Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  All of it coalesced to form an odor worse than the desiccated remains outside. Torsten tried to fight it, but it overwhelmed his senses worse than any dungeon. He staggered toward a table, needing the sword to stab down into the wood floor to stay upright.

  He gagged, somehow managing to keep the contents of his stomach down.

  “Sir Unger, is everything all right?” Lucas asked, now at the door with his longsword drawn.

  “I said watch the horses,” Torsten ordered, then continued onward.

  A cackle from the kitchen behind the bar made him spin. It was followed by a small voice—a child’s voice.

  Torsten held his breath and rushed for the swinging doorway. He couldn’t talk without the taste of the room lingering on his tongue, so instead, he gripped his sword tight and held it before him. Once inside, he spotted a red-robed Buried Goddess cultist beside a little Panpingese girl.

  The man’s white mask was cracked in half, and on the exposed side, Torsten saw skin as white as the paper walls of the inn. Dark veins bulged around his eyes, which were entirely black, no whites to them at all, just dark and shiny like onyx from lid to lid.

  “Step away from the girl!” Torsten demanded. He’d seen what these cultists were capable of and now, emboldened by Nesilia’s return, he could imagine no depth of evil to which they wouldn’t sink.

  The man stirred a bubbling cauldron, laughing and whistling as he did. The young girl stood behind him, facing the wall. Her shoulders heaved as if she was crying and couldn’t bear to watch.

  Torsten discovered why, fast. The body of a plump, middle-aged woman hung above the bubbling pot, strings holding her limbs at different, unnatural heights like a marionette. Blood dripped from her sliced throat into whatever they were cooking. All Torsten knew was that it was dark red, and it didn’t smell like rabbit.

  “What unholiness is this?” Torsten demanded.

  He pointed his blade at the cultist, keeping his feet spry and ready to pounce. The man’s hands wrapped a ladle, but he could have had a dagger hidden anywhere on his person, ready to practice the blood magic his perverse cult was known for.

  “We’re preparing a gift for our Lady,” the man said. His voice was low, but resonant. The worst part was that he didn’t carry the Drav Crava accent—this man was of the Glass through-and-through. It sent a chill right up Torsten’s spine that wouldn’t relent. “When she arrives, she’ll be hungry.”

  He laughed maniacally, then ladled up a bit of the contents of the pot and let it spill back in. There were chunks amidst the deep red, and Torsten spotted what looked like a carrot, and though he knew its true identity was far more obscene, he couldn’t even bear to think it.

  “Nesilia is coming here?” Torsten asked.

  A nightmare grin appeared beneath the broken mask. “Everywhere. Nowhere.” He started to laugh even harder, unable to control himself. He released the ladle, covering his mouth with both hands, and backing up across the kitchen.

  “Don’t you dare go near her!” Torsten said. He slowly sidestepped toward the girl, keeping his blade aimed at the man.

  “Open your eyes, holy man,” the cultist spoke, as if purposefully trying to insult Torsten for his handicap.

  “She’ll free you all from Iam,” the girl then said. Like the man, her voice seemed to carry with it an ethereal quality. Every word filled Torsten’s ears, echoing from all directions, and also from within.

  She turned slowly, holding a bloody knife in both hands, and he realized that she wasn’t crying at all. Like the cultist, she laughed so hysterically that tears ran down her cheeks. And like him, her eyes were entirely black, veins spreading out across the skin surrounding them like spokes of a wheel.

  Startled, Torsten stumbled back. His hip bumped the cauldron, and it wobbled once before the boiling liquid and chunks of meat sloshed across the floor, running against their feet. Neither the cultist nor the girl reacted to the heat, even as it ate through the skin of their feet and ankles. They merely looked down, then to each other, and started laughing harder.

  “No more gift for her,” the cultist said, shrugging.

  “You’ll pay for that, holy man,” the girl added.

  She stepped toward him, raised her knife. Only the cultist’s eyes moved, watching with his head tilted to the side. More curious, it seemed, than anything.

  “Don’t come any closer, demon,” Torsten growled, gripping Salvation tighter. However, he couldn’t bring himself to point it at the girl. He’d seen demonic possession before when mystics trifled with powers they shouldn’t have in the Third War of Panping. He knew, just as Sigrid was possessed by the goddess, this girl was inhabited by another being of Elsewhere.

  “Won’t you kill me, Sir?” the little girl asked, affecting a pouty voice. “Won’t you free me from Her?”

  “I said no closer!”

  Of course, she didn’t listen. One small step after the other, she neared. Sweat poured down Torsten’s nape. His heart pounded, and he could almost feel it against his bones. Blood pumped like a water well behind his eyes, but he remained frozen, squeezing Salvation so tight his knuckles whitened.

  “Please,” the girl whimpered. “Save me. Save me!” She threw her head back and raised her knife to her own throat. Torsten sprang to action, reflex taking over. He swatted with his blade. Blood spurted from the girl’s finger as he knocked the weapon away from her. The knife skidded across the floor, landing right by the cultist’s now seared feet.

  The girl stared at her hand, quietly studying it. Then she laughed again and aimed the spray toward Torsten.

  “You’re sick,” Torsten said. “The both of you.”

  The cultist bent at the waist to pick up the knife.

  “You can’t stop us,” the cultist said. “The Well of Wisdom is open. Elsewhere is empty.”

  “We do as we want to here,” the girl added. “She promised. It’s our realm now.”

  Torsten skirted slowly along the wall until his back was at the kitchen’s entry.

  It was why they were there, he and Lucas. He wanted—needed—to see it for himself. The rumors spoke of it, but Torsten needed to know by his own injured eyes that the gates of Elsewhere had truly been battered down and its most rotten inhabitants unleashed upon their world, able to easily overtake the bodies and minds of the weak-willed.

  Now he knew. Nesilia had done the unthinkable.

  The possessed duo didn’t come after him, just turned only their heads, spines perfectly straight, watching him. He stepped back through the opening, and someone powerful wrapped an arm around his waist. He blocked a second arm by the wrist with the flat edge of his sword. The attacker wielded a fork and came a hair’s length from jabbing it into Torsten’s throat.

  Torsten head-butted back, knocking the assailant away from him. Then, whipping around, he gutted the man with his sword. The Panpingese man’s all-black eyes expressed nothing as he dropped to his knees, cradling his innards. He didn’t scream. He didn’t feel.

  The others in the kitchen still only watched. Torsten scrambled around the body, then felt a chill all over as the dying man’s neck wrenched back, and a nebulous form screeched out through his mouth. It swirled around Torsten once, its raving laughter piercing his very soul.

  Torsten held his breath and plunged through, silently praying to Iam for protection over his body, his soul. He was strong. He knew he could resist. But as the demon spirit flowed around him, Torsten felt something he never had before. A pull, like he wasn’t in command of his own body.

  He froze.

  His heart stopped beating, or at least it felt that way.

  He could feel Nesilia, her gaze on him like white-hot fire.

  “Why resist?” she asked, her voice sultry and seductive like a whore in Valin’s Vineyard, each word hanging like the hiss of a slithering snake. Her confidence was undeniable. Her newfound comfort in their world, unmistakable.

  Hope started to fade, replaced with doubt that clawed at the edge o
f his consciousness.

  “The end is so near,” Nesilia went on. “The seat of Glass will shatter. Iam’s light will go out. Give in, Torsten…”

  “You’ll have to kill me first,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Not even death will save you from me.”

  “Sir Unger!” someone yelled, distant, but within reach.

  It stung everywhere as a hand closed around Torsten’s wrist and yanked his body free. His fingernails felt like they were going to tear out, knuckles break; his lungs like they might shred from the inside. Torsten collapsed forward, leaving the demonic entity behind, knocking Lucas over and splitting a table. His knees hit the floorboards so hard the wood cracked. Salvation clanked nearby, but he’d never even felt it leave his fingertips.

  Flipping over, pawing for his weapon as he backed away, Torsten watched the demon spirit rush across the room, spilling everything on the bar before bursting through a window. The others in the kitchen stopped watching and slowly approached Torsten.

  Lucas returned to his feet and moved to shield Torsten. “Stay back!” He was young, but he’d seen enough battle for his age. It didn’t matter. His hands were trembling, and Torsten couldn’t blame him after what he’d just seen.

  “Lucas.” Torsten coughed. “Lucas, we need to get out of here.”

  “Listen to Her,” the cultist said.

  “Why resist?” the young girl said.

  Torsten found Salvation’s grip. As his fingers embraced it, he thought about charging the poor, possessed souls. He wanted to tear them limb from limb, but he’d learned this last year that sometimes fighting wasn’t the answer.

  His people needed him, and he had no idea how to banish the demons. Dead bodies would only lead to them jumping to new bodies, an endless foe until all life on Pantego was expended. He needed to return to Dellbar and the priests. They’d know how to stop them—stop her—and if not, he prayed someone out there might.

  “Go!” Torsten said, grabbing Lucas by the shoulder and shoving him back toward the inn’s exit. “We’ll send you all back to Elsewhere where you belong!” He hoped Nesilia could hear him. “Iam’s light will shine ever brighter.”

  “Sir Unger, what are they?” Lucas asked. He gathered his balance and turned back for a fight.

  “I said, go!” Torsten spun him on his way by, dragging him toward the exit.

  “Run along, holy man,” the little girl yelled, unbridled mirth to her every word. The cultist guffawed right beside her.

  Torsten burst back outside, pushing Lucas down the step ahead of him. As the young Shieldsman staggered, an empty wagon dragged by frenzied horses raced by and would have plowed right over him had Torsten not reacted quickly and pulled him back. Its rider was headless and slumped over.

  Lucas was left breathless, gawking. Torsten turned left. Their own horses tugged at their hitches, and Torsten could hear the wood threatening to break. They screeched, fearful like he’d never heard before.

  “T… T… Torsten,” Lucas stammered. Torsten looked to him. He no longer watched the wagon, but instead, stared south at the crest of a hill.

  A cluster of Panpingese farmers stood atop it. They were far, but Torsten’s blessed vision allowed him to see the contrast in light and darkness, and their eyes were dark as midnight north of the Dragon’s Tail. They wielded anything they could find as weapons—sickles, shovels, rakes, hoes—anything, like they didn’t care or know what a proper weapon was.

  And their mouths stay shut as if sealed. They simply stood and watched, wicked grins smeared across dirty faces. A woman wearing an elegant flowered kimono pushed through the throng toward the front of the horde. Blood stained the front of her clothes and all the way up her wrists and forearms. In one hand, she gripped a decapitated head by knotted hair. She tossed it and let it roll down the hill.

  “Lucas, we’ve seen enough,” Torsten said, stroking his horse to calm her.

  The young Shieldsman remained petrified.

  “Lucas, let’s go!”

  That got his attention. Lucas ran to his horse, and they both mounted. Torsten didn’t even take the time to untie either rope, just slashed them with his claymore. He smacked Lucas’s on the hindquarters, knowing the young man was too stunned to do it himself. He even grabbed the reins to help lead as they sped off.

  “See you soon!” the little girl called out after them, now standing in the entrance of the inn. The cultist stood behind her, his hands resting upon her shoulders like a loving father.

  Torsten couldn’t bear the sight of it. He couldn’t even pray, though he doubted that in this tainted place, Iam could hear him anyway. His light certainly had stopped shining here.

  All Torsten could hope to do was hurry to Latiapur, and finish securing the alliance that might give them a fighting chance against Nesilia. All living things needed to stand together if they had any hope, but he’d start with the newly appointed Caleef Mahraveh, and the Black Sands.

  IV

  The Caleef

  Caleef Mahraveh stood alone on the northern shores of Latiapur, just beyond the bluffs of the Tal’du Dromesh. It felt fitting that her father should pass on into the Eternal Current here, in the place he’d made a name for himself.

  Muskigo “The Scythe” Ayerabi.

  Even with the clumps of black sand covering his eyes, her father looked merely asleep on a pad of driftwood tied together by strands of seaweed. His arms were crossed over his chest, that sickle-blade, almost as famous as the man himself, resting firmly in his hands. He’d lived by the proverbial sword, and now he would die with it.

  The last of the Ayerabi Afhemate. The last blood-connection Mahi had in the entire world.

  She wished she could cry as she watched the rising tide’s gentle hands spread across the beach, slowing reaching out to grasp and usher him into rest. However, ever since the God of Sand and Sea spat her back out, she’d been unable to manage tears.

  Foam swirled in the dark grains of sand at her feet, creating a tapestry of white and black that once reminded Mahi of clouds in the night sky. But now, she was too old for such imaginings. Too many centuries of her peoples’ violent history bounced around her brain. All the lives of past Caleefs pounded like the sea against her consciousness. They offered both answers and doubts, but one thing was certain—none knew what to do about this.

  Mahi’s father hadn’t been killed in a conflict with rival afhemates. There were no afhemates, not anymore. He hadn’t been killed by a war with another people or the Kingdom of Glass, even. No. He’d been murdered by a darkness no one could understand, because they hadn’t felt it like she had. He’d been killed by a goddess, and the sting went bone-deep, for within Mahi dwelled the goddess’ brother, her god, whose true name was Caliphar.

  “They say he gave his life defending Sir Torsten Unger,” Bit’rudam said from behind.

  In her previous life, his sudden appearance would have startled her, but now, Mahi simply glanced back.

  The golden Serpent Guard armor fit him well. Bit’rudam had become a hero of her people, winning the tournament meant as a distraction from the horrors. As his final opponent had him on his back, ready to claim victory, Mahi felt the flitting of her heart. It was a fleeting sensation, but it reminded her of days before her god made her carry so much weight.

  And Bit’rudam didn’t disappoint. He was equally smart as he was skilled with a blade and his baiting of the larger opponent had worked. She should have seen it coming, but for him, there was genuine concern. He rose as the blunt end of the opponent’s spear drove downward—this wasn’t a tournament like the rest. Sure, blood could be drawn, but there would be no death. As the weapon spewed up sand, Bit’rudam kicked, buckling the opponent’s knee, then he brought the pommel of his own sword out, and sent the man into unconsciousness.

  And so, unlike the rest of the Order he now led, she didn’t allow him to cover his face or cut out his tongue. She wanted to hear him, to see him, to be reminded of who she’d been before
all of this, before so many years were jumbled around in her mind, and people from every background bowed to her—if they could even bear to look at her.

  “Then I look forward to asking Sir Unger about his end when he arrives,” Mahi said.

  “My Caleef, Tingur was there as well,” Bit’rudam said. “He spoke of how brave Muskigo was in the face of power he’d never before witnessed.”

  “And I trust Tingur. However, the rivalry between Sir Unger and my father is legendary. If he truly gave his life protecting the former Wearer of White, I must know everything.”

  Bit’rudam bit his lip. “I should have been there.”

  Mahi reached out and laid her hand upon his shoulder. She hated the way instinct made him shrink back from her, like he was scared or awestruck, or both. But at least he didn’t fall to his knees and kowtow.

  “I needed you here,” she said.

  “I know. And it is my honor to serve you, my Caleef.” She noticed his knee shift. Then his foot. But before he could fall into a bow, she tugged on his arm and led him toward her father. The tide had him now, slowly dragging his raft across the sand into the sea’s loving embrace. It was a beautiful custom, but painful to watch.

  A Shesaitju should never place their dead directly into the water. The water itself had to accept the soul, and she knew her father would be accepted. Nobody had better-exemplified their old ways.

  “If you were there, you, too, would be dead,” Mahi said. “As the God of Sand and Sea said, we need everyone to stand against her.”

  “Well, she made one mistake.”

  “And what is that?” Mahi asked.

  “She made it personal for you. I may not know you as well as some, but it seems that when you want something, you do not give up until you have it.”

  “It’s more than personal, Bit’rudam,” she said, stern. “She threatens everything.” She knew he was only trying to be playful, but she couldn’t even feign a smile.

  “I know. I didn’t—“