Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  The man Whitney presumed was the father was working hard to extract the boy from a large pile of crumbled stone. Whitney glanced up. The source of the noise was revealed in the gaping hole in the ceiling and the mound of stones beneath.

  “What happened?” Whitney asked as he rushed to the man’s side and began removing large hunks of rock.

  “Cave-in,” he said. “Must have been the catapults. By Iam, I hoped I’d never see another war.”

  “Then you don’t know much about kings and queens.”

  Whitney kneeled before the mound of debris to better appraise the situation. “We’re going to get you out of there, kid.”

  By the looks of the situation, he couldn’t help feeling like he was lying.

  The boy moaned—deep and agonizing.

  “What are you doing down here?” Whitney asked his parents.

  “Those tunnels lead out of the city,” the woman said, pointing toward a crude opening in some loosely stacked stones. Beyond it, was a tunnel that no longer looked to be a part of the circular sewer-ways, but instead, rough and carved through rock.

  “Our master is a cruel man. We thought we could escape,” the woman continued. She bent over to do as much as she could to help remove the stones, but they were too heavy.

  “You’re slaves?”

  She shook her head. “No slaves this far in the heartland, but we may as well be the way he pays us. That very passage was created to smuggle our peoples in and out of Winde Port after the Third War of Glass.”

  Whitney recalled that was how the Panping people referred to the Panping Wars. It made sense. In their eyes, Liam and the Glass were just foreign invaders come to take yet another land that didn’t belong to them. They’d always made the excuse they were fulfilling the will of Iam—free them from their unholy mystic rulers—hog shog.

  How many lives across Pantego had been taken in the name of some unseen god or goddess? Whitney had almost been one of them, fighting to find some cursed doll for a mad prince. Well, this wasn’t going to be just another casualty added to a long list.

  “You’re coming out of there,” Whitney said, even though he knew he should’ve just tucked tailed and run. “You hear?”

  Whitney fought every ounce of his survival instincts, bent his knees, and grabbed a particularly large boulder. As he pulled, more dirt settled and the pile shifted, threatening to come down on all of them.

  “Fate is determined to kill you, Whitney Fierstown,” said a pitchy voice from behind him. “And you? My best servants. So sad it had to come to this… your boy always was my favorite. Never spilled a drop of brandy.”

  Whitney glanced over his shoulder to see Bartholomew Darkings, then back at the boy.

  That’s how I know him! He’d brought them wine after Whitney was forcefully escorted to the mansion somewhere above them.

  “It’s not the time for this,” Whitney growled, continuing working to help free the boy. During his quick glance, he’d seen Bartholomew’s one-eyed lackey. Whitney huffed a curse but didn’t let it stop him.

  “Fenton,” Darkings addressed his man. “Mr. Fierstown needs to finally learn his place.”

  “Fenton?” Whitney laughed. “How proper. I think I’ll stick with One-Eye.”

  Whitney heard shuffling behind him and fully expected to feel the clammy hands of One-Eyed-Fenton on him at any moment, but it never came. Instead, he heard a scream as the guard seized hold of the boy’s mother and dragged her toward Bartholomew. He removed a hunting knife from his boot and held it to her throat.

  “Turn to face me, or we make this father and son watch as Fenton does to her what he likely already does to her every night,” Bartholomew said, eliciting a chuckle from Fenton.

  Whitney didn’t know if he’d ever hated anyone more than he did Bartholomew Darkings. The woman’s husband wiped tears from his eyes and spun on Darkings.

  “Don’t worry about me!” the mother cried. “Save Ton’kai!”

  Her husband didn’t listen. He stomped toward Bartholomew, but before he’d come within a meter of them, Fenton’s fist hit his stomach with such force he crumpled to the ground like his legs had disappeared.

  “That’s enough Barty!” Whitney shouted. “This kid is going to die if we don’t get him out of there.”

  Bartholomew stuck a fat finger out toward Whitney. “I own that boy! If I want him to die, that is my choice.”

  The boy’s mother was sobbing now and the boy, Ton’kai, had stopped making noise altogether. His pale Panpingese skin was even paler, and Whitney feared they’d already lost him until he saw a finger twitch.

  “Fenton,” Bartholomew said, “bring the thief to me. He’ll die in these tunnels like so many of his whore-girl’s ancestors.”

  Whitney clenched his teeth as he hauled off a couple more rocks, finally seeing the boy’s legs, crushed and bloody. He bided his time, waiting until the perfect moment. Listening to Fenton’s footsteps, he counted under his breath…

  Three…

  Two…

  One…

  He spun around, gripping a heavy stone with both hands. It connected with the side of Fenton’s face with a bone-crunching crash. His knife flew from his hands, and Whitney snagged it out of the air as Fenton hit the stone floor. He wasn’t dead, but he was definitely no longer an immediate threat. Bartholomew stood staring, incredulous.

  “Whitney,” he stammered. “Just calm down. We can work this out. Let’s help the boy out, together.”

  “Lord Blisslayer, to you,” he said, pointing the knife his way. “You’re lucky I don’t carve up your pudgy little face.” He looked to the boy and then to his blubbering parents. “But we need all the hands we can get.”

  “You can’t expect me to—”

  “Help him!” Whitney brought the knife toward Darkings' face, stopping only inches away.

  The worthless wretch looked like he’d pissed himself.

  “I won’t ask again,” Whitney said, seething. He grabbed him by the collar with the other hand and shoved him toward the pile.

  All four went to work. There were a couple of close calls, clouds of dust spilling down from the loose ceiling, but they managed to avoid catastrophe. When the final hindrance was removed, Whitney pulled Ton’kai out. His father grabbed him immediately and cradled him tightly. His mother sobbed louder when she saw the state of his legs. One was crushed and bruised. The other was bent backward at the knee, clinging on by a thread of skin with a bone sticking out.

  Whitney turned his head to hide his retching. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Bartholomew doing the same. The big tough man who treats his servants like proper slaves didn’t even have the stomach to watch them suffer.

  Whitney shoved him. “Lead the way,” he demanded.

  Bartholomew glanced at him, then at the suffering family. His lips curled into a wicked grin. “Your heart is going to get you killed.”

  A small stone whacked Whitney in the side of the head before he could react. It wasn’t enough to knock him out—not with Bartholomew’s flabby arms—but it sent him sprawling as the former constable took off into the smuggling tunnels.

  “You said that about my tongue,” Whitney groaned, rubbing his head. “Follow him!” he called to the family. “Save the kid.”

  The father passed Whitney, chasing Bartholomew, Ton’kai draped across his arms. His mother tried to keep up but fell behind, losing so much of her strength to tears. Whitney gathered his wits and gave chase, knife in hand.

  Bartholomew maintained a healthy lead. Whitney was amazed that the man could keep up the pace for so long with all his excessive weight. He seemed as determined as any to escape the city before the Shesaitju killed them all.

  After a multitude of turns, they followed him around a corner, the amber light of Celeste reflecting off the river outside. Bartholomew was the first one through but stopped the moment he emerged. Whitney soon found out why. Before him, stood a host of King’s Shieldsmen. At their helm was one familiar f
ace Whitney wasn’t sure he wanted to see. Torsten Unger, the Wearer of White.

  The first thing Whitney thought to do was grab Bartholomew and raised the knife to his throat. “Of all the smuggling tunnels in all the world,” he said. “Here you are.”

  XXI

  THE KNIGHT

  “Get them to the camp and wrap his wound!” Torsten picked out two Glass soldiers escorting his company of King’s Shieldsmen. They got to quick work, grabbing the injured Panpingese boy who’d emerged from the tunnels and rushing him up the hill. His parents followed close, faces streaked with tears.

  “Now, Whitney, drop the dagger,” Torsten demanded. Of everyone he’d have been glad to see emerge from their secret path into Winde Port, there wasn’t anyone lower on the list. The thief held a dagger to the throat of a middle-aged man. He looked familiar to Torsten, but he couldn’t place him. He wore the clothing of a noble… had the gut for it, too.

  Whitney’s eyes darted nervously at all of the armed King’s Shieldsmen surrounding them.

  “I don’t think so,” Whitney said, sliding the blade closer along his captive’s throat. It was so quiet Torsten could hear the metal scraping across the man’s stubble. “By the way, it’s nice to see you, too.”

  “Bartholomew Shelley Darkings, what have you gotten yourself into?” Yuri asked before Torsten could respond.

  Both Torsten and Whitney snapped toward him. Whitney stifled a laugh. Torsten’s head cocked, his mind racing over how strange a reunion this was. Almost as if there were another, greater hand at play.

  “You’ve been in the capital too long, Father,” Bartholomew said. “This is the filth infesting our city now.”

  “So, this is your big, famous Pa?” Whitney said. “Kind sir, I mean this with all due respect, but where in Iam’s name did you go wrong raising him?”

  “How dare you speak to him like—”

  “Quiet boy!” Yuri bristled. “You were supposed to meet us here to let us know whether or not the tunnels are clear. Why am I not surprised you somehow managed to find trouble doing even that?”

  “Your son is the contact?” Torsten asked. He didn’t know much about Yuri’s family beside how fabulously wealthy they’d grown under Liam’s rule. In fact, he didn’t know much about many of the Royal Council, old and new. His focus, since the day he took the white helm, had been Oleander, her dying husband, and her cursed son. He made mental note to study those closest to Pi, should he survive the coming battle.

  “Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough that you allowed my favorite house in Bridleton to burn, was it?” Yuri said.

  “I thought that was your house?” Whitney asked Bartholomew, barely able to contain himself.

  “I swear, thief. When this is over, I’m going to revel in watching you suffer,” Bartholomew said. “I’ll boil your tongue.”

  “Pretty foolish thing to say to the man with a knife at your throat,” Yuri reprimanded.

  “Whitney, I know you’re barely sane, but are you really going to murder a Darkings?” Torsten said. “In front of the Wearer of White, no less?”

  “This one I might,” Whitney replied.

  Torsten sighed. He’d forgotten what it was like to deal with the intolerable thief Whitney Fierstown, now Blisslayer. “After all we went through, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “Why mess with perfection?”

  “Whitney, for Iam’s sake, just put down the knife.”

  “What, so he can stab me the moment I do?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Trust me, Shieldsman,” Bartholomew said. “I would.”

  “You two are standing in the way of a royal operation.” Torsten lifted his hand to graze the pommel of his claymore. “You will stand down, or you will both find yourselves occupying dungeons in the Glass Castle!”

  “Relax, Sir Unger,” Yuri said, extending his arm. He calmly paced before Whitney and his son, hands clasped behind his back. “What sort of mess did you get yourself into Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew went to speak, but Whitney angled the blade just under his chin.

  “C’mon, Barty,” Whitney said. “Tell him.”

  “If you insist. This whelp masqueraded as a blind priest of Iam before burning down the Bridleton estate.”

  Torsten’s jaw dropped when he heard that. He knew Whitney was no favored son of Iam, but posing as a priest?

  “Then, he stole my mother’s—your wife’s—favorite necklace, and who knows what else,” Bartholomew continued. “Is that not enough?”

  “Okay, I admit that sounds bad,” Whitney said, “but burning down the house was an accident.”

  “An accident carried out by a Panpingese witch illegally practicing blood magic!”

  “A priest?” Torsten mouthed, barely able to get the word out.

  “That’s the part you…” Whitney caught himself. “Look, none of it was my finest moment, but we were desperate.”

  “To steal from my dead mother!” Bartholomew bellowed. He turned his head to get a glimpse of Whitney, ignoring the knife as it drew a thin line of red across his neck.

  “I can promise you that pendant saved everyone’s life in the Webbed Woods when we…” Whitney turned to Torsten. “Am I allowed to say, or…”

  “These are high crimes, Whitney Fiersto—” Torsten’s glare shut him up halfway through correcting the name. “And that’s besides me wanting no explanation of why you were deceiving the people of Bridleton when we were on a sworn quest to find the Queen’s brother! You should be hanged, not thrown in a cell.”

  “Trust me, I tried,” Bartholomew sneered.

  “Quiet you,” Whitney said, wrenching the man’s head back into place.

  Yuri held up both hands to silence everyone before the yelling continued. Torsten had plenty more he wanted to say, considering Whitney had abandoned him in their quest to play thief in Bridleton for a time.

  “Are you referring to the pendant I gave your mother on her half-century? The piece of heartstone hewn from Brike’s Passage in the Dragon Tail?”

  Bartholomew nodded.

  “Then you should have guarded it better!”

  “Father I—” Bartholomew stammered, smug smile disappearing.

  “Don’t speak,” Yuri cut his son off. “Do not speak. We are Darkings men. We don’t stoop to the level of thieves and brigands, yet here he is with a knife at your throat rather than running from your justice. So I’m going to ask once because I have no idea… what have you been up to in my city? And do not lie.”

  Whitney actually felt a lump bobbing in Bartholomew’s throat. “I’ve been trying to track this man down so I may return mother’s necklace.”

  “Really?” Whitney asked. “Because for all your dungeon-throwing, gallows-hanging, and speech-giving, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Because who knows what a monster like you would have done with it if you knew it meant something.”

  “I don’t care about a necklace!” Yuri roared.

  Torsten felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. He had no idea a man with hair so gray could have a voice that carried so thunderously. Even the eyes of the other King’s Shieldsmen watching went wide.

  “Tell me, thief, what slight did my hopeless son offer you?” Yuri asked. “We must all move on and focus on this war.”

  “Lord Darkings, I know this man,” Torsten whispered in Yuri’s ear. “I’m sure your son has good reason.”

  Yuri’s only response was to hold up a finger before turning back to Whitney and Bartholomew. Torsten wasn’t used to being dismissed like that by anyone but the Queen, however, he allowed Yuri this one. He had no son, so he didn’t know what it was like to be disappointed in one.

  But he did know Whitney. The thief was a man capable of instilling an endless well of disappointment.

  “Well, for starters, he treats his servants like common kitchen trash,” Whitney said. “Oh, and he hired a Dom Nohzi to kill me in exchange for Sora. So there’s that.
”

  Yuri took a hard step forward and raised his hand with the intention of collaring his son. Whitney reeled them back and further angled his blade.

  “You went to the Dom Nohzi?” Yuri asked, face flush with unbridled rage.

  “The assassins from Brekliodad?” Torsten asked. He’d never dealt with the order of legal killers, as their lands were beyond the realm of Glass, but he knew of them. It was said they were richer than any kingdom or guild after centuries of killing. That they had toppled kings of old without a soul knowing.

  “I told you about this runt,” Bartholomew said. “You were too busy to listen, so I took things into my own hands. This man assaulted our family.”

  “The Dom Nohzi are animals!” Yuri shouted. “We deal in gold, not blood, favors and whatever else they ask for. Do you know what it means to hand them your blood? If you do not hold up your end of the pact, even if it isn’t your fault, they can find you anywhere in Pantego and make things even. You will have tied my hands!”

  “And you promised him Sora?” Whitney said. He chuckled. “If I know her, she’s probably already slipped him, and now he’ll be coming for you.”

  Torsten saw a flicker of doubt on Whitney’s face even as he tried to act brashly. It’d always been evident that he cared for the blood mage—as much as a thief could care for anything—which meant there was no question of how much danger she was in.

  “Whitney,” Torsten said. Three sets of eyes darted to face him as if he’d set off an explosion. “Maybe we can all find a way out of this.”

  “I can’t imagine where this is going.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Sora is still in the city?”

  Whitney nodded. “Wherever that killer is keeping her.”

  “Where is that, Bartholomew?” Yuri demanded.

  “You think I know?” Bartholomew answered. “The Dom Nohzi find you or invite you, they don’t get dropped in on, and they’re always on the move.”

  “He can’t have her until I’m dead, or something,” Whitney said. “So he can’t run even if he wants to. That’s how their deals work, right?”

  Bartholomew kept his mouth shut.