Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  They were cheering for her kill.

  It was too loud for anyone to hear her, but she roared. She wasn’t sure why. From the moment her father left for war, leaving her behind, rage had been welling within her. She hadn’t recognized it until that moment, but there it was, being released in a primal scream, bubbling to the surface.

  It all came crashing down when Khonayn rammed into her. She flew back over the body, her spear still lodged in the man’s chest. She was able to catch her footing quickly, but by then, Khonayn was bearing down.

  “Never celebrate until you win, boy,” Khonayn said, broken arm hanging limply at his side. Still, she knew what a man his size could do to her even with one hand.

  Mahraveh knew what she should do. The same thing she’d taught Jumaat—run. But that was half the reason she couldn’t let him fight. People followed her father after his victory because he claimed so many on his own, and he was a master of black fist. Everybody had known he was the favorite and teamed up on him, but it didn’t matter.

  He was the Scythe.

  But Mahraveh couldn’t just win. She had to win the favor of all the thousands watching.

  “C’mon then, coward,” she shouted. “You claim you wanted to join Muskigo, but you were too frightened.”

  His shield sprang out, and she ducked low. But he was fast. He recovered and lashed out again, at every point in her body. Her black fist was exceptional and could help her now, but it was little match for a shield.

  She slipped under one of his swipes and drove a fist into his abdomen, fast as a striking snake. Before she landed another blow that might daze him, he spun and bashed her in the back with his shield.

  She hit the sand hard, scraping her knees and forearm. There was no time to recover. She flipped over as a huge foot came down and nearly crushed her. As she came to her feet, she rolled toward the fallen warrior and grabbed her spear. She pulled hard, but it didn’t budge. She looked over her shoulder just in time to dodge another swipe. On her way back up, she pulled with everything she had and the spear came loose, blood spouting from the man’s chest like a fountain.

  “I am the snake!” she shouted as he shouldered her. She rolled to her left and punched Khonayn’s ribs, then hopped back, putting distance between them. She was small; her spear was long. It gave her just the advantage she needed. Khonayn turned once more and began to say something, but before anything came out, Mahraveh drove her heel into the sand and lurched forward. The tip of her spear pieced through the fleshy part of Khonayn’s neck and drove up through his mouth.

  She stood still for a few seconds, too absorbed in the kill to even hear the crowd’s reaction. Then she turned. Across the arena, two were still fighting while another charged her with a sword.

  She wrenched her spear from Khonayn’s throat, flipped it around in her hand, and launched it. It landed with a hard thunk, burying itself deeply into the man’s shoulder. She bent, grabbing up Khonayn’s scimitar as she moved toward the new enemy. With the wound, her opponent barely got his blade up before she gutted him.

  She was breathing heavy as she approached the remaining two. The one with his back to her stabbed forward with a scimitar just like the one she now held and spilled his opponent’s entrails out onto the sand. Mahraveh dug deep in the sand. This one was massive enough to knock her out with a single punch. Adrenaline coursed through her, but she’d never fought like this. The real thing made her arms far sorer than training. Her father had been holding back.

  She’d put on enough of a show already. Now she had to survive.

  Just as the warrior was about to turn toward her, she dove forward and slashed with her scimitar. The blade drew a deep gash along her opponent’s neck from his ear down to his collarbone. Blood gurgled from the wound, fear burst from his eyes, but he didn’t go down.

  He wheeled around, hefting a one-handed hammer she hadn’t seen. She deflected his weight with her parries, just like her father taught her, but he never went at her with all his might. The hammer struck her sword on the flat, sending her, and it, flying back.

  The man stomped toward her, raised his hammer high, then fell to a knee. The deep wound she’d inflicted took too high a toll. The hammer slipped through his fingers, cracking against his skull, and he crashed face-first into the ground.

  The arena cheered. Mahi exhaled. She’d learned from Amoud’s mistakes not to celebrate. Instead, she looked up to where she knew the eunuch game master would be standing.

  “Jumaat,” he said, “of the Ayerabi! Victor!”

  Behind him, Babrak, seated again in his oversized chair, stopped laughing, turned to his fellow afhems. “Coward!” he shouted, loud enough to hush the boisterous crowd.

  “Have you something to say, Afhem Babrak?”

  “My apologies to the games master. Perhaps I spoke too soon. I can’t say I blame him. Of course, he would want to separate himself from that fool, Muskigo Ayerabi, who thought these sands merely a place to show off.”

  Mahraveh seethed beneath her helmet, breathing heavy and not just from battle. She squeezed the grip of her sword so tight her knuckles went white.

  “By all means, do not hold back, Afhem Babrak,” the games master replied.

  Mahraveh was sure the eunuch was being facetious, but Babrak was too stupid to know the difference. With the warmongering afhems left in charge of Latiapur, the eunuchs back at the palace couldn’t have been happy with their Caleef missing. Babrak rose from his seat and made his way down the walkway.

  “The rebel who thought he knew better than the Caleef.” Babrak shook his head, looking down at Mahraveh. “The only thing worse than a foolish afhem who brings unwanted war upon us is one of his afhemate who was too cowardly to follow. What have you to say?”

  Mahraveh knew the only reason Jumaat hadn’t gone with her father was that he was too young at the time. Babrak knew that as well. But she didn’t dignify the fat pis’truda with a response. Instead, she stood and lowered her head in reverence. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it, but her father taught her that if she wasn’t going to respond to him, it was best to at least still show respect.

  “Very well,” the games master said, stepping in front of Babrak. “We honor your brethren. May his soul find it’s way along the eternal current. But the Black Sands and the Boiling Waters are not won only with the blood of men. For you, we’ve chosen not just one beast, but three!”

  The portcullis opened to Mahraveh’s left, and then another to her right, and yet another behind her. The first of the three appeared at her left, and then the other two. Pit lizards, bigger than any she’d ever seen in Saujibar, and they looked starved.

  Mahraveh backed up and forced the three lizards to align themselves in front of her. They weren’t close to one another, but at least now she could see them all without turning her head. Pit lizards were dangerous creatures. It wasn’t just their bite that was to be feared. It was the bacteria in its saliva that, once in its victim’s bloodstream, functioned like venom. It acted fast, furiously eating away at the skin and flesh.

  A flick of her wrist sent her scimitar spinning in her hand. Around and around, making sure her wrist was nice and loose. It was more for sedation than anything else. Everyone knew a bow and barbed arrow was the best method for taking down pit lizards, but a bow wasn’t an option for the arena. They were getting close. The one on the right hissed, then the one next to it hissed and snapped its massive maw at the one first, teeth clattering against teeth.

  That gave Mahi an idea. Quickly, she darted to the far right, causing the beasts to turn sharply. They moved fast when running straight, but turns were tricky for the short, squat creatures. And these, in particular, were long. Man-sized at least.

  As the front one turned, its tail whipped against the one behind it, and its into the third. Mahraveh continued in the circle, the lizards following. When she reached the other side, the same thing happened but in reverse. This time, the back one snapped at the middle one’s tail.

&n
bsp; She did it one last time, and the desired effect took place. The back two lizards turned on one another, snapping hard and drawing blood. When the front one saw it, he joined in. The crowd got quiet, unsure of what to think. Mahraveh watched as the three reptiles tore into each other. The middle one had the rear one by the throat, and the thing thrashed wildly.

  The front one, clearly confused, mounted the middle one and was abruptly thrown aside. The rear one stopped thrashing, dead.

  The Mahraveh’s surprise, the crowd cheered.

  Now the remaining two fought, claws and teeth slashing and digging. Mahraveh slowly closed in, careful not to draw too much attention. The middle one, worn out from the fight, soon lost the advantage and found itself belly up with the largest of the three atop it, biting and tearing.

  When Mahi was sure the beast was near death, she made her move and leaped forward. She lifted her scimitar high, then brought it down, driving the blade through the largest one’s eye—its most vulnerable spot. Its tail continued to whip. She knew those scales were sharper than any weapon in the arena, so she gave it a wide berth. Finally, it went still.

  The last one wasn’t dead, but it was dying. Mahraveh worked her sword loose, back and forth. Blood dripped from the tip as she stalked toward her prey. The lizard groaned and hissed, but its back appeared broken.

  Mahi turned toward Babrak and pointed her sword at him, then she brought it down in a wide slash down at the lizard, slicing the soft underbelly. Blood poured out in a deluge against the black sands.

  The arena exploded, the onlookers standing and cheering in ovation.

  Babrak just stared at her helmeted face. She had just bent over, hands on her knees to gather her breath.

  “Rest, warrior,” the eunuch said. “For tomorrow, your story is written upon the sand.”

  The portcullis back to the undercroft caverns slid open. Mahraveh took a few short steps toward it before realizing how wobbly her legs were. It wasn’t killing that was difficult. She’d done that to those rotten Glassmen and felt nothing.

  She’d just never before feared death. All those years learning from her father, she knew she was safe.

  Now she knew why he didn’t want her to march at his side.

  XXXIX

  THE THIEF

  “‘Thievin fruitcake,’” Whitney said, mimicking Grint. “He’s got some nerve, running like a scared cat.”

  Rand didn’t bother responding. Together, they climbed a hillock overlooking a plain with a single road cutting through—the Glass Road connecting Yarrington to the Panping Region in the far east. Above them, the sky was beginning to lighten, but a thick fog rolled in with the early morning, and the air was still crisp. The Drav Cra were headed back west, away from Panping, away from Sora.

  Still, Whitney followed.

  He and Rand quickly searched through Fettingborough before setting after the Drav Cra on horses stolen from the stables. The savages were sloppy. Dozens of citizens were left behind; their families broken apart. Some beaten, others sleeping. They found Grint’s guards, Zane and Dorblo, throats cut in their beds. Aquira and Gentry were missing from his room. The whole place was covered in scratches, and the bed was little more than cinders, with the roasted corpse of a Drav Cra beside it. But there was no sign of Aquira, which meant either the wyvern had flown off after putting up a fight or had somehow been captured. Or… Whitney shook his head, refusing to think that thought.

  Hours later, he and Rand left the horses a good distance off once the Drav Cra horde was within earshot. They didn’t bother to tie them up in case they never returned.

  “So, what possessed you to get caught up in Darkings business? After all, they say you saved Torsten and redeemed yourself.” Whitney said as they climbed. Anything to draw his attention away from how sore his thighs were from trudging through mud and wet grass.

  “Valin Tehr,” Rand said without emotion.

  That was a name Whitney hadn’t expected to hear. As he’d said the other night with the troupe, he knew him. Anyone who’d spent time in Yarrington’s darker corners would. Whitney didn’t ever care about stealing for the wealth. He never saved much of it anyway, and most treasures he took, he did so for the thrill, to prove he could. He’d bury priceless things around Pantego just in case, and use any gold to enjoy lavish nights like a proper noble. But, occasionally, fences approached him to take things they desperately wanted. In Yarrington, most of those shady types worked for Valin Tehr. He always shrewdly negotiated the lowest possible price.

  “What in Elsewhere and Exile does that cheap shog-licker have to do with any of this?” Whitney said.

  “He has everything to do with all of it,” Rand said. “It’s true: the rumors. I did save Torsten, but I didn’t do it alone. Valin Tehr helped me do it, in exchange for me helping him. He stole my sister to make sure I couldn’t say no and has been holding her at his brothel… keeping her locked up like a dog. He threatened her life, basically said she’d be his personal whore if I didn’t do this. I had no choice.”

  “Gods and yigging monsters, there’s always a choice,” Whitney blurted. Then he thought about every bad decision he’d ever made… then he thought about what he would have done to save Sora, what he had done: played nice in Elsewhere for six shogging years, and stayed true to her in hopes that he’d return and have his happily ever after. “She’s my sister,” Rand said. “What was I to do—”

  “You’re right,” Whitney interrupted. “There was no choice.”

  “No need to get smart,” Rand said, resigned.

  “No, really. You did what anyone with half a heart would’ve done, and rightly so. But why does anyone care about Barty anyway? Enough to hire you and Grint. I met his old man, and even Yuri knew he was a screw-up. Didn’t seem like he’d go through all of this to relocate him.” Whitney stopped for a breath and blew out a raspberry. “But what do I know? I’ve got enough father issues.”

  “As I’ve said, Bartholomew Darkings isn’t who I’m concerned about.”

  Whitney gathered himself and continued along a few steps before turning back to Rand. “Well, don’t leave me hanging like this,” he said. “Who’s down there that’s worth the money of Valin Tehr?”

  “Sorry, thief. I can’t tell you.”

  “We fought Northmen together! In certain lands, that’d make us close as brothers… or, blood brothers… I don’t know. I was an only child.”

  “Trust me, you’d rather not know. But I promised to get him somewhere for Valin. If he dies, if these savages kill him, they kill Sigrid as well. Bartholomew is just along for the ride.”

  “Mmmmm, right. It’s the Caleef, isn’t it?” Whitney said, matter-of-factly.

  “It’s not the Caleef,” Rand protested a little too quickly.

  “I may have been away for six years, but I’ve heard things.”

  “Six years… What?”

  Whitney ignored him. “And I know Yuri Darkings broke him out and joined the rebels.”

  “It’s not the Caleef!” Rand snapped, clutching Whitney by the collar. “Trust me, you don’t want anything to do with this. So just worry about your own people.”

  “Iam’s shog in a barrel, fine.” Whitney pulled free and straightened his shirt. “I’m just trying to make conversation. So, you won’t mind if I have words with Darkings then?”

  “Go crazy. He’s half the reason I’m in this situation.”

  Whitney grinned and rubbed his hands together. “In that case, we’re in luck.” He nodded toward the top of the low hill. In the light of the coming dawn, they could now see the Drav Cra they were tracking.

  They were pulled over on the side of the road, the zhulong eating muddy grasses. Two dire wolves played tug-of-war with a chunk of meat. Whitney shuddered to imagine what kind of meat it was. All he knew was a few Drav Cra warriors stood nearby, chuckling, exchanging trinkets as if they were betting on which of the beasts would win the meal.

  Inside the rearmost wagon, Barty Darkings sat, face
pressed against the bars. The corner of Whitney’s lip curled up at the sight of him. He saw his mouth moving, begging the savages; claiming his wealth. Whitney couldn’t think of a better man to suffer so. A part of him considered joining the band of Northmen just to make sure they treated the Darkings with “proper care.”

  Beside the former constable, a dozen more from Fettingborough were stuffed into the wagon whose names Whitney might never know. And in the carts ahead, he knew were more townsfolk, as well as the friends he cared about.

  Dawn’s light bloomed across the plains, and the rain started up again. Whitney could see where the wagons were headed. Where there were only twenty or so Northmen in Fettingborough, that was just a small raiding party. A couple hundred warriors had set up camp in a low valley. Fur-covered tents, more beasts of burden, and covered campfires dotted the countryside.

  “Shog, that’s a lot of heathens,” Whitney said, dropping down into a prone position. Rand joined him.

  “Heathens? Maybe you really are friends with Sir Torsten?” Rand commented.

  “Best friends.”

  “Looks like they’re tearing down camp,” Rand said. “But why? A low, guarded position out here in the plains, hidden from lightning, they could go on raiding for months before the Glass has the men to end this.

  “You’d have thought they’d’ve just settled down Fettingborough,” Whitney argued. “Nice beds. Roofs.”

  “After what happened to them in Yarrington and outside Nahanab, I doubt they’re eager to settle down in more Glassmen homes.”

  “Look over there,” Whitney said. To the east, buried behind a veil of rolling fog, separated from the others, two Drav Cra stood, apparently taking a leak. “Thin the herd?”

  “I don’t think killing two out of two hundred will matter much,” Rand said.

  “Two less trying to kill us,” Whitney said. “We can steal their furs. Might come in handy sneaking in.”