Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Between Torsten and Redstar and the Black Sands riders, was the unit of a thousand men he’d summoned from Winde Port to surround Muskigo. They looked like they’d been hit by an avalanche, trampled and broken, groaning and in need of physicians.

  Massacred.

  Commander Citravan was at the front, his helmet caved into his skull.

  Torsten wasn’t sure how they didn’t hear it happen until he remembered the chaos in the smoking forest, his men screaming in the heat of battle as they fought to kill barely a hundred men—Shesaitju warriors who had sacrificed their lives to be a distraction.

  Marimount was never the target at all.

  Torsten glanced at Redstar, speechless. The Arch Warlock looked back. He didn’t smile like usual, but he wasn’t mournful either. In fact, he didn’t look surprised at all.

  “The eye far above is blinder than the one beneath our feet,” he said, calmly. “May She save us all.”

  XV

  THE THIEF

  “Oh, One-Eye?” Whitney called out.

  Darkings’ scarred lackey ignored him like he had during Whitney’s previous twenty attempts at gaining his attention.

  “Buried a bit north of here and to the east, there is a ring so precious you’ve likely never seen its equal,” Whitney went on. “Let me out, and it’s yours. You’ll never work in a shoghole like this again.”

  He considered bringing up the broken crown stuffed into a chimney in the middle of the Panping Ghetto but hated the idea of giving up his greatest prize. Even in half, it once sat upon the head of Liam the Conqueror.

  “Shut your mouth!” the guard finally grunted from his seat down the hall. “Ah, yigging shog, look at what you made me do.” He threw down a deck of cards and the guard across from him plucked a few autlas off the table.

  Whitney poked his head as far through the bars as he could, pulling the chains on his wrists and ankles tight.

  “Don’t blame me. You threw an anvil down against the archer? You need that ring if you’re expecting not to lose all your money in gems.”

  “Enough, thief. Pray to whoever you think’ll care and eat your last meal. Dawn is coming, and it’ll be the last one you see.”

  Whitney stared longingly back into his cell. “That slop is my last meal? I thought I’d at least get chicken. Looks more like what the chicken ate for supper.”

  He turned and climbed up a bench to peer through the tiny window slot at the back. It was dark as pitch outside, which would only mean one thing; dawn was about to break. Never before had Whitney been so sure he was going to die. He’d always had a plan, but right now, he had nothing and no allies to speak of. He could usually get guards to come around and take a bribe, but these guys weren’t biting. Probably because they worked for Darkings and not the Crown, and that meant they were well paid.

  C’mon Whitney, think! But nothing came. All he could imagine was that Sora… poor Sora… was in the hands of a ruthless assassin while he was left to hang.

  He found himself subconsciously grabbing at his throat, swallowing hard.

  “The ring and the Splintering Staff,” he said. “I have them both hidden nearby. I can take you there right now. They’re yours. Worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime. Just let me out.” He emphasized those last words, shaking the cell door.

  The guard rose and silently began unlocking the cell.

  “Oh, thank you,” Whitney said. “Thank you. You won’t regret this. I will—”

  “Shut it, thief!” the guard said. He reached through the bars, grabbed Whitney by the scruff of his neck, and pulled him hard into the bars. Whitney’s head cracked against the metal before he staggered backward.

  “You ain’t going nowhere but to your death,” the guard growled.

  His gems partner arrived as well, along with another of Darkings' goons. They unlocked Whitney’s chained limbs and dragged him along. He tried to fight, but he could barely stand, his head was ringing so loud. Plus, each act of resistance only furthered their resolve to injure him more. By the time they’d hauled him out of Darkings' basement, down the street, and to the upper wharf where the gallows had been set up, he had been kicked, punched, and otherwise beaten more than a dozen times.

  A gathering had amassed. Word about hangings always traveled quickly within big cities. Nothing roused the common-folk more than watching one of their own flail at the end of a rope. Usually, it was cultists, leaders of rebellions, bandit crews, or—apparently murderous folk. Or in Whitney’s case, men set up to look like one.

  Through swollen eyes, Whitney saw people of all shapes and sizes, most of them poor, and most Panpingese. Light, bronzish skin, pointed ears, and expressions of profound sadness.

  “All right, last chance,” Whitney said to Darkings' lackey. “I’ll get you the ring, the staff, and... I can’t believe I’m saying this… the Glass Crown of Liam Nothhelm.”

  “I’m going to enjoy watching your neck snap, scag.”

  Whitney was handed off to the city guard, proudly donning the blue and white of the Glass Kingdom. He was promptly shoved through the growing crowd. The looks of sorrow among the Panpingese quickly transitioned to rage as vegetables and hard chunks of bread slammed into his body from every direction. What appeared to be a turnip clipped his ear and even drew blood. The soldiers made as little effort to shield him as was physically possible.

  Everyone with pointed ears wanted to take a shot at the bastard who killed Tayvada, even if it meant spoiling much-needed food. It appeared Tayvada was loved dearly. He was probably the pride of their community, using the wealth of the Traders Guild to provide food and other necessities. For the first time since finding his drained corpse, Whitney felt a hint of remorse over the man himself. None of them realized they blamed the wrong guy. From their viewpoint, he agreed.

  The soldiers walked him up a small flight of stairs and tossed him down on the wooden planks. Raising his head, he watched as many of the onlookers spit toward him. Whitney never cared whether he was liked before, but now he knew he hated being so reviled. Thieves who meet their end usually did so rotting in a cell or falling from a rooftop. Public execution was never what Whitney expected, or deserved.

  He watched Bartholomew Darkings ascend the steps from the opposite side of the platform, donning his best formal silks. He licked his lips beneath thick mustache and edged toward Whitney and his detainers. A hush fell upon the gathering mass as the former constable of Bridleton and son of the Master of Coin positioned himself at the front of the platform.

  “Nice shirt,” Whitney remarked. Darkings didn’t even pay him a passing glance. “Did your mother sew that—” He lost his train of thought when, out of the corner of his vision, he saw someone familiar watching from the shadows. Standing under the pitched roof of a bell tower was the white-haired assassin who’d taken Sora. He leaned against a column, grinning.

  “Good people of Winde Port,” Darkings announced. “Especially the fine folks of the Panping Ghe…” He cleared his throat. “District”

  “Welcome!” he shouted.

  Thunderous applause rained down on him.

  “Yes, yes,” he continued, motioning for the crowd to quiet. “My name is Bartholomew Darkings, beloved son of our great Master of Coin. My family helped build Winde Port centuries ago, and so I stand here today, a man of the merchant city just like each of you.”

  Yeah, minus the fact that you live in a mansion on a hill the whole ghetto could fit into. Whitney scoffed internally.

  “I hope for today to be more than the execution of one worthless whelp,” Darkings continued. “I hope it to be a day of eternal memory. One we can look back upon as the beginning of a new era. For too long, you’ve been forced into obscurity. This fact accented by the death of one of the greatest men in all of Winde Port being brutally murdered in a place where, with even the slightest presence of city guards, it could have been prevented.”

  Murmurs of agreement carried across the crowd. Whitney would’ve rolled his eye
s if they weren’t so fixated on the assassin. Never in his life had just seeing a man made his throat clench. All the hope that his good luck would get him out of this drained away.

  “Had it not been for my personal guards receiving a tip about this… scoundrel being in our fine city, Tayvada Bokeo’s death may have gone days without notice.”

  “I didn’t even do it!” Whitney finally drew enough focus to shout. The last word came out as a grunt, one of the guard’s boots finding his ribcage.

  “But no more!” Darkings shouted, inviting an uproar from the crowd. “The Darkings have returned to Winde Port. Returned home. And we will fight to make our city safer for everyone!”

  Darkings turned to face Whitney, eclipsing the menace watching from a distance, and winked.

  “It all starts now,” he said. He raised his hand, and the soldiers roughly pulled Whitney to his feet. They gave him a shove toward the center of the gallows where a noose hung.

  “This man is a fraud!” Whitney shouted, but no one could hear him over the cheers. Without the dark eyes of Kazimir upon him, he felt like himself again.

  Darkings came close and said, “No one cares about you, thief. Your name means nothing. You will go down in history only as the man who sealed my hold on Winde Port. And nobody but I will ever know.”

  Darkings turned back to his captive audience and waved his arms for them to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man who stole Tayvada Bokeo’s life in cold blood. Whitney Blisslayer!”

  The crowd cursed his name. The executioner wrapped a coarse rope around his neck, then stepped back to a lever, ready to plunge Whitney into Elsewhere. Things got so crazy it sounded like a riot until a lone, gruff voice cried out.

  “Stop!” Whitney couldn’t find its owner in the crowd. “Ye ain’t got the right to hang a noble at these gallows.”

  The people parted, revealing Tum Tum. The rotund dwarf stood tall, however short he was.

  “He deserves to stand before the prefect for his actions and defend himself, aye?” Tum Tum said, looking around for support.

  To Whitney’s shock, a few of the wealthier onlookers in their posh outfits agreed.

  “And who might you be to question a Darkings?” Bartholomew said.

  “I be the true voice of the people, standing up to those who think themselves above the law because their daddy’s a big shot in Yarrington.”

  Bartholomew laughed humorlessly, then his face contorted into a scowl.

  “I assure you, my bearded friend, that the prefect is busy securing the region against possible rebellion and has vested in me the power to take this unfortunate matter into my own hands. Tayvada was…” He closed his eyes and feigned sincerity, “…a dear friend.”

  “Tayvada fed my children when we had nothing!” a Panpingese man hollered from the back.

  “Hang the bastard!” A cacophony of onlookers voiced their agreement.

  “And someone will pay for his death!” Tum Tum said. “But, I’ve known Whitney for years, and the man be gentle as they come.”

  “Hey, I’m not that…” Whitney said, before realizing how stupid it would be to argue that. “Yeah, he’s right! I can’t even hurt a spider.”

  “This man was found in Tayvada’s very home,” Bartholomew shouted, “blood on his hands.”

  “Yeah, so I hear. So ye say he slit the poor bloke’s throat—let the blood drain from him. The Whitney I know retches at the sight of a cut.” Tum Tum hopped—or, rather, rolled—up onto the stand. A kind onlooker even rushed to help him to his feet after watching his struggle. “My Panpingese brothers and sisters, I know ye are angry, and why shouldn’t ye be? But is this really Winde Port justice?”

  “Maybe the dwarf has a point,” that same highborn in front said. Whitney thought he recognized him from the Guild Hall. “Should we not hear the accused’s defense before he is sent from this world?”

  “Yeah, what he said!” Whitney cried out. “I’m weak and harmless. But maybe there’s someone else who gets something out of painting a new villain. Maybe he’s right here among us.”

  A mixture of approval and distaste spewed forth from the non-Panpingese members of the crowd. Bartholomew leaned in close to his one-eyed guard. “Kill the dwarf as soon as we’re gone,” he whispered so only Whitney could hear.

  He turned back to address Tum Tum.

  “Your complaints are duly noted, Dwarf,” he said. “But this decree has already been made and signed by Prefect Mortimer Calhoun.” He unfurled a piece of paper from the folds of his jacket. Whitney couldn’t see it, but he could see Tum Tum’s features darken and knew his fate was sealed. And even worse, he could once again see the grin on the assassin’s face now that Bartholomew had moved, teeth and hair white against the shadow.

  “Today,” Bartholomew pronounced with renewed vigor. “The murderer, Whitney Blisslayer die—”

  A sudden scream rang out. “In the bay!”

  Whitney turned toward the water. A flaming rock crashed into one of the Glass Kingdom warships floating in the bay. Then, suddenly, an arrow exploded through the chest of the noble that had taken Whitney’s side. For a moment, Whitney thought someone was coming to spring him, but then he realized… only a Shesaitju barbed arrow could tear through a man with such force.

  A frenzy broke out as more arrows trickled down, men and women tripping over one another. Even the Glass soldiers overseeing the execution dispersed.

  Whitney saw his opening. The executioner no longer stood on the platform, and Bartholomew’s guards were otherwise occupied. Just as Whitney began to duck out of the noose, one of the lumbering brutes bumped into him. In turn, he bumped another guard, who bumped into Bartholomew, and finally, the man’s fat ass struck the lever. In an instant, the floor fell out beneath him and Whitney was hanging.

  He gurgled and strained. As he struggled, he wondered why his neck hadn’t snapped, though he wasn’t complaining.

  His vision grew blurry, blood rushing to his eyeballs. He could feel drool against his cheek before he went lightheaded. His ears rang, but he heard a loud crack-boom, and suddenly, he was falling again.

  It took a moment for him to figure out what happened. A shower of wood fragments rained down on him as, somehow, he lay safely on the ground. He stood beneath the gallows, sides broken but for a few supporting struts. Beyond the structure where the crowd had just been, was an open marketplace. Everyone was busy running for their lives.

  The Shesaitju are attacking again?

  Whitney didn’t wait around for an answer. He went to run, but Bartholomew grabbed his ankle and sent him sprawling.

  “You won’t escape me again!” Bartholomew hissed.

  “You’re right, I won’t.” Whitney kicked him across the jaw. Then he rolled over and jumped on the man. He used the rope that still bound his hands and pulled it taut against Darkings' neck. “Where is she!”

  “Unhand him!” The loyal, one-eyed guard grabbed Whitney and flung him off.

  Before either could make a move, another volley of arrows rained down. The guard raised a chunk of broken wood and kept an arrow from shredding Bartholomew’s head. Another landed in the dirt, right between Whitney’s legs.

  He stared at it, frozen by fear. He knew firsthand what the barbed arrows could do. All the while, Bartholomew’s men lugged their master away while he vowed revenge again and again.

  With them gone, the sight of Kazimir standing through an open doorway across the plaza finally stirred Whitney. While everyone fled for their lives, the Breklian assassin stayed in the darkness, calmly juggling one of his many knives.

  Whitney rolled and hopped to his feet, then ran, arms bound and severed noose flapping behind him. He saw the source of his salvation in a massive ball of stone that had apparently been catapulted into the city. There was no time to celebrate his renowned luck. He needed to get out of the target zone, lest another boulder or arrow come crashing down.

  Kazimir was now nowhere to be seen, and none of the city
guards paid any attention to the escaping prisoner. Whitney sprinted as fast as he could and only stopped once he knew he was free of the threat of discovery. Ducking into an alley, he slid the noose from his neck and worked the rope until his hands were untied.

  He rubbed his neck. Knowing there’d be a mark, he pulled his collar up tight against his ears. Only then did he finally allow himself to catch his breath. Once he had his fill of the precious, life-giving air, he peered around the corner toward the bay. From the morning fog along the shore, emerged hundreds of dark rowboats cracking through the ice toward Winder’s Wharf. Each of them carried gray-skinned rowers by the dozens, so many that some were even hanging off into the freezing cold water.

  On the back of each, stood an archer, loosing arrow after arrow into the city. Glass soldiers fired back and formed along the wharf, but boulders from catapults soared out of the fog. They came from the direction of the coast as if somehow an entire army had snuck right onto Winde Port’s doorstep overnight.

  The Shesaitju mounted the wharf, descending upon the shields of the Glassmen like a tsunami.

  Bells tolled from all around him. Whitney felt the breath catch in his lungs. This was no mere raiding party with a lust for bloodshed. It was an army. The biggest Whitney had ever seen. And once again he was in the wrong place while they were attacking.

  He backed away and as he did, noticed Kazimir on a sunken balcony on a neighboring building, staring out at the bay. The assassin was enraptured by the sight of the invaders, same as he was. Whitney used the man’s distraction and sunk all the way back into the alley. He found a sewer cover nested at the base of a building and weaseled his way in.

  Darkings, Panping—they could all wait. He had to find Sora before the whole city burned down around them… or Kazimir killed them both.

  XVI

  THE MYSTIC

  By the time sunlight filtered in through the stained glass, Sora’s throat felt like tree bark.