War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Whitney let out a yelp, then asked, “What is this?”

  “The night everything changed,” Kazimir replied.

  The young, virile man slid from the rooftop. It was almost as if Kazimir could taste the warm blood spreading across his face, the snow mingling, cold and hot, the sickening gurgling feeling entering his belly. Kazimir could feel it all happening to him. In an instant, he was weightless again, the solid roof no longer beneath him. Then, in the span of a star’s twinkle, he lay broken on a snow-laden street.

  “Seriously, what’s going on?” Whitney asked.

  “Just watch,” Kazimir said.

  They did, for a long time—an agonizingly long time. In the distance, wolves sang to the moons, and crickets laid a foundation for their melody. Cold Brek nights were filled with beauty, but not this night.

  “So short, the life of man, no?” spoke a man on the street, shrouded in darkness. His long shadow stretched far to cover Young Kazimir’s prone form. His voice was nearly as cold as Kazimir remembered the stone beneath him being that night.

  “No more a man than a boy, and already your life is drawing to an abrupt end,” the man went on. “Do you not wish for more?”

  Young Kazimir said nothing. Kazimir remembered being unable to speak, like his tongue was tied in knots, the sharp pain in his side stealing every breath from his lungs and all hope from his heart.

  “Do you not wish for more?” the voice repeated.

  Young Kazimir, broken on the streets, produced a weak moan.

  “Yes,” the voice growled, drawing the word out. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” the young man managed to answer.

  High above, Kazimir winced, remembering what came next. Remembering how little he’d thought about the choice. How all he’d wanted in that moment was a few more days of his lavish lifestyle, seducing the daughters of nobility, using his looks and his status to do whatever he pleased.

  The hooded stranger bent over Kazimir’s broken form and the young man’s eyes no longer allowed light to enter into his soul. Only darkness and night were his companions. But then there had been the pain. Overwhelming agony and ecstasy, together, mingling like the salt sea into rivers of sweet water. They should not have mixed, but when they did, life was given a new habitat to conquer.

  And conquer it did.

  Young Kazimir’s body pulsated. He unleashed a primal scream that echoed through the city, into the mountains, across rivers, streams, and even the Covenstan Depths, the sea to the south. Those wolves responded, their song turning to pained howls, stirring up Elsewhere itself.

  Then as quickly as they’d arrived there on the rooftops of Vidkaru, he and Whitney were whisked away. Water rushed, beating against him like a torrent. He heard the ocean, smelled the salt. Then he stood, staring into the dark abyss, spinning, and Whitney was gone. Everyone was gone, and it was only him standing upon wet sand.

  He heard a voice in his head, the same one he’d heard on the streets— Imperio Vikas Strachota, one of the first generation, born from the ashes of the Culling and the fallen mystics who'd caused it. He wasn’t then, but was now one of the Sanguine Lords.

  “My blood now courses through your veins,” Vikas said, “but its power won’t last forever. When its energy is used up, you will die just as you should have on that street.”

  They stood in what Kazimir recognized as the Sanctum of the Citadel—formally known as Svay Sobor iz Nohzi. It was as impressive now as ever, a vast sea encapsulated within the heart of the mountain. There was ancient magic at work, so old, Kazimir knew not its origins.

  There was no Young Kazimir now, only him, and he tried to speak, to ask how he was there again after so many years, but his words wouldn’t come. He had no control over his body. Instead, he felt his mouth move all on its own. “What do I do?”

  Words he recalled speaking so many centuries ago—the same words he wanted to speak now.

  “You must devour a piece of the ageless beast, the dark spawn of gods and goddesses; their scions of balance,” Vikas replied. “Should it first devour you, your spirit, your soul will be lost to Elsewhere forever.”

  Kazimir, still stuck inside his own body, felt panic for the first time since he woke up in Elsewhere with Whitney. He could feel it all now and knew that if he could feel the wind against his face, he would also feel what came next, and this was not something he wished to ever experience again.

  No, my Lords, he thought. What have I done to deserve this? Please, not this.

  His eyes scanned the horizon. Dark, brooding water as far as he could see. Waves, gently lapping at his feet. A wave came to a crest, small and harmless. It was followed by another, and then another, until the waters sloshed with fury. Then, the wianu named Dakel un Ghastrin rose before him. He stared at the beast as if for the first time but with all their terrifying history as well.

  Eyes, black as pitch and large as wagon wheels stared back at him as they rose like two dark moons from the depths of the waters. The underground sea cascaded off its round, lumpy head, and it opened its maw and screamed. Kazimir could feel its hot breath, the smell of death upon it. He could see a dozen rows of razor-sharp teeth and its throat, endless, like a portal into Exile.

  Kazimir’s heart quickened. He tried to steer his arms, but the movement was out of his control. He was doomed to experience the battle all over again, just as it had happened. He pulled a long sword from a scabbard at his waist and dug his boots into the ground.

  A thick tentacle lashed out and swept Kazimir’s feet from beneath him. His face crashed hard against the sand, blinding him. He wiped his eyes as another tentacle, or maybe the same one, whipped across his back and sent him down again.

  “If you do not fight back, you will surely perish,” said Imperio Vikas Strachota from within Kazimir’s mind.

  “I’m trying!” he growled. “How am I supposed to fight this thing!”

  Kazimir rolled, luckily avoiding a downward-striking tentacle. His eyes burned from the salt, and the sand, but he ran toward Dakel un Ghastrin, narrowly avoiding several more attacks, jumping, diving. One slapped him across the neck, shoving him to the side, but he kept running.

  Don’t do this, Kazimir thought, but if his younger self perceived it, he ignored him altogether.

  He felt himself leave the ground, leaping through the air with his sword held high, poised to stab.

  Fool! he cried out internally, but it didn't stop the tentacular appendages from closing around him on both sides, threatening to tear him apart.

  Kazimir’s eyes bulged, blood rushing to his brain. He thought he was going to pass out. Even though he knew how this ended, he still didn’t want to be there. As the wianu pulled him closer to its wide-open gullet, Kazimir thrashed to no avail. His arms were pinned down, and he fought with every ounce of strength just to keep his sword in his hands.

  Then he felt it. A cold, clammy tentacle wrapping itself around his ankle. Sharp, hot, blinding pain surged through him, and he felt his leg tear away from his body.

  “You must fight,” Vikas said.

  Kazimir screamed but dug down. He could feel Vikas’ gifted blood pouring from his leg. Knowing that if he did nothing, he would shrivel up and die on that beach, Kazimir bent his neck, straining against the creature, and bit hard on the tentacle closest to his mouth. It was hard and rubbery, and he nearly retched at the taste. Still, he sank his teeth in deeper and pulled away a large chunk.

  Dakel un Ghastrin roared and repositioned itself just enough for Kazimir to wriggle his sword arm free. He brought the blade down in an arc that sheared off the tip of one of the appendages. As it clattered to the water below, a stream of inky blood gushed out onto Kazimir’s face. He drank deeply, and as he did, he felt a tingle where his leg used to be. He didn’t know it at the time, but his leg grew back like a lizard that’d lost its tail.

  XIX

  The Thief

  One moment, Whitney stood next to Kazimir on a thousand-year-old rooftop, staring down
onto the streets of Vidkaru, Brekliodad’s ancient capital city, the next, he found himself in Yarrington. His pulse was racing from what he’d just seen.

  Two Kazimirs? Yikes.

  Blinking, he turned a slow circle, and then a faster one. The city was as he remembered it—exactly as he remembered it. It was as if he'd stood in that same spot once before. Continuing his examination of his surroundings, he stopped, eyes widening.

  “Sora!” Whitney screamed. He ran, but as he’d experienced once before in the place Sora called Nowhere, his legs wouldn’t take him anywhere.

  “Not this again," he groaned. “Sora!”

  She was less than ten meters away, but if she’d heard him, she showed no signs of it. She wore a nondescript, gray cloak—one Whitney had seen plenty of times before. It covered her weapons and her many scars from blooding. She talked to someone, a man, he noted, whose back was turned to Whitney. His dark green hood was drawn—in broad daylight.

  What kind of vagabond, no-good dirtbag wears his hood in broad daylight?

  Unbridled jealousy overwhelmed him. Then Sora smiled. That small action melted Whitney’s heart like butter left outside on a hot day. With one finger, Sora tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. The man immediately reached up and yanked the hair back down, covering her Panpingese heritage. Her smile vanished, exchanged for bright red cheeks that Whitney knew as a mixture of anger and embarrassment. She punched the man in the arm, and Whitney instinctively clutched his bicep, knowing the feeling so well.

  Whitney bit his lip and scowled. He wanted to stomp over there and drive his boot through the man’s chest.

  How dare he—

  His internalized threat was cut off when the man peered over his shoulder, and Whitney saw familiar blue eyes staring back at him. The memory came like a rushing wind. It was so long ago in his mind—immediately after returning from the Webbed Woods. Torsten had just ennobled him, Lord Blisslayer, and he and Sora were making plans to travel to Panping in an effort to uncover more of Sora’s abilities. Who knew she’d wind up there alone, only to find out she was King Liam’s bastard, heathen daughter? Hidden away from Oleander and the world. Forgotten.

  Whitney wished upon every holy and sacred thing that they’d have crossed the realm on foot, or just stayed in Yarrington, even returned to Troborough—anything but going to Winde Port.

  He moved closer, hoping this vision worked as Kazimir’s had and he wouldn’t be seen. He was right.

  “I’m telling you,” the memory of Whitney said, “once we get past that guard, the wealth inside would be incredible.”

  “I don’t care, Whit,” Sora replied. “I’m not going to be party to such senseless violence.”

  “Sora, Sora, Sora… Oh, sweet, innocent, Sora.”

  “Don’t do that,” Sora said.

  “Do what?”

  “That… patronize me. Just because I don’t want to lure a guard into an alley so you can knock him out doesn’t mean I’m some kind of child.”

  “So—what then?” Whitney asked. “How do you propose we get in?”

  “It’s the Society of Nobility, isn’t it?” Sora asked.

  “Yes, and?”

  “Aren’t you a noble, Lord Blisslayer?”

  “And freely offer them my name just before swiping every last gem hanging from their wrists and necks? No, thank you.” Whitney rolled his eyes. “Besides, it isn’t thieving if you get in fair and square.”

  “It isn’t thieving if you go around beating up innocents either!” Sora protested.

  “Innocents? Are you mad? That man is a city guard, not a Shieldsman like Torsten. I’m sure he’s got himself elbow deep in Valin Tehr’s coffers, keeping quiet about all manner of ill dealings.”

  “I am not using my assets to knock out a guard!”

  “Shhhh, keep your voice down,” the memory of Whitney said, patting the air. “Fine. Fine, we’ll do it your way.”

  As he watched himself wrap his arm around Sora’s back, bright light hit Whitney, and he felt himself being torn away from the vision. He thought he was going to swallow his tongue. A million colors swirled around him, rapidly. He tried to scream out, flailed his arms, desperate not to lose Sora, but that was it. She was gone. Again.

  Lightning flashed around him, sizzling the very air. He felt himself swimming through water, then his body came to a halt, floating midair above a scratched and faded wooden table.

  Now, he was in a dingy old restaurant. Another younger version of himself and Sora were eating and talking. Other such tables surrounded them, but most were unoccupied. Through a dirty, grime-streaked window, he saw the Grambling Inn, still standing. They were seated at the Chowder House, and he knew this was long before the storm would sweep through Grambling and force him and all of the Pompare Troupe into hiding—but it was also mere weeks after his last vision and only days before, ultimately, he and Sora would be separated in Winde Port.

  “Just follow my lead,” Younger Whitney said.

  “What are you going to do?” Sora asked.

  “Lesson number forty-four: never pay for something you can get for free.”

  Before Sora could answer, he pulled a small leather pouch and a vial with a dropper from his cloak. He filled the dropper with dark red liquid from the vial and dribbled some onto his lip. It streamed down his chin and dripped onto the table.

  “What are—”

  One finger over his lips, Younger Whitney shushed Sora and poured the contents of the leather pouch into his chowder. Little, glinting, glass shards plopped into the white stew.

  “You’re kidding me,” Sora said. “Whit, we have the money for this meal.”

  “Just play along.”

  Hovering above it all, Whitney laughed. He remembered the grift quite well and used it quite often.

  Sora scanned the room, then Younger Whitney started coughing, loudly. His coughing turned to agonized screams, and the owner of the small restaurant rushed over.

  “Sir, what is wro—oh, my!” the owner exclaimed, noticing the fake blood.

  “I’ve cut myself on something…” He coughed. “Something in your chowder. A—a—a bone or something.”

  “Someone, come quick and help this man,” the owner said, turning and snapped his fingers toward his servants.

  Whitney quickly wiped away the “blood” with the back of his hand so it couldn’t be further examined. Now that the owner had seen it, that would be enough. The owner lifted Whitney’s spoon and began sifting through the bowl.

  “Oh, dear, are you alright?” Sora said with believable skill. “Sir, is he going to be okay?” Whitney could see by her expression that she hated playing along, but she did it anyway.

  Still coughing, Whitney said, “I’m… I’m okay. I—gracious! Is that… glass? What kind of establishment is this! You’re serving me bits of glass!”

  “Sir, please calm—” The whole restaurant was watching now, many whispering to one another. Some even pushed their own bowls away in disgust.

  “I cannot—will not—calm down. You nearly killed me!”

  “Oh, no! Is he dying?” Sora asked. “He’s going to die, isn’t he!” It was a bit melodramatic, but everyone was so focused on Whitney, it was doubtful anyone heard her at all.

  “Ma’am, please. Your husband isn’t going to die.”

  “How do you know?” she asked. “Oh, breath of Iam, it looks bad. It’s bad.”

  The owner looked away to call over more help, and Whitney gestured for Sora to dial it down a little. She smiled weakly before her face returned to a state of shock.

  “This meal is on the house,” the owner told one of the others attending to Whitney. Then, he turned to address the rest of the customers. “Everything is quite alright. Please, if you ordered the chowder, stop eating immediately. There’s nothing to worry about. Just give… give us a moment, and we’ll make things right.”

  “Oh, Lord Blisslayer,” Sora said.

  Whitney, watching from above, had forgot
ten that bit. It was the smartest play he’d seen Sora make in their short time together. He remembered that moment, and the glint in her eye when she really started to have fun. That was the moment that Whitney knew—really knew—he loved her. He only wished he’d told her.

  “Lord…” the owner said, breathless. “Iam’s shog. Please, forgive us, my Lord.” The man once again turned to an employee. “Tell Chef Regis to come right away, then quickly go across the street to the inn and speak with Mister Balleybeck. Secure a room for the Lord and his Lady. Now!”

  Everyone scurried off to do their bit, but that was all Whitney would see, floating above it all.

  His stomach flipped, and the scene changed once more. Red stone walls rose up on all sides. He was in the Red Tower, but not in the room with the Well of Wisdom. Instead, a moat of flowing water rushed around him. He nearly cowered at the sight of no less than five wianu within the waters until he realized they were all made of stone. They looked so real and frightful, their eyes, deep-set gems, but any fear of the wianu was entirely eclipsed by the sound of human screams.

  Blood was everywhere. Had he been corporeal, he’d have slipped in a pool of it.

  Sora held a knife in one hand, and her other was extended, a steady stream of flame pouring from it. The fire hit a robed man in the chest, sending him soaring across the room, blackening immediately. His crisp body splashed into the water. Without sparing a second glance, Sora twirled and sliced the throat of another man. Blood gushed out of the wound and drenched the man’s yellow robes. He held up his hands—no, just one hand, and the other arm appeared to be nothing more than a nub.

  Other bodies lay strewn across the room, doused in blood.

  So different, this Sora was from the one Whitney had just watched. She wasn’t afraid to play his games, but she hadn't even wanted to knock a guard unconscious. To see the visions so near to one another…

  A bolt of lightning coruscated toward Sora, fizzling upon reaching her. Sora ducked down low, then rose quickly, her hands flat like boards. Mirroring her movement, a pillar of flames shot up in a spiral beneath the mystic woman who’d hurled the lightning bolt. The woman’s screams as her skin blistered seemed to linger long after she’d fallen dead, and her now-vacant eyes stayed fixated on Sora.