“Then you are a coward!” Wardric slammed on the table.
“The King will hear of this upon my return,” Yuri said. “You have my word.”
“I’m sure he will,” Redstar said. “Right after you tell him of my future victory. Now, you must excuse me, my Lords. We must continue praying to the one below so we do not fail again.” He bowed absurdly low while leveling his gaze upon Torsten. It reminded him of the sarcastic way the thief Whitney used to acknowledge him, only this wasn’t playful. There was something curious in the gesture—as if it were meant to be the last bow he ever gave. Then, he walked away.
“How dare you turn your back on your Lords!” Yuri hollered.
“Forget him,” Torsten said. “If he wants to hide, then we’re better off without him. I was wrong to stake our chance at victory on the foul powers he calls upon by blood and sacrifice.”
“Agreed,” Wardric grumbled.
Torsten turned to Yuri. “Can your man quickly lead us through the dark alone?”
“Nobody knows these tunnels better,” Yuri said. He was stuck staring at Redstar until he became just another fur amongst the ranks of his people.
“Then take us to the passage. I will lead a cohort of Shieldsmen beneath the city and end this.”
“No,” Wardric said. “I will lead them.”
“Wardric, I refuse to argue with someone else about this,” Torsten said.
“Then don’t. Redstar is a bastard, but he’s right about one thing. This may well be a suicide mission. It’s not like riding to the walls under the banner of peace. You are our Wearer, and I cannot in good conscience allow you to take on this burden.”
“That is why it must be me.”
Wardric pulled Torsten aside and lowered his voice. “This is exactly what he wants, don’t you see? He’s gambling that you will die on this mission and he can step into command. By Elsewhere, he might burn the entire city to the ground while you’re in there just to do it.”
“I know what he wants.”
“Then don’t risk it! I have served the King’s Shield for decades—far longer than you. Now, I may not be the same warrior, but I knew Uriah and King Liam just as well. I never wanted to be Wearer, I only wanted to serve my kingdom. But now I’m asking you… use me for this. Stay behind with the army.”
Torsten swallowed the lump forming in his throat. To think, he once worried old Wardric would be a thorn in his side when he took on the mantle. Now, he wished he had an army of the man.
“It has to be me, Wardric,” Torsten said. “If you fail, Redstar will use it to contest my leadership either way. He wants the King’s favor more than anything. He thinks me dying will make him Wearer but he’s wrong. If I fail, it will be you who takes over… I know it.”
“You know that’s not true. Like we said, it is the King’s dec—”
“What do you think I spent my time doing while you two were gone?” Yuri interceded. “The young King will heed my counsel. If Torsten fails, I will tell him who deserves to wear the white.”
“And if I don’t, even his own people will learn to respect us,” Torsten said. “You’ve been to Drav Cra. They respect only strength, nothing else. They’ll see Redstar for the coward he is when his beloved goddess is wrong.”
Wardric looked to the ground. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes but he slowly began to nod. “Don’t fail, sir,” he said softly. “Don’t fail.”
“I don’t plan to. Iam hasn’t forsaken us. Not yet.” Torsten pounded his chestplate in salute. Wardric returned the gesture.
And then, they embraced.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” Wardric said after they released, “you’re as brave as Uriah was.”
“And twice as stupid.” Torsten grinned. “Look after the men while I’m gone?”
“Oh, I plan to. And if my sword accidentally finds it’s way into Redstar’s back, I’ll say it was an accident.”
“And I’ll support you in that as well,” Yuri added.
“Try to keep him alive,” Torsten said. “I can’t wait to see his ugly face when I return with Muskigo’s head.”
“I’ll try,” Wardric chuckled.
“Now, you know the men even better than I. Send me one hundred of the most experienced Shieldsmen we have, but leave some for yourself. No wolves. No dark magic.” He shook the pommel of his sword, sculpted into the form of Iam’s Eye. “Iam will guide us beneath the rebel, and we will bring him swift justice.”
XX
THE THIEF
Whitney gagged as his feet splashed up shog and piss. The Winde Port sewers reminded him of the Fellwater Swamp… and he hated the Fellwater Swamp. A thin beam of light slashed in from the small hole above and the sounds of battle echoed through the tunnel. He couldn’t help but laugh.
Did I really almost finally get hanged?
Of all the adventures he’d had since leaving the homestead, his last couple of months were the craziest. He’d been purposely imprisoned after accepting the world’s stupidest challenge to steal the Glass Crown off the head of a dying king. A challenge in which he’d succeeded.
He’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time when the same enemy that now attacked Winde Port laid waste to his hometown of Troborough. He narrowly escaped but only thanks to yet another capture at the hands of Glass soldiers.
He’d been commissioned by the Wearer of White to journey into certain death where he was captured—again—by cultists before finding himself face to face with a Spider Queen goddess. He was spun up in her web, fought giant man-eating spiders… and somehow survived.
Now, he thought all that was behind him until the one part of the adventure that felt just like every other caught up to him—a spoiled, entitled, good-for-nothing, has-been constable named Bartholomew Darkings and his hired assassin from some mysterious land in the North.
Whitney peered upward at the slime-coated, moldy, dripping ceiling.
“Gods and yigging monsters! What have I done to deserve this?” he shouted. His voice boomed, his words echoing, returning to him again and again. He kicked the wall.
“Shog in a barrel.” Now his foot hurt on top of everything else.
As he trudged through what resembled dwarven-dug channels, Whitney found himself wishing he really was far up north in the Dragon’s Tail, gulping down tankards of ale. Those dwarves knew how to drink.
He glanced down at the ropes still binding his wrists together. They were tight, and it wasn’t until that moment he realized pins and needles were running up and down his arms. He heard the squeaking of a rat, and straining his eyes, spotted the little critter gnawing on what appeared to be leather.
Whitney was proud, but not too proud to admit when he saw a good idea. Raising his wrists to his mouth, he began to bite at the ropes. By the time they unraveled, his teeth were in agony, but otherwise, he was no worse for the wear, and his arms were free of pain and restraint. He silently thanked the rat and sludged on.
There was so much going on in the city above that Whitney couldn’t prioritize his own thoughts. Sora was missing. A hired assassin was loose with his knives trained on him, and the Shesaitju were overrunning the place.
Way to defend your cities, Torsten.
He’d missed being able to blame the once-and-present Wearer of White for his bad luck. Against all odds, it actually helped him feel like things were normal. And normal helped him realize that he was standing in the one place in the whole city that could likely get him out alive. The sewers had to run somewhere—probably straight into the bay. And since no good city planner would allow the muck he presently stood in to filter out too close to the city, he might actually find himself on his pathway to true freedom.
He closed his eyes and felt his chin sink into his chest. There was no way he could abandon Sora—even if there was a good chance she was already dead.
“Being heroic is a pain,” Whitney sighed to another rat hunched over in a corner. He had made a decision to take on a partner whe
n she found him in the western forest. Her training on thievery and the ways of the world wasn’t done yet, he realized, ignoring the second thought that popped into his head about how perfect “On Thievery and the Ways of the World,” would be for the name of a book on his life.
He resolved to not leave Winde Port without Sora. And to someday write a book.
He had no idea where to find her, but if she was in the city, he had two ideas. She was still in the Panping Ghetto, either captured by Kazimir, or she was able to escape in the chaos and knew that would be the best place to disappear. In a district where others looked like her, and where the fighting would be minimal she’d find rest. There were no soldiers or guards for the Black Sands to fight there.
His other thought was that Darkings had her somewhere in his mansion, waiting to sell her off to Kazimir as some sick gift after Whitney kicked the bucket... only he was still alive, which meant the blood pact was open and Sora remained Bartholomew’s offering.
With newfound gumption and faith that she remained alive, he set off down the tunnels. At a fork, he turned against the slow current of the muck, toward where the smell was fouler and not diminished by the salt of the bay. He had to hold his nose. This was far from his first foray into city sewers, but the people of Winde Port who could afford it were known for revelry. Which made for smellier garbage.
He kept going until he reached a wider tunnel with a trough down the middle connected to one of Winde Port’s many canals. He couldn’t see which one, only that it wasn’t grand enough to be the Merchant Canal running through the heart of the city. Shouting echoed from beyond it in too many languages for him to discern a word.
Whitney hopped across the trough and made his way to the canal. An arched opening led out to the frozen surface, and since from so low all he could see were stone walls, he decided it was time to figure out where in the city he was. He’d already been circling the sewers for Iam knows how long.
He lay back and pulled himself through the opening along the ice. Cold stung his back through his sodden shirt, but the fresh air was a welcome reprieve. He kept his legs spread wide to form a sturdy base on the ice, then leaped up and grabbed a loose stone on the canal wall. A drain pipe leaked icicles, and jutted out. From there, he was able to grab onto the lip of the canal and slowly pull himself up to peer over the edge.
He was at the opposite side of the square where he’d faced execution.
He stole a glance toward the coast. Even on the small portion of the wharf visible from so far, there were dozens of rowboats bearing the tan and black standard of the Shesaitju army. Hundreds of gray men lined up, marching down the streets, fauchards and spears erect. Dead and dying Winde Port citizens and soldiers were scattered throughout the plaza. The battle for Winde Port was already finished, and the Black Sands were in complete control.
A loud thwack drew his attention to a barbed arrow still trembling in a wooden docking post to his right. His eyes went wide as he spotted a cluster of Shesaitju warriors on their own, bearing down on him. Probably performing clean up duty while they secured their new city.
Whitney ducked just before another arrow zipped overhead. He leaped along the wall to another pole, then looked down. A fall from up so high might send him plunging through the ice to a watery doom. And if it didn’t, he’d been leading the blood-thirsty soldiers right into the sewers after him. So, he did the unexpected, didn’t overthink it because a second guess about rolling up into the open and he wouldn’t have done it. An arrow slashed through his sleeve, drawing a thin line of red once he was up. He sprinted straight at the soldiers who emerged from the nearest alley.
A spear whipped over his head as he slid.
Just like running from angry Yarrington guards, he told himself. Only these ones had the intent to kill.
He planted his foot against the wall and shoved off. A scimitar clanged right behind him. Reaching the wall opposite he did the same, and again, back and forth until he’d scaled up to the tile roof.
The warriors chattered in Saitjuese, several pointing upward.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Whitney shouted, “but I’ve a meeting to attend. Good luck with the whole invasion thing!”
As he cleared the lip of the rooftop, a spear careened through the air right in front of his nose. He rolled onto the flat of his back, taking a moment to catch his breath and keep his heart from bursting. Then, he peered off to his right and realized his mistake. Beyond the square, the army amassed, and it would only be seconds before he was spotted by one of the thousands. Or even worse… Kazimir. In all the insanity, he‘d forgotten about the wretch hunting him.
He stood, backed up enough to gather some speed and then leaped across the chasm to the adjacent rooftop. Below, he heard armor clattering. He peered back over the ledge. The Shesaitju group had done precisely as expected, rounding the corner of the building Whitney had climbed to wait for him on the other side. He quickly slid down a balcony, dropped to the plaza, and darted back for the canal behind their backs.
He slid down the first docking pole he saw, earning a couple of splinters on the way. His feet tapped lightly against the ice. Enough to cause some shallow cracks. Whitney didn’t bother to be careful the rest of the way. He clambered through the porthole back into the sewers, his feet digging out chunks of ice in his wake.
Darkness returned, and the awful smell returned with force. “Better than being skewered by Black Sands arrows,” he panted, sitting in the stale water and happy to be there. Now that he knew how thoroughly Winde Port had been conquered, he knew there was no more surfacing to figure out where he was.
He’d have to endure the warren of tunnels and troughs crisscrossing beneath the city. He’d figure out landmarks—a misplaced stone here, a chunk of moss there, and rely on looking straight up through grates to find his bearings. His foray into the plaza had him all spun around, so he decided he’d head for the Darkings' mansion first. It was closer than the Ghetto, straight to the north, somewhere where it looked down upon the wharf with the rest of the city’s high nobility.
Whitney set off. The deeper he delved, the colder it got. The ends of his sleeves were literally starting to freeze. He had to hold his hands tight against his chest to keep from shivering.
The smell grew worse too, like death and decay now. The corpses dotting the surface surely didn’t help, nor the blood tricking through grates here and there. His eyes were fully adjusted now, able to distinguish between grime and blood. His sense of hearing was heightened as well as he listened for which direction the wind was coming from, which direction the bay was.
He’d always prided himself on his senses and their ability to get him out of a jam. When he was just a boy, he and his family had traveled to Yarrington to witness the Dawning at Yarrington Cathedral with a view of the sun over Mount Lister. It was one of the few times they’d left Troborough. At the turning of every new year, Pantego’s two moons drifted side by side in front of the sun, blotting out its light like two eyelid’s closing over the world.
His father made them get there early to attend the ceremony led by Wren the Holy himself. At the end, the High Priest made them focus their senses inward. That was what the Dawning was all about, a test at each passing year when, for a short while, Iam’s light was blocked, and humanity was left to look inward to find it.
With their eyesight all but stolen from them, Whitney found he could hear snails inching along the wet ground, or the grass grow. Wren explained it all with his mumbo jumbo about faith, but to Whitney, it always felt like a magical power.
Then, he met real mystics and blood mages and realized it was nothing like magic.
The thought of Sora picked up his pace. He ignored the swishing of human excrement beneath his boots and tickling the hem of his pants. He’d been walking for what could have been minutes or hours.
As he shivered, he caught himself daydreaming of a warm bed and a blazing hearth. Without even being aware of it, he’d been imagining the Twilight Manor
, the tavern and inn located in the middle of Troborough. Or at least, it had been there before the gods-damned Shesaitju came in and razed it to the ground.
Whitney’s desire to drive a dagger into the skull of every gray-skinned bastard in Winde Port and avenge Sora grew. Torsten would be proud. “For Iam!” he would yell before hefting his absurdly large claymore high above his equally oversized head.
Something weird was happening, something Whitney wasn’t used to. He found himself caring about people in a way he never had. Sora was a given—they’d grown up together. But with the occupation of the city above, he couldn’t help wonder if the Wearer of White would arrive in time to save the day.
He laughed and shrugged the thought away.
Then, a sound not unlike an earthquake rumbled through the sewer and focused his wandering mind. Several screams replaced it when it stopped. Against his better judgment, Whitney bolted in the direction from which it had issued.
You’re not a hero, you fool! Stop acting like one.
“I helped kill a goddess,” Whitney said to no one but himself, then ran faster.
The amber light flickered up ahead, reminding Whitney of Sora’s fire. As he rounded the corner, he saw the back of a Panpingese woman with long black hair, with the exact same stature as Sora. His eyes bulged until she turned around. He couldn’t deny his disappointment. She was a bit older than Sora, and the man beside her was older still.
“Please,” she begged. “Help my son. Help us!”
She shifted her weight, and the movement revealed a little boy, barely ten years old. He looked strangely familiar, but he could have been any number of beggar children Whitney had seen since entering the city.
Winds of War Page 23
