by Jaime Castle
“Fine,” Torsten conceded. “If we make it back in one piece, I’ll make sure that you are …” He paused to swallow back the bad taste filling his mouth. “Granted a name of noble air.” He couldn’t actually promise anything now that he too was a man without station, but he couldn’t waste any more time either.
Whitney’s mouth contorted into a mischievous grin. “I’ve never met something I couldn’t steal.”
“King Liam never lost either, and now he’s gone.”
“Aren’t you a follower of Iam?” Whitney asked.
“Of course, I am. What true Glassman isn’t?”
“Then why is it you believe death to be a loss?”
Torsten bit his lip. “This won’t be as easy as you think, Thief.”
“By Iam,” Whitney sighed. “It’s like you want us to fail.”
“I don’t. But if the greatest thief in Pantego got caught napping through a Black Sands attack, Pantego must be filled with worthless thieves. Now let’s go.”
Torsten continued through the dank hallways and gave Whitney’s arm a tug. He staggered in tow for a moment, then caught his balance.
“I still say that doesn’t count.”
“For our sake, I hope you’re right.”
“Where are we going anyway? Isn’t the way out supposed to smell better?”
“Just be quiet and follow me.”
He didn’t listen. At every turn throughout the warren of halls beneath the castle, he whispered some comment under his breath. Again, Torsten couldn’t believe it’d come to this. He feared he’d have to cut the man’s tongue out before they ever reached the Woods.
“I have one question.”
“What?” Torsten grumbled.
“Redstar?” he guffawed. “What kind of name is that.”
“You’ll see when we find him.”
They stopped at an entry sealed by a heavy stone. The old entrance to the Royal Crypt buried beneath Mount Lister was ancient and it both looked and felt it. It took all of his might to slide the large stone aside.
Whitney didn’t offer a hand. But he did feign a gagging noise as they entered.
“Show some respect!” Torsten snapped. His voice echoed, reflecting off of a domed ceiling that was coated in a thick layer of formed glass that swirled to form the Eye of Iam. A thin beam of light shot through an oculus set inside the pupil, then splayed out to wash the room in a dim veil of light.
“Me?” Whitney said, incredulous. “I’m not the one who neglected this place so long that it now smells like death’s doorstep. Where are we?”
“The Royal Crypts. Resting place of the Nothhelms.”
“So, death’s doorstep?”
Torsten ignored him. He stopped before the light, fell to his knees, and traced a circle around his eyes. Through rounded fingers, he gazed around the circular space. Bodies lying vertically behind glass lids wrapped the space as if frozen in their caskets, all perfectly preserved, staring ahead blankly, their hands wrapped around gilded hilts.
“These are all past kings, queens, princes, and princesses,” Torsten said. “The men and women who forged the Glass Kingdom. Yet only one name will be remembered for all of time.”
He stood and approached the newest casket. Liam Nothhelm lay within, dressed in the light blue armor he wore to every celebration of a victory, not a spot of blood or vein of rust. His long, graying hair was combed for the first time in years, and, but for the absent look in his green eyes, Torsten might have mistaken him for being amongst the living.
“How do they do that?” Whitney asked.
“What?”
“Make them look so alive. The King looked far worse at the masquerade.” He poked one of the lids and a rusty piece of metal fell from an adjacent sconce.
“Don’t touch anything!”
“Smart. I think that one looked at me.” Whitney shuddered. “Not going to lie, I’ve seen plenty of weird places in my life and this might beat them all.”
“Would you just be quiet?”
Torsten returned his attention to King Liam. He reached into the satchel hanging from his side and removed the half of the Glass Crown. Kneeling, he held it near the foot of the casket in front of a placard bearing the Liam’s name and title.
“Maybe this is a sign,” he said, staring at it.
“Yeah, it’s a sign that dwarves are no good, thieving, sons of—”
Torsten silenced him with a glare, then he placed what was left of the crown down gently. Laying his palm over Liam’s name, he took a deep breath. Softly said, “You gave me more a life than I ever deserved, Your Grace. I would have followed you without question into any battle, until the bitter end. It has been an honor wearing the white in your name. Though I’ve never understood why you chose your Queen, I will uphold your legacy no matter what the cost. You may be gone from this world, but we will never forget.”
He leaned forward to kiss the foot of the casket.
“I think I might cry,” Whitney fake-sniveled and pretended to wipe his eyes.
Torsten stopped and turned to send another glower his way. He was about to say something when Shieldsman Wardric stepped through the crypt’s main entrance. His hand rested on the pommel of his longsword.
“I had a feeling I’d find you down here,” he said.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Torsten said, rising.
Wardric stepped in cautiously, skirting the edge of the room. “You always were his favorite. Maybe even more than Uriah.”
“I never asked to be.”
“That’s probably why.”
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on here?” Whitney asked.
“Who is this?” Wardric said.
“He’s coming with me,” said Torsten.
“The Queen Regent’s orders are known throughout the Shield. You shouldn’t be here.”
“We were just leaving.” Torsten nodded to Whitney and they took a step toward the exit.
Wardric positioned himself in front of it, his hand slowly wrapping the handle of his weapon. “Why do you still wear that armor?”
“I’ll need it where we’re going.”
“You’re really going to walk away from this? War is coming.”
“I have no choice. Now please, move aside Wardric and let us pass. The kingdom depends on what I must do.”
“You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut and leave her in her own little bubble? Always the loyal dog, begging for food, even from the plate of the Foreign Queen.”
Torsten reached back to his scabbard and gripped his claymore. Whitney took a step back, but with his other hand, Torsten grabbed him by the arm and squeezed tight enough to keep him quiet.
“Please, Wardric,” Torsten said. “The kingdom needs you. It needs both of us right now.”
The old, world-weary man leveled his glare and didn’t budge. His chest heaved as he drew long steady breaths. His stance widened into a defensive posture. Then, suddenly, he released his weapon and stepped aside. Torsten released a mouthful of air.
““She in charge of us with the Boy-King unable to wake,” he said. “Whatever you think you need to do, do it quick and return. Take two horses and food from the stables and nobody will stop you. The Glass needs the King’s Shield more than ever now. All of them.” He banged his chestplate in salute, and Torsten returned the gesture.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Watch over Rand. He’s a good lad, but he won’t be able to handle her like this.”
“Liam barely could,” Wardric snickered. “I’ll keep him in line.”
“Farewell.”
Torsten rushed out of the Royal Crypt, pulling Whitney along behind him. Whitney eventually squirmed free and rubbed his arm.
“I’ve met a lot of royal guards, but you might be the worst,” he griped.
“If you don’t hurry up I’ll make sure that’s true,” Torsten replied.
“You know, you should be kinder to someone who’s helping you out of t
he goodness of his heart. What was all that back there anyway?”
“Politics.”
“Blech, My worst subject. For Iam’s sake, let’s go steal a doll then and save the kingdom. I’m growing tired of this adventure already.”
Whitney sped up so he was leading the way even though he had no idea where he was going. Torsten rubbed his temples with his a large thumb and index finger.
“You and me both,” he muttered. “Iam, save us all.”
XVII
The Thief
WHITNEY LOOKED south and the day seemed colder, but it was just the breeze once the walls of the city no longer confined them. The foothills rolled and rose into Mount Lister, lording over the city. The grain fields to the east stretched for a kilometer, marked every so often by lone trees swaying in the wind like worshipers in Iam’s temple.
On a quiet day, Whitney wondered if he could hear The Torrential Sea to the west where the bluffs plunged. Within the high walls of the city, he’d rarely paid much attention to the docks or their many bars and taverns. He’d preferred the cobbled streets and the more upscale inns and their elegant rooms.
He also preferred his hands to be free.
"Is this really necessary?" he asked Torsten. "Rope? Really? I said I'd help you get the Iam-forsaken doll."
"You said it yourself,” Torsten replied. “You're wanted in every city in the realm. What makes you think I'd trust you to keep your word?"
"A man's word is his bond!" Whitney cried out in mock protest.
"I prefer a physical bond."
“The ladies must love you.”
They both rode horses, but Torsten’s stayed out front. He held the reins with one hand and the rope binding Whitney's wrists with the other.
A dirt path snaked through the eastern fields, slithering toward farmlands and small towns like Troborough, where Whitney grew up. It was a far cry from the big city, but Whitney couldn’t deny the charm the country carried with it for simple folk. Too bad Troborough and so many other towns like it had been burned to the ground just days before.
He looked out into the distance and saw a column of smoke still rising from the south.
“So, are you telling the people who did it?” he asked.
“Did what?”
“Burned all those towns to the ground.”
“The people will believe whatever they choose to. Black Sands, Panping, it doesn’t matter who attacked, only that we were attacked. The people are scared with King Liam gone.”
“Only the people?” Whitney couldn’t help but grin at his comment. Torsten gave his restraints a hardy tug.
“I’ve dedicated my life to their safety.”
“By hiding the truth? You may as well just tell everyone it was dragons if you want to lie to them. At least that’s exciting.”
“What would you know about protecting anything? Let me guess, you were born a Yarrington street rat so you turned to thieving. Not only food to survive, no but the very things people cherish. Their treasures. Just to get back at them because you were born in the shog and thought the world owed you. That about sum it up?”
Whitney’s gaze drifted back to the thin line of smoke on the horizon. Maybe it belonged to Troborough—what was left of it, at least. That cluster of tiny hovels where he was raised in obscurity. The place didn’t even have a street for him to be a rat on.
“Exactly right,” he said.
Torsten scoffed. “I thought so. Let me and Iam worry about the people.”
“Hey, the only thing I’m worried about is myself. But I wonder, when’s the last time you stepped down from your pretty halls and had a drink at a tavern.”
Torsten opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out.
“That’s what I thought,” Whitney said. “King’s Shield. Born to some noble family, I bet. Got to live thinking gold was as common as stone. So, protect people all you want, but you aren’t one of them.”
“Better than being a fool.”
Torsten gave him another tug, and Whitney smiled. He’d gotten under the big man’s skin. He may have been tied up, but he’d make sure the knight remembered one thing above all else: this was Whitney’s chance for infamy. The Crown beckoned a thief for help, not the other way around.
He scratched his chin, lifting both hands as far as his bindings allowed. He still wasn’t used to feeling stubble there. It was in that moment he realized just how big a toll the last few days had taken on his body. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep or a substantial meal since winding up in a bloody battle. As if to remind him, his stomach rumbled.
“Don’t think we should have a quick bite before we start off, eh?” he asked.
In response, Torsten kicked his heels into his horse’s side, clicking his tongue. The horse started off and Whitney felt a tug before his horse followed.
“Okay, fine,” Whitney said. “I wasn’t very hungry anyway. Just thought you might be. Have I told you how good the dungeon cuisine is? When we get back, I have to meet the chef.”
What he wouldn’t give for a piping hot bowl of stew or a sweet, rich, apple pie with bourbon and cheese. Drool pooled in the corners of his mouth. He shook away the thought, especially once he realized he was chewing on his lip. Whitney hated the taste of blood.
Great, he was thirsty now too.
“Did we even bring bread?” Whitney asked.
Torsten turned slightly in his saddle, his face silhouetting against the brightness of the sun.
“Are you going to complain like a child at every turn?” he asked. “Should I bind your mouth as well?”
“I assure you, knight,” Whitney said. “Many have tried.”
Torsten snorted and prodded his horse forward so hard Whitney had to focus on not falling face-first off his mount. That, and excruciating hunger kept him quiet.
They rode on the Royal Road in silence until it began to narrow. They were leaving the Glass Prairie and entering into the surrounding farmlands. No patrols, no city guards, just crops for kilometers and the occasional scattered village, less of them now.
Whitney’s gut wrenched at the thought that they might end up passing through one of the ravaged villages. He hadn’t experienced a time in his life where he’d felt more hopeless than when Troborough was under siege. He wished he could say he played the part of one of the old legends, whipping out a sword, felling each Black Sandsmen one by one, but even he couldn’t spin a lie that good. Worse even, if it hadn’t been for Torsten’s men, he’d had fallen to one of the Shesaitju curved blades. Not that he could ever admit that to the hulking knight towing him along.
They entered a copse of trees, large trunks towered far above on each side of the pathway—spruce and redwoods, cypress and sequoia. Whitney loved the smell of pine and dirt. It reminded him of every successful theft he’d ever undertaken when he escaped the walls of society and found a quiet place to admire or hide his haul.
“Oh, slave master!” Whitney called out. “There’s some nice shade. How about a bite to eat now?”
Torsten pulled back on the reins. Without a word, he tossed his leg over the horse’s side and hopped down. When he started rummaging through the saddle sacks, Whitney joined him. The slap of a hard gauntlet met his bound hands.
“Ouch!” Whitney whined, shaking his hand.
“Hands to yourself, Thief,” Torsten said, terse. “You get what I give you, now sit down.”
Whitney backed up but didn’t back off. “This partnership isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me.”
“This is no partnership, street rat. You are with me only because the Crown demands it. You should be honored.”
“Me? Do you know how many would kill for the services of Whitney Fierstown? They’d tie me up just to keep me close…sound familiar?”
Torsten spun, grabbed hold of Whitney’s tunic, said, “Listen, boy…I’ve stood by the side of both King and Queen while the most famous jesters in Pantego performed their mindless nonsense. They didn’t amuse me, no
r will you.”
He shoved a handful of dried meat into Whitney’s chest and stormed away. Whitney collected himself and took a bite of the salty snack. It was chewy, like leather, but it was the best thing he’d eaten in days.
“Back on the horse,” Torsten said. “It’s not time for resting. Eat and ride.”
“Are you always so cheery?” Whitney asked. “Warn me now, because I have a tough time with happy people.”
If Torsten heard him, he didn’t show it.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Whitney said, and tore another bite out of the tough meat.
“Let’s go. Certain death awaits us.”
“Who’s making jokes now?” Whitney asked.
“Wasn’t a joke,” Torsten said, climbing onto his horse. “No one's ever escaped the Webbed Woods with their sanity and I doubt we’ll be the first.”
“So, you’re a goblet half-empty kind of guy then?”
"Best get on your horse before you find yourself running." To accentuate his point, Torsten gave his horse a little kick and the rope tugged, causing Whitney to stumble.
"You know, this is no way to treat an innocent man.” Whitney dug his feet into the Earth and yanked on the rope. Torsten, atop his horse, didn’t budge even an inch.
What is he made of stone?
“You’re far from innocent,” Torsten said.
Whitney gave up pulling and Torsten willed his horse backward to give Whitney enough slack to mount his steed.
Torsten was already coaxing the horse to a steady trot by the time Whitney situated himself on the saddle.
“I forgot; I’ve got to take a pi—” Torsten cut him off by kicking his horse and leading them onward. “Piss in your saddle.”
As the time passed, Whitney found his mind wandering to dark places: towering trees and eight-legged monsters...
“They call the beast ‘Bliss,’” Torsten said as if reading Whitney’s mind. “They call her the Spider Queen. Hog’s piss and horse shog if you ask me. Just another monster needing to be sent to Iam.”
“How did you—”
“If you have any sense, you must be thinking about the Webbed Woods and every story you’d ever heard about it. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I left and I’m prepared to not return. You should do the same.”
