I’m fine,” Dellbar said. “We all are, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did, shouldering the battle on your own. Foolish, but brave.” He popped the top off a leather flask and threw back a sip, then held it out for Torsten.

  He stared, wordless.

  “Oh c’mon, live a little.” Dellbar pawed for Torsten’s hand with his open one, found it, then placed the flask inside.

  “Some priest,” Torsten said. But he lifted the flask to his lips nonetheless. Then, drawing a deep breath, said, “Iam forgive me,” before downing a mouthful. He expected to retch from the bitterness, but Dellbar had exquisite taste. Honeyed wine, probably a vintage older than either of them.

  “Good, right?” he laughed. “You think I’m the first priest who liked a drink here and there? Found this bottle in the crypts below the Yarrington Cathedral.”

  Torsten took another sip, then wiped his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d imbibed, even so little, but with aches in places he didn’t know could ache, he took one last sip before Dellbar could grab it. Besides, he was thirsty. So dreadfully thirsty.

  “It is not the occasional drink I worry about,” Torsten said, more to convince himself than anything else. He knew how his father got when he’d had one too many. His mother too, though she did it for other reasons.

  Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Torsten positioned himself next to Dellbar. He felt like he’d been trampled by a wagon pulled by zhulong. A wave of dizziness rushed to his head as well, and he toppled over.

  “Sir Unger, you all right?” Lucas hurried into the room and helped Torsten upright. He held his shoulders and stared straight at him.

  Dellbar laughed. “Lightweight.”

  “I’m fine, boy,” Torsten said. He shrugged him away and rubbed his temples. “Just tired.”

  “And alive. That wasn’t part of the plan, Sir. We were ready, through the eastern gate. Didn’t you see our signal?”

  “I decided that this fight was my own.”

  “Right, ye did!” Brouben exclaimed, entering as well. “By Meungor’s Axe, would I have loved to see ye work. Killing, all of them by yerself. Was a shog shuckin bloodbath!”

  “I only killed one,” Torsten said.

  “And what a fight it must’ve been,” Brouben said. “Yer men praise ye. Tonight, we feast in yer honor. Brought ale from the heart of Balonhearth just for such an occasion.”

  “Did you now?” Dellbar asked.

  Torsten gritted his teeth. All their chattering made his head hurt even more. He was about to complain about the lack of privacy when he realized where he was. There was no ceiling, only a bit of charred lumber and crumbled stone. They were in one of the White Bridge’s ruined towers.

  As they talked, more memories of the fight returned. Mak’s last words, that they’d all been deceived, and that the Buried Goddess had truly returned that day on Mount Lister, just not through Redstar. Of course, he was a twisted savage about to die. He could have been lying. One last barb to get under Torsten's skin and stick there. But if he spoke the truth?

  Torsten stood, and again, the blood rushed to his head. He fell back, caught by Lucas.

  “His Holiness says you took a hard blow to the head, Sir,” Lucas said.

  “Several,” Dellbar added with a burp.

  “You should lie down,” Lucas continued.

  “Plenty of time for that when I’m dead,” Torsten bristled. “His Holiness should be out there, tending to the poor souls that savage crucified.”

  “You slept a full day,” Dellbar said, mouth wet with his latest sip. “They’re being taken care of… those who are alive. Rest have passed along to the Gate of Light.” He raised his flask in acknowledgment.

  “How many? This act of…” Torsten’s words trailed off. He wasn’t even sure if anyone answered. Suddenly, his weary mind homed in on one such victim of Mak’s wanton cruelty.

  “Rand,” he said.

  “What?” Lucas asked.

  Torsten got to his feet, and this time, used the young Shieldsman. He didn’t offer him a chance to resist, just started walking toward the exit, forcing him to help.

  “Ye really should sit down,” Brouben said. Torsten ignored him, and the dwarven prince had no choice but to step aside.

  “Take me to the injured,” Torsten ordered.

  “Sir—” Lucas was cut off.

  “Take me.”

  They moved outside and, where Torsten might’ve expected Iam’s light to shine upon such a favorable day, clouds blotted the sky. A light drizzle pattered against his bald pate, though not enough to wash away the dried blood.

  Blood also stained the whole of the bridge, pink puddles splashing as carts loaded with corpses rolled toward the gates—all of them, dead for nothing. And not only them—Glassmen had carts of their own, everyone who’d died from being crucified, piled high. So many that Torsten feared it was most of them. The crucifixes had been destroyed, but that sight would haunt him forever.

  “Hail, Sir Unger!” Sir Marcos shouted the moment he saw him. He looked up from dragging a body… Mak’s body.

  “Hail the hero of White Bridge!” another yelled. Then another, until every person on the bridge was chanting his name.

  Torsten froze. He had fought in many wars, countless battles, been on both the winning and losing side—he’d never been received like this. As a boy, growing up in the filth of Dockside, he’d dreamed of such a reception, of being treated like Liam the Conqueror. He shook away the thought, ashamed.

  “Where are the injured?” Torsten asked softly.

  “Sir, do you hear them?” Lucas said at the same time, barely able to contain his exuberance. “I heard one of them call you ‘Torsten the Triumphant.’”

  Torsten couldn’t remember ever seeing Lucas smile like this before. Not even after Valin was slain and his family was safe from the crime lord.

  The name… Torsten the Triumphant. Torsten didn’t want to admit how good it felt to no longer be considered Torsten the Foolhardy Murderer of Shieldsmen, but now wasn't the time.

  “The injured. Take me,” he said.

  Lucas’ face showed his disappointment. “They’re in the eastern towers. I’ll help you.”

  Lucas took his arm like he used to when Torsten had been completely blind. Each warrior they passed proclaimed his name. Even Brouben’s dwarven contingent offered him their respect. Glassmen bowed their heads, raised their swords—everything they didn’t do when he’d returned from Winde Port, labeled a traitor.

  Lucas led him over the spot where Torsten and Mak had battled, where Mak had told him that Nesilia wasn’t gone; that they’d all been deceived. The faded circle of blood still remained, forever entrenched within the stone.

  Torsten stopped again, struggling to focus through the deafening appraisal on every side of them. “Drad Mak said something, Lucas.” He could barely form the words. “He said that she wasn’t really defeated. That she’s already returned.”

  “Who?” Lucas asked

  “Nesilia.” It felt like poison on his lips.

  Lucas didn’t hesitate for even a second. “He was lying.”

  “If I’ve learned anything living as long as I have, Men don’t lie as death approaches. It’s the one time when the truth is mor
e terrifying.”

  “You’ve said it yourself. These weren’t men. They’re monsters.”

  Torsten shook his head solemnly. “They all took their own lives. No fear. No hesitation. It’s like they wanted to die here, wanted us to think that here on this Bridge, the last shred of Drav Cra power fell. Yet they’re raiding dwarven cities?”

  “Sir Unger.” Lucas stepped in front of Torsten, forcing him to stop. “Their Arch Warlock is dead. Their greatest chieftain is dead. It will take many years for them to be a real threat again. We won.”

  “Did we?”

  “We must have. Why else would Iam have led us here? Mak was all that remained of Redstar’s horde, and now they’re all gone.”

  Torsten put on a frail smile and gave the boy’s shoulder a shake. “When did you become so wise, Sir Danvels?”

  “I had a good teacher. Come now, we’re almost there.”

  Lucas started to lead Torsten again. He accepted the help, but his own words rang hollow. Everything Lucas had said made sense. Redstar had lost everything. The Drav Cra were probably raiding dwarves because they were scared, starving, and leaderless. They’d never been a true threat to the Glass Kingdom before, only a nuisance. They were too scattered; too wild.

  Rounding a corner into one of the ravaged towers at the eastern gate, the chants of “Torsten the Triumphant” faded into memory. Here, the floor was wet. Not with blood, but from the water used to wash it away. Throughout the room, men and women lay on bedrolls. All of them had bandages tight around their hands and ankles and wore rags that could barely cover their many scrapes and bruises.

  Torsten would have preferred the smell of Valin’s brothel to this. It wasn't just blood, but wounds that had been left out in the sun to fester, eaten away by flesh worms. Infection had its own special stink. As monks and sisters darted around the room like flies, Torsten watched as one sister closed the eyes of a victim who’d clung to life so long yet passed on anyway.

  “Everyone is doing what they can,” Lucas said.

  Torsten covered his mouth, turned, and leaned against the wall. Maybe it was his head, still swimming from the fight, but it was probably the fetid stench that had him teetering at the point of vomiting.

  “Thanks to what you did, we were able to pull them down quicker,” Lucas went on. “A proper siege could have lasted days.”

  “Have all of the Drav Cra bodies dumped and burned,” Torsten ordered, as if Lucas wasn't in the midst of praising him.

  “Sir, that’s not our way.”

  “I will not waste precious time and resources treating them like our own. They would use fire, and so should we. I want every man we can spare focused on catering to these people—our people—not digging holes. The families of those who died here will receive a tribute from the Crown. This may have been the work of savages, but we invited them in.”

  “A kind gesture, Sir. I’ll spread the word.”

  “It is not just kind,” Torsten said. “It is right.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  When Lucas didn’t immediately move, Torsten said, "What are you waiting for?”

  A response died on Lucas’ lips before he pounded his chest in salute and departed. Steadying himself against the wall, Torsten studied each victim, searching for the face he recognized.

  “Sir Unger, it is so good to see you again,” a sister of Iam said, placing a hand on Torsten’s arm. She then traced her eyes with her fingers, then bowed. Torsten didn’t recognize her. Maybe it was the hood drawn up over her shaved head.

  Torsten sloppily returned the gesture. “And you, Sister…”

  “Nauriyal. My apologies, I forgot that when we met in the capital, you still had no sight. It warmed my heart to hear about the miracle which let you see again. I knew then that I had to join your march. And now, it seems Iam had a purpose for me. To help these poor people.”

  “Ah, yes, now I remember,” Torsten lied. He’d had his mind on many other things while in Yarrington. Dealing with the absence of a High Priest while the others argued wasn't even the most pressing of those concerns.

  “These people are lucky to have you,” he added. “If you'll excuse me.

  “Oh, of course,” she said.

  He squeezed by her to keep searching for Rand. He made it all the way across the ruined tower’s floor before he found him. Lying on his back beside a smashed weapon's rack, was Rand Langley.

  He was so skinny and ragged, not a soul would have recognized him. But even if Torsten were still blind, he'd have known this man. In the eyes of the kingdom, the truth of Rand’s relationship with Valin Tehr was left buried so he could remain the Redeemer who’d stood against Redstar when nobody else had, and who’d freed Torsten from the Glass Castle dungeons to stop him.

  A ratty beard now covered his chin. He was shirtless, glistening with sweat, and his ribs showed through loose skin. A redeemer… he looked anything but.

  “Sir Unger…” he rasped, eyelids spreading wide as he could manage. Another sister of Iam kneeled next to him, cleaning off a stab wound on his thigh. It wasn’t the only one he bore, either. By how terrible he looked, the very fact that he still breathed seemed a blessing from Iam.

  “Leave us,” Torsten said to the sister. She started to protest, but his glower left no room for debate. With a quick bow, she hurried off to tend to someone else. Since there were no seats available, Torsten lowered himself to the floor beside the ex-Shieldsman.

  “Sir Unger,” Rand repeated. Even turning his head to face Torsten seemed a struggle. “Torsten…”

  “You saved my life,” Torsten said. “You saved all of these peoples’ lives.”

  “I helped put them there, too. I faced Mak and lost.”

  “Why were you here, Rand?”

  Rand swallowed the lump in his throat, said nothing.

  “I know everything,” Torsten said. “I know where you really vanished to on the Dawning. I know about Valin and the Caleef.”

  Rand closed his eyes, tears welling in them, and turned away. His words came out in a choking gargle. “I had no choice, Torsten.”

  “I can't believe that.”

  “He helped me. I helped him. That was the vow.” A moment passed in silence before he continued. “He took my sister as collateral. Threatened everything. What would you have had me do?”

  A thousand different responses raced through Torsten’s mind. He bit back all of them. He’d never had a family—not one worth the shog they produced, that is—and Valin knew how to use man’s weaknesses. He’d done the same to Lucas, even King Pi after Oleander was murdered.

  “Where is the Caleef?” Torsten asked. “The Kingdom doesn’t know. It never needs to. It’s just you and me here, Rand.”

  “He’s… dead.” Rand exhaled slowly. “I watched him fall over the bridge myself. Mak captured us. We nearly escaped but… but he fell. I couldn’t save him.”

  Torsten’s head fell into his palms. He rubbed his face vigorously. “They’ll never forgive us for this.”

  “Sir Unger, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Rand grasped at Torsten’s arm, but Torsten pulled it away. His hand balled, trembling, but he never struck the ex-Shieldsman.

  Then Rand’s tears turned to weeping. “He’s going to kill her when he finds out… I… made a promise…”

  “To a dead man,” Torsten said.

  “What?”

  “The Crown knows Valin was working with the traitorous Darkings family. He’s paid the ultimate price.”

  Rand sat up. “And Sigrid? My sister. He would’ve been holding her prisoner.” He threw himself at Torsten. “Torsten, was she there? You can do whatever you want to me, but tell me she’s alive.”

  Torsten felt wool in his throat, swallowed against the dryness, and held his tongue. He’d encountered Sigrid on the night Oleander died. Whatever she was to Rand, darkness had twisted her into an upyr—a deathless assassin surviving on blood and far beyond the light of Iam, a heartless monster, used by monsters to settle p
acts of blood.

  “She…” Torsten paused. All he could manage was to shake his head.

  In Rand’s situation, he knew it’s what he’d want. If the person he loved had become something so terrible, it was better not to know. To hold only the good memories of her in his heart and mind forever. Like with Oleander and her husband. Better she remember the King than the whoremonger. The Sigrid Langley Rand knew was dead. All that remained was a creature of fallen gods and darkness.

  Rand drooped back. What little color remained in his gaunt cheeks vanished. “Then, it was all for nothing.” His weeping turned to uncontrollable sobs. “I left her behind to die. How could I have trusted him!”

  “Everything happens for a reason, Rand,” Torsten said. “Do you know what they call you in the capital? ‘Rand the Redeemer.’ Twice now, you’ve appeared from nowhere to save me from certain death. Ever since Redstar arrived in Yarrington, I should have been dead so many times, but Iam keeps placing others in front of me.”

  “Why would she die, yet he still lives?” Rand asked, voice distorted from crying.

  “The men who led you here have paid, Rand. It’s not too late to live up to your namesake.”

  “Is that traitor still down there in the dungeons, hiding like a stuck pig?” A pitiful chuckle slipped through his lips.

  “Who?”

  Rand laid back and clutched his face, lost in a mixture of crying and laughter. “Oh Iam, are you enjoying this?”

  Torsten backed away slowly. He hadn’t been sure what he’d say when he saw Rand again, and he still wasn’t sure what to think. The poor young man wasn’t making much sense. He’d endured more than anyone ever should’ve had to, and no matter how well-meaning he was, he always wound up knee-deep in shog.

  Torsten left him there and crossed the aisle of suffering. A few people addressed him, but he was too focused to care. He’d been to White Bridge before and knew the layout, so he crossed a bit of rubble to a busted door which led outside to a staircase to the cliffside dungeons.

  He descended slowly until the natural rock turned to carved stone and the air grew stale and chilly. Brushing a bit of hanging moss aside, he entered a row of barred cells. It stank. Within one cell, a Drav Cra warrior slumped against the wall, blood-soaked dagger in his hand, and his throat cut wide open.