Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Come on,” Sora said. “I’m cold.”

  “Light a fire.” Whitney began walking again but stopped when he saw Sora standing at the end of the street, staring.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  Ramshackle, wooden row houses were crammed along a narrow street that, beyond the church, cheapened to dirt. Ropes covered in drying clothes were hung from one window to the next, some hanging lower than Whitney’s head, barely able to dry in the cold. A few Panpingese men and women lay huddled in a structure that didn’t look like it’d had a roof for a century.

  The air reeked of smoke from the chimneys so tightly clumped together they created a thick cloud. Beneath the scent of burning wood was something else less pleasing.

  “It smells like shog and piss,” Whitney said.

  “Looks like it too.” She scanned from one side of the street to the other, incredulous. “This is the Panping District?”

  Whitney knew what to expect. There were certain… amenities… that could only be found in a place like this, and he’d spent plenty of drunken nights in Winde Port. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the real name of the place was the Panping Ghetto.

  “According to the city map,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” Sora said. “Tayvada was dressed nicely. He is a trader in the guild. Surely he has enough money…” Her voice trailed off before she said, “He has to live here, doesn’t he? They make all of my people live in this… this filth.”

  “I’m sure he’s just a man of the people.” Whitney took a few steps and Sora followed. A man bundled beneath a stack of furs groaned and rolled over onto the path. As they went around him, another woman in a candlelit window stared at Whitney, her almond-shaped eyes unflinching.

  “Supposedly, he lives just over there.” Whitney pointed to a larger row house at the end of the street. It was in much better shape than the buildings flanking it, with patterned wood panels at the second story, but it was still far from luxurious.

  “Sora?” Whitney asked.

  He looked back and noticed that she’d fallen behind. She kneeled in front of a pair of skinny children. The older of them coughed while the other leaned against him, wrapped in a ratty blanket. Whitney couldn’t tell if they were faking. Begging was a full-time occupation in some parts of the world, and nobody earned better than children.

  “Sora,” Whitney said. “Leave them be.”

  She ignored him, and instead, opened one of the full coin purses they’d earned for selling Grint’s stuff. She placed a gold autla in each of their hands and smiled, watching as their eyes went wide. They’d probably seen bronzers or even silver before, but never gold.

  They said something to Sora in Panpingese, the words rattling off their tongues so choppy and fast that Whitney didn’t pick up any of it. He knew a bit of the language from his travels, but Sora, on the other hand, knew none.

  Whitney took her arm and gently guided her away. “C’mon, Sora. Tayvada’s house is right up here.”

  She shook him off. “Are you heartless? No one should have to live like this.”

  “We can’t help them all.”

  “Oh?” She lifted the purse, removed a coin, and flung it up through an open window. “Are the people of Yarrington more deserving of our riches?” She took another and flicked it onto the ground.

  “No, but we didn’t need money then.”

  “We don’t need all of this.” She went to dump out more coins, but Whitney grabbed her arm. He could see the rage in her amber eyes, that same rage she used to release an explosion of light and energy that defeated Redstar. He was just glad she wasn’t bleeding.

  “We don’t know that. It won’t be cheap if we need to purchase passage at a time like this. And if we need to buy a ship ourselves, it’ll be even more.”

  “We can go by land,” she said softly.

  “War’s coming. There’s a merry band of mercenaries on the road back that likely want us dead, plus an incredibly wealthy ex-constable who definitely wants us dead. We need to leave here as fast as possible, and nobody can touch us on a boat. We’ll go see your homeland and maybe after, you can come back here and we’ll load up as many children as you want, bring them to Panping so they can starve there instead.”

  Sora was stunned by his words. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the harshness, or because she’d become accustomed to him joking, but he was an expert on the ugly truth of the world. It was never an easy thing to realize.

  “You give one coin to each of them, and they’ll eat for a week,” he said. “Then we’ll be long gone, and it’ll be back to normal for them. Some people are just plain unlucky, Sora. But we’re living, breathing proof that it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s all up to them to fight for more.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Growing up with a loving family on a farm was so difficult for you.”

  “There’s more opportunity in a city, that’s for sure. Now, let’s just do what we came here to do.”

  He risked putting his hand on her back. She didn’t fight it as he guided her toward Tayvada’s house.

  “Now, when we get in, let me do the haggling,” Whitney said. “I know these types. They’re vultures in gentlemen’s clothing, traders. The moment you think you’re their friend is the moment they bend you ov…” The words trailed off as Whitney remembered what had happened on the road with that lecherous dwarf. He winced ahead of time, expecting to feel Sora’s scorn, but she didn’t hear him.

  “Seriously?” Sora asked after taking one disgusted look at Tayvada’s house. “This is the city you talk so highly of. The place so accepting of all peoples and cultures?”

  “A lot of people got displaced by war,” Whitney said. “They needed homes quick, and they lost so…”

  “I get why we need to leave, but you’re really defending this?”

  “No, I’m just saying that not everything is so black and white. Look at me.” He grinned. “I don’t even have a home.”

  “Would you stop comparing yourself to these people?”

  “I compare myself to everyone. You know that.” He gave her a friendly nudge, but she wasn’t having it. Her whole face had been stuck scowling since the moment they crossed the canal.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said. “Let’s just speak with Tayvada and get out of here.”

  “Fine by me,” Whitney replied, relieved.

  He approached the man’s door and slammed on the knocker while shouting his name. A thin line of flickering light came from beneath the door, but nobody came. He tried again. Still nothing. A stray cat hissed and leaped out from the browning bushes, giving them both a scare. The thing set Tayvada’s front gate squeaking on its rusty hinges. Whitney couldn’t help but notice his was the only home on the whole street with a perimeter fence and gate.

  “He’s probably asleep,” Sora said.

  “Let’s go find out,” Whitney decided.

  “We’re just going to go in uninvited?”

  “Uh… thief, remember?”

  “You’re supposed to be acting like a noble, if that’s possible for you.”

  Whitney tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He shot a smile at Sora and pushed it open. “I am. We found the door ajar, and like any good citizens, wanted to check if everything was all right. The richest man in a place like this?”

  “Somehow, you’re going to make an enemy out of the only man who can help.”

  “C’mon.” Whitney peered through the opening. A single candle burned on the mantle, nearly down to the wick. He waved for Sora to follow.

  “Tayvada!” Whitney called. “You home?”

  There was a thud upstairs, then Aquira came screeching down a flight of a dozen or so stairs. Whitney was up on the dining table, daggers drawn before he knew what happened.

  Sora jumped in front of the door before the wyvern could escape.

  “What’s wrong, girl?” she asked, kneeling down. Aquira hid behind her l
eg and hissed at the staircase. Whitney thought he saw a speckling of embers spew from her mouth like spit, a failed remnant of the majestic, extinct dragons it devolved from.

  “The sound came from upstairs,” Whitney said, pointing with a wavy blade.

  “Well, are you going to get down from there and check it out?” Sora asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not home.”

  Sora released an exasperated sigh, then removed her fancy glove, pulled out her knife, and drew a line of blood across her palm. She crept toward the stairs and started climbing. Aquira, however, didn’t go further than the first step.

  “Smart girl,” Whitney said to the wyvern before reluctantly following Sora.

  As they climbed, the dim light from the candle burning downstairs became even dimmer and was replaced by the orange glow of Celeste’s light gushing in through open windows.

  They split up at the top, Whitney going to the left, toward where the sound might have originated. Sora went right.

  Whitney found nothing but rooms, empty of life but packed with valuables. He could almost see gold autlas dancing before his eyes, but his visions were abruptly ended by the sound of Sora’s scream. He turned and took off down the hall. If anyone was in the house, they were now fully aware of his and Sora’s presence.

  Clearing the threshold of what was clearly Tayvada’s bedroom, Whitney saw what had frightened Sora. Hanging from the ceiling like a butterfly’s cocoon, was what remained of a Panpingese man. Blood stained the body all the way down from a slash on his neck, still dripping from his jet-black hair, pooling across the floor, and seeping through the planks in the wood.

  “Shog in a barrel,” Whitney whispered.

  “Is that…” Sora could barely get the words out.

  “Yeah, it’s him.”

  Whitney sheathed his daggers and moved in for a closer look, covering his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt to ward against any potential smell. People about to die tended to make a mess of themselves. Those who did die always did.

  Tayvada’s skin was whiter than snow, the veins on his neck like blue spider webs. He hung upside down from a rope looped around a crossbeam. His body had been drained of blood like butcher’s meat.

  “Watch the door. Whoever did this might still be around.” Whitney closed his eyes before shoving a hand into Tayvada’s doublet.

  “What are you doing?” Sora asked, terse.

  “We came here to find passage. His papers can get us that.”

  “Do you ever steal from anyone who’s still alive? You’re going to get us cursed!”

  Whitney rooted around and found a small envelope in the man’s front pocket. It was exactly what they needed—a temporary trader’s export license issued by Prefect Calhoun of Winde Port.

  “Mumbo jumbo,” he said. “Trust me, if I’m not cursed yet, I never will be.”

  “How did you know that was in there?”

  “At Tum Tum’s, he said it was always on him, remember? Lesson four hundred twelve—always pay attention. Now let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re just going to leave him like that? This is barbaric.”

  “Welcome to Winde Port, home of deals gone sour,” Whitney whispered.

  “Whitney,” Sora said, stern, “we can’t leave him.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to stay out of bad business. Besides, nobody knows we’re here. Nobody saw us.”

  “Oh, but I did,” spoke a voice from within the darkness of the room.

  Whitney spun toward the sound and watched as a man emerged from the shadows. He wore boiled leathers with an absurd number of buckles and clasps over his torso, each of them holding sharp looking knives. Long, white hair fell far below his shoulders, but the man didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be so gray.

  “It is funny how the fish can sense the hook but cannot deny the bait,” he said as he strolled forward. His thick, bold accent informed Whitney that the color of his hair wasn’t due to age but was indicative of the people from the northeastern land of Brekliodad. “Its allure surpasses the wisdom of even the brightest of creatures.”

  “Look fellow, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but you’d better turn around,” Whitney said. He drew his daggers and took a step back to get his footing before realizing his back was against the rickety wall. Sora was beside him, and the mysterious intruder stood between them and the room’s only window and door.

  “How can you not see how outmatched you are, pathetic little man?” The white-haired devil stopped beside Tayvada’s hanging body, ran a single finger through the man’s bloody neck and marveled at the shiny red liquid, smearing it between his forefinger and thumb.

  “You murdered him!” Sora shouted.

  The mysterious man shrugged. “Bait is bait.”

  “Bait for wha—” Whitney didn’t have time to finish before he heard the familiar wincing sound of Sora cutting her already bleeding hand even deeper, fueled by rage. Ever since they arrived in Winde Port, he could see her affinity with her race growing, and seeing one hanging out to dry had put a look in her eye unlike any he’d seen there before.

  She thrust her hand forward, fire erupting from the tips of her fingers. It struck the white-haired man in the chest and exploded with a blinding flash. It temporarily blinded Whitney, but when he could see again, the man was enveloped by smoke and flurrying embers. The expulsion of such energy left Sora doubled over, panting.

  Whitney saw motion in the cloud and expected to see a body topple over. Instead, when the smoke cleared, the man rose from a crouch and rolled his shoulders like it was nothing. The only visible damage was a small scorch in his armor. The blades of his many daggers glowed red hot, and his dark, thin lips curled into a nightmarish grin.

  “I knew I was right about you,” he said to Sora, who was as shocked as Whitney. “So much untapped potential. So much raw… power.”

  “Sora, run!” Whitney charged at the man, swinging one of his daggers. The man moved so swiftly it was like swiping at air. Whitney staggered, then came whipping around with his second dagger. For a moment it looked like he’d catch the man’s stomach. But again, it was almost as if the man disappeared into nothingness. Whitney tripped over a loose floorboard and scrambled for the door.

  Sora and Whitney reached the door at the same time, but two knives stabbed into it right in front of their faces, the force of the throw causing it to slam shut. They looked back and saw the white-haired man holding more knives, fanned out like cards in a game of gems.

  “Now, now, don’t run,” he said. “Things are just starting to get fun.”

  “Stay away from us!” Sora screamed. She raised her hands and released fire again, only she was so drained from last time, it came out as little more than a sputter. The man spun out of the way, flames catching the end of his cloak, then dropping to the floor. The dry wooden planks beneath him caught fast, but the man removed his cloak and snapped it, extinguished the fire in one smooth motion. He shook it out and calmly placed it back over his shoulders.

  “Our friend here is no good to anyone cooked,” he said, slapping Tayvada’s corpse on the arm. “

  “Whitney…” Sora whispered as if he had any answers.

  He was lucky he could even hold his weapons his hands were so sweaty and shaky. His heart raced so fast he could no longer feel it beating, just a steady rock in his throat. “If you wanted us dead we would be, so j…just tell us what you want,” he managed to say.

  “You small, insignificant fool. You could not comprehend what I want in one hundred lifetimes.”

  “Try me,” Whitney replied, finding his last bit of courage. He found himself thinking the oddest thought, wishing Torsten were there. But the man chuckled and stole Whitney’s focus back to the moment.

  The Breklian darted at them. It all happened so fast, Whitney wasn’t sure whether he actually tried to defend himself or simply closed his eyes. When they opened again, the man was gone. A breeze wafted in throu
gh the now-open window, curtains flapping in the wind. All that was left in the room was the lingering sound of the man’s haunting laugh.

  “Who the yig was that?” Whitney asked after a moment. He turned to Sora, only to find that she too was gone.

  Three hard raps on the front door startled him.

  “Whitney Blisslayer, we know you’re in there!” someone called up from the street. “Surrender in the name of the King!”

  “No, no, no,” he said. He peeked out of the window and saw at least a dozen Glass soldiers spread out in front of the home. A crowd of ghetto locals gathered to watch as if they’d never seen soldiers in their district before.

  The townhouse was so narrow, there was no way out through any upstairs window except the one they’d clearly see him leaving. Whitney sheathed his weapons and swept out into the hall and downstairs, searching for a side door, back door, anything—even a basement. Nothing. The Panping Ghetto was contained, its row homes facing straight onto the streets, backs of the homes butting up to the back of others on the adjacent street. His back was literally against the wall.

  He patted his clothes and found Tayvada’s trading papers before also realizing he still had his half of the Glass Crown hidden beneath his cloak. Swearing, he removed both, wrapped the papers around the circlet, and ran to the hearth. The soldiers knocked again as he shoved his hand up the flue. He found a bit of loose stone and hung the Crown from the ledge along with the papers.

  The front door flew open.

  Whitney leaped upright and raised his hands in surrender as the soldiers poured in, spears and swords drawn and aimed at his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aquira zipping out the front door behind them.