War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “You know I can’t.”

  “I’m in your head, Caliphar. I can feel how weak you are. This girl will be the last to bear your essence, won’t she? The last of your eyes and ears up above. You know you cannot stand against me. Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’ve always been a fool when it comes to you,” Caliphar, the God of Sand and Sea said. “No longer. You think you can rule all these mortals, but that’s not ever what it was about. We’ve become whispers in the backs of their minds, Nesilia, that is all. It’s time to go home.”

  “You disappoint me once again. I’ll see you soon, big brother. But don’t worry, I’ll be gentle on her.”

  The darkness raced at Mahi, enveloping her, filling her lungs and heart. She felt hopeless—wanted to let go of everyone and everything. She would have screamed if she could have.

  And then it was gone.

  Her body rolled across something firm. Her fingers scooped wet sand. She coughed, and water bubbled out. Weeds, shells, and dead nigh’jels coated her arms and legs, carried by the gentle waves.

  “Mahraveh.” A voice, calm and sweet. Then, a gentle force lifted her from her chin to her knees. She had a body again.

  Mahi found herself staring into the stark white eyes of a Siren. The sand, which comprised her being, swirled into the figure of a woman, all at once beautiful and terrifying.

  “You.” Mahi coughed. This was the Siren who’d taken Jumaat from her. Mahi could never forget those eyes. “What happened… I…”

  The Siren hushed her. “Caliphar has chosen you to carry his essence, my daughter.”

  “What?” She coughed again. More water gushed out—more than should have been humanly possible to contain.

  “I am the last of his will. The end of his Current. He always said that when a child of the Light sacrificed himself, I would go. I am his heart, now you will be. She comes, Daughter. Without relent. There can be no hiding any longer.”

  “Who?”

  “The end,” the Siren said. “You felt her. She’s beyond reason. You must bring our people together, or we will fade into darkness. The Kingdom of Glass is not your enemy. Not anymore.”

  “What darkness?” Mahi pleaded. “I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

  “Time to come together is running out,” the Siren warned. “Your union will be in life, or in death. It is in your hands now.”

  Before Mahi could ask anything else, the sand seized her. She was wrenched upright, gasping for air, her back arched, and the Siren rushed forward through her chest. It felt like she was being pried open. Another scream rattled forth from her lips, but it was squelched as water poured past her lips and flooded her mouth.

  Mahi was drowning again. Only this time, she didn’t tumble aimlessly. The water whirled around her, filled with creatures and life, glowing green with nigh’ jels. At first, the coral and the shells cut her, peeling away her skin until only pink flesh remained. She could smell the blood, and not only hers. The shrill cries of nigh’jels engulfed her. She had no idea they could even make sounds.

  Then, the pain stopped. Mahi found herself on her hands and knees in the black sand, chest heaving. She looked up, and the light of Pantego’s moons bathed her naked body. Then she looked down and saw her hand. Every inch of it was covered in blackness beyond her natural gray skin. Her gaze followed the blackness to her wrist, then up her arm, to her chest and legs. It was everywhere, dark as pitch, covering all the tattoos and scars she’d earned in her short time as a warrior—all the things that told the story of who she was.

  Mahi’s hands balled as she stood. The corpses of nigh’jels and other creatures dripped off her. She didn’t just feel the sand against her bare feet, she could sense every single grain. And the air against her sodden cheeks—she knew where it came from, where it was going. The waves against her ankles, too.

  She could feel all the shifting currents of her world. Now she knew why Sidar Rakun’s painted skin bubbled and peeled upon his return. She knew why he was broken. The God of Sand and Sea hadn’t forsaken them, he’d merely moved on. She knew in the same way all those chosen before her must have known the moment they emerged from the Boiling Waters when they should have been dead.

  She was no longer Mahraveh of the Ayerabi, of the al’Tariq, or any other afhemate.

  She was the Caleef.

  XXVI

  The Rebel

  Muskigo sat in the Boiling Keep, staring through the hole in the floor, that portal which had once seemed so blameless—a tool of dealing justice, nothing more. Now it felt like a hole pierced through his own heart.

  Shavi’s death struck hard, but she’d lived a long, worthy life in service to his afhemate. Farhan and Impili—they, like so many other warriors, fell with honor, knowing full well what they’d been fighting for.

  But Mahraveh… his little sand mouse… It’d been days, and still, Muskigo had no idea who to ask about why Yuri Darkings would've murdered her. His God certainly wasn’t answering. Yuri had been talking strangely ever since their reunion, reminiscing, but what was there to be gained by Mahi’s death? Surely, he could have killed someone, anyone else to regain favor with his people, if that was his goal. Muskigo, himself, hadn’t been more than another step away. If he’d plummeted, surely the petulant King of Glass would have thrown a celebration in honor of Yuri Darkings, the rebel-slayer.

  All Muskigo knew for sure was that he’d been the one to put Yuri beside her. A traitor of the highest order and he’d trusted that pis’truda enough to let him into these chambers; to let him guide his daughter. It may have been Yuri’s hand, but Muskigo had killed her.

  There was a sudden pain in his hands, and he noticed he was squeezing so hard his nails drew blood, and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth. It was all he could do to keep his rage in check.

  The palace sages and eunuchs stood around the gilded Sea Door which was decorated with shells and coral. One by one, they blessed men arriving from across the Black Sands as they were stripped down, doused in nigh’jel blood, and coated in sand from the seabed. They were presented a bowl to spit in; their water to mingle with all those who’d come before to take the plunge.

  Only one of them would be chosen by the God of Sand and Sea. Only one of them would rise from the torrent of the Boiling Waters, carried by a Siren. The next Caleef of the Shesaitju people.

  All Muskigo would wonder was if they’d see Mahi’s body floating down there. Yuri’s fetid corpse still remained, crushed upon the rocks below, slowly being eaten away by birds and nibbled on by fish. Muskigo spat down upon him.

  All his life, Muskigo had been a warrior, but there was no war to be had against the traitor. No one to beat. Nothing to tear to pieces. There was only Muskigo “The Scythe,” alone with his thoughts, worrying, hoping that his daughter's face, the one that he pictured every time he closed his eyes, would slowly be forgotten.

  He cursed himself even for the thought. Like he could ever forget… that he should ever want to forget…

  The latest tribute to offer his body to the waters sacrificed his spit, then was led through a prayer in an ancient dialect of Saitjuese only the scrote-less minions of the palace bothered to study and remember. One held a nigh’jel high above him. The helpless creature didn’t squirm, it didn’t do anything, as if mimicking Sidar Rakun in his final hours on Pantego. Their ancestors thought that meant they'd wholly given in to the Current, which somehow made them holy.

  Now, Muskigo questioned if they were just senseless, that they hadn’t given in to anything, only found themselves without water to breathe.

  Had he once been so dense?

  The sage split the creature with a serrated knife, and its iridescent green blood poured out over the tribute. Outside of the creature’s translucent body, its color was quickly sapped by the air, even thickening, and morphing into a jet black paste. It ran down the tribute’s neck, arms, and chest. And then, like the others before, he made the choice to step off to his likely doom. To put his
faith in, well… faith.

  Muskigo had little of that left. He couldn’t help but chuckle. Another body given in vain, another markless man who could’ve served in a war against the Glass that would now never happen. Babrak had the loyalty of nearly every afhem worth his salt, and Muskigo's army remained far away… alongside the now afhem-less army of al’Tariq.

  The Serpent Guards at the entry lifted their fauchards and stepped aside. To speak of the betrayer…

  Afhem Babrak Trisps’I strode in, still hobbling from the wounds Mahi had inflicted upon him. He left his harem of wives and servants at the door and strode toward Muskigo. His zhulong leather armor was now plated with gold on the shoulders and joints. He may as well have been wearing a crown.

  “Afhem Muskigo,” he said, stopping just paces away. “You’re still here?”

  Muskigo grunted an incoherent response. All he could think about was grabbing the traitorous liar and launching him to the same depths which claimed his daughter. But there was no honor in that, not in this sacred room, and honor was all Muskigo had left.

  “This arrived today by courier.” Babrak removed a scroll from his belt and presented it. “From the Glass Crown.”

  Muskigo didn’t take the scroll. “And the courier?” he said, almost in a growl.

  “Nobody of importance.”

  “Where is he being held?”

  “He’ll be on his way back across the Black Sands shortly,” Babrak said, rolling the parchment between his fingers.

  “You let him go? He’ll know about what happened to Sidar; that we are without a leader.”

  “Are you so foolish?” Babrak said, looking around the room for anyone who'd laugh with him. “They already think—they know we’re without a leader. Dead or lost, what does it matter?”

  “You know it matters!”

  “He’s a courier, not a warlord. Take your rage out on somebody else, Muskigo. Only you are responsible for bringing that lech, Darkings, here. Responsible for all this mess, really. Perhaps I went beyond my allowances by giving you the Dagger of Damikmagrin, but our next Caleef will decide what will be done with you. I suspect the Ayerabi won’t exist much longer and Saujibar will be left to the shifting sands.”

  Muskigo stood slowly, went face-to-face with Babrak. His nostrils flared. If he’d had a weapon, he wasn’t sure he wouldn't have gutted the man like those poor nigh’jels.

  “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” he said.

  “Am I really the villain in your fantasy?” Babrak asked. He pretended to brush something off Muskigo’s shoulder, and both men stared each other down. Then, Babrak spoke up again. “While you made a mess of things in the west and got our Caleef killed, I was the only one who was here, holding us together.” He slapped the letter into Muskigo’s hand, so he had no choice but to take it. “Read this, and let me know your thoughts. It’s one last chance at peace.”

  “Who cares what a doomed afhem thinks?”

  “You are many things, and I won’t be sad to see you gone, we both know that, but you’ve bested me many times on the battlefield.” Babrak breathed in, then said through clenched teeth, “You’re the best warrior we have. So, until the new Caleef decides your fate, at least put some of your knowledge about strategy to good use. They’ll find out about Sidar Rakun’s fate soon enough, but not that of Yuri Darkings. Only the afhems know of it, and none of us is sharing.”

  Babrak turned to leave. Muskigo clutched the man's wrist and spun him back around.

  “What?” Babrak said, not afraid in the slightest. They were so close to revealing his true nature before Mahi was murdered. Now, Babrak seemed more confident and brazen than ever. Muskigo wanted to tear the smirk off his fat face.

  “Nothing,” Muskigo muttered, fighting all his baser urges. If his daughter could do so before Sir Nikserof, so could he.

  Babrak grinned, nodded, then continued out of the room. The women outside fawned over him when he arrived, spreading his arms wide and receiving them. The men laughed at a joke and plied his ears with adoring whispers.

  Muskigo fell back into his seat, his thumb stroking the scroll while he considered whether he even wanted to look. What could the Glassmen possibly offer at this point?

  Only when another markless fool followed faith to the Boiling Keep did Muskigo give in, and slowly unfurled the letter. He counted his short breaths as he did so. Even their written language was simple and without beauty or nuance.

  the offenses of your warlords against the sovereignty your people pledged allegiance to are numerous. unforgivable in the eyes of iam. however, our king is generous. all he wants is peace. release sir nikserof pasic, our wearer of white, turn over the traitor yuri darkings. here, in the glass, he will be punished for his crimes. the fate of muskigo ayerabi we will leave in the hands of the greater afhemdom, but he must be stripped of all power. then, and only then, at white bridge, we will re-negotiate the authority of our crown over the black sands with new terms. we will remedy where this beautiful junction founded by the great king liam went sour. may the light of iam guide you.

  Muskigo crumpled the scroll. The bottom was signed and sealed by the Master of Warfare, Sir Torsten Unger—the greatest warrior of their kingdom whom Muskigo had already bested, now with the upper hand again.

  Muskigo cursed and punched the stone seat so hard his knuckles split. Then, he stormed across the room, shoved aside a helpless sage, and dropped the message down the hole.

  ‘Help with strategy,’ he scoffed to himself. He knew what this was: Babrak taking one last barb at him. There wasn’t a part of that arrangement the man wouldn’t agree upon. Renegotiation of the terms of their annexation? If Babrak handled things before the new Caleef was chosen, there would be no one to stand for the Shesaitju. No matter how many afhems sat with him and the powers of the Glass to discuss terms, Babrak had them all eating from his palms. Any new terms would be sure to favor him, the man who’d grown fatter in this palace, living like a pompous Glass lord.

  One thing, however, was absolute. There was no route left in which Muskigo survived. The Current was against him. A new Caleef would look at all he’d done in violating the desires of the sniveling Sidar Rakun and know he had to be removed. No matter what, Babrak and the Glass Crown would make sure of it.

  Muskigo had come here to Latiapur for the good of his people, and now, thanks to Yuri, he’d delivered his own head on a platter to all those who might want it. The meager remnants of his army would still support him, but they were in Nahanab, and while Afhem Tingur was a good man with his heart in the right place, his prime had long since passed. A bit of pressure from the recouped Glass army, and without Muskigo or Mahraveh there, he’d fold.

  Muskigo had become another pawn in Babrak’s plan to become the unofficial King of the Black Sands. Maybe it would never happen by title or with a crown, but public favor was true power. Muskigo had it once, convincing so many that they could be better than handing half of everything to the pink-skinned lords they rarely saw. Then, he lost at Winde Port, and then again, at Nahanab. So many lives… lost.

  Babrak would be the afhem most trusted by the Glass King and their new Caleef, the one with the largest army, the one who had reestablished peace after Muskigo forsook it.

  “Afhem Muskigo,” one of the sages said, his voice soft like a young woman. He bowed his head in deference.

  “What?” Muskigo snapped.

  “Unless you are here to pledge yourself to the will of the Current, will you please move aside so that we may continue?”

  Muskigo looked around, totally forgetting that he stood before the Sea Door. For a moment, he considered tossing himself through. It would solve so many problems. The sages all stared at him, as did the ready tribute. A kid by the looks of him, barely able to grow a beard. Only, Muskigo knew this one. He, unlike most of the others so far, was not markless. He bore the tattoos of the al’Tariq afhemate and no other. A loyal warrior.

  “Bit’rudam?” Muskigo asked, blinking to ma
ke sure he was seeing clearly. The young man’s head was shaved, too, making him look even more like a pup, and that youthful courage and confidence he’d had since Muskigo met him had vanished. Instead, the whites of his eyes were red from tears.

  “Afhem Muskigo,” Bit’rudam greeted, without regarding him. He merely stared forward, visibly struggling to contain his emotions.

  One of the sages, again, requested Muskigo move, but the glare he shot back at the man would have sent his balls into his stomach if he had any.

  “What are you doing?” Muskigo asked.

  “What does it look like?” Bit’rudam replied.

  “It looks like you’re giving up.”

  “So, now, giving myself over to faith and Current is akin to surrender to you?”

  “You’ve given your sword and your soul to your afhemate,” Muskigo reminded the boy.

  “And I’m tired of it—of giving myself and my trust over to men… women, only to lose them. I tire of wasting my life. Perhaps, if the Current wills it, I can make a difference as Caleef.”

  “How?” Muskigo asked. “Sitting in a chair?” He motioned toward the empty throne, nothing more than a trinket to him now. “Perhaps this holy honor once meant something, but ever since Liam ravaged us, it’s meaningless.” The sages gasped audibly upon hearing his blasphemy. Serpent Guards by the entry stirred and marched in, silent, deadly. Muskigo once had so much power that some of those golden masked men had forsaken their sacred oath to guard the Caleef and his home to follow the Scythe into battle. They were all dead now, too.

  Muskigo slowly extended his arm over Bit’rudam’s back. He didn’t resist. Then, Muskigo led him off to the side, away from the door, where nobody could listen in on him.

  “You would deny the Current?” one of the sages questioned. Muskigo ignored him.