by Jaime Castle
Whitney turned around to see the maid place a pile of clothing, more exquisite than anything Whitney had ever worn, on a chair in the corner of the room. She curtseyed before leaving him in privacy.
He peeled the wet, mud and shog-crusted clothes off his body. From the castle stables to the dungeon, and now the very castle itself, they’d seen more than most noble’s clothing did in a lifetime. The maid had brought him a towel as well, which he was thankful for. He dried off before slipping on the silk clothes. The young lady had thought of everything, even bringing him a new mask.
He now wore the white and pale blue colors of Iam and the Glass Kingdom. He regarded himself in the large looking glass and found himself simultaneously impressed and disgusted. He looked exactly the part, of all those wretched gold-mongers he’d dedicated a lifetime toward robbing.
Just then, screams erupted from the Grand Hall. He threw open the door and found himself in the midst of chaos. Men of the King’s Shield shoved their way through flocks of nobles, knocking over servers and their trays. It took Whitney a moment to realize what was going on but when his gaze fell upon the dais where the King slumped, he knew.
He fought through the frantic crowd. His plan to get close and distract the guards was no longer needed. Everyone was more than distracted.
He pushed forward lightly, but with enough force to make a path. As he neared the stage, he watched the whole of the King's Shield surrounding the King.
Three bells rang out. King Liam’s head hung slack to the side, his withering, gray hair twisting over a liver-spotted forehead and with the Glass Crown no longer atop it.
Whitney was now just feet away from the raised platform. He looked around. Heads bobbed frantically as guests tried to get a good view. That's when he saw it. Glimmering on the dance floor not five meters away—the Glass Crown. It must have fallen off the king's head and rolled. No one was even paying attention to it.
Whitney pushed again, closer and closer. He stopped just in front of the crown and stepped on its edge, turning it upright. He hooked his foot around it and slowly lifted his knee, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible before he reached down and grabbed hold of it. It was as light as a feather, even with all the flawless gems embedded in the thin band. The image of Iam’s lidless eye bulged front and center, the pupil a diamond so large Whitney nearly lost his breath.
He took a deep breath to compose himself, shoved it under his shirt and backed away.
Well, that was easy.
"Hey, you! Stop!" someone shouted from somewhere behind Whitney.
He cringed before glancing back. The guard stalked toward him, drawing his sword from his scabbard.
Just as Whitney prepared to run, he realized the guard wasn’t looking at him. He swept by, nearly bumping the priceless crown under Whitney’s shirt, then reached out and grabbed one of the Shesaitju emissaries by the collar and yanked him down from the dais.
"They don't need your help and you don't need to be up there," the guard said, escorting him away from the throne.
Whitney didn’t wait around any longer. He fell in with the mob being forced from the Grand Hall and kept his head low until he was on the streets.
Whitney Fierstown had just stolen the crown from the King and gotten away with it.
X
The Thief
THE WATER felt chilly as it went down. Fall was coming to an end.
As he drank, Whitney tried not to think about the small farming community upstream where he’d been born. He remembered how he and the rest of Troborough had used the river to bathe and piss in.
The water tasted pure, and that’s all that mattered.
His horse whinnied behind him. It wasn’t his horse per se—he’d nipped it from the Old Yarrington stables in the chaos following the King’s death—but he’d ridden enough to know their various sounds. The old beast probably just wanted a sip of water, which it deserved after the long trek from Yarrington. After he’d fully sated his thirst, Whitney grabbed the reins, leading the horse to the river. It stepped in, the light brown hair darkening where the water lapped against its legs.
“That’s a good girl,” Whitney said, then looked the horse over. “I mean boy.” He laughed and excused the horse for not joining in.
“Not too much farther,” he said, still talking to the horse as if it cared to listen. It was the kind of company he got used to in his line of work. Anyone he ever ran too close with either screwed him over on a job or vice versa. No honor amongst thieves.
“Over there is where Sora lived with old man Wetzel all those years ago,” he said, almost absentmindedly.
He pointed to a tiny, thatched hovel sitting along the river. She had been a friend—more than a friend, probably. But he was so young it was difficult to have called her anything else. That was all before he’d left home to pursue a life of thrills at the expense of others. Now, it seemed odd to even mention her home with such familiarity.
He slowed the horse to a trot without thinking and watched the home until it was out of sight. It looked completely abandoned, overgrown with weeds and the windows blocked by clutter. He hadn't truly thought about her in years and imagined she hadn't given him another thought either. The day he left, he may as well have been dead to the people of Troborough, his own family included.
“Funny I didn’t see her when I was in town. Must have married and moved on.” He patted the horse. “Good for her, I say.”
He took a deep breath and looked around. He hadn’t ever noticed the pleasant beauty of the land surrounding Troborough. When he’d lived there, he hardly ever left the farm—milking cows, plowing fields and feeding chickens. When he'd returned two weeks ago to drink himself silly, he'd come in at night and spent most of his time with blurry vision. Hadn’t even left the Twilight Manor. They had beds and booze, what more could he have asked for?
Now, in the light of day, he saw the rolling fields and the flowering meadow. The birds soaring up above without a care. It was so peaceful.
Why did I ever leave?
"Fortune and fame," he admitted out loud to the horse with a chortle. "Now I've done it all."
In the distance, a thatched roof rose up from the hills—Mr. Branson’s farm. And next to that, the Julset twins and the Whelforks. He laughed out loud, remembering old Charles Whelfork and the way he waved his walking cane anytime anyone was caught on his property.
The horse let out a snort.
The town’s chapel appeared over the horizon, a two-story structure bearing a single steeple with the eye of Iam carved in bronze now patinated. He remembered it being much larger, but after seeing the castle, and the mansions, and the cathedrals of Yarrington, the place looked like little more than a pointy shack.
“Hey, Mr. Branson!” Whitney shouted and waved at a man toiling in his field. He glanced up, wiped his sweaty, furrowed brow, and went right back to work.
Whitney hadn’t expected him to remember who he was, not really. He scratched at his neck and heard the hairs against his fingernails. When he’d left he couldn’t even grow a beard.
The horse plodded along past Wetzel’s little healer’s stand in town. It was empty save for some beads hanging from the canvas. Besides being Sora’s guardian when she was displaced after the Panping War, Wetzel was what passed for a doctor in the little village. Whitney could remember many times as a child having to suck down whatever remedy the old coot concocted. The thought popped into his head—Wetzel has to be dead, right? He’d been ancient when Whitney was a child.
How many countless others had passed on from this world? He hadn't even returned when he caught wind of his parent’s deaths. He didn't see the point returning. The farm meant nothing to him and there was precious little he could do apart from kicking some dirt over their graves. His father made it clear enough to him when he left that he was no longer worthy of the good Fierstown name.
Shog on him. This Fierstown carries the Glass Crown instead of manure.
H
e allowed the thought to pass and looked onward. He could see the courtyard in the middle of the village between the Chapel, the constable’s house, and the Twilight Manor. As always, it was the busiest place in a town that rarely was. Hitched outside was the armored trade caravan that the no-good dwarf who’d challenged Whitney traveled with.
Everyone stopped as Whitney arrived on his horse. Hushed voices broke out all around him.
“Is this about King Liam?” Carlo, the town’s resident good-for-nothing-but-reminiscing-about-his-days-in-the-Glass-Army half-giant, asked.
“By Iam, it’s true… he’s gone.”
News normally traveled to fringe towns slowly, but word had clearly already reached them.
Whitney glanced down at his outfit and realized why the King was all that came up. It was sewn from silks only a noble or an envoy of the Crown could afford. So, he walked the horse directly in front of the Twilight Manor and stood on the stirrups.
"Grint Strongiron!" he shouted. "Come out of your drinking hole and behold your thorough defeat!"
After a few beats, the door to the tavern flew open and the dwarf came waddling out beside his mates. Whitney barely remembered what they looked like, and definitely not their names. There was a reedy, Shesaitju fellow with skin the color of ash, two scarred-up twin mercenaries still wearing so much armor it must have been filled with sweat despite the temperature, and a plump old man in silks. A trader and his protection against bandits.
"What say ye, farmboy?" Grint asked, wobbling from too much drink already. Only thing he’d be able to protect the poor sap from was an angry ant.
Whitney produced the Glass Crown from the folds of his cloak, its gems gleaming in the sunlight.
"Gaze upon my greatest achievement." He placed the crown upon his head. It was a perfect fit.
"Bah!" the dwarf said. "Anyone could buy one of them fakes. Ain't no one—including you—done robbed the King."
"The King is dead," Whitney said, then immediately regretted it.
The crowd gasped as all the rumors were confirmed. A woman started crying as if she’d ever even laid eyes upon Liam the Conqueror. The town’s priest fell to his knees and traced circles around his eyes in prayer.
“Ye killed the King over a bet?” the dwarf asked, incredulous. “I knew I liked ye!”
“No that’s not—”
“Blasphemer!” Carlo barked, barely able to hold back tears.
“The Grace of Iam is dead because of you?”
"No, no," Whitney said. "I didn't do it."
The town’s confusion as to who Whitney was, gave way to anger. Troborough had no militia, but he forgot that these were small-town folk who likely believed all the grand stories about their King. Worshipped him as much as they did Iam, maybe more. Grint and the caravan watched in bewilderment as the townsfolk, all wearing scowls, closed in around his horse. All that was missing were pitchforks and torches.
Whitney hadn’t even gotten to the part of his triumphant romp where he got to toss the crown’s gems to all the town’s children so they might seek out more for their lives like he had.
He backed his horse away slowly, then noticed something wavering in the air above him.
Early in the season for snow.
Then, the smell came. It was like a campfire but far stronger. Ash fluttered on the currents of a southern breeze. He craned his neck to see around the chapel and found billowing smoke filling half the sky.
A pair of screams stole the mob’s attention.
Whitney fell back down in the saddle and pushed his horse toward the smoke. The sky grew darker and the pungent, yet sweet smell of burning wood and thatch met his nostrils.
Where the path opened, just beyond the Pier Delta, he saw it. Sharp, whipping tongues of fire reaching like demons of Elsewhere, devouring the eastern side of town. He couldn’t even see the now-empty farm where he’d grown up, tears welling in his eyes from the heat, a thick cloud of darkness looming over the community.
“The Black Sands are attacking!” a man screamed as he ran down the road. “The Black Sands are—” He hit the dirt and flipped, head over heel, an arrow sticking out of his back.
Whitney wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly, but the arrow was revealing enough. The courtyard exploded into panic. Whitney tried to turn his horse around, but frantic villagers darted everywhere, causing it to rear back. The crown flew off his head and fell at Grint Strongiron’s feet. The dwarf glanced up with his drunken, crossed eyes, grinned, and picked it up.
“Thieving, runt,” Whitney swore under his breath. He tried to push his horse forward through the chaos when an arrow tipped with fire shattered the Twilight Manor’s window.
The wood caught fast.
“Time for us to leave, boss!” one of the armored caravan riders said. He and his twin grabbed the old trader and hurried him onto their wagon, Grint following close behind. Their Shesaitju companion tried to do the same, but Carlo grabbed him. By the looks of his cherry-red cheeks, he was drunk as they were.
“You bring your ash-skin friends here?” Carlo said. “Eager to lose again?” He reared back and punched the man across the face. The Shesaitju hit the dirt hard, then reached out for the wagon. They didn’t wait.
The driver thrashed on the reins and they took off in the direction opposite the fire and screams. Whitney finally got his horse to leap over a fallen villager, and took off after them. Grint hung onto the side of the wagon with one hand and admired the crown with the other as if the sounds of death filling the air were merely another day at work.
“No good son of the mountain!” Whitney grabbed the crown and tried to pull it free as he rode. The dwarf was stronger than his size suggested.
“Let go of it, farmboy!” Grint replied.
Whitney felt his grip slipping. The elegant crown snapped in two. The recoil sent him sliding off the saddle, and as he tumbled, he saw the damnable dwarf, grinning and waving with half the crown on his head. A villager screamed for them to let her on, but one of the armored mercenaries kicked her away.
Whitney slammed into the side of Liora Dodson’s pig farm, the roof already alight. The smell of pork greeted his nostrils, confusing his stomach. Flames lapped at him from the windows of the farmhouse as the wood burned and popped. The heat was overwhelming and sweat soaked him through. He couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of fire and screaming townsfolk so he squinted through the heaviness of the smoke back toward the chapel.
He looked around for his horse but it was gone.
“Traitorous beast,” he whispered, stowing his half of the crown.
He spun a slow circle, trying to figure out his next move, then quickly jumped back behind cover and peered back around the corner. An army stampeded his way, numbered by the dozens, carrying the standard of the Shesaitju Kingdom. The tattered banner—nothing more than solid tan with specks of black—flapped tauntingly above the helpless Troborough villagers. It was the very same flag the Shesaitju had flown before being conquered by Liam and the Glass Kingdom.
Whitney cringed as he heard the screams of men and women, many of which he’d grown up with. Leaning out further, he saw the gray hands of Black Sands warriors groping Troborough women and slaughtering the men.
He drew a breath of air and stifled a cough as the black smoke filled his lungs. A group of Black Sandsmen shouted as they set fire to the Chapel.
What are Black Sandsmen doing in The Glass Kingdom?
The two peoples hadn’t been at war since he was a child. When Liam, in Iam’s name, marched on them, they suffered great losses and eventually, the Shesaitju bent the knee. Fair trade, yearly annuity, and an agreement to send troops to the Glass Kingdom’s aid whenever they asked for it were the foundation of an alliance that greatly favored one side. Rebellions among their people who refused the terms were common in the early days of Liam’s reign, but not since.
An alliance was only an alliance until the interests of one party outweighed the benefits of the union.
/> Presently, one Shesaitju stood apart from the horde of ash-skinned warriors, riding a black beast with thick legs like a warthog. It had a snout, wet and turned up but it was the size of a horse with the face and tail of a dragon. Whitney knew the creatures well from his travels in the Shesaitju lands. The zhulong rider gave orders which Whitney couldn’t hear over the loud snap-crackle of the fires, now threatening to set the surrounding forest ablaze.
He sucked in another breath, ignoring the sting, and leaned back against the wall. It was time to go. The King was dead and the Shesaitju were already rebelling? This isn’t my fight.
Whitney turned to bolt toward the other end of the alley, away from the fight, when he heard a cry from the middle of the road.
“Mama!”
The girl couldn’t have been more than five years of age. Whitney peaked around the corner and saw a crew of Black Sandsmen pointing her way.
Move girl! Whitney thought. It's time to move.
He looked back at the attackers. The zhulong rider had his large beast galloping toward her but she merely stood there and cried.
“Don’t be a hero, Whitney,” he whispered to himself as he stared at her. “Just run like she ought to.” Flames grasped for her from a nearby barrel, causing her to shriek as it licked her arms. Still, she didn’t move.
“Oh, yig.”
Whitney took a step forward, then another, willing each foot to do its part. He begged his limbs to move faster, but he was used to fighting in the shadows, not in open battle. He didn’t even have a weapon.
The zhulong and its rider closed in, the latter screaming something in Saitjuese. Whitney grabbed the little girl and ran but the mount picked up speed behind him. Its hooves hammered the earth as quickly as Whitney’s heart did his rib cage.
He glanced back.
Never look back, you dolt!
Dust kicked up and the sound of the man’s roar was so near it overpowered the sound of flames. He twirled a razor-sharp scimitar high above his head.
