by Jaime Castle
“What’s one more group after me?” Whitney smirked. Torsten remained staid as a stone wall. “Relax my giant, brooding friend. If I wanted out, I would’ve left you for the wolves.”
Whitney ducked around Torsten, and on his way, snagged a bit of dry meat out of his satchel. He swung up onto the back of the horse and took the largest bite he could possibly fit in his mouth.
“Are we going?” Whitney asked, crumbs spilling from his lips.
“Try that again and you’ll lose a hand.”
“You hired me to steal a magical doll. I won’t be much good without two of them.”
“It isn’t magical.”
“Some might think so.”
Torsten pulled himself up onto the saddle and spurred the horse ahead with a light kick. “Let’s cover some ground before night falls again,” Torsten said, digging his heels into his horse.
“You’re not telling me that counted as sleep?” Whitney protested, mouth still crammed.
Torsten didn’t answer, and they continued along in silence until arriving at a small stream. The cool water lapped at their feet as the horses trudged through. When they reached the other side, they stopped a moment to give the horse a drink.
Whitney was preparing something to say to his easily flustered companion when Torsten reached for his head. He released some manner of shrill groan and then collapsed from the horse into the mud.
Whitney stared. He hadn’t seen such a reacting since finding his way into a wizard’s dungeon and watching the man dig through people’s minds like they were old, battered tomes. It took him a few moments to realize he should do something.
“Torsten!” Whitney called out. He ran over and slapped him across the face. Nothing. He just continued to mutter under his breath like a madman, eyes closed like he’d seen some terrible monster.
“Buried…” it sounded like, and then something else indiscernible over and over again.
Whitney took a deep breath, reared back his arm, shouted, “Wake up!” and punched Torsten across the jaw.
“Not dead!” Torsten roared. His eyes sprung open and he threw Whitney back so hard he splashed through the stream. Torsten panted like a wild animal.
“What in Elsewhere was that?” Whitney asked, brushing off his pants.
“The color crimson and a thousand eyes,” Torsten whispered, squeezing his eyes.
“Hey!” Whitney got to his feet, stormed over and shoved Torsten’s chest. The brick of a man barely budged, but some form of clarity washed over his gaze. He regarded Whitney “What does that mean?”
“What are you—what happened?” Torsten squeezed his eyelids. “Is this your excuse for an escape plan?”
“Are you daft? You fell and started rambling like a lunatic. Threw me so hard I nearly broke my back!”
“I don’t…”
“Are you dying on me, old man? Because your little story was getting me excited about a new name.”
Torsten managed to roll onto his side, coughing. He looked down and seemed to notice a bit of blood on his hand from where his armor pinched flesh. He quickly wiped his palm against the grass, still moist with morning dew.
“Just help me up, boy. I fell off my horse, who knows what I’m saying?”
Whitney reached down, grabbed Torsten by the elbow with both hands, and used all his energy to heave him to his feet.
“Seriously, are you going to tell me what happened? You suffer from night fits? I promise I won’t tell any of the other knights.”
“Probably dosed off and had a nightmare.”
“You have those?” Whitney asked.
“When you’ve seen the things I have, boy, every dream turns into one.”
“Well, then I think it’s time we actually rest. You look worse than shog.”
“Fine,” Torsten conceded, terse. He climbed back onto the horse. “Oxgate should be just over that hill. I hoped to speed through, but we should be able to find lodging for a few hours.”
“Lodging.” Whitney rolled his eyes.
“What?”
“You noble folk and your fancy terms.” Whitney drew himself back onto the horse and stuck his arm out. “Onward to lodging! And keep those eyes open.”
They continued riding until a basso wailing sound broke the silence. Torsten glanced back confused, then sent the horse into a gallop. When they reached the crest of the hill, they saw its source.
The charred remains of Oxgate spanned before them, still smoldering in some areas. Embers flitting in the wind. There wasn’t a house or shop standing. No fields of corn or wheat remained. There wasn’t even a sign of horse or cattle. The only thing left standing was a lone tree in the middle of the village.
“By Iam,” Torsten said. “They took Oxgate too.”
“How did one tree survive a fire that destroyed a whole village?” Whitney asked.
“That’s no tree.”
XX
The Knight
A MAN NAILED to a crucifix in the center of the razed town screamed a blood-curdling scream. Even from such a great distance, Torsten could see the anguish contorting his face.
“We’ve got to get him down from there,” Whitney said.
Torsten lifted a hand. “Wait. We don’t know who did this.”
“What are you talking about? It was the Black Sands!”
“This isn’t how they kill. Whoever did this might still be around.”
Whitney leaned forward, regarding Torsten with eyes like a begging hound. “We are going to get him down, right?”
“It might be best to keep our distance and leave him for the gallers. We have our mission.”
Torsten had seen war. He’d known battle from every angle and this one wasn’t worth the fight. The man was soaked in blood, his lungs likely already collapsing. Torsten was no physician, and whoever had played healer for the people of Oxgate now lay scattered amongst the ashes.
“I’m getting him down from there,” Whitney said, “with or without you.”
With that, Whitney leaped from the back of the horse and bounded down the hill. Torsten called after him in a raised whisper but to no avail.
He considered, for more than a moment, letting the young thief find his own fate in the middle of Oxgate by the cross of a helpless man, but that wasn’t the way of the King’s Shield. That was a part of him even if the Queen Regent had stripped him of the title. He snapped the reins and took off after his reckless companion.
By the time Torsten’s horse matched Whitney’s stride, the latter slowed, eyes wide as he looked upon the poor, tortured soul. The man’s cries sent a chill up even Torsten’s hardened spine. It was always his least favorite part of combat, hearing the groans that followed. After every battle, there were hundreds loosing their death cries as if a mob of spirits escaped Elsewhere, but one was enough. Torsten had always been fine with taking a man’s life in the name of the Glass, but when it came to watching men suffer, he hadn’t the stomach for it.
“Horrible,” Whitney said under his breath.
“Damn street rat!” Torsten spat. “I told you, we need to move.” His eyes scanning the smoke and embers for movement. If this was an ambush they’d run headlong into, whoever planted it was taking their time springing the trap.
“Just help me get him down.” Whitney grabbed hold of the side of the crucifix to get a better look.
The man howled in pain, impossible to understand.
“We should just stick a sword through his gut and end it,” Torsten said.
“Will you do the same to me if that warlock gets his hands on me?” Whitney questioned.
“If mercy begs it of me.” Torsten shoved Whitney aside, then drew his claymore. He raised it high above his head, but just before it fell, the crucifix went up in flames. Tongues of fire swept over the man and the wood as if they’d been doused in oil.
The horse flailed, throwing Torsten off and knocking into Whitney as it galloped away. Torsten’s shoulder hit the ground hard, but there was no time
to worry about pain. He pawed through the dirt, looking for his sword, the crackling fire so hot he could feel his skin blistering under his gauntlets. He found the blade and flipped over to search for what caused the fire. Whitney was on the ground holding his leg and squeezing his eyelids like he was in terrible pain.
Torsten was about to help him when, from all directions, a dozen figures, maybe more, in unmarked, hooded cloaks poured out of the smoke. Their heads were lowered so their faces were completely shrouded in darkness.
Torsten’s hands tightened around the grip of his claymore. “Walk away and nobody has to die,” he said. “We have no autlas or anything worth your lives.”
The hooded strangers didn’t answer. They circled the duo and drew nearer, weaponless hands clasped together in front of their chests.
“Are you planning on helping me up?” Whitney groaned.
“I’ll handle this,” Torsten answered.
“At least give me your dagger!”
Torsten backed up until he was so close to the flaming crucifix he felt his hairs singe. Seared wood crumbled, the charred man collapsing to the dirt with it.
Torsten spun to better appraise the situation. Thirteen of them were closing in. Torsten had faced worse odds against better-armed enemies. Things weren’t dire enough to hand a blade to a back-stabbing thief who could easily be behind this ambush. His glaruium armor was more valuable than a gold mine.
“You guys looking to get rich?” Whitney asked the assailants. “I’ve got a ring buried a few leagues east of here. It’s precious. Leave us and it’s yours.”
“They clearly aren’t interested in your—”
Torsten lost his train of thought when the hooded figures suddenly stopped. He and Whitney exhaled in relief at the same time.
Maybe he is good for something, Torsten thought.
Then the assailants stopped and raised their heads. Each of their faces was covered by a white ceramic mask—a smooth, expressionless human face with a red teardrop under the right eye. The sight gave him goosebumps. He’d seen masks like them in hidden, cult-shrines discovered from time to time in Yarrington and throughout the Drav Cra.
They were followers of Nesilia, the Buried Goddess.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Whitney said. Torsten glanced back at him to find his eyes bright with horror. The thief struggled to stand on his wounded leg.
“Step back in the name of Iam and the Glass Throne!” Torsten bellowed. He brandished his claymore and glowered at his enemies. They were heretics. Thieves and braggarts like Whitney were troublesome pests, but there were few as wicked as those who’d willingly chosen to worship fallen gods in the shadows rather than live beneath the marvelous light of Iam’s gaze.
“Good idea,” Whitney remarked. “Stare at them until they cower in fear.”
The closest masked assailant reached into the folds of his robe and removed a dagger, its blade curved twice in a wave until it reached the razor-sharp point. He raised it over his hand, then slid the blade along his palm. Blood poured out along his wrist and pooled in the dirt around his feet.
Torsten dug his boots into the earth, now mixed with soot and charred wood. A sudden burning sensation began in his favored hand. Starting from the inside, unimaginable heat radiated along his fingers until he could no longer bear the weight of his claymore. It slipped from his grip and he fell backward, howling in agony. He threw off his gauntlet to observe the damage.
“What in Elsewhere is wrong with you!” Whitney protested. “I have to handle everything.”
He pushed a leg off the ground to launch himself toward the claymore. The renowned thief apparently couldn’t handle a sword worth a yig. He swung at the robed figure, who parred and disarmed him in one smooth motion.
“Let me go!” Whitney shouted as a pack of them grabbed hold of him.
A few more came for Torsten. The burning pain in his hand was beginning to dissolve, but it had him seeing stars. Sliced, cut and stabbed in countless battles, he’d never felt such a tremendous discomfort. He could barely describe it, yet on his now-bare hand, there wasn’t even a mark.
A mess of hands grasped his arms, trying without success to restrain the mountain of a man. He threw his weight forward and tore free, grabbing one by the neck and flinging him through what little was left of the crucifix.
He spun again, grabbed another by the folds of his robe, and unleashed a heavy fist straight to the face. With his gauntlet off, it didn’t feel good, but he knew it felt better than the attacker’s face must have. The ceramic mask split down the middle before its wearer stumbled backward, landing with a forceful thud.
Torsten took a hard step toward another, but as soon as his foot landed, searing heat coursed through it. His leg gave out and sent him slipping through the blood-puddled mud. When he was able to, he looked up to see the same armed assailant with blood dripping from a long cut across the top of one of his bare feet.
Torsten tried to fight the burning sensation, but his armor was designed for armed combat—as heavy as it was durable. It was exhausting to wear in a hand-to-hand brawl.
The men reached down for a second time, trying to haul Torsten off the ground. It went just as poorly as their first attempt. Finally, they got one of his arms wrenched behind his back and smashed him in the back of the skull with something solid.
White spots flashed across his vision and he collapsed face first into the mud. Blood and ashes filled his nostrils. Fresh embers stung his flushed cheeks. More hands wrenched him upright before binding his wrists and towing him along like a dog on a leash. He offered as much resistance as he could, but his muscles were too strained and his head too foggy. He cursed Whitney for cutting into the few precious minutes of sleep he was able to get over the past day.
Whitney, he remembered. Now he understood how he felt when his hands were bound.
The young thief spat a long strain of curses and in his peripheral, Torsten saw his arms flailing wildly as they hauled him along.
“Cut it out, kid,” Torsten muttered.
Whitney ignored him. “You have the wrong guy!” he said. “I love wearing masks too.”
Torsten could hear the whispers of the robed figures holding Whitney. They spoke plainly but he didn’t understand them. As former Wearer of White, he knew of every language in Pantego, but this one caused his lungs to deflate.
Drav Cra.
The harshness of the language could not be mistaken. The last time Torsten had heard it was when the Queen’s brother, Redstar, had come to visit Yarrington.
“Seriously, if you all were smart, you’d take me up on that ring,” Whitney said, then pointed to Torsten. “Do you know who that is?”
“Be quiet!” Torsten snapped.
“You’re lucky a lightning bolt hasn’t struck you yet. That’s Iam’s own Wearer of White you’re hauling. “
The one leading the processional, the one who’d cut himself twice, raised his hand. His followers stopped. The others parted to allow him passage. He stopped in front of Whitney. Torsten swore inwardly. He could see the man’s eyes, as dark as wet earth, through the slots in his impassive mask. The steam of his breath leaked from the bottom on the crisp, fall air.
He closed in on Whitney, hand curled around the handle of his curved dagger. Whitney steeled himself and strained his neck, lifting his chin. Torsten thought he saw the boy quiver just a bit.
“That’s not what I hear,” the man whispered to Whitney.
Then, before Whitney could respond, one of the figures hit him hard on the side of the head and he fell limp.
“The Queen Regent will have your heads!” Torsten shouted and drew on all the energy left in his body, yanking until the ropes dug into his wrists.
He didn’t get far before two sets of hands squeezed his arms together so hard the pain of the clashing bones became unbearable. Someone grunted something in Drav Cra. A foul smelling cloth sack descended over Torsten’s head. Torsten labored for breath. They were relentl
ess as they walked, tugging so hard Torsten struggled to maintain his footing.
Silhouettes of light and shadow became his world. All he could make out was the twisting canopy of branches above, waving in the wind as if taunting him. They moved down a sharp, steep slope winding back and forth as even the shadows of trees disappeared.
“Where are you taking us?” he asked, his voice muffled.
The sound of rushing water echoed. He heard a cranking sound followed by a bang that made him flinch. A gust of air caught his legs before he was shoved onto the first plank of a rickety suspension bridge. He hesitated for a moment but was pulled so hard he stumbled over a gap.
The bridge swung spasmodically beneath his weight, and it took him a few steps to realize that the planks were made of metal rather than wood. He tried to stop but his captors allowed him no rest, moving along until his feet hit solid ground and further still, until the sound of water was but a distant memory.
They were entering a cave… no a fortress. The stone beneath his feet was much too smooth to be natural. Even through the cloth, he could see torchlight painting sharp corners and stilted archways. He only knew of two places that designed arches like that: Cathedrals of Iam, and the underground Dwarven cities of the Dragon Tail.
They stopped.
He opened his mouth to speak but was promptly shoved to the ground. He gasped and coughed, desperate to catch his breath. One of the hooded men tilted him upright, tore the sack off his head and forced him to the ground.
He was locked in a cage along the wall so cramped he had to crouch not to hit his head, with Whitney in another beside him. The roomy hollow beyond the brass bars was unexpectedly ornate. Columns hewn from the rock filled the space, spottily clad in gold and bronze that looked like it had tarnished centuries early. They wrapped a circular basin situated below a domed ceiling as smooth as Glass.
It all reminded Torsten of the Lord’s Crypt, and that was because everything his kingdom knew about building they had learned from the people that constructed this place. A dwarven fortress, manned by their kind eons ago when their kingdoms ruled Pantego before man descended from the Drav Cra and drove them underground. The place may have lost all its luster, but the Dwarven ruins scattered throughout Pantego remained sturdier than half the castles in the kingdom.
