War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I like this new body,” she said again before skipping along, up the stairs, and Rand couldn’t help but follow. He glimpsed down at Lucas as he passed. The young Shieldsman was conscious but didn’t move. His eyes tracked him from side to side, flush with terror.

  “Don’t…” he groaned.

  Rand stopped, frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  As he climbed the steps, he heard a few muted yelps, and when he reached the top, two more guards were slumped against the wall, their throats gaping. One was a clean slice, as if from a blade. The other was a gruesome tear, and Sigrid had blood covering her mouth and chin.

  Backed against the wall in the shadow of the doorway, her foot was right on the edge of reddish light being cast by the low, dusk sun. She extended her bare hand slowly, and her pale skin began to crack and simmer as the light touched it. The awful stench of burning hairs assailed Rand’s nostrils.

  “In all things, balance,” she said. “The makers of the undead did so have a twisted sense of humor. But don’t worry, my dear. Soon, Iam’s light will be extinguished.”

  She cracked her neck, then took a step out. Her skin steamed as more light struck her, but she didn’t stop. Rand trailed behind in the wake of suffocating heat and ash. His eyes stung, and his throat scratched.

  Glassmen marched by on the bridge not far above, workers carrying water, and supplies, but nobody seemed to notice his sister as she sauntered around the corner, still roasting. A young woman waited, bearing a bowl of water. She was a sister of Iam, the same who’d been present when Rand killed Bartholomew Darkings.

  She dropped the bowl, the clay splitting on the stone, water splashing into puddles. Sigrid grinned at her, lips cracking like molten rock, skin flaking away in the light. Just the sight of it made the woman faint. Her head hit the stone, and blood seeped out. Beyond her unconscious, perhaps dead body, the room where Rand had been treated for his wounds was less full. But those who’d been crucified, who were in the worst shape, remained in constant care.

  “You did well Mak, my child,” she said. “The fear you instilled will go on to break them.”

  “Child?” Rand whispered. Then louder, he asked, "You know Mak?”

  Sigrid didn’t answer. She continued up the tower stairs, one landing until they were broken and covered in loose stone from the battle with the Drav Cra. It didn’t stop her. She clawed her way up the collapsed floors, to all that was left of the perch.

  Rand followed after her, far less gracefully. He couldn’t help himself. Her new aura it was… magnetizing. He slipped, gashed a knee on a sharp bit of stone, but kept going. Only a sliver of the top floor remained under a broken arch of the decimated roof that provided her cover from the fading sun.

  Sigrid’s skin was now bubbling as it healed in patches. Her face was already back to normal save for exposed sinew on her left temple. Soon, that was healed, too, and she was good as new—like a Breklian, alabaster doll.

  Rand got his torso onto the treacherous ledge. Another bit of it crumbled off, and he almost fell. Sigrid, too busy staring off at something in the distance, didn’t help him.

  “Sigrid, please…” Rand groaned, heaving his body to safety where he could catch his breath. Every pull on his lungs was agonizing. “You have to explain what’s going on.”

  “Look at them all,” she said. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

  Rand grabbed the sill of a window that no longer existed, and drew himself to his feet. He leaned and followed her gaze. Across a vast war camp, the entirety of the Glass army was arrayed. He’d never seen anything like it. Tens of thousands of armored men, standing at attention, their armor reflecting the sunset like countless diamonds.

  It was romantic and beautiful in the way stories of grand wars always are. Rand had trained to be a Shieldsman, but he’d never seen an army or battle on such a scale—and they weren’t alone. Across the field stood a rival, lesser only in number. The Shesaitju warriors were menacing, their zhulong beasts even more so. They were a dark wave in a raging ocean, ready to wipe out anything in their path.

  Between both armies stood four men. Two of the Shesaitju, and two Glassmen. Rand recognized one of them by their armor and bald head. Torsten Unger, the man who’d told him his sister was gone after all Rand had done for him. The man who’d lied.

  “Torsten…” Rand grumbled.

  “You know him, too?” Sigrid said, peering back, eyebrow raised, a fleck of dead skin above it.

  “Too well.”

  “I should despise him for ruining so much, but if he never interceded that day on the mountain, I never would have found the perfection that is your sister.” Again, she lifted and marveled at her arm. She dragged the blunt side of her dagger over the curves of her lean muscle.

  “Sigrid, you’re my sister.”

  Turning back to him, she ran her fingers through his hair. They felt like icicles. Her gaze seemed to puncture his very soul; made him want to cringe, and at the same time, embrace her again.

  “You have so much to learn,” she said. “We are so much more than you could possibly imagine. We are all the forsaken: your sister, their wives, and mothers who were left behind while vile men march out here to create widows.”

  “Torsten says they’re here to negotiate for peace.”

  “Are they? Perhaps my coward of a brother actually did pass along my message to his people. The fools. They think it’s that easy? I’ll show you how weak they are. One snap of my fingers and their dream of peace will be buried as I was.”

  Rand swallowed. “Buried?” His head was swimming, but there was something about that word that struck him. It sent a cold chill, like Sigrid's icy fingertips tracing up his spine.

  “But not dead,” Sigrid said, drawing her crossbow. She aimed it toward the armies, then angled up toward the sky. There wasn’t a person in the world who could hit anything from so far away.

  “What are you doing?” Rand asked.

  No answer came. She merely smirked, then fired. The bolt sailed out into the graying sky. She stepped forward into the fading light to see clearer, letting the little sun that remained sear her flesh. Rand lost sight of the bolt in the glare, but, when it hit, he had no trouble locating it. The Glassman with Torsten clutched at his throat, then fell headlong into Torsten's arms.

  “Wrong one,” Sigrid said, lowering her weapon. Then she shrugged. “Oh well. Now watch as they prove how little they deserve this world.”

  XXXVIII

  The Knight

  “Sir Unger, that was not—” Torsten didn’t hear the rest of what Tingur had to say. Rising to his full, impressive height, Torsten's glower set upon the Shesaitju warriors like iron. He reached back, grasped the Salvation’s leather grip, and drew the claymore in front of him.

  “You honorless bastards,” he said, a low rumble. He set his feet and dropped into a battle stance. Every breath was a snarl.

  “Sir Unger, please, we wouldn’t,” Tingur protested. He threw down his weapon.

  Muskigo did not. Instead, he advanced with a few careful steps, his blade angled downward but his muscles tensed, ready to strike like the snake he was.

  “Lower your weapon, Torsten,” he hissed. “Use your reason. Why kill him now?”

  Torsten glanced down at Nikserof. He was a ghost, pale, sickly, eyelids twitching. Studying the bolt, Torsten was unsure what to make of it. Then, even without proper sight, Torsten saw the sky go completely dark. It had been dusk, but this was like midnight.

  Two waves of arrows soared above, one from his army, another from the Shesaitju. They buzzed like thousands of angry hornets, and the ground started to shake. Both armies charged, their enraged screams becoming the only sound.

  “Torsten, stop this!” Muskigo yelled. “We came here for peace! I swear it!”

  Torsten’s gaze moved from him to the armies to Nikserof. At the sight of the man, now clearly dead, Torsten's grip tightened. He was now all that remained of Liam's old guard trained by Sir Uriah Davies.


  The arrows plunged, driving down into both forces as they charged. Screams of pain and rent metal pierced the din of thundering footsteps.

  “Torsten!” Muskigo shouted.

  Then Torsten noticed the feathers on the back of the bolt. Sometimes, perceiving color with his new way of seeing was difficult, but they were similar to those used by the goblins up north. Which meant, they’d come from grimaurs, like those used by the Dom Nohzi when they came for Oleander. Having been shot by a Shesaitju barbed arrow himself, Torsten knew well enough to be sure this wasn't their doing.

  Senses returned, he whipped around and waved his arms, sword high in the air.

  “Pull back!” he bellowed. “Hold!”

  Muskigo and Tingur did the same. But it was all too late. Their voices were drowned out by the avalanche of footsteps, and another volley of arrows racing across the sky, only to drop and tear through more flesh and armor.

  All at once, more than a generation of hate festering between the two kingdoms came to a head. There was no stopping it. They’d burned each others' homes, killed each others’ families, won and lost in battles.

  Torsten spun back and lowered his sword to face the wave of Shesaitju warriors. Zhulong bounded in his direction, his own horse-riding cavalry charging opposite them. Tingur had no choice but to grab his pole-hammer. Muskigo prepared for battle but stared at Torsten. Calm as always, he seemed at a complete loss for what to do.

  For once, he and Torsten had something in common.

  It had been a long time since Torsten experienced the clashing of two charging, bloodthirsty armies. With blindness having honed his sense of hearing, now, it was infinitely louder. He perceived each spear shaft cracking in two, the clang of iron sword upon shield, the cry of men and their blood-gargled final words—mostly curses. It sounded as if the very world was unraveling.

  Dust swirled up all around him, drowning him in a ruddy fog that only added to the chaos. A Shesaitju warrior came screaming at him, and Torsten sliced down with his long claymore, gashing him across the chest.

  “Fall back!” he screamed, then coughed. The air was too muddied, there at the front. He could hardly breathe, let alone yell.

  Another scream. He spun and blocked a flailing swing of a scimitar. As he did, he saw Muskigo being attacked from every direction. He parried, punched, did everything he could to not kill unless it was absolutely necessary. Brouben arrived, his war cry like a fearsome dragon and his mighty axe blew back the warrior Torsten was tangled with.

  “Die ye gray bastards!”

  Sir Hystad raced by, decapitating another warrior coming after Torsten.

  “Sir!” he shouted to Torsten, then swung down at another. “Fall to the backline, we can’t lose you!”

  Torsten’s chest burned as he drew in a sharp breath of the musty air. Then, charging the horse, he grabbed the man by his leg and tore him off. He hopped up, himself, and raised Salvation high. Even that small bit above the fray, breathing was infinitely easier.

  “Fall back!” he shouted and set his horse to spin and carry his orders in every direction. “Fall back!”

  Another wave of arrows from archers on either side soared overhead, blotting out the dying bit of sunlight as night approached. They stabbed down into the rear ranks, causing them to push forward, pressing the front. Their frantic footsteps and screaming made it impossible to hear.

  “Fall back!” Torsten yelled again, refusing to give up.

  A war cry sounded. He turned his head in time, but not his horse. A zhulong crashed into its flank, sharp tusks tearing open its haunches. Torsten toppled off. He managed to hold onto his sword, at least until he slammed into the ground and it rattled loose.

  Quickly rolling onto his other side, he avoided the swipe of the zhulong tail as it stamped over the writhing, squealing horse. The Shesaitju rider raised a scimitar high and pulled the beast’s mane to coax it forward.

  Torsten got to his knees, but he was completely disoriented. All he could manage was to raise his bracers and attempt to deflect the attack. Only, he didn’t have to. The Shesaitju swung his weapon, but a sickle-blade met it in midair. In one smooth motion, Torsten’s savior locked the other blade in the curve of his, and wrenched it out of the warrior’s grasp, pulling him off the zhulong as well.

  “Get up!” Muskigo said. He helped Torsten to his feet, then placed Salvation back in his hand. “This is not how we die.” He pulled Torsten to the side of the now riderless zhulong. “I remember when you raided my camp in the swamp. You can ride one?”

  “More like go along for the ride,” Torsten replied.

  “Good enough.”

  Muskigo helped him up halfway, and Torsten heaved his aching torso the rest of the way. The zhulong bucked, but he was big enough to get it to obey. He grabbed a clump of its rust-colored mane with one hand, wielded Salvation in the other.

  Then, Muskigo leaped up and stood on its back, managing to maintain his balance even after the zhulong started barreling forward. Torsten didn’t know much Saitjuese, but, enough to know that Muskigo was calling for retreat in the old language of his people. The greatest warrior of their generation, ruthless and calculating with his every move, was willing to lose.

  “Retreat!” Torsten screamed, twirling his sword as they rode. He yelled it again and again until his voice was hoarse, the muscles of his throat feeling like they might tear from the relentless dust of war.

  But it worked. Shieldsmen finally heard Torsten’s orders and started echoing them. Muskigo’s lieutenants joined him in their language. Afhem Tingur had commandeered another zhulong and rode opposite them, calling for the same.

  While Torsten pulled the zhulong back the other way, he heard Muskigo’s foot slip from the sudden change in direction, yet, somehow, he remained upright. Torsten was no longer surprised that the man had been his equal in battle.

  Brouben lay ahead, clanbreakers spinning around him in their spike-laden armor, wielding oversized axes, and mowing through Black Sandsmen like tornados. The pure joy on Brouben’s blood-drenched face was unmistakable.

  “Fall back, Brouben!” Torsten called, pulling his zhulong to a stop nearby.

  “Are ye crazy?” he said, bashing another enemy on the head. “We have ’em on the run.”

  Torsten gritted his teeth. “Sound the retreat, or consider our alliance finished. I won’t ask again. This battle is over!”

  Brouben’s grip on his axe tightened, then a flurry of curses filtered through his lips. He waved his axe to signal a retreat, and the rest of the dwarves joined him.

  Torsten looked from side to side. Both armies fell back to their respective camps at the same time, trampling over all the fallen bodies. He’d never seen anything like it. Kicked-up dust and dirt mixed with the darkness of the sun sinking below the horizon made it impossible to tell if their enemies were in pursuit.

  Clashes among the frontlines still raged—those who hadn’t heard the orders or had been too lost in battle to obey them. They’d need daylight to see clearly, but thousands were already dead.

  “What now?” Muskigo asked, hopping down from the zhulong. Tingur was nearby, hands on his knees, wheezing.

  It was a good question. Their peoples hated each other enough already, and this was only sure to make things worse. It really would take a miracle to bring them together. And what was more miraculous than a king and queen, who’d both were said to have risen from the dead by the will of their gods?

  Torsten gathered his breath. “We have a ceremony to plan.”

  “I was trying to make a point, and again, you ruin everything.” A deep, melodious voice hung on the air. It was all at once matronly, seductive, and highly intimidating, like Oleander, only it wasn’t her.

  Torsten turned and watched as, in an instant, a cluster of warriors still locked in battle collapsed, blood pouring from their necks. One remained lifted, hanging slack in the arms of a woman. She raised her head from his neck, then dropped the body.

 
Through the enchanted blindfold, masked in the palette of light that was Torsten’s vision, he could make out no details. The woman was pure shadow, and nothing more. Even blacker than the night, like the glow of Pantego’s moons couldn’t even touch her.

  “Who is this?” Muskigo asked.

  Torsten struggled to muster the word. The bolt, the drinking of necks—he knew. This was the sister he’d never wanted Rand to find. There was no doubt about it. The upyr, Sigrid Langley, who’d murdered Oleander right in front of him, had returned.

  “Sigrid,” Torsten bellowed across the field, "why are you here?” It took every ounce of willpower not to charge at her for what she’d done. She was lucky he was so exhausted from the brief battle.

  “Oh, Torsten, can’t you see beyond that name?” she said, taking long strides forward. A few more stragglers charged her, only to drop in an instant, cut open sternum to stem. She moved so fast, he didn’t even register the strikes.

  “Torsten,” Muskigo said. “What is that?”

  “The cause of all of this,” Torsten replied, fuming. His knuckles went pale from squeezing the grip of his sword. She vanished momentarily, and his pulse quickened. Then she re-appeared, within only a few paces of them now.

  “This new body,” Sigrid said. “I can feel the realms of Elsewhere closing the distances all around me. I can feel the other forgotten, abandoned, clawing to be free. To escape where Iam and I put them. Perhaps, unlike the wianu, I’ll set them free.”

  “What in Iam’s good name are you talking about?” Torsten spat.

  She sneered. “I’m disappointed in such a holy man. Gifted sight, and still so blind. Can you not see?”

  Muskigo brandished his sickle-blade. “If you caused this, you will not leave this field alive.”

  “What do the Dom Nohzi want, Sigrid?” Torsten asked. “Oleander, now this? Who are you here for!”