Winds of War

by Rhett C. Bruno

  A deep rumble shook the deck beneath her. Then, a crack, boom!

  Her eyes opened, and Tum Tum stood beside her shielding his face with his arm, beard and hair in tangles. The compass beside the ship’s wheel spun wildly. Wind flapped the sails even though the bay remained flat as glass.

  She fell to her knees, barely able to see, straining her eyes to focus on Whitney, but he was gone. Kazimir was gone. Where they had just been, there was now nothing more than scorched wood, two piles of clothes with her knife laying atop them, and the King’s Glass Crown teetering on its edge. Aquira limped over to the spot, sniffing the air as if something were missing.

  “Whitney?” Sora whispered. And then she collapsed, accepting sleep like an old friend.

  XXIX

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten stood on Winder’s Wharf, staring out upon the moonlit bay. He wore a wolf pelt over his shoulders for warmth, given to him by Redstar after he was pulled from the canal. Everyone was cheery now that the battle was won even though they were surrounded by death and destruction, Glassmen and Northmen patting each other on the back.

  What have we won?

  Afhem Muskigo was alive thanks to Torsten’s failure. He’d called the retreat early, and now most of his army crossed Trader’s Bay to the eastern banks, and there were few ships intact to follow them before they regrouped. Torsten wasn’t surprised Whitney’s distraction wound up doing almost as much harm than good. All the vessels moored directly in the harbor were tipped onto one another, hulls and masts shredded by a chain of ropes.

  A sole Breklian corsair ship headed south apart from Muskigo’s army. It was far, but Torsten could see a man waving from the wheel and knew exactly who he had to be. What he didn’t expect, however, was how much he hoped Sora, a blood mage, had made it on safely as well. He could only trust Whitney had changed enough to genuinely care about someone other than himself. He owed her that much after saving his life for the second time.

  “Smile, Wearer,” Redstar said, stepping up beside him. “Muskigo may live, but it is a victory nonetheless.”

  “Winde Port will never be the same,” Torsten said.

  “So it is with war. You should know better than any. How many cities did Liam ravage as he reached further across Pantego?”

  “That was different. He fought to brighten the world.”

  “It wasn’t different for those he… brightened.”

  “What do you want Redstar?”

  “Must I want something to speak with my Wearer?”

  “You’re here to gloat,” Torsten said. “I led my men to their doom while you stole the glory.”

  “I did nothing. The Buried Goddess showed me the moment to strike, I merely obeyed and called upon her strength.”

  “You warned Muskigo I’d be coming, didn’t you?” Torsten snapped, his hand clutching Redstar by the collar before he could stop himself. Over the man’s shoulder, he noticed a handful of men watching, concerned for the Arch Warlock and uncle of the King. More than a few of them were of the Glass.

  Redstar lowered his voice. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have fished you out of that canal after you failed to kill the only Sandsman whose death mattered.”

  “I don’t know what you want, but saving me was the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.” Torsten shoved him and stormed away. His men parted for him to pass, though they were too fixated on Redstar to salute.

  “Where is Sir Wardric?” he asked.

  Nobody had an answer. He’d been searching for the man who’d been left in charge of his army since the fighting stopped. He imagined that he and both Darkings, father and son, were back at the camp. Noblemen like Yuri didn’t have a taste for battle.

  So, Torsten walked back through the city, now cautious to take a true measure of things. He still felt cold and pulled his pelt tight, but the anomalous warmth in his chest didn’t wane. It even dulled the pain of his many wounds.

  The prefect's estate was a pile of glowing rubble like coals in a fire that had burned too hot and too long. A line of homes west of it were charred husks of buildings. It would take half the gold in the royal vaults to undo the damage. Bodies filled the streets—Shesaitju, his own army, civilians unfortunate to have been caught in the invasion in the first place.

  On his way by, Torsten noticed something white glinting in the wreckage. He trudged through the ash and debris and lifted his own white helm, nearly in perfect shape but for a dent on the side. Pure glaruium was a difficult thing to break. His armor was similar to the other members of the King’s Shield, though slightly more ornate, but that helm had been worn by Wearers for decades before even his mentor Uriah. Torsten lifted it, dumped the ash out, then continued on his way with it tucked under his arm.

  The densest stacking of corpses was by the palisade walls, or rather, what remained of them. The wind had spread Sora’s fire before the snow had time to extinguish it. The dry, wooden walls caught in an instant. Barely a segment still stood, the rest ashes.

  “Sir, you’re alive!” someone shouted.

  Torsten turned and saw Sir Nikserof Pasic, one of the old guard, a member of the King’s Shield who’d been in the ambush, sitting on a chunk of burned wood. His steel armor was coated in blood, most of it probably belonging to his own people. A barbed arrow protruded from one arm.

  Torsten approached, and the man went to salute, but he stopped him. “You don’t need to stand for me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He winced.

  “You should see the physicians.”

  “I’m in good shape compared to the rest. Can you believe what happened here? They say the King’s uncle summoned wind and fire to take the walls. A moment slower, we would have died in that courtyard.”

  “He didn’t summon any fire.” That much was true, but Torsten recalled hearing Redstar’s incantation echoing in the air after they escaped their ambush, as if he was willing the fire along.

  Nikserof’s gray brow furrowed. A few more nearby soldiers and Shieldsmen started to eavesdrop. “Then who did?”

  Torsten bit his lip. He couldn’t say that it was the work of a Panpingese blood mage he knew, even if he believed Iam was working through her—then they would not only think him a failed general, but a madman.

  “Iam reached down to save us,” Torsten said. “Redstar may have charged at the right time, but at what cost? We were supposed to save those prisoners.”

  “You haven’t heard, sir?” Nikserof asked.

  “What?”

  “Their bonds were tied to the walls. When they burnt, the people of Winde Port were able to break free, and the gray men couldn’t give chase because our army charged. They’re all back at camp, mostly. Many of them will need new homes but still… it’s a miracle.”

  Torsten looked closer at the remnants of the wall and all the bodies covered in ash. They were almost entirely soldiers from either side, stacked in twos and even threes where the fighting was fiercest.

  “The Buried Goddess is with Drad Redstar,” Mak said from nearby. It seemed he was always around to stir up trouble. “Lucky for you, Wearer.”

  “There is no such thing as luck,” Torsten snapped.

  “The way I hear it, they had to scoop you out of the canal after you let Muskigo survive. Without Redstar, you’d be an icicle. Sounds lucky.”

  “Watch your tongue,” Nikserof said. “That is your Wearer.”

  Mak smiled and bowed. “My apologies. What a fine job he’s been doing.” He laughed and continued on his way. After a few paces, he looked up to the sky. “Where’s your light now!” he shouted, laughing some more.

  “Ignore him,” Nikserof said. “If we didn’t distract Muskigo, they wouldn’t have accomplished a thing.”

  The truth was, Torsten knew that wasn’t true. Perhaps with Muskigo able to lead his army in the defense, they would have lasted longer, but they still would have lost because there was no accounting for a fire like what Sora caused. More of them might have even perished instead of c
alling an early retreat to fight another day.

  No, Torsten’s distraction helped with nothing. Sora still would have tried to kill the man she blamed for destroying her home. She still would have failed in the face of a mighty warrior like Muskigo and been forced to use magic. And the fire still would have spread on Redstar’s otherworldly, west-faring wind.

  Torsten merely answered with a grunt and a nod.

  “Have you seen Wardric?” he asked.

  Nikserof shook his head. “Can’t bring myself to climb the hill. I’ve lost a lot of blood, as have many. I think Sir Austun Mulliner headed up there though.”

  Torsten left him, wading through the piled bodies, careful to show the proper respect. Then, turning his head to the sky, he whispered, “Where is your light now?”

  He caught a whiff of something foul and glanced back down. A pile of dead Drav Cra warriors was being burned across the field while the warlock Freydis stood before them chanting. Her words were as foreign as the rattling of her tokens.

  Priests of Iam would arrive soon to help lay the fallen Glassmen to rest as well, as they did after every battle so the dead may be committed to the Gate of Light. But all the soldiers and refugees standing atop the hill overlooking a victorious battlefield would first see the warlocks of the Buried Goddess staining it. Torsten could barely look without thinking impure thoughts; however, as he went by, he noticed a silvery sheen amongst the corpses.

  A King’s Shieldsman?

  “Stop this!” he barked as he ran over. He shoved Freydis out of the way. A few warriors pulled their weapons on him before they realized he was kneeling by one of his own.

  “How did this man wind up in here?” he questioned.

  The shaggy-haired warlock seemed as confused as he was. The black paint on her brow cracked as it furrowed “An accident, I suspect,” Freydis said. “There are so many bodies.”

  “This was no accident.” Torsten reached through the fire and grabbed the body by the arm. He tried to pull, but it wouldn’t budge. A fur-clad hand fell upon his shoulder.

  “It is too late,” a warrior said. “His ashes will join the others in the dirt as his soul is passed to Skorravik, where he may spend eternity in glorious battle.”

  “He is a soldier of Iam.” Torsten went to pull him out again, but this time, the warrior wasn’t so gentle, grabbing Torsten and pushing him away. Torsten reached for his sword before he realized it was at the bottom of a Winde Port canal. A gathering of Northerners glared at him, knuckles whitening on the grips of their axes.

  Torsten backed away slowly, then returned on his path to the camp. His blood was boiling with rage. A few more warlocks were burning their dead. Ashes into the dirt. Torsten tried only to look at the ground. If he saw one more of his people caught up in their heathenistic ways, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  Iam’s followers were buried in death so their mortal vessels would be hidden from the sight of the Vigilant Eye while their souls rose to Iam’s waiting arms. The process was longer, and with all these bodies, it would take a new graveyard to do, but his people deserved eternal rest for sacrificing their lives. Redstar, his followers—all they wanted was to take the easy way.

  Civilians filled the camp, both refugees and the thousands who had escaped thanks to Sora’s fire. Only one name was on their tongues being praised: Redstar. Torsten could even hear it over the screams echoing from the hospital tent where the wounded were being treated and amputated. He never thought he’d prefer that terrible sound over anything.

  He made his way up to the Shieldsmen’s camp. A few soldiers recognized him along the way and offered a salute. Most were too busy commending heathens to notice.

  “Wardric!” Torsten called. “Wardric!”

  He found the main tent where they’d planned their attack. A few younger Shieldsmen sat inside, sharing a drink and laughing like they were common soldiers and not the best the Glass Kingdom had to offer.

  “Where are Sir Wardric and Yuri Darkings?” Torsten asked the only one he somewhat recognized, a blonde with a crooked nose. He wasn’t sure of his name with his head so fuzzy, but he was a young Shieldsman too green to be dragged along on Torsten’s ill-fated ambush. Torsten was sure he had overseen a few sessions of the man’s training before he took the vows.

  “Sir?” the blonde Shieldsman scrambled to come to attention, spilling his drink in the process. “You made it.”

  “A surprise to everyone it seems.”

  “I—with the fire—we—”

  “It’s not important,” Torsten said. “Where are they?”

  “I haven’t seen them since they got back from leading you to the tunnels, sir.”

  “Any of you?”

  The other two Shieldsmen shook their heads.

  “He was temporary commander of the King’s Shield,” Torsten said. “You charged without orders from him?”

  “It all happened so fast,” the blonde Shieldsman said. “One moment, Redstar and all those crazy warlocks were lined up in the field, kneeling and chanting and cutting themselves. The next, the walls took to flames, and the King’s uncle called the charge. If we didn’t listen, all of the civilians fleeing the gray men would have died.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You men made the right decision for those people. But the battle is done. I need to find Sir Wardric so we can discuss the next move. Muskigo remains at large, and now he is east of the ravine, near the ancestral lands of his people and ready to spread his uprising.”

  “I swear, sir, none of us have seen him.”

  Torsten’s gaze turned to their drinks, then back to the blonde Shieldsman’s eyes. “Keep an eye out, all of you. If you find him, send for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” said all.

  Torsten thought he heard a snicker as he walked away but ignored it. Members of the King’s Shield, drinking and carousing as if one battle ended a war? Torsten wondered if he was still in the freezing depths of the canal, dreaming before his body gave out. Or perhaps death had taken him to another plane entirely.

  Is this Elsewhere? Is this my eternal exile?

  He left the white helm in his tent, then swept through the other tents of his order, searching for Wardric but only finding more of his men celebrating victory. It was as if his army had raided the abandoned taverns of Winde Port for all their ale.

  He stopped and spun a tight circle, unable to stop hearing the whispers of praise for Redstar. His breathing picked up. The warmth in his chest was dissipating now, so he felt the chill of the air once more. He was near ready to drop to a knee and give up when he noticed the luxurious carriage Yuri Darkings had arrived in. The reins for its two horses were sliced, the animals nowhere to be seen. But Torsten’s eyes were drawn somewhere else, to a small smattering of red on the entry’s frame.

  One of his men said something to him from behind, but Torsten ignored it and approached the carriage. His legs were still incredibly sore, one of them gashed deep. He fought the pain and pushed forward. The door wasn’t locked, which he found odd considering the wealth and importance of the man who owned it. He swiped his hand over the red spots. Dry.

  He slowly pushed the door in and what he saw made his stomach turn over. This time he fell to his knees and had to fight with all his willpower not to retch. Wardric lay on the lush, silk bed—or rather, his body did. His throat was slit end to end, blood so dark it looked like pitch stained the sheets and pooled across the wooden floor.

  Torsten’s fingers slid through the liquid on his way to investigate the body. He wasn’t sure why he needed to check if Wardric was alive. Maybe instinct. Maybe he was hoping for a miracle. But it was clear from the moment he entered, his friend was dead.

  Torsten crawled backward. He was breathing so fast it felt like his lungs were going to pop.

  “Iam guide me,” he rasped. “Iam guide me...” He repeated that over and over as he clutched at his chest. His armor was there, stained red and still tight against his frame. He had to uns
trap his chestplate just to feel like he could draw air. A few of his men saw him floundering in the snow and ran over. Their faces were blurs, their words, muted.

  All he could focus on was the man blithely strolling across the battlefield. His crimson robes flapped in the wind. His pale skin blended with the snow, the mark on his face like a bloodspot.

  Torsten went blind to everything else in the world. He rose, threw off his chest plate and stormed at the man.

  “Sir Unger,” Redstar said as he approached. “You should see one of my healers. They’ll sew you up in no time.”

  “You killed him!” Torsten thundered. He seized Redstar and slammed him to the ground. The Arch Warlock went for his dagger, but Torsten ripped it away from him and held it at his throat.

  “What are you talking about?” Redstar grated.

  “Wardric. I found him, Redstar. I found him slaughtered like swine so that you could lead the charge.”

  Redstar closed his eyes and let his head fall back into the snow. He looked exhausted but not afraid, which only propelled Torsten to press the edge of the blade tighter against his skin.

  “Deny it!” Torsten shouted.

  Redstar tilted his head and looked toward the ground. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Don’t talk to her,” Torsten snapped, yanking Redstar’s head back straight. “This is between me and you.”

  “This is between you and you, Sir Unger. Look around. I have just taken Winde Port back, and all you want to do is drive us away because we don’t follow your god.”

  “What do you want, Redstar? The King forced you at my side. Is that not enough?”

  “Torsten, I suggest you get off me.” His eyes signaled for Torsten to look around. A crowd had gathered around them. Drav Cra and Glassmen, King’s Shieldsmen and warlocks of Nesilia. Drad Mak stood amongst a group of fur-clad warriors, each one more tremendous than the next, but none more than him. He gripped his axe in two hands. Freydis and two other warlocks held their daggers to their palms, black face paint making their eyes bright with rage