War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Torsten’s heart broke at the sight of him. He had no idea what to do for him besides pray. Even watching him destroy his body with alcohol was preferable to this forlorn state. He considered telling Rand about Sigrid, that she was still out there somewhere, but false hope was worse than none at all. He’d waste a lifetime thinking he could find and save her when she was beyond salvation. Beyond life even. Worst of all, from everything she’d said to Torsten, she blamed Rand for her condition. By leaving her in Yarrington, she believed he'd damned her to the fate she'd received.

  To Rand, she’d just be another person he’d failed.

  If Torsten had learned anything since the day Redstar came to Yarrington, it was that sometimes the full truth brought nothing but pain. Rand’s own story was a lie to inspire the Kingdom. If Torsten could just help Rand wait out the storm of pain, he knew that the young warrior could find a way to become worthy of his title: The Redeemer.

  Picking up his bowl, Torsten stood to leave.

  “Why do you keep coming down here?” Rand asked softly. “Why can’t you just let me go?”

  Torsten stopped. He leaned on the wall just beside the bars, letting the stone cool his face. “No man in the Glass has sacrificed more than you. For it never to be known…”

  “‘A Shieldsman must be selfless.’ I’ve heard it enough times.”

  “Yet, no man truly is," Torsten said. “I don’t have a family, Rand. Not even some distant cousin in Glinthaven. I thought, perhaps, the Crown was for a while, but… it took you to show me that this Order is my only family. You were a part of it once. You were my brother, and I didn’t do enough to help you, but I won’t stop trying.”

  “Then let me go.”

  Words caught in Torsten’s throat. Silence pervaded, and he watched the way the firelight of the nearby torch played across the imperfections in the stone.

  “Just rest,” he said finally, as he slapped the wall. Then, without even glancing back, he made his way to the surface of the bridge where his horse and Lucas awaited him.

  “Sir,” Lucas saluted.

  Torsten acknowledged him, then mounted his horse. White Bridge itself remained in shambles, but the whole region was bustling with activity. The injured civilians had been transferred to Fettingborough so they’d be out of the way. The ruptured structures along the bridge were now being used to support the army.

  Makeshift weapons and armor smiths, cooking pots, bunks—it was shoddy, but on short notice, it would do. White Bridge was essentially a fortress, after all. Though, without any doors or locks, keeping goblins out of their growing stores at night was proving difficult. Torsten suspected that the dwarven aggression against them was causing them to scavenge further south.

  “Galler arrived with word from Governor Nantby,” Lucas said.

  “And?” Torsten asked.

  “He apologizes for the delay, but Panping can’t spare any men. It seems…” Lucas cleared his throat.

  “Spit it out.”

  “It seems the Buried Goddess’ cultists we rooted out of Yarrington decided to turn their terror upon Yaolin City. They caused quite a commotion, looting, and burning with blood magic, and he had to recall all available troops.”

  “Why would cultists care about Yaolin?” Torsten inquired. “Was it a Panpingese holiday?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  Memory of what Mak had said about Nesilia already having returned flashed through Torsten’s mind. He quickly shook it away. She was defeated. The Drav Cra had now grown completely silent. The Shesaitju were the last problem caused by King Liam’s descent into madness left to be cleansed. Then, there could be peace.

  “Their only aim is terror,” Torsten decided. “They probably think the Panpingese will more easily succumb to their temptations. When we’re done, return word that hunting down and eradicating any cults in Panping should remain top priority.”

  “Yes, Sir. Governor Nantby did send a shipment of arrows, both for us, and to pass through White Bridge to Yarrington.”

  “That should help.”

  Together, their horses galloped through the Eastern Gate. White Bridge wasn’t large enough to serve the entire army, so the past weeks had been spent fortifying their position. They passed dozens of tents housing men, helping those from Sir Nikserof’s army rest and get healthy.

  Amongst the losses, Torsten counted Sir Porthcombe—a loudmouth, but a Shieldsman nonetheless. If they survived these wars, Taskmaster Lars would have his hands full training new men.

  “Defenses are coming along well, thanks mostly to Brouben,” Lucas said.

  Torsten had forgotten the value of dwarves. Even with as few of them as King Cragrock spared, they had trenched entirely across their position, blocking the main pass out of the northern Black Sands. Glassmen set up stakes along it using the broken posts leftover from Winde Port’s palisade wall. That city could wait to be protected, considering it barely remained intact anyway.

  “When it comes to dwarves, you get what you pay for,” Torsten remarked.

  “Thank you, Valin Tehr.”

  Torsten glared at the young Shieldsman and wiped the smirk from his face.

  “What about food?” Torsten asked.

  “We’re running low, and rationing like you asked, but a new shipment from Yarrington should be arriving soon. It’ll hold us until this new Caleef and the Shesaitju arrive.”

  Torsten pulled on his reins, and they slowed to a trot, skirting along the trench. It really was impressive, though, he supposed Balonhearth, the city he’d visited months ago was far more so. Even as the stout men continued to dig it out, they didn’t appear exhausted or bored with the monotony of the work. They were having fun, humming tunes, drinking, playing pranks on each other.

  What a way to live, Torsten mused to himself.

  “Do you really think they’ll hand over Sir Nikserof and exile Muskigo?” Lucas asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Torsten replied. “That’s always been the problem with fighting the Shesaitju. Nearly one hundred generals who all want something different, pulling and tugging. They’re unpredictable. It left our people scared for centuries, but King Liam saw the weakness in it.”

  “What about the Caleef?”

  “They had one when this all started, and Muskigo didn’t seem to care. He’ll be with them again now if our terms are met. I don’t see him going quietly.”

  “Exile is a mercy for all he’s done,” Lucas said.

  Torsten thought about drowning. About the ice-cold water flooding his lungs when he and Muskigo plunged into the canal in the battle of Winde Port. He’d had his chance to kill the rebel and Iam saw differently. It was time to change.

  “Mercy is the will of our king,” Torsten said. “And God.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment passed. Lucas was probably waiting just long enough for the talk of Iam to settle before saying, “The forward scouts say the entire army in Nahanab left to march here. A man fitting Sir Nikserof’s description was seen in bonds. Hardly a show of peace.”

  “They’re just making a spectacle in the name of a new Caleef. We have the defensive position. They’ll need more than the army of a few angry afhems to win.” A hawk soaring overhead caught his attention. He turned back to Lucas. “Any word on Sir Marcos?”

  “No sign of him,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “The heathens probably killed him.”

  “The Shesaitju are an honorable people. They wouldn’t kill a messenger. But you know Sir Marcos… There are certain… delights in Latiapur.”

  “I should have gone…” Lucas said. “Oh, no. That came out wrong. I only mean that—"

  Torsten chuckled. Joy, happiness… it had been an emotion he hadn't experienced in quite some time. It felt good, which made him feel bad.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “You read all the tomes I showed you in Yarrington. Studied everything from the war of the Black Sands to the upyr scourge of the second age. I need Shieldsmen with brains here.”
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  “I’m honored, Sir. Truly.”

  “Hold strong, Sir Danvels. The Shesaitju will see things our way, or we will defeat them once again, right here.”

  “Let’s hope the latter, eh!” Brouben shouted over. Torsten wasn’t even sure how he’d heard from so far away, barking orders at his diggers. “What? Ye promised us a battle and me boys are gettin antsy. Fun as it is, I be sick of choppin up goblins.”

  “You have a lot less at stake here than we do, my Lord Brouben,” Torsten said as they trotted over to him.

  “Aye, that be true. Maybe I’ll head back to Cragrock and get more men to make things even?”

  “If you’re offering...”

  Brouben chortled. “Don’t get greedy now, Glassman. Two hunerd of us be worth a thousand of ye fair flower pickers. ’Sides, I've got ten clanbreakers. Set them loose on the gray men and watch them squirm.”

  Brouben flopped around to demonstrate, and he and his men fell into hysterics.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Torsten said once they'd calmed down. “This is incredible work.”

  “It’s no trouble. They needed the exercise.” Brouben hopped up onto a small boulder. “Put yer backs into it, ye wee runts. Big enough to trip a zhulong, I said, not a doe!” He turned back to Torsten. “If the Shesaitju agree to negotiate instead, ye owe me a duel.”

  “A duel?” Torsten said.

  “Aye! I be needin to feel the power of he who slew that monster, Mak.”

  “I don’t fight allies, my Lord.”

  “No killin! Just a good old-fashioned brawl. For the men.” He gestured from side to side. “Who wouldn’t wanna see two titans clash!” His nearest men cheered in support. A few Glassmen filled in around them, as well, to see what was going on.

  “Ye win, I’ll promise me axe to the Glass in yer next war, gold or not,” Brouben went on. “And if I win, ye’ll…” His words trailed off, and his features tightened, like he was desperate to think of the best idea ever.

  “Then he has to chug a flagon!” a Glassman shouted.

  Torsten whipped around to see who’d said it, but more of his people had gathered. They all wore smiles. Some laughed. Torsten’s irritation immediately dissipated. It’d been a long time since he’d posted defensively in camp. Since the rebellion started, they were constantly on the move, racing to stop a slaughter like in Winde Port. He could barely remember the last time they’d dug in. The camaraderie of soldiers forced into the same tents for weeks—men who believed as he did. Far from the politics of lords and crowns. Strangely, he missed it. It made him ache for Sir Uriah Davies, King Liam, Sir Wardric Jolly… If Nikserof was truly dead, Torsten was the last of the old guard remaining.

  “Please,” Lucas said, joining in. “Sir Unger will show you how many of you he’s worth in seconds.”

  “How bout we settle in now, then!” Brouben scooped his axe from its position leaning against the rock. “Ye win, ye get me support for good. I win, we all watch ye chug ale like a true dwarf. None of yer prissy cups.”

  “I don’t think now is the right time.” Torsten studied all the eager faces around him and couldn’t help but crack a smirk. “Besides, I don't think those are fair terms... nor do I think it's a fair fight."

  “Oh, ho, ho!” Brouben stuck his empty hand out and snapped his fingers. In a mere instant, one of his men placed a flagon in it, and he chugged, the ale dribbling down his dirty beard. “Is it a fair fight now?”

  “C’mon, Sir Unger, show these dwarves why they should stay hidden in the mountains!” a Glass soldier hollered.

  “Beat him down!” Lucas shouted, turning away and cupping hand in a failed attempt to make it seem like someone else had said it. Torsten’s scowl did nothing to scare him this time. They both laughed.

  “The people spoke, Sir Unger,” Brouben said. “We can’t be disappointin them.”

  Before he knew it, Torsten was down off his horse, boots in the mud with the rest of his men. He recalled in his long-ago past, when he was but a squire, how the men would grapple and argue, him amongst them. They’d distract themselves from the simple fact that death was coming. He used to join in then, at least until Sir Uriah came around. The general of the army never partook of the fun.

  But times were changing.

  “All right, all right,” Torsten said. “I’ll fight him, but only—”

  Brouben leaped from the rock on which he stood, axe racing at Torsten’s head. Torsten jumped back.

  “Don’t worry, Unger, she ain't sharpened yet,” Brouben said. He swung at Torsten a few more times, sending him weaving back across a stretch of trampled grass.

  “Let him get a sword out!” Lucas shouted.

  “What’s he compensatin for with that thing on his back?” Brouben argued. “Wouldn’t be fair.”

  Brouben kept pushing, keeping Torsten from having a chance to draw Salvation. Torsten thought he’d be angry by the lack of courtesy, but he heard the dwarves and all his men cheering and found only excitement. It was like Valin Tehr’s underground arena, only none of the bloodlust.

  Rolling out of the way of another strike, Torsten came up with a rock in hand and lashed around to parry Brouben’s next attack. The furry dwarf grinned impishly.

  “A rock?" Brouben laughed. “I eat rocks for breakfast!”

  He pressed his advance, leaving Torsten on the defensive. Their duel took them back toward the tents, where more soldiers joined into the crowd. Torsten swatted the axehead down. The dwarf used the momentum to whip around, but Lucas rode by and tossed his sword down.

  Torsten snatched it out of the air, and when Brouben came around, Torsten's sword stopped close enough to Brouben’s neck to shave his beard. Simultaneously, the dwarf’s axe halted at Torsten’s neck.

  The soldiers went quiet.

  “A tie, what’s that mean?” one asked.

  “A tie? He cheated!” Brouben griped.

  “You refused me my weapon,” Torsten said, winded. “You're the one who cheated."

  “Being smart ain’t cheatin.”

  “You’d discount him because he has the support of his men?” Lucas asked.

  The dwarf grimaced.

  Torsten watched him carefully, noting his mistake. These were allies, but they were new ones. Dwarves were known for their hot tempers and big egos. Even a friendly bout might cause issues they couldn’t afford.

  Then, taking Torsten by complete surprise, Brouben broke into a fit of laughter. He threw his axe down, then embraced Torsten. “The slayer of both Redstar and Mak the Mountainous doesn’t disappoint! Did ye see that boys? Two times my height and only equal to my strength.”

  Torsten joined in the merriment. He stabbed the sword down into the dirt and wiped his hands. “I went easy on you.”

  “Next time, I’ll go harder for yer weakness.”

  “What’s his weakness?” Lucas asked.

  “Like I’d tell? We be friends now, but if ever we weren’t? It’d take Brouben the Bear to take ye down!” His men raised their shovels and chanted their prince’s name.

  Chants of "Brouben the Bear” clashed with "Torsten the Triumphant.”

  “Thank you, Lord Brouben,” Torsten said softly, only between them. “I think they all needed that. Losing a battle isn’t easy.”

  “Aye, but don’t think yer out of it that easy,” Brouben said. “A tie’s a tie. I swear to fight at yer side in a future war, and I get to watch ye chug a flagon of ale. And not ye southerners’ piss. Real, mountain stuff.”

  “My Lord, I don’t think it’s wise—”

  “None of this be wise!” Brouben shouted. Then he climbed back up the rock. “War ain’t for thinkin, it’s for doin. He fights like the best of us, now let’s see if he drinks like the best!”

  Brouben put his arm on Torsten’s back and guided him toward the nearest tent. Torsten so desperately wanted to resist, but the duel had left him tired, and the way his men encouraged it made resistance impossible. He looked back at Lucas, who smirked an
d said nothing. Brouben forced him down onto the bench at the soldiers’ slop table.

  “I really shouldn’t,” Torsten said. “There’s work to be done.”

  “It’ll be done,” Brouben said. “Look around ye, Sir Unger. These men, they worship ye for what ye’ve done. Now, I ain’t fought in many wars, but me father always told me that dwarves most respect leaders who are dwarves like them. I s’pose it’s the same with men.”

  “Not King Liam,” Torsten remarked. He couldn’t remember the great king even leaving his own tent often. He’d take a stroll through their war camps on the eve of battle, and join the men in prayer, that was about it. Upon return to Yarrington, after his many great victories, parades would ensue. The people would revel, but he would just stay atop his horse, receiving praises.

  “King Liam be dead, Shieldsman,” Brouben said. “And so we’ll drink to ghosts and the warriors who replace ’em. An ale, over here!” He slammed on the table. A dwarf with a gray beard down to his waist and big, bushy eyebrows waddled over.

  “One of Balonhearth’s finest,” he said. “Dragon’s Draught. Them brewers down deep say the secret ingredient is a bit of dragon blood.”

  Torsten covered his mouth to hide a gag.

  “It’s really just a bit of dye,” Brouben leaned over and whispered. “Gives it that rich color. But nothing makes for drinking like a good story!” He snatched the flagon and clanked it down.

  Torsten stared at the frothy, gold-red liquid. It really did look like ale stained with blood. Torsten felt his throat begin to close. He knew it was all in his head. He’d seen the liquid of Elsewhere do horrible things. From his worthless parents to Oleander, and then Rand after what her drunkenness pushed him to do.

  Torsten lifted his gaze and took in all the men around him. Hundreds of eager eyes watched, more engrossed for this spectacle than the duel. Torsten had entered the Glass army as a squire for Sir Uriah, then became a Shieldsman himself. Never in his entire life had he the chance to be amongst the rabble—with the farmers and tanners forced to pick up a sword and serve the will of their king.

  In the madness of it all, Torsten forgot that those were always the people who war hurt most: common-born men and women like him. They were the ones whose farms and homes were burned down when Muskigo started his rebellion. Many were probably still here, ready to fight against injustice. Torsten was just glad Dellbar the Holy was nowhere in sight, waiting to say “I told you so.”