by Jaime Castle
“All this for a doll?”
The knight tugged the reins and brought both steeds to a halt. "All this for the Glass,” he said sternly. Then he snapped his reins and the horses took off again.
“Nobles,” Whitney muttered under his breath. “How they love their trinkets.”
XVIII
The Knight
TORSTEN PEERED through the canopy of leaves and branches, sunlight glinting through the breaks like a thousand specks of gold. Dusk had arrived in the Haskwood Thicket, which meant night was coming. Torsten knew better than most to stay off the roads in the dark. Even at the height of King Liam’s power, bandits and worse made their home on the roads between cities.
“It’s getting late,” he said. He gave a tug on Whitney’s rope to make sure he was paying attention. He thought he heard him snort awake as if he’d fallen asleep.
“Observant,” Whitney said.
“We’ll make camp here for the night.” Torsten was quickly growing accustomed to ignoring the thief’s witless comments. “We’ll head out in morning.”
“Good, I can feel my fingers freezing off and we’ll need them.”
“Well, get rubbing them together. No fires tonight.” With the Shesaitju on the prowl, Torsten knew they couldn’t afford to take chances.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am always serious. Vile folk troll these lands at night. We can’t draw attention to ourselves.”
“We aren’t even that far from the city!” Whitney protested. “What’s the point of adventuring with a King’s Shieldsman if we have to hide like everyone else.”
For the first time since they left Yarrington, Torsten remembered that he was no longer a member of the King’s Shield—not in the eyes of the Crown at least, and those were the only eyes that presently concerned him.
“I never met a thief who didn’t prefer the dark,” Torsten remarked.
“It’s not the dark I’m worried about.” He exaggerated a shiver. “It’s the things in the dark. Plus, it’s freezing.”
“You think this is cold?” Torsten said. “You wouldn’t have lasted an hour marching on the Drav Cra.”
“Is that why you’re so dour?”
Torsten hopped off his horse. He secured Whitney to a tree, tying the rope around a thick branch before sitting down on a nearby rock.
"This is ridiculous," Whitney said. "Where do you think I’m going to run off to?”
Torsten rummaged through his supplies once more, ignoring the question, pulled out some cheese and more dried meat.
"What are you going to do when we get there?" Whitney asked. "Won't be much good against Queen Bliss with my hands bound together."
“Bliss.”
“What?”
“It’s just Bliss. There’s only one Queen.”
There was silence for a while. Out in the country, it was a different kind of quiet. He hadn’t been this far from Yarrington and the Crown since King Liam’s last war against the Panping. Yet here he was, in the wilderness again. He had to make Oleander see reason again—if for nothing else, for the sake of the Kingdom and Liam’s legacy. Even if his son was beyond saving.
“Hey, Knight.” Whitney snapped his fingers. “See any nefarious folk out there?”
Torsten shook away the thoughts. He tossed the food at Whitney with intentional zip. The thief couldn’t catch with his hands bound, but he batted it down into the grass.
“No,” Torsten said. “But try to keep your mouth shut.”
“Tough to do that and eat at the same time.”
“You’ll find a way.”
The buzz of night bugs began as they ate in silence. It was almost peaceful. Torsten had grown so used to the din of Yarrington—carriages on stone roads, drunkards stumbling and rambling, shopkeepers howling—he’d forgotten what the country sounds like, forgotten what it was like to live where most of the people did.
He cursed Whitney inwardly for being right. He’d spent too much time like a hand-servant attending to the Oleander’s every need. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed the openness of the field, the smell of the camps the night before battle. Somehow, with Liam leading, he was never afraid of waking up and falling into the charge. But this mission did not feel like those had. Liam was not at the lead. Sadly, he never would be again.
Torsten snapped back to the present when he heard a snore come from Whitney’s direction. The young thief finished his meal and had passed out almost immediately, lying on his side in the middle of the grass like an infant.
Torsten scoffed, then heard another snore. Only this one stirred the horses. They stomped in place, neighing as they backed up toward the tree, a haze of dirt rising.
“Calm down.” He swatted at them with one hand and wiped dust from his eye with the other. “It’s only the kid.”
Torsten heard what he thought was another snore, but this time it sent the horses into even more of a frenzy.
“Hey now,” he said, drawing himself to his feet. He was consoling the horse he’d been riding when he realized the sounds weren’t snores at all.
Yellow eyes glinted in the moonlight all around them, piercing eyes that seemed to shred the darkness. Wolves.
“Whitney,” Torsten whispered as calmly as possible. At the same time, he reached back and slowly wrapped his hand around the grip of his claymore.
A sliver of light caught the face of one of the approaching beasts. Its back was as high as Torsten’s waist, with paws the size of his head. The shaggy, brown hair along its spine stood tall as it bore fangs as long and sharp as daggers. These were no ordinary wolves. He’d only seen one that size in the tundra of the Drav Cra.
Dire wolves.
Torsten took one long step toward his sleeping companion. The pack leader snarled, saliva dripping from its black lips.
“Whitney,” Torsten said. The thief rolled over and nestled against his hand as if enjoying a pleasant dream. “Would you wake up.” He kicked him in the thigh.
“I’m leaving, dad!” Whitney shouted himself awake. He sprung up, panting and searching from side to side as if he were lost. When his gaze found Torsten, he scowled. “I thought noble men were supposed to be raised with manners, you—”
Torsten raised a finger to his lips. “Move slowly. We’re not alone.”
The pack leader growled, a sound like the rumble of thunder. Whitney’s eyes went so wide they seemed ready to pop out of his head.
“Iam’s shog!” he yelped.
“Watch your tongue.”
“Forget that. You have to untie me. Those’re wolves.”
“Dire wolves.” The correction made Whitney’s cheeks pale. “Just move slow. They don’t usually roam this far south. They’re tentative.” The dire wolves were closing in. It was dark and, without a fire, Torsten had to rely mostly on his sense of hearing.
“Says the man with armor.”
Whitney crawled backward slowly.
The alpha released a sound so unnatural, Torsten’s arms were coated in gooseflesh.
“I love food way too much to be dinner.” Whitney scurried to his feet and bolted to the tree where the horses were tied. Torsten went to yank on his restraints, but there was too much slack.
One of the horses got spooked and thrashed its head so hard the rope fastening it snapped. It bolted off through the forest, drawing half the wolves in pursuit. The pack leader and two others remained focused on human prey.
“By Iam, you’re useless,” Torsten said. He backed toward the tree and drew his claymore.
“Throw me a sword and I’ll join you!” Whitney hollered.
Torsten glanced back and saw that Whitney had somehow scaled the tree with his wrists tied and sat atop a thick bough. Torsten had half-a-mind to tug the end of the rope and give the wolves a proper feast, but he was focused on his footwork. The remaining horse reared back and roared, but this one couldn’t break free.
“This sword has slain giants, beast,” Torsten threatened the
pack leader as it bore down on him. “You think it fears fangs?”
“I’ve heard talking tough to monsters really works,” Whitney called down.
Torsten ignored him and tightened the grip on his sword. The beast was so heavy, each one of its footsteps made the ground quake. Torsten had encountered dire wolves in the northern lands of the Drav Cra and wondered if Redstar had anything to do with their presence.
“Back!” he bellowed, swinging his sword at the wolf. It wasn’t even fazed. The thing looked ravenous like it hadn’t eaten in days, and considering how far from home it was, that was probably true.
Torsten heard a shuffle to his right and glimpsed a smaller—by comparison—gray wolf circling him. The crafty leader used the distraction and leaped. Torsten got his arm up just in time as its teeth clamped down on his armor. Any other suit, the teeth would’ve sunk through into his flesh, but King’s Shield armor was crafted by the finest smiths in Pantego and hewn from glaruium.
It didn’t, however, stop the momentum of the beast from bowling him over. They tumbled through the grass until Torsten was on his back, the beast gnashing on his arm and spitting all over his face. The other wolves went for the horse, slowly circling it as its cry filled the night.
Torsten pawed through the blades of grass for the hilt of his sword. It’d been too long since he saw battle, or even sparred for that matter. He could feel his muscles wilting under the weight of the great beast.
He found his sword and let his arm dip. The dire wolf’s fangs slid down his bracer and one found the weak spot behind the forearm. As it bit down, Torsten jabbed it in the side of the head with his sword’s pointed pommel. It howled and Torsten was able to spin free and slash wide, drawing a thin line of blood across its chest.
Any normal wolf would have backed down from the blow, but this one’s skin was thick. Torsten regrouped and dropped into a battle-ready crouch. Blood trickled down his wrist and stained the rope bound to his cowardly companion hiding in a tree.
“Leave!” Torsten roared. “The Glass will not fall at the hands of wolves!”
He raised his sword high and brought it crashing down toward the wolf’s head but it lurched out of the way. The claymore twirled with it, coming around for another strike that caught it in its hind-quarters. Blood sprayed the grass, but still, the wolf didn’t back down. It pounced, and just before it crashed into Torsten’s side, he felt the rope wrapping his hand pull taut. Then he was yanked out of the way. His feet struggled to find a hold but kept him from being thrown to the ground. Whitney sat atop Torsten’s horse, his wrists still bound, but the horse cut free.
“What are you waiting for, Wolfslayer?” he shouted.
Torsten looked back at his foe, now flanked by the two smaller, gray dire wolves that could still tear him to pieces with claw or maw. He ran for the horse while Whitney held her steady, then took his hand and hopped up behind him.
Whitney whipped on the reins with his bound hands to spur the horse along at full speed. The wolves gave chase.
“Look who decided to stop hiding,” Torsten said.
“All part of the greater plan,” Whitney replied.
“Right.”
“Only way to mount a panicked horse is to drop down from above. Better than your bright idea to have a sword fight with one of those things!” Whitney’s voice went shrill on the last word as the pack leader caught up and snapped at their feet.
“This would be a lot easier if I could use my hands,” he said.
“Not happening,” Torsten replied. He twisted his body and got a good grip on his claymore. One of the smaller wolves raced around and leaped at them from atop a fallen trunk. He smacked it away, the weight nearly breaking his wrists as he struggled to hold onto the giant blade.
The beast squealed, writhed across the ground, but the others continued on. The alpha’s gaze was fixed as if prepared to devour their very souls.
“Hold on tight,” Torsten said.
“Oh no, what this time?”
Torsten squeezed his armored calves against the sides of the horse and propped himself up as high as he could. He lifted his sword and scanned the trees. When he spotted a thick enough bough hanging in their path, he brought the blade crashing through it. Wood splintered as the branch split into two. Torsten hung onto Whitney’s back to keep the momentum from flinging him off the horse, and luckily the thief finally listened to his orders and held them steady.
They glanced back at the same time. The obstruction slowed the wolves down long enough for the horse to put some distance between them.
After what felt like days they were finally sure they’d lost their pursuers.
Torsten exhaled.
“So, now when do we get to sleep?” Whitney asked.
XIX
The Thief
THE SHIMMER of small flying insects weaving in and out of the tall grass was Whitney’s only company as morning came, white specks like dust being swept up by servants. The silhouettes of birds passed overhead. They’d likely been there all along, one flock after another, but the darkness made them impossible to see.
He struggled to keep his eyes open, and occasionally Torsten broke into a snore. But they were exhausted and stopping again in the forest seemed like a bad idea.
Of all his wild adventures, Whitney figured this had to be the strangest yet—running from giant wolves with a giant knight bouncing behind him. The tremendous man didn’t leave much room for him on the saddle either, and the constant clattering of his armor made it a challenge to catch a few winks while their horse trudged along down the dirt trail.
Whitney watched a squirrel scurry by and felt his stomach rumble. In the right hands, it could make a wonderful stew, but Whitney had never been a great cook. He closed his eyes and pictured himself back in Yarrington, wearing a flamboyant looking disguise, enjoying a feast fit for nobles. Then Torsten’s loudest snore yet sent crows fleeing from the boughs above. The large man’s weight drifted back, nearly dragging Whitney with him.
“Ey,” Whitney groaned. He gave Torsten’s pauldron a smack. The knight nearly broke Whitney’s neck as he woke in a violent panic.
“Iam’s shog!” Whitney yelped. “It’s just me, Whitney Fierstown, world’s greatest thief and the Liberation Lord of the Land.”
“You should know better than to wake a knight.”
“Yeah, well if I don’t get real sleep, neither do you,” Whitney said. “I’m all about equality.”
“We can switch if you’d like.”
“Oh, so I get to play fair maiden?”
“In case you forgot, there was only one of us who fought anything back there.”
“And I rode to your rescue like the great King Liam himself.”
Torsten’s lip twisted. “Well, you look like you can use the sleep, fragile as you are.” Come on. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and not all of it will be as easy as the Haskwood Thicket.”
“Easy?” Whitney scoffed. “Was it only me that almost got eaten by wolves last night?”
“Dire wolves,” Torsten corrected. “Healthy wolves don’t attack men; dire wolves will eat the skin off your bones.”
“All wolves get hungry and they’ve all got teeth.” Whitney shrugged. “How about this: I let you back up front so your manhood isn’t threatened, and you untie me.”
“So, you can knock me out in the night and flee? Not a chance.”
“In case you forgot, you invited me on this mad quest because you needed the best thief around. Why would I run from the chance to prove it?”
“Because that’s what thieves do. You think I was born some satin-pantsed noble? I grew up in the same streets you did, boy. Scrumming for food in the garbage.”
“Your high and mighty father trying to teach you a life lesson?”
“My father was a cur. Spent his days hungover and his nights at the taverns trying to swindle men out of gold until one bashed his head in. My mother was a brothel wench who could care no less I existed. It was K
ing Liam who gave me my name, raised me from the rabble. So next time you think to utter his name, don’t.”
Whitney swallowed back a response. He never found it easy to still his tongue—he could talk plaster off a wall—but a knight born so common? No, not just a knight, the Wearer of White himself. He’d asked to be given a new name back in that cell to escape his father’s, but that didn’t mean he believed a man could rise above his caste, from street urchin to commander of armies.
“Who’d you kill to move up?” Whitney finally decided on, feeling there was no other plausible reasoning.
“That’s exactly what’s wrong with people like you. I didn’t move anybody aside. I prayed to Iam every waking moment until finally, he saw fit to bless me. He came in the form of our great King Liam who saw worth in me I never had.”
“Yeah well, sadly, that King’s dead now.”
“A new one will wake upon our return, and he will remember what stock he comes from, or Iam save us all.”
“All I’m saying is that I sat in that cell talking to a rat and I didn’t pray a lick, and look at me now.” Whitney gave a tug on the horse’s reins, forcing it to stop walking. He spun and presented his bound wrists. “On my way to becoming a free man. Look at that expression. I can tell how much it pains you to stare at the back of my gorgeous head.”
“Better than your face.”
“Pretty please?” He raised his hands further.
Torsten’s features darkened. He groaned and grabbed Whitney’s wrists, leaned down, and used the claymore hitched to his back to cut the ropes.
“Sweet liberty!” Whitney exclaimed.
He hopped off the horse and stretched his arms, not even realizing how much his wrists burned from trying to squirm free. He usually escaped from bindings much more quickly, but the knight tied one yig of a knot.
His jubilation was cut short when a cold, armored hand fell upon his shoulder. “You try to flee, the King’s Shield will hunt you to the end of Pantego.”
