Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “You’re not going to die!” Whitney promised. “Keep it together!”

  Whitney grabbed Gentry’s arm again, but the boy dug in with his heels and refused to budge.

  “We’ve got to go!” Whitney said.

  “Go where?” Gentry said. “Up there? We’ll die!”

  “I have a good plan for how I’m going to die this time, and it isn’t like this. Let’s go!”

  “This time?”

  Aquira screeched on Whitney’s shoulder before Whitney could answer and flew to the banister at the top of the staircase. Whitney used the distraction to drag Gentry up with him. When they reached the top of the stairs, rain pelted Whitney in the face.

  “All right!” Whitney shouted. “On my mark, we make a break for the exit, okay?”

  Gentry didn’t respond.

  “Okay?” Whitney repeated.

  Finally, the kid nodded. Whitney clutched his arm tight, taking a few seconds to realize he was likely cutting off the boy’s circulation. Watching as branches and mugs and anything else in the tavern flew by the doorway, it was impossible for him not to be terrified. Sure, he’d braved a storm or two at the tip of the Yevet Cove where they were worse than anywhere south of the Pikeback Mountains. And yes, he’d endured the Webbed Woods and Elsewhere, but he was no knight.

  “Ready, Aquira?” he said, voice shaking. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, then pulled his cloak up over his face and took off through the Grambling Inn. The rain whipping through the broken roof felt like tiny knives stinging any part of him left exposed. And the cold… even in spring, the water was frigid as Kazimir’s sallow skin.

  The inn’s great hall was in shambles. Branches, tables, and ruptured floorboards covered the place. The barrels of ale behind the bar had all been overturned, cracked, and were leaking down through the portion of the floor that had collapsed into the cellar.

  At least I’d have drowned drunk, Whitney thought to himself.

  He hopped over a part of what he thought had once belonged to a chair. As he did, he felt Aquira’s claws pry loose from his shoulders.

  “Aquira!” he yelled. He lowered his cloak and spun around, but the rain beat against his eyelids, and he couldn’t see anything. He tripped, skidding with Gentry into the bar.

  Wood split like thunder and a ceiling beam came loose and swung down. Whitney didn’t think. He grabbed Gentry and tossed him out of the way. Right before the beam knocked Whitney straight back to elsewhere, Aquira swooped in and unleashed a stream of magical fire. Ash coated Whitney as it vaporized the wood, but the inferno continued.

  Even the rain couldn’t squelch it before it reduced a pair of columns to ash. The second-floor walkway collapsed inward, a mess of charred wood and Whitney heard a patron of the inn shriek as the floor of her room joined it. The woman slid out through the door, crashed through a table, and the failing floor threatened to splatter her.

  “Aquira, help her!” Whitney shouted.

  The tip of the wyverns wing sliced Whitney’s neck just below his scarred ear as she whipped around and turned the falling chunk of floor to molten slag before it crushed the woman. The soot poured down, narrowly missing her. Whitney bolted over and dragged her upright. Again the fire consumed everything it’s way before the rain doused it, burning a hole in the exterior of the inn and devastating the second floor.

  “Whitney, c’mon!” Gentry shouted. He’d made it to the front door by himself.

  Whitney took the frightened, dazed woman under the shoulder and ran for the door. Aquira slashed over his shoulder, looping in and out of harm’s way as more debris soared around the room, fearless.

  Whitney didn’t feel like he could breathe until they made it through the door. His tired legs gave out, and they collapsed, sloshing through the town’s muddy, main road. Wind and rain continued to beat against his face, but it seemed to calm enough for him to lift his arm to his brow and survey the town.

  Dark clouds swarmed overhead, but it was light enough to see. He’d slept long enough for morning to arrive, and beyond the heart of the storm, in the distance, the sun rose, and calmer skies approached.

  Around them, the inn wasn’t the only building in Grambling to have suffered the wrath of the storm, though it was by far in the worst condition thanks to the huge, fallen tree protruding through its roof. Everywhere else had porches and pieces of roofs blown away. Carts were overturned. Whitney even saw what looked like a tent from the troupe caught in a tree, flapping like a frightened galler with a clipped wing.

  Whitney’s gaze froze on the chowder house where he and Sora had eaten lunch together so long ago. The sign swung loose from a thick post in the ground, and the shutters were long gone; however, the brick building stood in near perfect condition. Almost like… like there was some higher power trying to tell Whitney everything would be okay, Sora is still out there.

  Shog. I’m beginning to think like Torsten. It was just well-built. Sturdy. That’s all.

  “Where is everyone?” Gentry said.

  Whitney didn’t have the breath in his lungs to answer. He continued searching the ravaged town until he noticed a man hunched over across the street, blood covering his face and chest. A long shard of broken wood pinned him against what little remained of the general store. He had to look away.

  “Talwyn!” a husky voice echoed. “Talwyn?”

  Whitney whipped around and saw the silhouette of a figure running down from the Grambling church. The structure was quaint, but being made from stone meant it could weather any storm. Even the Eye of Iam sculpted within its spire stood true.

  “Whitney?” a weak voice said, coughing.

  Whitney looked down and saw that the mud-and-ash-covered woman he’d saved from certain doom was none other than Talwyn. He’d never seen her in such layered clothing before. Even staring right at her, face covered in soot, hair disheveled, he hardly recognized her.

  She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “You saved me,” she said, accentuating each word with another kiss. “You saved my life.” Try as he may, Whitney couldn’t get her off him. Even Aquira had to wriggle free of her position pinned between them.

  “Gentry, you’re all right!” Lucindur said. “And Whitney. If I keep seeing you and my daughter like this, my mind might begin to wonder.” Whitney glanced up to see her smiling amidst the barrage of freezing rain.

  “It’s not like that, I assure you,” Whitney said.

  “That’s too bad,” Lucindur said.

  Talwyn lay below him, looking up at Whitney like he was a war hero. Whitney cleared his throat, broke free of her hug, then helped her to her feet. “Where is everyone?”

  “Come,” Lucindur said, taking Gentry’s hand. “The town offered us shelter in the church alongside anyone who needs it.”

  “What in Iam’s name were you doing in there?” Whitney questioned Talwyn as they shielded their eyes and ran for the church. He couldn’t believe how much he sounded like his father, scolding her.

  “Looking for you two!” she said. “Pompares rounded up everyone to get inside, and you were both missing.”

  “And they sent you? Not Conmonoc?”

  “They didn’t send anybody,” Lucindur hollered back. “You two are the fools who left camp with a grasslands storm brewing. You know better, Gentry.”

  “I…” the boy replied, but she yanked him faster through the gate into the courtyard of the church before he could answer.

  “So,” Whitney said, “I guess, technically, I didn’t save you, did I—Whoa!” A loose branch zipped at them, and Whitney took Talwyn and spun. Aquira snatched it out of the air and crunched it in half.

  “No, I suppose it was your friend,” Talwyn chuckled from a position like Whitney was dipping her for the grand finale of a dance. Even in the face of all the chaos, she batted her long eyelashes and grinned.

  “Aquira is quite the hero, true,” Whitney said, spinning Talwyn back so they could continue on their way to the church.<
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  “Open up!” Lucindur shouted and slammed on the doors.

  Whitney reached them next and pounded even harder. “Hurry up!”

  A few seconds later, the great church doors swung open, and they piled inside. Someone sealed them with a plank of wood across the bars, leaving them to rattle against the relentless wind.

  The entire troupe was inside, along with many of their supplies. The horses were hitched to the pews, stomping in place and whinnying with fear every time the storm made the doors and shutters groan. Tents were folded up in the corner, carts were by the nave, and in the center of the rearranged pews. A couple of them had even started a fire to keep things warm and played a soft tune.

  But it wasn’t only Whitney’s merry, traveling band who were displaced. He saw the faces of Glassmen, townsfolk wet with tears and mud, driven from their homes at the risk of being crushed in their beds. A mother and three little girls sat by the altar, whispering prayers together since there was no priest around, all of them in Hornsheim, trying to choose a new High Priest or something, it was the same in every town they’d passed through.

  Whitney couldn’t imagine how anybody could want to talk to Iam or one of his servants after he’d ravaged their homes. Though, it was his own house of worship that saved them. A building made by men, Whitney noted, for good measure.

  “Talwyn you’re okay!” Conmonoc shouted. He shoved through the crowd and hugged her, though her arms didn’t reciprocate. A few more members of the troupe greeted her and Lucindur, though not a soul addressed Whitney or Gentry.

  “No thanks to you,” Whitney muttered.

  “What was that?” Conmonoc said. The giant man stomped over in front of Whitney. Aquira promptly threaded Whitney’s legs and crawled up to perch on his shoulder, letting loose a low growl.

  “That’s okay, Aquira,” Whitney said. He was exhausted, but he didn’t care. He’d suffered enough muscle-bound oafs with brains the size of walnuts in his life. He plucked Aquira off and set her atop a crystal candle holder.

  “I said if you were worried, why didn’t you go out there?” Whitney said.

  “I told her to leave you and the boy out there to swim, instead,” Conmonoc said.

  “Would you stop this?” Talwyn said.

  “Wow, you’re a natural Liam the Conqueror, aren’t you?” Whitney said to Conmonoc, then laughed. “If I only had a daughter. Let me tell you… I’d hope to Iam you were her suitor.”

  “Think you’re a real tough guy, huh?” Conmonoc said, edging closer until their noses were only a few centimeters apart.

  “If you only knew the things I’ve seen.”

  “I can show you the underside of my boot,” Conmonoc threatened, taking a step forward.

  “What exactly is your problem?” Whitney asked.

  “You. You’re my problem.” Conmonoc poked Whitney in the chest.

  “Conmonoc, quit being such a fool,” Lucindur said. “The night was rough for us all.”

  “He’s not even Glintish, and he comes into our troupe, steals our money, our children.” Conmonoc turned his gaze to Talwyn and studied her from head to too. “Our women.”

  Whitney groaned. “This again? I suppose you think I summoned this storm too with my magic powers.” Whitney wiggled his fingers like he was performing a spell.

  Conmonoc shoved Whitney with his full hand this time, causing his back to slam against the wall. That got a growl out of Aquira incensed enough to make Conmonoc wince, but Whitney held out his hand to keep her at bay.

  He chuckled a bit under his breath. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Conmonoc said, shoving Whitney again. “This?”

  Whitney clenched his jaw and repeated himself a little harsher. “That.”

  “Oh, alright. What are you going to do, though?” Conmonoc went to shove Whitney again, but Whitney stepped to the side, grabbed the big man by the wrist and bent it in the wrong direction. Conmonoc screamed out, but Whitney just pushed harder until the man was on the ground, face against the stone floor.

  “I said, ‘Don’t do that. But you don’t seem to care what anyone else says, do you, Conny? I said, ‘Stop.’ Now, I’m going to give you one final warning…” Whitney wrenched the wrist further until Conmonoc was frantically tapping on the floor with his other hand. “Mind your business.”

  “What’s going on here?” Modera Pompare said.

  “Oh, we were just playing around, Modera,” Whitney said, releasing Conmonoc and rising. “Isn’t that right, Conny?”

  “That outsider had Gentry out in the storm,” Conmonoc said through clenched teeth. “Nearly got Talwyn and Lucindur killed!”

  “I assure you, my daughter and I are perfectly safe,” Lucindur said, bowing. “No thanks to either of them.”

  “But he—” Talwyn began before Lucindur lay her hands upon her shoulders and guided her toward the fire.

  “Come, dear, let’s get you dried off,” Lucindur said.

  “But—”

  “It isn’t your problem.”

  Talwyn looked at Whitney, then her gaze turned to the floor as they walked away.

  Conmonoc made a whimpering noise from the ground, then said, “Modera, this man has no respect for us!”

  “Oh?” Modera answered. “Because what it looks like is that our ‘world’s strongest man’ just got bested by this frail Glassman.”

  Gentry couldn’t contain a snicker, but a glower from Modera quieted him in a heartbeat.

  “Sorry, that we weren’t with everyone, Modera,” Gentry said. “We were trying to earn extra and used some to get a room at the inn and stay dry.”

  Yigging exile, that boy needs to learn to tell a lie, Whitney thought. “Some good it did,” he said aloud. “Apparently, the inn was built by a couple of blind dwarves who can’t nail a beam.”

  “Spending your autlas on a room when he owes you dues?” Conmonoc said to Modera. “You provide us fine shelter. He deserves the back of Fadra’s hand.”

  Modera scratched her chin, then sighed. “It seems today, we could not. So, I see two of us who were working hard, far beyond what was required to pay their debts.” She knelt in front of Gentry. He sunk backward, and to Whitney’s surprise, so did Aquira. “Thank you for your honesty, boy. And you…” She turned to Whitney and Conmonoc. “Your initiative is appreciated, but break our strongman’s arm, and you’ll be performing for two.”

  Whitney found himself backing away. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to, but the hard lines Modera’s face made even the Spider Queen Bliss seem inviting.

  “Rest,” Modera said. “We leave for Fettingborough as soon as the storm breaks. We’ll need some supplies after what happened to our camp. You and Gentry can help with some of the extra autlas you scrounged up.”

  “But I thought—” Whitney began. Modera raised a single finger, and again he froze.

  “If you’re a Pompare, you share,” she said to Whitney for what must have been the thousandth time since their first meeting.

  “Unless you’re you,” Whitney muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing ma’am.”

  “When you earn like Talwyn,” Modera Pompare said, “then you get the right to complain. Get up, you fool.” She gripped Conmonoc by the ear and dragged him away and back toward her and Fadra’s carriage which, miraculous, appeared utterly undamaged.

  “Uh, Whitney,” Gentry whispered once she was gone.

  Whitney glanced down. Aquira was curled up in Gentry’s arms like a cat, which was odd, considering she rarely let anyone but him even pat her.

  “What?” Whitney asked.

  Gentry turned out his pockets, and only water dripped out. “I think I forgot everything we made in the cellar.”

  “You, wha—” Whitney bit his tongue. This was why he always preferred to work alone, because he rarely disappointed himself. But, Gentry did a yig of a job that night, and not everybody was prepared to handle nearly dying properly. “It’s fine.” He rustled
the boy’s hair. “We’ll make it up somehow.”

  Gentry blew air through his lips like he was relieved. “We’re an unstoppable team,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Whitney said as Aquira clambered up his arm. “We sure are…” he sighed, being reminded of Sora. He recalled the early days of their partnership when her raw power caused Bartholomew Darkings’ Bridleton manor to go up in flames, how he’d pushed her to go after him, which then caused Kazimir to pursue them, and their lives to be upturned.

  I had a teammate, and I ruined it…

  “Mr. Fierstown?” a man said.

  Whitney turned to one of the pews and saw Leof Balleybeck sitting, his leg bouncing nervously.

  “You’re here?” the barkeep said.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Whitney said. “Why are you here and not at your inn?”

  “When the storm picked up out of nowhere, it was so strong I saw Mrs. Potter’s chickens—gods-damned chickens!—flying down the street. A tree hit the roof and caused flooding. We emptied the inn and took refuge with most of the town here.”

  Whitney stared at him, mouth agape.

  Leof put a hand through his hair and said, “Were you not… oh… yes… I’m sorry. I must have—”

  “First, you give away our room,” Whitney said. “Then you forgot about us?”

  Aquira blew a small spout of flames over Whitney’s shoulder, and the barkeep hopped back.

  “I’m sorry!” Leof cried, “Really, I’m so sorry. It slipped my mind.”

  Whitney clutched him by the collar, and by the way the man cowered, there was no doubt he’d had seen how Whitney’d handled Conmonoc. Though, Aquira baring her teeth and snarling right beside his face certainly didn’t hurt.

  “We were nearly crushed in that shog heap you call an inn, and we ‘slipped your mind?’”

  “I… I… it was I who told your friends you might be there,” he stammered.

  “Oh, so it didn’t slip your mind,” Whitney said. “We simply weren’t worth a trip to the cellar.”

  Whitney reared his first back, and Leof turned his cheek. But Whitney didn’t strike, even though the idea of physically intimidating people was one of the most exciting discoveries of his life.