Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  It was then that Torsten informed Oleander and Pi what the former deserter had done, though he purposefully left out Valin’s part in it. Rand’s was hailed as a story of redemption under the Light of Iam. Without him and what he’d become—thanks to Redstar driving Oleander mad—the Drav Cra would have never been defeated.

  It was the least Rand the Redeemer deserved after all he’d been through. Only, now that Valin Tehr’s name had come up again, Torsten couldn’t help but wonder if Valin had helped him disappear… or worse, made him disappear. From all Torsten remembered of him, Valin preferred the anonymity of the shadows. Rand telling his story and tying him into saving the kingdom would bring far too much attention.

  No. Rand’s redemption is what the Glass needs now.

  Lucas went quiet for a good while before saying, “The warlock is arriving at the podium. She’s gagged.”

  “A precaution against her using her teeth to draw blood.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?”

  Torsten made an unintelligible sound.

  “His Grace was right, out of her rags, the witch is actually quite attractive. Looks like one of the women in the Vineyard…” He cleared his throat. “Not that I ever frequent there…”

  “Iam’s not judging you today, kid,” Torsten said.

  “I thought he always was?”

  Once again, Torsten didn’t bother responding. The screaming amplified as Freydis was led up to her position. Fruits, vegetables, and Iam-knows-what-else slammed against the wooden stand. She screamed in Drav Crava, squealing like a cornered boar through the gag.

  Torsten pictured it: her laid, bare on her back so only Iam could witness her, like so many criminals before, body doused in the incandescent paint worn on faces for the Dawning. A symbol of hope that Iam may find mercy for even the most wicked on Pantego, and offer a chance at light before damnation to Elsewhere.

  “Sir Mulliner is stepping up,” Lucas said. “He’s wearing a hood. Do the Shieldsmen who pass sentence always wear those? It’s not like we don’t know it’s him; what’s the point?”

  “We dare not steal the attention of Iam from the accused,” Torsten said.

  Sir Mulliner stood in since Sir Nikserof was absent, but it was usually the Wearer of White who stood as executioner in the name of the King, as Rand Langley had for so many—though things were often more civilized than slinging men and women over the wall to dry in the sun.

  If anyone deserved that treatment, it was a warlock like Freydis. Hers was an execution Torsten wouldn’t have minded seeing, but he knew it was that sort of thinking, that lack of grace which allowed the Glass to fall into such dark times.

  “She should be drawn and quartered for all they did,” Lucas said.

  “Let them be the savages,” Torsten said. “It’s bad enough we have no High Priest here to offer her absolution.”

  “Then let me be the first to say I’m glad the selection is taking so long.”

  Freydis’s muffled, rage-filled screams pierced the crisp, spring air as her ankles and wrists were fastened to the platform. Guards had been instructed to form a tight circle around Freydis, so no blood was drawn by airborne projectiles, but mistakes happen. One droplet of her blood could’ve meant destruction.

  “Your Grace, it’s time,” Torsten said, looking in the King’s direction. As he did, he felt a gust of cool air that reminded him of the long winter past. A cold droplet of rain splashed on his shoulder. Iam weeping for the fallen.

  “Go on, Your Grace,” Lord Kaviel Jolly instructed.

  The sudden change in weather caused even more of a stir amongst the crowd, but Torsten heard Pi’s small feet shuffle forward. Many things may have changed—even the crown he wore itself—but the Throne of Glass, the kingdom, and the Nothhelm line which founded it still commanded respect. The citizens quieted upon sight of their king standing atop the ramparts. Pi cleared his throat and fumbled through a few welcoming words, unable to project.

  “You’ll be fine, Your Grace,” Torsten said. Redstar-possessed Pi had no issue speaking, but a riled-up crowd like this could’ve stricken fear in anybody whose name wasn’t Liam. “Don’t look away. Show them who you are. Show them you stand on your own, apart from the memory of your father.”

  It had grown so quiet, Torsten heard him breathe. Only the sound of a drizzle pelting stone and Freydis’ incessant objections sounded.

  “People of Yarrington, my people,” Pi began. His gentle voice grew in verve with each passing word, but it was still no match for his father’s. “It is a somber affair that brings me before you today under the watchful gaze of Iam. I take no joy in sentencing anyone to death, even one so wicked as her.”

  “Burn her at the stake like the witch she is!” someone in the crowd hollered, received by a swell of applause.

  “Gut her for the gallers!” cried out another.

  “Silence!” Torsten roared, pounding his fist on the parapet. He regretted it immediately. Pi needed to learn to assert himself before the people. It did, however, have the desired effect of instilling silence.

  “Today, on the first day of Tresholm, I, King Pi Nothhelm, son of Liam Nothhelm, sentence Freydis of the Ruuhar clan to death,” Pi said. “The servants of Iam’s Holy Church may be absent today, but Iam watches you still. Speak your last words, declare your desire for forgiveness, and perhaps Iam, in his infinite wisdom, will grant it.”

  “Sir Mulliner is removing her gag,” Lucas whispered. “Is that wise?”

  First, there was quiet, then Freydis began to cackle. The sound made all the hairs on Torsten’s neck stand on end.

  “You come down here and swing the axe yourself, and maybe then I’ll beg for mercy,” she hissed. “You’re cowards, all of you. Drad Redstar should have slaughtered you all when he had the chance. Burned your bodies to ashes for the Buried Goddess!”

  Torsten heard enough and raised his hand in the gallows’ direction. The signal was to inform Sir Mulliner to gag her again. Most who were to be publicly executed begged, groveled at the foot of the High Priest, claiming they were changed, reformed. Torsten knew she wouldn’t number among those.

  “Don’t touch me!” she howled. “Your reckoning is coming! The Buried Goddess will devour you all!” The rest of her screaming grew muffled again, but then a gasp came from the crowd.

  “What happened?” Torsten asked his aide.

  “Blood’s pouring from her face,” Lucas said. “Nobody touched her, she just… she spat the gag at Sir Mulliner along with her tongue. What’s wrong with these people?”

  Lucas merely sounded disgusted, but he didn’t understand what she was capable of. How could he?

  Torsten shoved the boy aside as he stormed across the ramparts, not caring who else he rammed into. “Kill her!” he shouted. “Kill her now!”

  Armor clanked as guards closed in around the gallows. Then Torsten heard the soft thunk of metal meeting wood. Screams of horror rang out from the crowd.

  “Vines! Vines are growing out of the ground,” Lucas said, finally sounding as nervous as he should. “One tripped Sir Mulliner. They’re grabbing guards. Sir, should I go down—”

  “I need your eyes.” He turned toward the Royal Council. “Get Pi back inside immediately and seal the gates.” He grabbed Lucas’s arm. “Lead me down.”

  Lucas guided him down the steps and through the gate, speeding up after Torsten yelled at him once for acting like he was some fragile thing prone to breaking. Bodies of fleeing civilians slammed into him. After all Redstar had done, he didn’t blame them. But Freydis could do nothing alone.

  “The guards have her surrounded, but she has the axe,” Lucas said, panting. “Her vines are keeping everyone back and slapping down arrows.”

  “And Sir Mulliner?” Torsten asked.

  “They pulled him to safety, but she cut another Shieldsman’s chest. Can’t tell who. Just missed his throat.”

  “Freydis!” Torsten bellowed. “Stop this. Your fight is over. You lost.”


  Something thorny touched Torsten’s ankle, then wrapped it tight. He was heaved up into the air so fast Lucas couldn’t keep hold. Wind and rain slashed at his cheeks. Freydis couldn’t scream, but the gurgled hissing released from her tongueless mouth was a thing of nightmares.

  “Enough of this!” Lucas said. “Drop him!” Lucas’ sword rasped as he unsheathed it. Then Torsten heard the crack of something whipping across Lucas’s feet and the thunk as he hit the ground.

  “Stay back!” Torsten shouted as he was jostled through the air. “Let her tire—” The pressure on his ankle suddenly went slack, and he plummeted. His back slammed hard against the cobblestone street.

  “Are you all right, my Lord?” someone asked, his Breklian accent thick as Glintish syrup.

  “I think he’ll live, Codar,” someone else said from behind. “It’s time for us to go.”

  Torsten lay for a few more seconds, listening to the turmoil from around the gallows. Fire crackled—a sound with which he was all too familiar. He imagined it, now extended from Freydis’ hands. He could feel the heat and hear the sizzling of embers despite the intensifying storm overhead.

  “Sir!” Lucas shouted as his arm wrapped under Torsten’s back. “Is that you?”

  “I’m the one who can’t see, damn it!” Torsten barked. “Take her down.”

  “The storm… It’s so dark… She…”

  Torsten heard it before he said it. The driving rain suddenly ceased, leaving water to gush across the cobblestones. Glassmen groaned, whispering about what had happened.

  “What is it?” Torsten asked.

  “The warlock, she’s…” Lucas stammered.

  “Out with it, boy!”

  “She’s gone! Vanished into darkness.”

  Torsten exhaled through clenched teeth and patted at the wet stone. A thorn on the unnatural vine pricked his thumb. At first, he expected to be angry, then a wave of relief hit him.

  “Let her run,” he said. “The Drav Cra are our concern no longer.”

  “But everyone saw what she did,” Lucas replied.

  “All the more reason to hurry up the stubborn priests in Hornsheim. Torsten stood, and Lucas took his arm. Torsten removed his hand. “No, help the injured here. I can make my way back alone.”

  IV

  THE DAUGHTER

  Mahraveh Ayerabi stood, silent, disciplined. Her eye followed the line of a blackwood arrow nocked in her short bow, the string pulled tight and aimed toward a pit lizard. The beasts weren’t often found wandering the sands alone, much less this close to the rocky southern shore. Mahraveh could still see the hazy outline of Saujibar, the oasis town she called home between the Black Sands dunes and the coast. If she could manage to drag one so large back to the village, she knew how proud her father would be.

  The pit lizard flared its neck flap and flicked a half-a-meter-long, forked tongue. Mahraveh’s eyes darted from side to side, wary for its kin. One of the man-length reptiles, with their dagger-sharp teeth, she could outrun, even with her little legs, but if the pit lizard’s mate showed up, she wouldn’t be so confident.

  A yellow eye blinked on the side of its head, and she focused the tip of her arrow on it. Her chest shuddered, a deep, steadying breath entering her lungs. The sun’s heat bore down. The base of her thick dreadlocks itched, and sweat trickled into her brow, threatening to break through to sting her eye. Mahraveh ignored it all, exhaled, and let the arrow loose. The barbed end glimmered in the sunlight, rotating toward its intended target.

  “Mahi!” a voice shouted from behind her. The two-meter long lizard skittered away just in time, and the arrow nestled harmlessly into the soft, black sand.

  Mahraveh swore. She knew the voice. She’d only just entered the desert on the outskirts of Saujibar, and already they were trying to bring her back to an “environment more suited to a Shesaitju lady.”

  Farhan, one of her father’s commanders, crested a tall dune flanked by three others. He was young—though not nearly as young as little Mahi—and handsome. Backdropped against the sun, his gray skin appeared like pitch, the expression upon his face, unreadable. But she knew it would be anger.

  “Mahi, you should not be out here alone,” he scolded.

  “Should I rather stay safe in my father’s house sewing headdresses or scarves?” she replied. Without turning to him, she started to thread another arrow. The bold reptile had stopped only a short distance away to scour for insects.

  Farhan slid down the sandy dune, his fingers creating snaking trails behind him. Coming to a stop beside her, he wrapped a hand around her bicep, and the arrow fell through her bow as she yanked her limb away. She hated how all her father’s men felt they could treat her as if she were their own daughter merely because they worked for the afhem.

  “Your father—” Farhan said.

  “If my father wants me back at the manor so badly, he should have come himself!” Mahraveh interrupted.

  At that moment, a new shadow appeared atop the dune. Now the pit lizard scurried away, lost forever to the dark sands. Thick muscle and bright white tattoos laced the man’s body, which could be made out even against the blazing sun.

  “Does this make you content, daughter?” His voice carried like distant thunder.

  “Father,” Mahraveh whispered, falling to her knees. Muskigo Ayerabi, her father, was one of Caleef Rakun’s afhems—warlords whose spirits provided tabernacle for the God of Sand and Sea. “I am sorry. I just wanted to—”

  “Mahi, you know this is no place for you,” Muskigo said.

  Farhan gently pulled Mahraveh to her feet and guided her up the slope into her father’s arms.

  “You are still yet a child,” he continued. “You belong in the manor learning everything you can from Shavi.”

  Mahraveh glanced around at her father’s men. Each was covered in tattoos, like him, but none wore them upon their bald heads. Only Afhem Muskigo Ayerabi carried that honor.

  Farhan’s hand returned to Mahraveh’s arm. She tried to pull away again, but he resisted, and his grip tightened.

  She let out a sharp breath and said, “I am not a child, father. I am twelve; nearly a woman grown. I don’t wish to lead with a broom, but a sword, like you.”

  “You dream of bloodshed—a noble dream—but women do not spill blood except in childbirth. So many, though they are honored to serve our people, would give all for a chance to be served. You throw away a gift, my little sand mouse.”

  There was a time when hearing her father’s voice speak those words would have caused Mahi to blush. But now, it felt so much like an insult. She was no sand mouse; she was the snake, ready to strike and devour its prey. If only he’d let her.

  “Now, come, let us put aside this foolishness and return to the safety of home. Shavi is making zhulong stew, and it smelled wonderful.” Muskigo motioned to one of his other men, Impili—she hated Impili most of all with his broken front teeth and neck scar. Impili grasped her bow and spare arrows. She glowered at him, hoping his hand got cut on the arrows’ barbs, but their eyes never met.

  “Someday,” Muskigo said, “Saujibar will need you.”

  Mahraveh wasn’t sure why her mind was drawn to that moment, which was just one of so many times she was forced back home, but she was. Perhaps if her father had let her go out on her own even once in her life, she might’ve been more prepared for things now that he was the one in need of saving.

  Presently, she stood at the base of Caleef Sidar Rakun’s golden throne. Surrounding her were frightening men. Scarred, tattooed, and calloused men. Shesaitju afhems and their closest advisors, arms flailing as they shouted at one another.

  Serpent Guards lined the walls like armored statues, still as stone. They held no affiliation to any afhem, only to the Caleef. They were trained from birth by the masters of the Tal’du Dromesh to be his personal guard after—as mere children—their tongues were taken. Solid gold masks covered the top halves of their faces, scales and ridges forming the visage
of a snake. Each one was a physical specimen, corded muscles and rock-hard abdominals like they could have been chipped from the Pikeback Mountains. After the Caleef was taken prisoner by King Pi of the Glass, some had broken ranks and gone with her father, Muskigo, to fight to free their Caleef. The rest stayed behind in the Boiling Keep.

  Nigh’jels painted the room in green light, coruscating off the golden walls, reflecting across the hall like poison moonlight. Shavi, the head handmaiden of the Ayerabi house, used fire for cooking, and Mahraveh always wondered why her people didn’t use simple torches instead of luminescent jellyfish in glass and bone cages. Her father, Muskigo, told her when she was much younger, he preferred the product of the Boiling Waters to the creation of man. That they were a gift of the God of Sand and Sea. Mahraveh still thought fire would be brighter and warmer.

  On a relief sculpture along the back wall, above the throne, a Shesaitju sand snake wrapped itself around a zhulong. The grooves were old; black but not tarnished. Each scale of both snake and zhulong was meticulously carved—each one the pride of her people. The zhulong were powerful and loyal, but not a beast to be crossed. The snakes were vicious, sure death to any who were unfortunate enough to stumble upon one—just like the Shesaitju, at least, how they used to be before the Glassmen made them bend the knee.

  Mahraveh crossed the room, disinterested in the complaints of men who were grown enough not to be acting like children. She’d only been to the capital city of Latiapur one other time—in the arms of her father—but she’d never been in the throne room. She’d heard stories of the gaping maw in the center of the floor, an open door gazing down into the choppy Boiling Waters far below.