Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Because that worked so well the first time.”

  Whitney sat in the spot the unlucky Glassman had been in, directly across from the Caleef. The god-king sat cross-legged, eyes closed as if deep in meditation. If nothing else, he looked holy, but Whitney saw through the farce.

  The cage door sprang open, and all the prisoners panicked. They shoved, kicked, screamed… anything to survive. All the talk of working together and learning about each other went right out the window.

  Ugosah, the mustached Drav Cra, reached in and at the same time, the Caleef’s leg stretched out. The savage’s hand wrapped the Caleef’s delicate ankle. It was dark, but Whitney thought he saw a smirk touch the corner of Sidar Rakun’s lips at the last second.

  “No!” Rand screamed, lunging at the savage. Another one of them punched him square in the jaw as he did. Barty made a half-hearted attempt to hold onto Sidar, though he looked more like he didn’t want to dirty his fingernails.

  “Let go of him!” Rand yelled, but it was too late.

  The Caleef was dragged out onto the bridge. As the cage door swung shut, Whitney pressed his cloak into the spot where the latch should’ve caught.

  “This one’s a gray skin,” one of the Drav Cra said.

  “Bah, they’re all the same, covered in mud,” the mustached Drav Cra said.

  Whitney turned, looked to Rand and grinned. “I’ll get the other wagon,” he said. “You get this one. You get those beasts moving, and they won’t stop.”

  “The Caleef…” Rand stared longingly out of the caravan as the Drav Cra lifted the Caleef. They took a while to do it. The man was so skinny and weak, he could barely stay upright.

  “Do something, deserter,” Barty snapped. “This is the only reason you were brought along.”

  “It’s time you choose, Rand,” Whitney said. “All these people, or your sister.” With that, Whitney pushed the door open and hopped down. The Drav Cra were preoccupied, and he did his best to ignore the ongoing shouting feud between Sir Reginald and Drad Mak.

  Whitney crouched low and snuck along the perimeter of the wagon. Looking over his shoulder once, he was relieved to see Rand was down now too. How the Shieldsman would manage to keep Darkings from following was up to him.

  “Stop this madness, Mak, and we can discuss terms like men,” Reginald said.

  “Like you people discuss with us before you slaughtered my army in the night?” Mak shouted.

  “Blame Redstar for that!”

  What came next was a sound Whitney hadn’t expected: laughter, in great heaps, from all the Northmen.

  Whitney shuddered and ducked between the two wagons. Looking under, he could see the furred boots and hairy legs.

  Then he saw even hairier legs—four of them, then eight.

  Two dire wolves paced only yards away. Whitney held his breath but worried his thumping heart would be loud enough for them to hear. If not, he was sure they would smell his fear. He looked up to see Gentry gazing down as he passed, Aquira’s big, sad eyes shining beside him. Whitney lifted a trembling finger to his lips and kept moving. He could only hope none of the Northmen turned around, that none of the dire wolves would notice as he climbed up to the bench overlooking the whole scene.

  Two giant zhulong stood, yoked together at the necks. Whitney almost felt bad for the gentle creatures. They looked tougher than they were—but those tusks were sharp nonetheless. Grabbing the reigns, he risked giving them a light tap. Nothing happened.

  “Come on,” Whitney whispered. “Come on.”

  A snarl from his right nearly sent him reeling from his seat. One of the dire wolves stood, front paws up on the bench, back paws still on the ground. Standing erect, the thing must have been two meters tall if it was a yard. Its yellow eyes pierced the night and drool dripped from black lips.

  “Good boy,” Whitney said. “Good—”

  The dire wolf snapped its great maw, and Whitney slapped the reigns hard against the zhulong backs. The pig-dragon beasts lurched forward, and he slapped them again. Northmen in front turned just in time to be either run over or gored by thick, sharp tusks. Blood sprayed, and the carriage jolted back and forth as the wheels bounced over the fallen Drav Cra. The chaos must have confused everyone because arrows started pouring down from above, and Northmen started chucking spears and shooting arrows of their own. A fireball from one of the warlocks traced across the night sky and blew a group of Glass soldiers off the side of the bridge.

  Whitney looked back. “Everyone okay?” he said through the bars. He didn’t wait for any answers. “Good. We’re going back!” He turned the wagon around. It was a tight fit, but the wagon circled, and the zhulong charged back into the mob. “Hold on!”

  It was like driving over boulders beyond the bridge in the Jarein Gorge. Screams and crunches echoed. More than once, Whitney had to dodge arrows, and one even landed next to him, nailing his cloak to the bench. One hand on the reigns, he used the other to tear himself free.

  “My cloak!” Whitney complained. When he looked back at the road ahead, he immediately jerked the reigns, narrowly avoiding Rand running after a Drav Cra who chased after the Caleef in the chaos. Another second and Rand would’ve numbered amongst the dead.

  “Forget him, Langley!” Whitney called.

  Whitney then spotted Barty, crawling and covering his head like a coward. He was off to the side, and one yank on the zhulongs’ reins and Whitney could’ve ended the pathetic man for good. He could get vengeance against the man responsible for sending him to Elsewhere.

  His hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. Anger coursed through him. Six years without Sora only to lose her again. Six years with a murderous upyr as the only thing he could call a friend. Whitney cursed. Glass soldiers fought in a line behind him, striking out at anything in the chaos. A turn that fast might flip the wagon and damn them all to a worse fate.

  Whitney glanced back at Gentry’s terror-stricken face, and then he held his breath. He had to just to silence his brain. Keeping their course straight and safe, Whitney growled as the wagon raced by Bartholomew Darkings, and he lost his chance.

  He’ll get his, Whitney told himself. They always do.

  Just the act of sparing the man made every part of Whitney feel numb. But he managed to keep hold of the reins and spur the zhulong toward freedom. Arrows still rained down all around, but they were nearly out of the thick of it. Toward the center of the bridge, a circle of painted Drav Cra stood hand in hand. Warriors surrounded them. Their shields were arched overhead, guarding the warlocks against arrows. A small fire began to grow in the middle of the circle, but Whitney didn’t see anything else. A scream from behind him drew his attention.

  “Whitney!” It was Gentry, and Aquira was growling, the sound muffled by the manacles around her snout.

  Whitney turned around just in time to see a blade thrust toward his head. He dodged the brunt of it, but it still took a chunk out of his arm. Having no choice but to let go of the reins and climb to his feet, Whitney turned. He had no weapon, the Drav Cra had seen to that. A crude blade bounced off the wooden seat, and Whitney blocked another attack. It was now clear Ugosah, glorious mustache and all was determined to kill Whitney and stop the carriage.

  “You’re going to die, thief,” the man said, jumping down onto the wagon driver’s bench.

  “I have a plan for that day,” Whitney said, weaving away, “and today isn’t it.”

  The man sliced downward again, and Whitney pinned the man’s arm and blade to the wooden frame of the cage. The blade fell, leaving the Northman in an awkward position, but that didn’t stop him from punching Whitney in the face. Two hands gripped Whitney’s collar and lifted him, then slammed him down onto the top of the cage.

  Whitney groaned and rolled over, awkwardly trying to find a way to stand on the metal bars. The warrior balanced himself with one hand and shoved Whitney down with the top of his axe. Whitney squirmed, but Ugosah was too big for Whitney to break free.

 
; “Now, you die!” Ugosah said. Just as he did, Aquira flew as far as she could with her chains within the cage and dug her claws into the Northman’s hand. Ugosah squealed like one of Mrs. Dodson’s pigs.

  “Thanks, girl!” Whitney said as he used the opening to kick out at Ugosah’s feet. He successfully swiped the legs out from beneath the man and watched as Ugosah’s face bounced off the bars, blood gushing from his mouth where his teeth were forced down his throat.

  The Drav Cra were tough, Whitney had to give them that. The man rose alongside Whitney as if nothing had happened, sneering and licking the blood from his lips. Suddenly, the vehicle lurched as it passed from the stone bridge onto the road and Whitney almost lost his footing. Then, he did, slipping just as the warrior lunged at him. The man sailed overhead, off the wagon, and down to the hard, red rock.

  Whitney coughed and wheezed, legs inside the carriage on either side of a metal bar. He laid there for a minute, listening to his friends beneath him cheer. He didn’t feel like cheering at all. Eventually, the wagon came to a halt. The battle sounds were distant now. Slowly, Whitney rose and looked back, choking against the pain.

  The other wagon, Rand, Barty— they were nowhere in sight. There was just a blaze of orange light emanating from the bridge, not so different from Sora’s fire, and screams filling the air.

  Whitney’s eyes drifted down to the cage filled with the Glintish troupe and some others from Fettingborough. The tears he saw were welcome—something he hadn’t seen in far too long… Joy.

  Whitney stepped down to the bench and watched as the two zhulong which were supposed to be pulling them had stopped to eat shrubs on the side of the road. He hadn’t saved everybody, but he knew from stories that sometimes heroes had to make choices. That not everybody could be saved.

  Aquira clattered to the edge of the cage and nestled against his hand. Gentry cried happily. By the sounds of it, Talwyn, Lucy and others did the same. Rand’s fight wasn’t over yet, but they—Whitney’s people—were safe.

  XXXV

  THE DAUGHTER

  Mahraveh knelt in the shallow water on the floor of her warrior’s chambers cavern, washing the blood from her hands and forearms. She scrubbed hard at her fingernails with a bit of sponge from the Intsti Reef.

  Suddenly, she heard a gasp. She turned and saw Jumaat finally coming to. He’d been out so long, she’d been worried she gave him too much laca leaf.

  “W… what happened?” he groaned, rubbing his head.

  “The Ayerabi champion advanced.”

  “The what?” He looked down, and when he realized he was wearing nothing but a loin-cloth, and that Mahraveh was wearing his armor, covered in fresh dents and drying blood, his voice raised an octave. “Mahi, what did you do?”

  “Something drastic.” She couldn’t believe she was repeating the words of Yuri Darkings, of all people.

  “You didn’t—”

  “I’m sorry, Jumaat. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “I… you… How?”

  She turned fully to face him, then she reached to the side and lifted the helm over her head to show how it concealed her. “No one questioned a thing. It’s fortunate you’re as skinny as a girl.” She flashed a smirk; his features darkened.

  “This is not a joke, Mahi!” He went to stand, but was still faint and fell against the bed. “I swore before the sea, like all the tributes, to fight with honor. Before the God of Sand and Sea. It’s sacred!”

  “I know you did. But I swore to my father I would find a way to help.”

  “So all that training. You were lying to me the whole time?”

  “I wasn’t lying. I just couldn’t—”

  “Risk me dying like a fool?” He turned away and crossed his arms. “Don’t worry. I get it. But what do you plan on doing when they realize who you are?”

  “I was hoping they wouldn’t.”

  “You have never been here for the crowning of an afhem. How would you know? When they strip them down and shave their head into the sea. Are you some sort of mystic who could replace yourself with me on a whim?”

  “I don’t know, Jumaat. But I know I can win.”

  “And I can’t,” he said, punching the floor where he still sat. “Got it.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Yes, it is, even if you won’t say it out loud.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “That is right! You didn’t think! It does not matter that you’re a woman. They cast men who break sacred vows into the Boiling Waters. They’ll kill us both when they find out, especially with Babrak running things.”

  “I can convince them not to.”

  “You can’t do the impossible. You have to let me fight in the final round, Mahi. It is the only way.”

  “So you can be afhem?” she said. “Because a woman can’t be.”

  “That is not my decision.”

  “Neither is this.” She turned to him. She pictured the size of Rajeev and all of the others. She didn’t know who’d advanced before or after her, but she could only imagine. They’d crush Jumaat into the sand.

  “I’m fighting,” she said. “Whatever happens after, that’s in our God’s hands. You have to trust me.”

  “I did,” he said softly. She noticed him staring at her hands before she realized she’d half dropped into black fist stance.

  “Jumaat.” She approached the bed and went to take his hand, but he pulled away.

  “I hope you win, Mahi,” he said. “For all our sakes.”

  “I will. I’ll make all of this right, and then we’ll sail off to save our fathers together. I promise you on the Black Sands and the Boiling Waters, and all that lies in between. I told you, I refused to lose you.”

  Silence passed between them until finally, he regarded her. “And you never will.” He exhaled and took her hand. “I understand, my lady. It should have been you from the start. I just…”

  “I know. And I’m sorry I poisoned you.”

  “You know me too well. I would have never let you go out there otherwise, even if it meant my certain death.”

  “My protector.” She lay down in the bed, her weary limbs making it easy. Jumaat joined her, so they were side by side, hands still clasped.

  “At least now, if things go wrong, we’ll die together,” Jumaat said.

  “We’ll be old and gray by the time that happens.”

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “The sea told me,” Mahraveh said, nestling her head into the crook of Jumaat’s neck.

  “She’s wise as she is deadly. She told me I’d never win, and it turned out true.” He rolled onto his side, facing her. His free hand ran across her cheek. Mahraveh thought about answering, but the warmth of his hand coupled with exhaustion from battle, she had already started to lull.

  All it took was one close of her eyelids, and she was out. Jumaat never left her side.

  “Ayerabi!” came a voice accompanied by a knock at the door.

  Mahraveh sprang up, toppling off the bed.

  “Why is your door barred?” the guard outside asked.

  Mahraveh froze, then Jumaat said, “I did not wish to be bothered before the fight.” She glanced up and found him beaming from ear to ear. “I have been praying.”

  “Is that what they call it?” Mahi whispered.

  Jumaat put a finger to his lips and gave her a stern look.

  “Of course,” the guard said. “Well, I bring a meal prepared by the Caleef’s own chef. Eat, then report to the weapons stand.

  Mahraveh waited a few seconds before cracking open the door. She snatched the clamshell plate and barred it again.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Mmhmm,” Jumaat replied. “That looks good.”

  Mahi slapped his hand away. “I need my strength.”

  Her final meal did smell delicious—roasted pit lizard and rock crab curry. It was a Shesaitju staple, drawing on both the sand and sea and as vivid in its red color as the reef
itself. She hadn’t realized how starving she was until then. She started shoveling into her mouth when Jumaat crouched beside her.

  “Careful, I might have poisoned it,” he said.

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said, mouth full.

  “I suppose I should ask you if you’re ready this time,” he said.

  “No,” she answered. “But I have to be.” She devoured the last bit of food, scraping her finger along the bottom and sides of the shell. She wished there was more, but knew a full belly was dangerous in battle. It would just slow her down.

  “They have no idea how strong you are,” Jumaat said.

  “I just hope that bastard Rajeev made it,” she replied.

  “Don’t be vengeful.”

  “I need to put on a show,” she said. “Otherwise, like you said, Babrak will have me killed the moment I’m revealed. When the people see that his best man died to a woman—”

  “He’ll have to save face. Always a step ahead of me, Lady Ayerabi.”

  “Just do me a favor.”

  He grasped her hand. “Anything.”

  “If I die out there, and they realize who I am—or I win, and Babrak can’t be swayed—and come for you… Get out of here.”

  “I will not run.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Find the Glassman, Yuri Darkings. Our fathers don’t have long, and he has the wealth to make a deal. Use it to convince Babrak to help, or to make a deal with the Glass Kingdom. Do whatever it takes to save our fathers, so they may live to fight another day.”

  “You have my word.” He spat in his palm and extended a hand. She did the same before shaking it. But he didn’t release. He pulled her into a tight embrace, their foreheads touching. “But you will win, Mahraveh Ayerabi. And throughout the Black Sands, the people will sing the name of the first female afhem, champion of the Tal’du Dromesh. Then we’ll save our fathers.”

  Mahraveh choked back tears. “For Saujibar,” she said.

  “For our home.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. It reminded her of that home, and she would let that memory fuel her. When they released, she stood, and without another word, she headed out the door, ready to do what needed to be done.