Tingur clasped his hands. “Only one Black Sands,” he said. “United under the grand vision of our Caleef—but there is expected resistance. We hope our respective peoples can move beyond these losses. Yuri Darkings helped our people, your Shieldsman served yours.”
“He has a name,” Torsten snapped.
“A name, we promise, will be inscribed on the walls of the Tal'du Dromesh, with your blessing. If that is agreeable, we may continue.”
Torsten grimaced. Agreeable… He was glad he’d grown older and wiser over the last few years. A younger him might have called things off then and there with a slash of Salvation. But Tingur was right. Someone had been lost on each side, and more death wouldn’t bring them back. Only peace between their peoples could ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
“I must request both bodies be returned to us for proper rights,” Torsten said. “Even a traitor like Yuri Darkings deserves to be buried beside his son.”
Tingur nodded. “The Shieldsman—”
“Sir Marcos,” Torsten offered.
“Yes. Sir Marcos, has been preserved and will be transported to Yarrington. Yuri Darkings, unfortunately, cannot be. His body has been lost to the Boiling Waters.”
Torsten sighed and scratched at his chin where thick stubble had grown. He tried to do the proper, pious thing, but he couldn’t deny the tinge of satisfaction in knowing Yuri’s soul would never be at peace. If his son had earned his own fate, Yuri had earned it two-fold.
“What of our Wearer of White and the rebel, Muskigo?” Torsten asked.
Tingur turned to the side and gestured to his army with two fingers. Two men strode forward. Torsten recognized both. One was Sir Nikserof, stripped of armor and wearing a fine, white tunic marked with the Eye of Iam. At least, it once had been fine, and once had been white. Now, it was stained by black sand, dust, and dried blood. In addition to the collar and hem, the embroidered seams were torn. The only armor he still wore was the gleaming white helm signifying his position.
A gag pulled at the sides of his mouth, hemp rope at his wrists. His face was adorned with all manner of open cuts and bruises. Blood caked his bare feet, wounds filled with sand and dirt. So muddied was his lower half that it appeared to belong to a Glintish man.
None of it surprised Torsten. He was a prisoner of war, after all, and whether he deserved it or not, he'd lost the battle.
What was unexpected, was that walking beside Sir Nikserof, was Muskigo Ayerabi. He looked no different from when Torsten had faced him in Winde Port. A bit thinner from the trappings of war, perhaps, but he still wore his zhulong-leather armor, its scales interplaying with that of the spiky, white tattoos coating his entire body. His sickle-blade dangled at his side.
He appeared nothing like a man about to be traded for prosecution. Torsten’s mind flashed back to Winde Port, to the headless bodies Muskigo had slung over the walls to taunt him. He imagined his sneer before he let loose a barrage of arrows that claimed the lives of many Shieldsmen.
Out of pure instinct, Torsten set his feet, tightened his jaw. Muskigo stopped to the right of Tingur, Sir Nikserof to his left. Like Torsten, messy stubble hugged Nikserof Pasic's chin. Purple bags hung from tired eyes—or were they bruised? It was impossible to tell. He stared at the ground, a broken man if ever there was one.
Muskigo, on the other hand, Torsten could see straight into his rage-filled eyes. He recalled their fight on the streets, when he plunged into the icy depths of the Grand Canal, broken and defeated for the first time in his life.
“I understand,” Tingur said before Torsten could speak. He raised an open palm. “Please, just listen to what he has to say.”
“I am here in good faith,” Torsten said, seething. “But I will not speak openly with that man. The things he has done, he deserves worse than chains.”
Muskigo didn’t speak, only continued to glare.
“The situation is complicated,” Tingur said. “Your letter was sent to Afhem Babrak, who has abandoned his people, addressed to a Caleef who is… dead. And so, Muskigo is here, not as a warlord, but as the father of our new Caleef.”
Torsten felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Now he really wished he hadn’t drunk the night before. “The… father?” he managed to say.
“Yes,” Tingur answered. “His daughter is Mahraveh al’Tariq of Sauijbar, victor in the battle of Trader’s Strait, and then the Battle of Nahanab. Champion of Tal’du Dromesh, and former afhem of the al’Tariq. She was thrown into the Boiling Waters, and by the blessings of the God of Sand and Sea, and the will of the Eternal Current, she was chosen to carry his essence.”
Torsten looked between Tingur and Muskigo. Then he snickered. He wasn’t sure why, he just couldn’t help it. “You expect me to believe that this was an accident? That your god chose her, and that it wasn’t him trying to secure more power.” He gestured to Muskigo.
Until then, Muskigo had been staunch and silent. But now, he snapped. “I would never disrespect my daughter in such a way. I am no man of Glass. I do not use my children as pawns like your kings and queens.”
Torsten’s fists clenched. He’d forgotten the power in the man’s voice, the way it boomed and hung on the air like acrid smoke.
“The birth of a Caleef is sacred,” Tingur said. “I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s not something to be counterfeited. To do so, would invite only death.”
“You seem like a decent man, Tingur,” Torsten said. “But trust me, there are no depths Muskigo wouldn’t go to if it meant destroying us. He burned innocent villages to the ground, hung civilians from walls like butcher’s meat.”
Muskigo stepped forward. Torsten’s hand itched to reach for his sword. Only then did he notice that portion of the skin at the base of Muskigo’s skull and neck was mottled, like a specific cluster of tattoos has been gruesomely cut off him.
“And your beloved Liam didn’t do similar in his campaigns?” Muskigo said. “Oh, I could tell you stories, Torsten Unger. The things I saw that you holy men refused to. They’d make you squeal.”
“Our eyes are open,” Torsten said.
“Then you must know what Nikserof Pasic did to my home. How he burned it and slaughtered the civilians, women, and children. The caretaker I knew for my entire life, who was like a mother to me.”
Torsten’s breath caught. He looked to Nikserof, and the man finally lifted his gaze. Torsten hoped, begged for him to show some sign of denial. It never came. And just as quickly as he glanced up, his attention returned to the dirt. Torsten recognized a feeling he knew well after Muskigo defeated him and Redstar turned him into a killer. Unbridled shame.
“Our king would never endorse the killing of innocents,” Torsten said, fighting a sensation in his mouth like paste.
“Do you believe he fell so far from the tree?" Muskigo asked. "Did his mother, the Mad Queen, not sling her own people over the parapets?"
"She is dead," Torsten said, trying to bite back emotion. "And her son stands on his own."
“But this was war,” Muskigo said. “We make the moves we need to, when we need to, for the desired effect. Even if they’re difficult. Especially when they’re difficult. Otherwise, we lose.”
“Sometimes, having integrity means doing the right thing and losing.”
“Said every general who’s ever lost.” Muskigo stepped forward again, and Tingur bowed off to the side. It was no longer a question of who was in charge between them.
Torsten grunted in agreement.
“I promise you, it is not an easy thing for me to stand here with the man who destroyed my home,” Muskigo said. “As I know it is not easy for you to stand here with me, for all I have done to you, and your people.”
“Don’t presume to know anything about me or my people.”
Muskigo scoffed. “The Glassman wants peace but refuses understanding. Are you all such hypocrites?”
“You—"
“Please, friends, enough,” Tingur declared, stepping between t
hem with his arms raised. He didn’t shout, but he was stern enough to earn both their attention. Torsten and Muskigo both wore the physiques of battle-trained warriors, but despite his physical appearance, Tingur spoke with the authority of a commander. “We all have much to gain here, and much to lose. Petty rivalries must be put aside.” He turned to Muskigo. “Hasn’t your daughter taught us that?”
Muskigo released a low growl, then took a step back. Torsten imagined he did the same, himself. He was so heated, he couldn’t quite be sure.
“You made a worthy foe, Sir Unger,” Muskigo said. “I’m grateful for that. A warrior must always be challenged if he wishes to grow.”
“A fair fight, and things might have turned out differently,” Torsten replied.
“Perhaps… I have to ask, why willingly hamper yourself now?” He tapped at his eyes.
“Faith.”
Muskigo released a noise that resembled a chuckle. “Of course.”
This time it was Torsten’s turn to take a step forward. “This is a matter of war between the Glass Crown and a vassal under its sovereign rule. As the Master of Warfare, I have been granted full authority to deal with this negotiation. So please, say what you came here to say, and let us hope that these two, great armies, can go home to their families and rest.”
Muskigo opened his mouth to speak, then bit his lip, and finally, bobbed his head. “You’re right. Agree with that or not, enough blood has been spilled.”
Tingur dusted off his armored skirt. “Agreed.”
Another bout of silence passed between them. A galler squawked above, making its last move before nightfall, no doubt hoping the foolish nature of men would provide a feast of flesh for the ages.
Torsten nodded Muskigo along.
“It is our Caleef’s feeling that the wounds between our people are too deep,” Muskigo said. “They can’t be healed by simple measures. It is no different than between afhems, but Mahraveh has shown us a path. Not all agree with abandoning so many of our ways. However, it is clear, one grand afhemdom is mightier than seventy-nine pulling in different directions. If it comes to open war, we wouldn’t lose.”
“Did you really come here to threaten us?” Torsten questioned.
“Quite the opposite. The people would lose. With so many warriors arrayed against each other, their homes would burn, their children would be trampled. The world we know now might cease to exist. But when my daughter communed with the God of Sand and Sea, he showed her a vision. That a darkness is coming.”
“A vision? You’re here because of a vision?”
“My daughter is the most honest woman I know. She said our God warned her that another of his kind had returned. That one called Nesilia threatened them. Now, for my people, that name would mean nothing, but I have fought the Drav Cra, as you well know.”
Torsten felt faint. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He willed his body not to show it, but his legs were so weak they almost gave out.
“The Buried Goddess,” he whispered.
“I’m not versed in the legends of your God Feud. Barely believed such a thing ever happened. But I also looked into my daughter’s eyes. She believes if we do not stand together, this Nesilia will return and destroy us all.”
“She can’t,” Torsten said. He could hardly breathe. “She’s gone.”
“According to my daughter, she’s already returned,” Muskigo said, pointedly.
“That’s impossible.” Even as he said it, Drad Mak’s last words bounced around in his skull, stabbing at his psyche. ‘She… she’s returned already. You failed… You’re all just… too… blind.’
“Maybe. Perhaps, she’s shrewder than I ever imagined, and she invented all of this to force us into peace. And perhaps, I do not know my daughter anymore at all. Either way, we’re here, and her offer is this: Sir Nikserof will be pardoned of his crimes against my village, and returned to his people. He will be stripped of his title as Wearer, and a Shieldsman, and live out the rest of his days as a civilian.”
Torsten was still too taken-aback by what Muskigo had claimed about the Buried Goddess to react regarding Nikserof. The status of man seemed pointless when held up against the return of a scorned goddess. Nikserof winced but showed no signs of protest.
“My fate will be the same. I will take sole responsibility for instigating rebellion and after whatever darkness coming is turned away, I will dedicate my life to rebuilding Saujibar, and remedying the scars caused by my actions.”
“Yet, you’ll live,” Torsten said. It sounded like an accusation, and that's how he'd intended it.
“In so much of a life as that is for a warrior. Until the Current takes me. Know that I would gladly give my life for my daughter’s future, and this is what she wants.”
Torsten forced back the foul taste building in his throat. He had to focus.
She’s returned already, the voices in his head echoed. You failed.
“Both of you live, ostracized,” Torsten said, “and your daughter will renew her allegiance to the Glass Crown. And together, we will face Nesilia, if any of this is even true.”
You failed.
Muskigo and Tingur exchanged a look.
“Not exactly,” Tingur said.
“Are you really prepared to lay out more terms?” Torsten said, his tone as sharp as Salvation's blade.
“We won’t capitulate any longer,” Muskigo said. “My daughter has one last... proposal.” He paused. His lip started to twitch. His features darkened. He couldn’t make eye contact. “She offers her hand in marriage to King Pi. Two young souls resurrected by their gods. Their union will bring our peoples together in a way that war never could.”
Just when Torsten imagined he could hear nothing more shocking than Mahraveh’s vision, her father offered this. He wondered if, perhaps, he was still drunk, that he lay face down in some gutter, mind painting horrible, vivid nightmares. That had to be it.
However, Muskigo looked sick, just offering it.
“You’re serious?” Torsten said, barely above a whisper. “What happened to not treating your children like pawns?”
“Trust me, she only does what she wants to these days,” Muskigo said. “I don’t have to like it to see the wisdom in it. If my dream of a new Kingdom of the Black Sands can’t come true without us turning those sands red, then what better outcome? If our two nations truly came together, not only through promises and easily-broken contracts… no enemy could stand against us.”
Torsten ran a hand over his bald pate, wiping off a thick layer of sweat. His thumb absent-mindedly pulled at the side of his blindfold, reminding him of an itch he thought he’d forgotten.
“I’m only the Master of Warfare,” he said. “I can’t agree to that without speaking with King Pi.”
“We understand,” Tingur said.
“We don’t expect an answer here,” Muskigo added. “Return to your camp. Write to your king, and as a show of our confidence, take your Wearer back with you.”
Muskigo approached Nikserof, grabbed his wrist, and gave him a shove toward Torsten. He staggered before finding his balance. Then Nikserof glanced back at Muskigo, as if needing his approval.
“Go on,” Muskigo said. “I can’t stand to look at you another second.”
“We swear upon the Eternal Current, upon the sand and the sea, we will not violate this armistice, or may our God drown us.” Tingur spat in both hands, then kneeled to press his wet hands against the dirt, groaning all the way from the effort.
Torsten approached Nikserof. He untied the rope on his wrists. Then he lifted the man’s chin and yanked the gag out of his mouth.
“Are you all right, old friend?” Torsten asked. Nikserof was too busy coughing to answer, so he nodded instead.
“Torsten,” Muskigo said.
Torsten looked up at the rebel warlord. He appeared calm, collected as always. He opened his mouth to speak. At the same time, a spray of dark liquid spattered onto Torsten's blindfold, some hitting his cheek
with such force it made his head turn away. When he looked back, Nikserof had his hand to the side of his neck. Planted firmly in his neck was a bolt from a crossbow.
He gagged, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. His eyes were spread wide in shock. He pawed at Torsten with his other hand, and Torsten caught him by the arm as he dropped to a knee.
Metal rasped as Tingur and Muskigo drew their weapons.
Torsten’s big hand cradled the back of Nikserof’s head while blood poured down his neck, coating his chest. All the energy seemed to flee his body, and it was all Torsten could do to lower his head to the earth. He didn’t die. Not fast. His eyes stayed glued open, darting from side to side, brimming with fear. His lips trembled over words, and the muscles of his throat convulsed as his body clung to life.
XXXVI
The Thief
Colors of every hue and shade whipped past Whitney. It was as if he were caught in a whirlwind, fragments of time itself berating him, slicing his flesh, bruising him. His eyelids fluttered, and his eyes watered.
“Sora!” he shouted.
“Whitney!” came the reply. Far off, distant.
Whitney tried to swim through the air as he fell, tumbling but with no end in sight. He figured that was for the best because if he were to hit anything at this speed, he’d be dead without question.
He didn’t know what had happened. One moment he and Sora were face-to-face with Bliss, then they were kissing, then they were here, wherever ‘here’ was.
He called her name again and heard her response. He started swimming again, not knowing what else to do. The wind fought him at every stroke, driving him farther and farther from Sora. He reached out, and something batted his outstretched hand aside. He pulled it back with a wince.
“Sora!” he shouted again.
This time, he gave into the wind, let it drag him backward until he was on the other side of the massive funnel. They were close now, and as she turned, he could see her… truly see her—long black hair whipping her face. Those almond-shaped, amber eyes were hopeful.
War of Men Page 48
