Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  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.

  “What is this anyway?” Sora asked.

  “Zhulong stew,” Shavi answered.

  “It’s so tender though,” she exclaimed. “I would expect zhulong to be tough.” They were dirty, smelly, scary beasts. Not the kind of animal she was used to eating.

  “You will find it is not only the zhulong whose outward appearance is a poor reflection of what lies inward,” Muskigo said with a smile, lips crooked, all the confidence oozing off him as his commanding façade faded.

  Sora nearly choked on her next mouthful. She wasn’t sure if Muskigo was just being kind to her because he thought she had worthwhile connections in Panping, but now she knew it was much more than that. The way he regarded her wasn’t lecherous like drunks in a tavern either. It was the same way someone else looked at her in those rare moments of vulnerability… Whitney.

  “Anyway, I’m glad to see you are satisfied,” Muskigo said, breaking her train of thought. “When you’re finished, Shavi will find proper clothing and somewhere you’ll be able to sleep.”

  Sora glanced up from the bowl.

  “Nothing nefarious, you have my word. There’s not a man within these walls who would trifle with you now that we are friends.”

  This time she actually did choke. She had to hit her chest to get the piece of zhulong to tumble down her throat.

  Friends.

  Playing this role was all fine and good for survival’s sake, but hearing him call her that had rage mounting within her again. She could feel the water around her begin to boil.

  “Sora?” Muskigo said.

  She hadn’t realized he’d been speaking, so caught up in her thoughts as she was. “Oh, sorry…” she muttered.

  “I have more planning to attend to with my commanders, but I’m glad to see you cleaned up. Tomorrow, if you are ready, I hope we may discuss plans for inviting your people to this fight for freedom. I have been in need of a liaison with the ability to reach out to Panping, and I believe I may have found that in you. Sleep well.”

  “Of course,” Sora said softly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He smiled again, that same reticent look that spoke of many more intentions than wanting an ally. Then he turned to walk away, a host of faceless warriors in the hall falling in around him.

  “He’s more bark than bite,” Shavi said once he was gone.

  “The headless bodies outside might not think so,” Sora snapped before she could stop herself. “Sorry, it’s just… seeing all of that… I remember what happened to my people.”

  “No need to apologize, dear. Sometimes when I look at him, I still see the young boy I cared for while his father was out fighting King Liam. He’s not that anymore, is he?” She laughed, and Sora couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Not at all.”

  “No, but he is a better man than the horror you see outside. Now, lay back. I’ll get your hair so cleaned out you won’t have to worry about it for years.”

  Sora did as she asked. While Shavi went to work, her gaze listed back toward the window where the occasional scream of pain rang out thanks to the war outside. Perhaps Muskigo wasn’t the horrible monster deserving death who she’d been imagining since the day she left Troborough behind, but just because he wasn’t Kazimir didn’t mean Whitney’s views on people like him were wrong.

  Lords and ladies always appear impressive, but they don’t care a lick for the people they step on to get what they want—no matter how much they claimed to. Whether in the name of gods or freedom, the ends were always the same... and only the people suffered for them.

  Even if Sora could never bring herself to be the one to drive a knife into his heart, she’d never help him. And she’d certainly never sit at his royal side and become a person like him. No matter how much of his wealth, wiles, or charms he threw at her.

  XIX

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten tested the ropes on a newly-erected tent. They were loose, the fabric flapping in the wind. What better could he expect from an army that had never set camp before? Untried. Untested.

  He lay his hand on the arm of a soldier. “Stake those in deeper,” he said. “Or you’ll be sleeping in the cold.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man saluted.

  “And you,” Torsten pointed to another, “get a fire started. Staying warm is the difference between life and death.”

  “Wouldn’t want the puny Glassmen getting cold,” murmured Drad Mak as he strolled by, a cracked battle axe propped against his shoulder.

  “Ignore them,” Torsten said. “Out here, the Black Sands aren’t our enemy. The elements are. The Shesaitju aren’t used to being so far north. With Iam on our side, we’ll outlast them.”

  “A weak god, for a weak people. You should hear their villagers squeal and run when my warriors arrive to take their crops. Not a man among them.” Mak laughed again.

  Torsten paid him no mind. He couldn’t, even as arguing broke out between them and some nearby Glassmen. If he stopped every time one of Redstar’s men insulted one of his own he’d be busy for days.

  The men remained shaken by what happened at Marimount. The bodies dangling from the walls of Winde Port didn’t help either. Nor did the biting cold.

  Torsten sighed and pulled his cloak a bit tighter. He remembered something King Liam used to say to former Wearer Uriah, “War has no schedule, no fixed times of meeting. The better prepared army always wins, and it is a leader’s job to have his men ready for anything, at any time.”

  Like most of Liam’s lessons, it was quite simple, at least until panic settled in. And fear of loss and life. Uriah, however, was never rattled. He’d walk the camp before battle, and just the sight of him in his pearl-white armor was enough for Torsten to know they couldn’t fail.

  As Torsten strolled by, offering nods of encouragement to different groups of soldiers, he wondered if he instilled that same courage.

  How could I after Marimount?

  Riding fearlessly to meet with Muskigo at the gates might have helped, but until they defeated him in battle, Torsten knew he was no Uriah. Not even close.

  “Hang the traitor!” a voice cracked through the nervous din of preparations. Torsten turned and saw
a bit of commotion. He expected to see another brawl between Drav Cra and Glassmen but realized that a few of them stood side by side, yelling at something together. He hurried over.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, pushing some men aside.

  “Look what we found, sir,” a Glass soldier said. He had a Shesaitju on his knees and kicked him in the back so hard the man hit the dirt. “A raincloud sneaking about.”

  “One of Muskigo’s spies, no doubt,” said another.

  “I do not know what you are talking about!” the Shesaitju man protested, earning another boot to his spine. He had the look of a fighter—strong jaw, hard body, only he wore furs and boiled leather armor that looked western in origin. His black lips trembled with real fear.

  “And who are they?” Torsten asked. Also kneeling in the mud behind the Shesaitju were two identical-looking men in unmarked armor who were unquestionably mercenaries, a stocky, red-bearded dwarf, and an old man dressed in silks that appeared to have at one point been of excellent craftsmanship. Now his clothing was tattered and his features just as ragged, with all the others not faring much better.

  “We be silk traders ye no-good, flower pickin—” The dwarf’s rant was interrupted as Mak the Mountainous arrived to spit on him.

  “Go crawl back underground, dirtmonger.” Mak said as he walked by and went to punch him but Torsten caught his arm. He knew there was no love lost between the two peoples. Their lands shared a border in the north, and even though the dwarves lived beneath the mountains, that didn’t mean their riches were any less sought after.

  “Enough,” Torsten said. Drad Mak turned, daggers in his eyes. Torsten didn’t flinch.

  The men halted their barrage on the odd group of travelers but kept them on the ground—especially, the dwarf, who thrashed and cursed in ways Torsten didn’t think were possible.