“What now?”
“Why were you coming from the prefect's estate?”
One corner of her lips pulled slightly into a smirk. It was a half-hearted attempt, one that couldn’t mask a deeper layer of sorrow, but it was there. Whitney looked up at the flame devouring all the buildings up Merchants Row ahead of them.
You fool, Whitney!
He wasn’t sure how he missed it. There was no mistaking her distinct brand. It wasn’t like an ordinary flame that billowed and grew gradually. Hers was like a tsunami, chewing through wood and stone like parchment.
“This was you, wasn’t it?”
She glanced at Aquira. “I had some help. We found the man who destroyed Troborough. Who killed Wetzel.”
“Iam's light, Sora. Did you forget that this isn’t his home to get revenge on?”
“I… I lost control.” She hung her head.
Whitney took her by the shoulders and smiled. “Merchants Row needed remodeling anyway. Oldest part of Winde Port and it shows.”
Sora looked up with only her eyes.
“So, is he dead?” Whitney asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, Torsten will finish the job. He was headed there too.”
“I know.” A genuine grin finally broke out on her face. “I saved his life,” she said, and then a second later, “again.”
“Oh, he won’t like that at all.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” she said.
“If Muskigo is still around—”
“Don’t forget the assassin after us.”
“Ah, yes, how could I?” He laughed. “Shogging exile, I think it’s time we get the yig out of here.”
“Remember when you said I’d love it here?”
Whitney rolled his eyes. “Well, the gates are burning, thanks to you. So now both armies are killing each other. I’d rather avoid that, so, same plan as ever?”
“Which is?”
“Steal a ship,” Whitney said, matter of factly. “There are a few smaller ones docked on the northern wharf that I didn’t knock over. Just gotta get our papers and we can be on our way.”
“Papers? Seriously? You think anyone is going to be concerned with papers at a time like this?”
“The law is the law, Sora.” He winked.
“Everyone’s a bit preoccupied right now. I doubt anyone is going to be stopping us to see our papers.”
“It’s not for here. We’ll be crossing Shesaitju waters, and if you haven’t noticed, they’re in the middle of a rebellion. The Winde Traders Guild isn’t going anywhere, however much their home city is hurting. They have pull.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We are in this mess over those stupid papers.”
“Did I mention pirates? Only the worst ones will hit a member of the Guild. Which reminds me, do you still have our gold?”
“I… uh.” Her gaze flitted toward the burning cinder that was the prefect’s mansion lost in a cloud of smoke across the canal. “Lost it while uh… running from Kazimir.”
“Shog in a barrel,” he said. Then, he clapped his hands together, smiled and said, “Then we really need those papers. Give a pirate enough gold, and they’ll leave you alone. Give them nothing, they’ll take your ship and leave you for sharks.”
“They can do that even if we have papers.”
“But they’re less likely to. Trust me, they are in a safe place. We’ll be in and out.”
“Where?”
“Tayvada’s house.”
Whitney saw a wave of fear wash over her face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s nothing…”
“Sure, doesn’t look like nothing,” he said. “What’s going on? Oh, him.”
He was ashamed he’d so quickly forgotten their last experience at the guild member’s home. He could only imagine what horrors she’d suffered at Kazimir’s hand.
“It’s fine,” Sora said. “Let’s go get some yigging papers.”
“There’s my girl!” Whitney took her hand again, and they took off.
The further from Merchants Row they got, the less forgiving the chill in the air became. Lucky for the city, the fire seemed contained to that avenue, the strong wind keeping it focused. Merchant fronts and governmental buildings, the places the owners could afford to rebuild.
The more residential districts were left mostly untouched, baring the arrows and spears stuck in their walls—and the haphazardly discarded corpses littering the ground from the fighting. Smoke, fog, and snow mixed to create a thick haze at street level. It was like a ghost town.
“How did you escape Kazimir?” Whitney asked as they ran.
“He went to watch you be executed,” she answered.
“As if that were possible.”
“Then, Aquira showed up and freed me.” The wyvern screeched from her perch on Sora’s shoulder. “Kazimir chased me until I found Muskigo.”
“And you decided to go after revenge instead of finding me?”
“I…I…”
Whitney laughed, then stopped walking and looked her in the eyes. They stood on the opposite side of the canal leading into the Panping Ghetto now.
“I’m kidding. You were trying to survive, and you did, which means my lessons really are working.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I am glad you didn’t kill Muskigo though. I had the chance to take down Darkings too, but embarrassing him was way better. Torsten told me there’s no coming back from murder, and for once, I think he might be right.”
“That self-righteous oaf?”
“I know, right?”
“He’ll take care of Muskigo,” she said. “They’ll all hang for what they did. The ones who deserve it.”
“Your mouth to Iam’s ears.” Whitney bowed with a flourish and beckoned Sora over the canal toward the run-down church on the edge of the ghetto. “My lady.”
Sora didn’t move. She stared in the direction of the church and the dilapidated homes of her people, and Whitney thought he noticed her legs start to tremble.
“You want to wait here?” he asked.
“Shogging exile, no.”
“Don’t worry about Muskigo.” He patted his pocket, feeling the writ issued to Kazimir and the Dom Nohzi requesting they rescind the blood pact in the name of Yuri Darkings. “Darkings' father called them off, so I think old Barty is in more danger from Kazimir than us.”
“Bartholomew?”
“Right? That’s his name. I know, ridiculous. Anyway, I’ve got the papers right here. If Kazimir shows up, we flash them, and we’ll be fine.”
“More papers?”
He stuck out his chest. “It’s the way of greater men.”
“Well, let’s be quick anyway.”
The Ghetto was nearly untouched by battle but for a couple of homes near the front, across from the church. Their roofs were caved in, probably just due to shoddy craftsmanship. For once, the streets were empty of the homeless. There wasn’t a lighted candle or even a sound.
The door to Tayvada’s remained ajar, so they pushed their way in. Whitney’s own memories flooded back so he could only imagine what Sora would be thinking. Tayvada swinging, dripping blood. Kazimir’s nightmarish grin as he emerged from the shadows and made their lives living exile.
“I hid it over there,” he said, pointing to the chimney.
He reached up and pulled down the makeshift package—the crown wrapped in the trading papers. Opening it, his eyes gleamed like he’d won the pot in a game of gems. In a way, he sort of had.
He felt a hard fist against his shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” Sora shouted. “That’s what this is really about!”
He heard a hiss and nearly toppled over when Aquira popped up over Sora’s shoulder, a flicker of fire in her open mouth.
“Call off your dragon!” He smiled.
“This isn’t a joke, Whitney Fierstown. You dragged us back here to this… place… jus
t so you could get your beloved crown?”
“No, it’s not like that. I swear. Happy accident. We just needed the papers and I happened to leave them with the crown.”
Sora folded her arms and huffed. Whitney went to place his hand on her shoulder, but Aquira hissed again.
“I promise, Sora,” Whitney said. He extended his hand with the crown. “You can trash the crown if that’ll prove it to you.”
“Okay,” she reached for the crown, but he swiftly reeled it back.
“Come on, is that necessary?”
“You just said—”
“Fine, it was a little about the crown, but it was more than that. We have no autlas now, and we’re sailing war-ravaged waters. We need a bargaining chip in case of—”
“Shesaitju ships, I know.”
“Or pirates.” He sighed. “And I wanted you to come back here. Look.” He took her by the hand and led her outside. To his surprise, she let him. He pointed to all the dilapidated buildings. “I think you should burn it to the ground. The whole place. Make sure no one ever has to live under these conditions ever again.”
Sora just stared.
“You said it yourself,” he continued “‘No one should have to live like this.’”
He could see wheels turning in Sora’s mind.
“No,” she said, finally. “Let’s just go get a ship.”
“Wait, what do you mean? Yesterday you were ready to do whatever it took to make sure these people didn’t live this way. I thought…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said and started walking.
“Sora.”
She spun around. “Fine, if you need to know. I followed every one of your dumb lessons. I used my ‘assets’ to get into Muskigo’s inner circle. I pretended to be Tayvada’s wife, and he bought it.”
It was now Whitney’s turn to stare.
“While I was with him,” she continued, “I saw so many of my people being treated with far more respect by them than I ever have by the Glass. But even so…it was just a ploy by Muskigo to get more allies so more can die in this war.”
“War is what forced my kind here,” she said. “This isn’t their realm. This is foreign territory. Same as when I came to Troborough. I lived in a basement below a shack, Whit. But you know what? That was leagues better than not having any home at all. What if I burned this place down and the Glass didn’t care? Actually, they won’t care. This isn’t Merchants Row.”
“But Sora—”
“But nothing. Muskigo burned down my little shack, and now I have no home. What would make this any different?”
Whitney tilted his head, looked back into Tayvada’s empty home and said, “Fine, it’s the gesture that counts, then. Let’s go.”
“One second.” Sora returned to Tayvada’s door and knelt before it. Whitney couldn’t help but listen in. She set Aquira down in front of the house. “You deserve a chance to say goodbye, girl.”
The wyvern trotted up to the door and gave it a whiff—enough, Whitney assumed, to remember the scent of her former master forever. She let out a squeal and looked back at Sora with her big, yellow eyes.
“I know, girl,” Sora said. “This place will miss him, too. But things will get better, I know it. Now, c’mon.” She extended her arm, and Aquira darted back onto her shoulder. Sora closed the door, then drew a deep breath.
“All right, what are you waiting for?” she said, turning to Whitney. “We’ve got a ship to steal.”
“You have no idea how proud I am to hear those words,” Whitney said. “And Muskigo’s inner circle? By Iam, I demand to know every detail of that story and how you used your assets.”
“Is that jealousy?” she asked.
“Professional curiosity.”
“Shut up.” She chuckled and punched him in the arm again. He had no idea he could miss a sore spot so much.
XXVI
THE KNIGHT
Torsten shifted his stance. Despite the heat beating down on his body from all around, the street was slick with melting ice. His fingers tightened around the grip of his claymore until it felt like an extension of his arm. He drew slow, steady breaths, the air thick with smoke. He wasn’t afraid. So much of his world had become a mystery but this, he understood. Battle. And as he watched Muskigo’s zhulong charging him, gold-clad tusks thrashing, he was both there and at the beginning. His mind recalled when he was but an armiger, and those first few bouts training under Uriah Davies. He remembered the sting of the wooden sword upon his back. Being slammed to the dirt over and over. And of course, he remembered the first time he landed a strike on the then-Wearer.
Kings, queens, and ancient feuds were one thing, but this he understood. This was kill or be killed.
He waited until the last possible moment, then shifted to the right and swung his sword wide, low to high. The side of a tusk smashed him in the ribs just as the tip of his claymore cut through the zhulong rear haunch. Any ordinary sword wouldn’t have pierced its thick, scaly hide, but the glaruium of Mount Lister was strong and its sharpness never dulled.
Torsten caught himself before hitting the ground and turned, half-crouched. His chestplate had a dent the size of a fist, the pain of the blow pulling at his entire left side. The zhulong, on the other hand, went down hard. Muskigo flew from its back, rolled across the street and found his footing in one smooth motion.
“I’ll give it to you, Shieldsman,” he said as he flicked snow off his scimitar. “You are brave as you are foolish.” His left half was horribly burned, and blood oozed out of the wound in the back of his other shoulder where Sora stabbed him. If the pain affected him, he didn’t show it.
“I am a vessel,” Torsten said, having to growl just to cover for the fact that every breath he drew made his ribcage feel like it was going to pop through his skin. “Now, you will see the power of faith.”
Another plangent moan of a Drav Cra horn sounded, and with it, the din of battle escalated. Every clash of metal like thunder creeping ever-closer. Footsteps like raindrops pounding on stone. The coming of a storm.
“Do you hear that?” Muskigo said. “It’s the sound of your army failing. And when they do, I will bring everything I have crashing upon Yarrington.”
“Not if you are dead.”
“Spoken like a true follower of Iam. Peace?” he scoffed. “Your god is a bringer of death. So come, vessel, and do what he does best!”
Muskigo brandished his sword, and Torsten charged. Torsten was larger, as was his weapon, but even with his many injuries, Muskigo was impossibly fast. He ducked right, then spun out of the way of a furious swipe. Torsten immediately recognized the Black Fist style. Muskigo never let the full brunt of Torsten’s claymore land upon his sword, but deflected blow after blow downward. He used his scimitar more like a shield than a weapon, and his lack of encumbering armor always had him one step ahead.
That was the essence of the style—to be as unshakable as a balled fist. To wait, absorb, exhaust your enemy until the time was right to land one perfect, deadly punch.
Muskigo caught a thrust between his blade and hip, then slid forward, slicing Torsten across a weak spot of armor behind one knee. Torsten roared and whipped around, his scimitar cracking the street as it barely missed Muskigo.
“You want to know what I learned from my father?” Muskigo asked, pacing out of range, barely breathing heavily. “Patience.”
Torsten turned with him, struggling to hide his windedness. Between the bruised rib, exhaustion from the ambush, and the weight of his glaruium armor, his muscles were being pushed to their limits. He vowed, should he make it from Winde Port alive, to train more often and focus less on politics.
“The zhulong is a stubborn beast, you see,” Muskigo continued. “When it feels threatened it charges—no matter what. But the sand serpents that inhabit the beaches outside Latiapur, you would barely know they were there, even if you were staring right at them.”
“Are you going to keep talking? I’ve bee
n looking forward to this since the moment I saw you in the Fellwater.”
Torsten took a hard step and swung low at Muskigo’s shins. The afhem’s agile body allowed him to hurdle the sword. He landed, and before Torsten could bring his sword back around, the man had darted forward and sliced his elbow.
It was as if Muskigo’s blade were precisely drawn to Torsten’s armor joints. He pulled a sharp breath through his teeth.
“The serpent buries itself and waits,” Muskigo continued, keeping his distance and circling Torsten like a hunting wolf. “Sometimes for days, sometimes until it starves. It waits for prey to stroll by, unassuming, and then… it strikes like a bolt of lightning.” Muskigo feigned attack.
“Fight me!” Torsten bellowed.
“There is honor in charging like the zhulong as my father did but they are clumsy, mindless creatures happy to be ridden. The serpent, on the other hand, won’t move a muscle. And by the time you realize it’s still alive, its venom is coursing through your veins.”
“No!” Torsten said. “Your rebellion ends here, today.”
Torsten went at him again, throwing every bit of his remaining energy into every attack. Muskigo didn’t even use his sword this time. He dipped and evaded, and as Torsten went high with his claymore, Muskigo’s gray fist shot forward and struck in the center of his chest.
Torsten’s armor caved, and he careened backward, the sword slipping from his grasp. He looked down when he landed. He had taken hits from battle hammers and not suffered such damage. His time for amazement ended swiftly as Muskigo’s scimitar raced toward his head. Torsten did the only thing he could. Used his strength.
He caught it with both hands, the blade driving through the joints of his gauntlets and slicing his hands. He held it there, the edge only inches from cleaving his skull. Now it was Muskigo’s turn to look surprised.
Torsten shifted one hand, allowing the scimitar to continue into the ground at the side of his head. With the other he punched Muskigo hard across the face, the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet splitting his lip. A second shot tore chunks of flesh from his cheek.
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