Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “You must be a decent one then. She was his pride and joy, and she has eye for troublemaker. Always growled at these two for causing ruckus.” She shook her children a bit and laughed.

  “Ouch, momma,” one of them groaned. He rolled over and rubbed a cut on his arm. It wasn’t deep, but Sora knew cuts better than anybody. It was the kind that stung but wasn’t bad enough for anyone to heal. Sora recalled many times when Wetzel scolded her for being a weakling. This mother did the same.

  “Oh, quiet,” she said. “It just a scratch. You’re lucky that’s all we got in the fighting.”

  Sora knelt in front of them then sliced her thumb on her shoe buckle and ran the blood gently over his wound. A bit of blue smoke rose, and the boy’s cut began to seal until all that was left was a line of irritated skin. Sora released a mouthful of air and panted a few times. Healing took more out of her than anything, but the wound was so minor she recovered quickly.

  The boy was too tired to notice what had happened, having fallen asleep almost immediately after changing positions. The mother, on the other hand, gawked at her like she was from another world.

  “Are you a—”

  “Mystic,” Sora finished for her, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the children or earn more attention. “No, I just learned a few tricks with blood magic in the west.”

  “Tricks, eh? Think you can get my leg to stop aching? Knee pops every time I stand.” She grabbed her knee cap and wiggled it around more than was natural.

  Gross as it was, Sora couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

  The woman waved her hand in dismissal. “Bah, what good are you?”

  “Still figuring that out.” Sora smiled and sat, legs folded in front of her. Now that the woman had warmed up to her, she figured she might be able to get some real information. “So, you have lived here in Winde Port your whole life?” she asked.

  “Born and raised in ghetto. Never been anywhere.”

  It explained her accent and broken way of speech. Sora imagined most of the district dwellers stayed among their own.

  “Why do you call it that?” Sora asked, her eyes narrowing. “It’s such an awful word.”

  “What more is there to call it?” an old man leaning against the wall beside them spoke up, suddenly paying attention. “We count ourselves lucky to even have a place of our own. So many of us died after the Third War of Glass… better here in Winde Port than in Elsewhere.”

  He spoke with elegance. More like Tayvada than the others.

  “Or some backwater village,” added another. “Here we get to see world, even if only through eyes of travelers.”

  “Or invaders,” Sora muttered.

  Everyone looked to the gray men lining the entries. They all wore weapons, but none were drawn. Several just laughed with one another, shoulders against the walls.

  “They’ve treated us better than others has,” the mother said, shrugging, almost apathetic as if the slaughtering of so many outside meant nothing.

  “Aye,” said the old man. “These warriors have spared us, given us food and shelter in a place bigger than the whole Ghetto. They are no enemies of mine. If the mystics would stop hiding, maybe we could join them.”

  The mother slapped the man’s arm. “That is enough, Nijo. Council is gone, and every time they’re bringed up I have to explain it to my children.”

  “Good. They should learn exactly why we’re here kissing boots.” The old man stood, huffing. His bony legs shook for a moment before he decided to sit back down and continue enjoying his free meal.

  “Sorry about him,” the mother said. “Talk of war stirs up rotten memories.”

  “I don’t remember it, really…” Sora said. “Well, I have one memory actually.”

  “That is enough for lifetime.”

  “It’s of my mother.” Sora wasn’t sure why she started explaining. She’d never told anybody about the memory; not Wetzel, or Whitney. Nobody. But she’d never been amongst so many people that didn’t look at her like she was misplaced, or delicate.

  “I can’t recall my father, but her,” Sora continued. “I can almost picture her face. I think I look like her except my eyes; those must have been my dad’s. Maybe it’s just a dream, but she cradles me and tells me she loves me. She’s crying. I think I am too. She kisses me on the forehead. Then she’s gone.”

  Sora could feel her eyes starting to well up. The woman, however, barely seemed moved. “Sometimes, it is better to barely remember,” she said.

  “It’s always better,” Nijo scoffed. “My wife was burned for using magic. My daughter, chained up and sold. Last I saw she was being dragged away by her hair and I was too broken to help them.”

  “It’s not competition, Nijo.” The woman took Sora’s hand. “It is beautiful memory, dear. But that’s all it is. We here now, eating, thanks to these people. What more is there to ask?”

  “These people destroyed my home,” Sora said, softly.

  “Welcome to the club,” Nijo groaned

  Sora bit her lip upon realizing how foolish she sounded. She couldn’t expect any of these people to feel bad for her. She was delivered to a home after the war. It wasn’t perfect, but Wetzel looked after her, fed her, gave her shelter. And she had a friend who helped her through so many hard and lonely times. He may have abandoned her for a while, but he was back now. Whitney was counting on her, and she’d wasted enough time on her own curiosity over her people’s living situation.

  “You say you knew Tayvada?” Sora said. The woman nodded. “The man they said murdered him, Whitney Fierstown. Did you see what happened to him?”

  “I was not there,” she said.

  “I was,” Nijo said. “Bastard escaped when the gray men attacked. Slipped right into the sewers.”

  Of course! Sewers.

  They were a thief’s best friend according to one of his lessons if she remembered correctly. The one place in the world where Whitney could hide and never be found. Probably not even by Kazimir. But the upyr couldn’t summon a fire that never dwindled in a place that wet. And he didn’t have a Wyvern who’d met Whitney and could no doubt sniff him out.

  “Thank you,” Sora said. She stood and bowed. “Thank both of you.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever been bowed to befo—”

  Nijo was interrupted when the grand, central doors to the anteroom swung open. Muskigo appeared, flanked by his gold-clad guards. Gone was the look of calm Sora had seen on his face since they first met.

  “All civilians must vacate the estate at once,” he commanded. All the Panpingese folk glanced up at him, then returned to their meals. “Now!

  His men flowed in, ripping the people from their meals and shoving them toward the exits. All around the room, soldiers did the same. Nijo’s chair was kicked out from under him. The mother’s children awoke, startled.

  Sora stormed toward the afhem. Aquira caught her leg on the way and used it to get a boost up to her shoulder. “What is the meaning of this?” she questioned. “These people aren’t hurting anybody.”

  “Sora, I don’t have time,” Muskigo responded. He wouldn’t even look at her, too busy watching his men bully the homeless.

  “You promised these people shelter.”

  “I don’t have time!” he thundered. Now he stared straight at her and in his pale gray eyes, she saw storm clouds. He drew a deep breath. “It is no longer safe here. The Glassmen are coming.”

  “It’s safer here, protected, then out there if battle is coming.”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Take them back to their district and stay inside.”

  “I don’t lead them.”

  “Someone needs to. Now go, Sora of Yaolin City. Our conversation will have to wait.” He turned to leave without even a second glance, but it was what he clutched in his hands that drew her attention. It was a letter bearing the unmistakable seal of the Darkings Family—a ship and a coin. She recognized it from the ring Darkings wore, and from th
e door of his house in Bridleton.

  “Was this all just to impress me?” she shouted as more of her people were shoved by.

  Muskigo stopped but didn’t look back. “No, this is war.”

  Sora watched as he hurried to the railing around the courtyard and looked down. She watched as armed guards pushed her people around no matter how young or frail they were. Only a moment before they felt safe for once in their lives, and now, children were crying.

  A hand fell upon Sora’s shoulder. She looked left and saw Shavi.

  “You must listen to him, Sora,” she said. “If he believes danger is coming, it is. Fighting. It’s all he’s ever trained for.”

  “Apparently,” Sora replied. “Go, I’ll be right there.”

  “Trust him.” She went to leave, stopped to help an elderly man up, and they continued out of the room.

  “I don’t,” Sora muttered. She turned and spotted the mother and her children hurrying to gather their blankets. Sora ran to them, reached under her dress, and shoved the coin purse into the woman’s chest.

  She stared down, eyes wide with confusion.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” Sora said. It was true. There were no merchant ships left to charter. And even if Whitney was right that she couldn’t make a difference in these people’s lives by handing out gold, she was done not trying.

  “Take it. Be the new Tayvada, or give it out. There’s enough there to fill a dozen flats with new beds and more.”

  “I… I don’t…” The woman fumbled over a response until there was a booming crash. It was like thunder, only the sound repeated a few times and was immediately followed by shouting in Saitjuese.

  Sora grabbed the woman and guided her toward the exit. “Just go!”

  Her eyes darted between her children, Sora, and the money. Then she ran. She ran with enough gold to buy a ship.

  Whitney won’t mind, Sora told herself. And she also told herself that he wouldn’t mind one more detour before she went after him. She glanced back up at Muskigo, still staring down into the courtyard. The sight had the rage she’d been holding down bubbling back to the surface.

  Whatever that bang was, it signaled war. More killing. Muskigo forcing the Glass Kingdom to attack. Her people may have survived their surprise invasion, but nobody would survive an all-out war in the city.

  All his talk of fighting for freedom, yet he was clearly working with Darkings, a man wicked enough to turn to the upyr and blood pacts. Sora suddenly realized how foolish she was to believe there was more to Muskigo. They were royals, helping each other, and the people be damned.

  The series of crashes had drawn all the soldiers’ attention to the courtyard. All the refugees and handmaidens were cleared out.

  Sora was alone.

  She picked up a shard of a broken clay plate which must have fallen in the chaos. Aquira dug into her shoulder and growled as if she could read Sora’s mind. Then, they headed straight for Muskigo.

  Sora knew now that she could help her people. She could end the looming war and keep what happened to Troborough from happening again. Maybe not forever, as there would always be greedy lords and ladies wanting more, but at least enough to make fewer orphans and refugees.

  She could end the fighting.

  XXIV

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten raised a hand, stopping the legion—one hundred of his finest King’s Shieldsmen at his back. They had been trained during Uriah Davies' reign as Wearer, by Wardric as the eldest in the order, and by Torsten himself, after he took on the mantle. Not since King Liam turned the entire army of Glass into a hammer of faith had the Shield led an operation like this.

  Yet, perhaps the most astounding thing about where they now stood was that Whitney, the damnable thief without a filter hadn’t failed in leading them.

  Torsten looked up through the grille of a gold-clad grate and into the courtyard of the prefect's estate. He placed a finger over his mouth as a pair of gray legs passed, then regarded his men. He knew a few of their names—Mulliner, Reginald, Nikserof—but he wished he knew them all. He wished he’d been forced to spend less time at Oleander’s side or watching to make sure Liam wasn’t taken advantage of after he’d grown too ill to speak. In fact, he longed for the days when he had been one of them—an anonymous face in the great order, following a worthy Wearer whose accomplishments were so vast he’d never be contested by a murderous, Drav Cra Arch Warlock.

  This will change everything, he told himself.

  “Muskigo is somewhere above us,” he said aloud, voice low, but carrying down the narrow passage. The dwarves, although small in stature, developed spacious tunnels to accommodate men and even some giants. Torsten was thankful for that as he traveled through the main lines, but now that they were within the estate’s infrastructure, things were tight. They were forced into a long line, no more than two men crammed across, and the ceiling so low he had to crouch. A pain in his neck now but it would help them swarm into the courtyard when the time was right.

  “We are with you until the end, Wearer,” the man nearest him said. “Or let Iam strike me down.”

  He was young but hardened. Three lines of scars ran across a chin like an anvil. His eyes glinted with a healthy blend of fear and resolve, proving he was not a man driven by bloodlust but a true warrior. Torsten recognized him but wasn’t sure of his name.

  No more heeling like a dog at the feet of royals. This is your order. These are your men.

  “What’s your name, Soldier?” Torsten asked.

  “Xander Corsocova, Sir,” he saluted.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I… Westvale, Sir. Born and bred. Trained by Sir Wardric Jolly under the command of Sir Uriah Davies a few Dawnings back.”

  “It’s an honor to be here beside you, son. Can you do something for me?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Ask the name of the man on either side of you, who trained them, where they’re from. Then, tell them to do the same.” He knew some of them might already know each other, but these were the finest, selected by Wardric. That meant they were posted all across the western half of the kingdom.

  “Sir, the—”

  “There’s time. We await a signal from Winder’s Wharf to move. It’s an order. Here we stand, ready to die in Iam’s name, I would like to better know the brave men at my side.”

  Xander nodded and turned to Nikserof, the Shieldsman beside him, to ask the same questions. Then on and on down the line. Torsten listened to the answers of those nearest and watched the rest. Some were calm like Xander, others more visibly taken by fear. But, as a few men joked in their answers and earned low laughs, the terror began to dissipate.

  Liam’s armies were a unit. Thousands of men unified in resolve and their trust in him. Uriah’s King’s Shield was an extension of that. No single member mattered, only the unit as a whole. Alone, they were only drops of rain, but together, a great hurricane.

  But the time of great and famous men was over. Torsten had led for a single battle and been deceived. He had to argue with a heathen imposter for every move, under the orders of a king whose voice had yet to lower, in the shadow of a Queen Mother now best known for killing her own people.

  “What about you, sir?” Xander asked while the rest continued.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, sir. If I overstep…”

  Torsten looked up into the courtyard, flakes of snow danced by, melting just beyond the grate. Then, he turned his gaze down upon the sewer and the layer of muddy water running past his feet. He remembered why the stench and darkness of such a place barely affected him.

  “South Corner, Yarrington,” Torsten said finally, eyes closed. “Born to a no-name father and a streetwalking mother. Iam saw fit to lead me into the arms of Liam Nothhelm and never once have I looked back.”

  He regarded Xander, who stared at him in disbelief.

  “We are all Iam’s children,” Torsten said. “No matter where we come from.
” He reached out, took the man by his pauldron and shook. “Now we are ready.”

  A crash echoed in the distance, followed by a bell, and shouting in Saitjuese. Dust trickled off the ceiling as footsteps pounded across the ground above.

  Torsten grinned. “Maybe there is still hope for the boy,” he whispered to himself and above. Not only had Whitney led them successfully but his distraction appeared to be working as well.

  Torsten positioned himself below the grille. His fingers twirled the Eye of Iam hanging from his neck. “Forgive me Iam, for what we must do. Watch over us, but do not judge, for in the name of peace we take up arms against those who trespass against Your light.”

  As he prayed under his breath, so too did his men, each in their own way. Some mouths moved silently while others took a knee, speaking to the inside of their eyelids. He let them all finish in their own time, and when he saw the whites of all their eyes, he traced his own.

  “We are the armor of Your holy kingdom,” he said, raising his voice enough for his men to hear. They quietly echoed every word—the words of the King’s Shield, which Torsten couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the opportunity to recite.

  “Our lives,” he continued, “are given freely under the sight of your Vigilant Eye so Your children may thrive in this world You have blessed us with.”

  Torsten raised his hand to the sewer grille, then raised his voice even louder. His men did so as well. “We are the right hand of Iam. The sword of His justice, and the Shield that guards the light of this world.”

  He shoved the grille with all his might and jarred it from its setting. Xander gave him a boost and his feet fell upon the snow-filled courtyard, the first of all his men—as it should be. If Liam had taught him anything of war, it was that no leader inspires his men like one willing to head the charge.

  The rest flowed in after him, men with long swords and heater shields at the front, spears and pikes at the back—the wedge and hammer.

  Torsten spun to study the yard wrapped on four sides, at two levels by an arcade utterly devoid of Shesaitju. Bells rang louder in the distance, accompanied by a series of crashes. Whatever Whitney had done, it cleared the entire place.