“Losing you won’t help.”
“No,” Torsten agreed, “but it will show them that one of us Glassmen isn’t afraid. Now, follow your orders.” He sped off toward Winde Port before he could be dissuaded. Unclasping his cape as he rode, he raised it in the air as he headed straight for the gate.
A westerly breeze blew out from the bay, making the hanging bodies swing and bang against the wall like bamboo wind chimes. It also carried with it the fresh stench of chaos and death. Screams still echoed from the city as the Shesaitju’s conquering of Winde Port was made complete.
Torsten instinctually reached for his necklace and squeezed the Eye of Iam hanging from it, the gift from his former king which he’d only once removed—never again.
And he prayed.
He prayed for all the poor souls hanging because he shifted all his cards toward Marimount. He prayed for his kingdom, King, and Queen Mother. And mostly, he prayed for himself. He brought his horse to a halt at the gate and swung his legs down, then removed his helmet, leaving his sword sheathed in its back scabbard. Approaching the gate with his hands raised in front of him, he heard bow strings creak and tighten in the hands of the Shesaitju glaring down at him from atop the wall. Chains of their new captives rattled from the detainment camp, the sound of whips ringing across the foul air any time one of them tried to speak.
“Muskigo!” he bellowed. “This is over.” How recently had the situation been reversed? It had only been a matter of hours when Muskigo arrived at the base of Marimount threatening to bring the Glass Kingdom to its knees. Now, Torsten stood, the one looking up at walls—only these were far from a dwarven fortress. Winde Port’s construction was slapdash, barely reinforced but for the corpses stacked before them.
The heavy iron grated open and the doors swung wide. It was only then Torsten saw that the Winde Port cathedral was defaced. The golden Eye of Iam atop its roof was shattered and all its intricate stained-glass windows just a latticework of shards.
Heathen monsters.
A dozen Serpent Guards, all clad in gold filed out, scimitars in hand, faces covered as if they were scaled demons from Elsewhere. From between them, rode Muskigo atop his prodigious zhulong.
His bare, tattooed torso was covered in gooseflesh from the cold winds and the blood of his enemies. And now that Torsten could see the man’s dark eyes, he remembered how intense they were, like a storm brewing over the Torrential Sea.
“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Muskigo asked. “I took some inspiration from your queen, but the rest was me. Just one last finishing touch.” His hands came out from behind his back, revealing the two severed heads he gripped.
Torsten recognized them.
One belonged to Winde Port’s Prefect, Mortimer Calhoun, a distant cousin of the Nothhelms who’d presided over the city for many decades. The other was the city’s priest. Torsten regretted not knowing the man’s name, but the cloth covering his brow made his position unmistakable.
He raised them both by their gray hair. “I couldn’t decide which would look better hanging from the gates.”
Torsten stared at the gaping mouth of the priest and couldn’t help but trace his own eyes in prayer for the poor soul. Muskigo shrugged and rolled them both across the mud and snow.
“So, I took both.”
“You will pay for this,” Torsten said.
“And here I thought you came to debate the finer points of decor. My lights in the forest were a nice touch, I thought.”
“You won’t last in there, Muskigo. This is our land. You’ll starve and freeze until your own people would rather hand you over than keep fighting this futile rebellion.”
“I don’t think so, Wearer. See, news of your weakness spreads like wildfire across the Black Sands. Soon, all will throw off their shackles and join us. So long as we own the bay, we will eat like caleefs. And I may only just be getting acquainted with this city, but I’ve found the old prefect's estate quite hospitable.”
Torsten bit his lip in frustration. “This doesn’t end with you surviving, you must know that.”
“Our ancestors believed that death in the glory of combat was the only way to reach the shores of paradise. If that is my fate, I will not blink an eye. Will you? Will your Iam forgive you all this bloodshed?”
“If it means stopping a monster?”
“Monster?” He raised his arms to gesture to all the swaying and decapitated bodies. “A monster stands beside your throne, and Iam rewards her by breathing life back into her son. I hear he whispers to himself in the night as if he’s lost his mind.”
“Enough, Muskigo,” Torsten snapped. “It’s time we end this. Let all those innocent people go. Face me, on that field, the right hands of our respective kings.”
“You dare mention my Caleef whom you hold captive within your walls?” Muskigo swung his legs off his zhulong and approached. He too wielded no weapon. In stature, he was a head shorter than Torsten, but his entire frame was laced with muscle. And now that Torsten saw him even closer, he noticed more scars than he could count speckled amongst the white tattoos.
The arms of the Shesaitju archers, still holding arrows at the ready, shook as their leader stepped into their aim. He didn’t stop until Torsten could feel the warmth of his breath.
“Long ago, Liam Nothhelm issued my father the same challenge,” Muskigo said. “I was just a child then, you probably no more than a squire. And do you know what happened?”
Torsten’s hands balled into tight fists within his glaruium gauntlets. He could reach out and break the man’s neck if arrows didn’t shred him first. Instead, he stood, unspeaking. Defiant.
“My father was foolish enough to accept,” Muskigo continued. “He died that day, his afhemate fell, and the Glass Kingdom crept ever nearer to the Caleef’s sacred seat in Latiapur, which, of course, was conquered as well.”
“At least he had the honor to spare your people,” Torsten said.
“The heads of the afhems were hung from the palms like so many coconuts. Our wives were cast into exile—likely raped by your savages. My mother took her own life in shame. All my father did was help grow the legend of Liam the Coward.” He spit.
Torsten ignored the insult.
“Then defeat me,” he said. “Prove you’re better.”
“There is not a doubt in my mind I would slice your throat open before you could even cry in protest. But you are not Liam Nothhelm. You are not even Uriah Davies, who, as Wearer, earned so many victories in the name of king and God. You are a disgrace to that helm. Nobody. Less than nobody—the hand of a murderous shrew.”
Torsten reached for his claymore. The Serpent Guards unsheathed theirs in unison. The archers, whose grip had slackened, drew their strings back farther.
“Do it,” Muskigo whispered, smiling. “Do. It.”
More than anything, Torsten wanted to oblige him. His hand shook with rage. Sweat poured down his neck only to be kissed by the bitter wind. The entire city went quiet watching, waiting until finally, he lowered his hand.
Muskigo shook his head. “How far the Glass has fallen. Return to your people, Torsten Unger. Tell them they can bring Drav Cra, Panpingese, even the damnable dwarves… you will all die together.” He turned to walk back to his zhulong.
“Do not turn your back on me, heathen!” Torsten ordered.
“Go back to your people and pray to your God,” Muskigo said, hand upon the saddle of his terrifying beast. Raising one arm toward his throng of chained captives, he shouted, “Because the moment you try and retake this city, every single one of them will help me finish decorating this wall.”
He led his zhulong through the gates, never turning to face Torsten. He did, however, snap his fingers and arrows zipped into the ground at Torsten’s feet, purposely missing but forcing him back to his horse before it fled. As he pulled himself onto the saddle, thousands of captives were whipped and forced to move, bound together in bunches, and one by one sent to spread across the
length of Winde Port’s palisade walls—to sit upon the piled corpses of soldiers.
A human barrier.
Torsten could charge, his army could surmount the clumsy walls, but doing so would mean sacrificing his own people. And it was then, as his horse backed away, he understood just how long a game Muskigo was playing.
If Torsten brought his army east over the Jarein Gorge to maintain control over the Shesaitju lands, the Glass heartland would be exposed. If he stayed, Muskigo would dig in and sew unrest throughout the Shesaitju cities until the Crown’s control over his conquered people eroded.
They were at an impasse. Muskigo denied his challenge because he knew that as well as Torsten did. There was only one clear choice for Torsten, impossible as it may have been. He had to do whatever it took to cut the head off the serpent. To kill Muskigo.
XVIII
THE MYSTIC
Sora stared down into the warm water of a bath in one of the prefect's estate’s many luxurious chambers. Afhem Muskigo’s handmaidens drew it for her, giving her no choice but to try it. Before she knew what was happening, she was spinning out of her tattered dress and covering her privates with her hands and forearms, simultaneously hiding the countless scars on them.
She did her best not to protest. A woman of wealth and circumstance like she’d claimed to be would have experience with warm baths. In reality, she’d never cleaned off with anything but running river water.
Aquira had no problem getting comfortable. She was as calm as Sora had seen her since the moment they met. She lay, her long, scaled body sprawled out along the rim of the opposite side of the bath. Her eyes were closed, tail and one wing hanging down, swishing through the water. Thin lines of smoke escaped her thin nostrils every time she snored.
“Go on, dear,” Shavi said.
Sora sighed, then stepped in one leg at a time. The water stung the many wounds striping her body as she lowered herself. She gritted her teeth, the pain didn’t last long and after it dissipated, was well worth it. The warm water was like a healing salve now that her adrenaline wasn’t pumping and she realized how beaten and bruised her body was from fleeing Kazimir. She could draw on her own power and sacrifice to heal others, but she’d never been able to do the same for herself.
Kazimir...
Her eyes flitted toward the window behind Aquira. Sora had ordered them not to be covered by the cascading, velvet drapes. He was somewhere out there, hunting. The only thing that allowed her to try and stay calm was the fact that she was now in probably the safest place in all of the city. Wherever Muskigo was, those gold-clad protectors were with him.
She sunk back further until her entire head was submerged and the window was just a pale light beneath the rippling water. All the sounds of the world were drowned out. It was like she was weightless. She tried to close her eyes, but every time she did, all she could see was Kazimir’s devilish grin.
So, from beneath the water, she screamed. She screamed at the top of her lungs until face was surrounded by bubbles. When she returned to the surface, it was like a weight being lifted off her shoulders. She could finally relax and enjoy a luxury she never imagined she’d know.
Shavi knelt behind her, grabbed a clump of her now wet hair, and ran a comb through it.
“Your hair is knotted like I’ve never seen, my dear,” she said, ignoring the scream. Her voice rattled with age.
“I travel too much,” Sora replied softly.
“A woman like you shouldn’t have to.”
Sora turned to face her so Shavi would stop brushing, startling the old women. “Does the afhem treat all of his guests like this?”
“I could lie and say yes.”
“I just... it seems so wrong being in here bathing while people are suffering out there.”
“People are suffering everywhere, at all times, my dear—”
“Sora.”
Shavi’s shawl lifted revealing a soft smile. “Sora,” she said as if in wonder of the name. “Take every rare chance at reprieve you can. Trust me, I’ve been around a few years.”
“As a servant,” Sora remarked, then immediately regretted it.
“I am no servant. I could walk through that door anytime I wish, and not a soul would touch me. I’ve willingly served the family of Muskigo Ayerabi since I was as young and pretty as you are.”
“I... thank you. I meant no offense.”
“I take none.” Shavi took Sora’s hair and again began brushing it. “We women of the Black Sands may not be warriors, but the depths of the sea are not unreachable. Our men die in battle to please the God of Sand and Sea, but we bring those men into this plane through womb and water. We feed them. Ensure their houses do not fall. And a life lived in service to our people is as worthy as one lived in war.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your people,” Sora said. In fact, the only thing she really did know is that their warlords like Muskigo were renowned and that his men slaughtered Troborough and all those other innocent villages, seemingly without a second thought.
“There is more to us than war, my de—Sora.”
“It seems like that’s all there is to anybody these days.”
“It comes in tides like the rising of the sea. Men are born, they fight, they die, and we are left to make the ruin in their wake shine. And people say us women are powerless.” She leaned forward and winked. “We’re all that really matters.”
“Talking another girl’s ear off, Shavi?” Muskigo asked from the doorway. Now that they were out of public sight, he had furs over his bare shoulders. His scimitar hung from his hip, harmless.
Shavi wasn’t alarmed in the slightest by the sight of him, but Sora threw her arms over her body as if she could even be seen over the gold-trimmed rim of the tub. Aquira sprung awake, flipping over and nearly slipping into the water. Her frills went back, and she showed her teeth at the uninvited guest.
“You should know better than to interrupt a woman’s bath, Muskigo,” Shavi scolded. No titles, no proper names or bowing. She talked to the afhem as if she was his mother.
“My apologies.” Muskigo raised a bowl. “I came to offer our esteemed guest a proper meal before it runs out.”
Shavi stood, walked over to him to take the bowl, and returned to Sora. She didn’t even bow or offer thanks.
“Here you go, dear,” she said to Sora.
Sora glanced back at the afhem before taking it. He didn’t smile, but he watched with an anxious look on his face. His features only seemed to relax when she grabbed it as quick as possible so her arm wouldn’t be visible above the water long.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A Latiapur delicacy. It was my mother’s recipe.”
“You cooked this?”
Shavi laughed. “That boy hasn’t made a meal in his entire life.”
“Enough, Shavi,” Muskigo said. “Let her eat.”
Sora took another look at the afhem. He still stood in the doorway, but she couldn’t believe how eager he seemed. He, the rebel who had ordered the destruction of her home, who had sacked Winde Port and staked the heads of his enemies at the gates, was waiting on her… to see if she liked his food.
Sora cursed herself inwardly for feeling such pride over that fact. Her chin was held high as she raised the bowl to her lips and took a sip of the chunky stew. An involuntary moan of pleasure escaped her lips as the broth hit her tongue.
“Good, no?” Muskigo asked.
“Deli—” she cleared her throat. “It’s not bad,” she said, a bit of the stuff spilling over her bottom lip and down her chin. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed that he’d crept further into the room.
“You’re a terrible liar, Sora of Yaolin City.” He chuckled.
She looked back. He took another step forward but Aquira objected, soaring over the tub and up onto Sora’s shoulder. Sora had to quickly lift the bowl to keep it from spilling. The wyvern’s sharp claws dug into her skin, drawing pinpoints of red. Her body was
so used to being cut she barely felt it.
“And your friend needn’t be so protective,” Muskigo added.
“She’s been through a lot,” Sora said. “We both have.”
“I only sought to help clean your mouth with a meal that wasn’t bad.”
He pointed to his chin. Sora did the same and realize a chunk of stew was stuck there. Her face grew hot—first, because she was blushing, then from anger because she realized she was blushing.
Keep it together. You’re not a little girl playing princess. This man is a murderer.
But who was she to talk? Did she not recently trick a caravan full of men into aiding her and then rob them of everything they had? She considered the men in the caravan. It was the Shesaitju among those brutes who treated her with respect, just as Muskigo was now. But she also remembered what Whitney told her—how they were at the attack on Troborough ordered by Muskigo and did nothing to help.
They deserved it, she thought.
“Leave her be, Muskigo,” Shavi said, continuing to brush Sora’s hair. “Women are permitted to eat however they please.”
“Of course, Shavi,” Muskigo said. “I would never think otherwise. I simply want to be sure the lady enjoys some of the finer things our people have to offer.”
“Well, be sure over there.” Shavi pointed to the door. “How did I help raise such a man who would pry on a stranger in a bath?”
Now it was Muskigo’s turn to blush.
Aquira crept down from Sora’s shoulder as he backed away, but she didn’t go far, and she kept her piercing yellow eyes on him. Sora took another sip of her meal. The stew wasn’t quite like anything she’d ever tasted, and Wetzel had been no stranger to whipping together random concoctions for her to try. His famous rabbit foot soup could make a pig vomit, and his herb mixes, which he said would help her “unlock her powers,” were even worse.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3) Page 55
