Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Torsten thought for a beat. He recalled that day when the white helm was stripped from him by Redstar… no, his own carelessness. He imagined earning it back would feel better than anything in his entire life. Yet, all he could picture was it on Sir Nikserof’s head as he bled out from the throat. Or Uriah, having his skin worn by a vile warlock.

  “I am honored,” Torsten said. “And perhaps someone will wear the helm again one day. But it won’t be me.”

  He lingered a few seconds longer in disbelief over what he’d just said. Then he tapped the stone wall twice and continued out of the room. Of all Redstar’s myriad curses, none was so obvious as that placed upon the Wearer of White.

  Torsten would say this about the Shesaitju, their Boiling Keep was nowhere near as complicated as the Glass Castle. All paths and hallways led toward the throne room. Even the lower chambers lacked the labyrinthian feel of his home’s tunnels and crypts. But then, they had always been a simpler people. Focused. Strength meant everything to them, and for those who couldn’t be strong, loyalty to their afhems was their most celebrated export. Now, all in Latiapur were loyal to the Caleef.

  As Torsten traversed the city on his own, he began to see how frightening an aspect that was. The Shesaitju were skilled, ruthless warriors. It was in their blood, bred from centuries spent in the harsh Black Sands desert filled with rival armies and deadly beasts.

  Liam had been able to conquer the Black Sands because of all the infighting. He knew how to exploit weaknesses and drive wedges, how to get an afhem to remove his support from another without ever having to lift a sword.

  But Torsten knew what a threat the Shesaitju under a single banner would pose, all while his own Kingdom would grow soft and accustomed to victory. His only solace was that despite Mahraveh displaying her grand army throughout the streets, the vast and wild city markets told a different story.

  Most wouldn’t notice it, but Torsten had spent years watching the feasts in the Glass Castle, keeping an eye out for any signs of unrest. And they were here. Beyond colorful sarongs and intricately weaved baskets, a name Torsten recognized was whispered here and there. His hearing, enhanced by the loss of true sight, allowed him to perceive it. Babrak. The afhem whom Torsten had previously attempted to align with against Muskigo.

  His name was like background noise, always present, but never more than a rustle on the wind. And occasionally, Torsten saw Serpent Guards grab locals, warriors and markless alike, and drag them away. They always covered their mouths to keep them from shouting.

  Queen Oleander had done the same when Yarrington’s people spoke out against her. Only, those people were slung by the throats over the castle walls. Torsten could only hope that Mahraveh wasn’t her father.

  Already, Caleef Mahraveh’s attempt to unite her people, altruistic as it might have been, wasn’t working. At least, not in the way she’d expected.

  Afhems, even without the title, still carried the respect of their former afhemates. Torsten noted the warlords, scalped and scabbed, trouncing around the city with dozens of warriors in tow. Perhaps, in time, without inter-afhemate wars, these loyalties might dissipate completely.

  He did, however, have to learn to appreciate that these people weren’t his own. They were different, beyond only how they looked. King Liam had no greater fault than that. Trying to make all Pantego a reflection of himself.

  In Yarrington, for Oleander to do what she’d done was monstrous. It was unforgivable in the eyes of Iam, even if Torsten had found a way to forgive and love her. But here? Death was as common as the shifting of the dunes. If Pi ever hoped to change the Shesaitju’s harsh ways, Torsten knew they’d have to understand them first.

  Nothing exemplified this more than the arena known as the Tal’du Dromesh. Torsten knew all the tales. How their finest warriors battled to the death on its hallowed sands in order to earn their titles. He’d heard of how Muskigo slaughtered his opponents to claim the Ayerabi Afhemate while King Liam watched.

  Torsten could never understand why a culture would purposely allow dozens of their best soldiers to die on ceremony alone. To sacrifice their lives for what—entertainment?

  Now, he stood before that great arena, its stone arcades rising high. The zhulong statues set along its crest clashed with their gilded tusks, home to many a bird searching for their next meal in the sea below. Giant spheres filled with nigh’jels hung in intervals, creating a soft, cool glow against the black sandstone columns. Serpent Guards stood in every opening of the entry colonnade, and they allowed Torsten passage to the place where young Pi was to be married.

  What better place for the grandest performance the Kingdom has ever known?

  When he reached the inside, that truth became even more apparent. Yarrington was home to theaters that could fit hundreds to be entertained by acting troupes and musicians. Torsten had helped secure countless plays put on in Liam’s honor after every victory they’d achieved.

  Those were nothing compared to this.

  The walls were high as any castle, with dozens of layers of stands rising up them. They all circulated a walled pit of black sand, stopping only at a dam of rocks on the seaside, which kept the Boiling Waters out.

  Later that day, at the highest sun, when Iam’s eye was most watchful, thousands upon thousands would pack those stands to witness the union of Pi and Mahraveh. It was Torsten’s job to help secure it, a task that seemed impossible. If Mahraveh’s people decided to swarm the arena, they would swallow them whole.

  Servants from the palace carried shell garlands, nigh’jel lanterns, flower petals, palm fronds, and more, decorating every flat surface for the event. Torsten glanced right. Sir Mulliner spoke with the head of the Serpent Guards—the only one of them with a tongue—pointing out weak spots in the arena. As if it would matter. They were placing their trust in a people who’d been in open rebellion only weeks earlier.

  Shieldsmen probed with them, learning the layout. Their white plated armor stuck out against the black-colored stone. Once they were done here, putting on a show, Torsten would have them all get rid of it. They couldn’t face Nesilia in armor infused with the glaruium she could manipulate.

  Torsten was on his way to meet with Sir Mulliner when he noticed that the battlegrounds weren’t empty. Winding his way back through the innards of the arena and emerging into the sands, Torsten heard them, silently fighting. Three Serpent Guards sparred with Caleef Mahraveh in the center. Her skin was a shade darker than the sand. The Serpent Guards couldn’t talk due to their lack of tongues, but neither did she grunt or yell, no matter how much force she put behind an attack.

  Her long spear parried and thrust, sparking along the sickle blades of her opponents. She ducked and weaved, and while they didn’t strike her, they weren’t holding back in the slightest. It was like a choreographed dance.

  The muscles of her long, lean body stretched and tightened. She was slight but impossibly agile, bending backward and springing clear of strikes like a limber snake. She landed on the balls of her feet, ready to pounce, then her dark eyes fixed upon Torsten.

  “Stop,” she said.

  The Serpent Guards pulled back mid-attacks, sheathing their weapons and falling to attention with speed and discipline Torsten could only dream of. Even Sir Davies’ best Shieldsmen—of which Torsten had been one—were never so in sync.

  Mahraveh crouched and wiped her hands in the sand. Then she stabbed her spear down and sauntered toward him. Torsten averted his gaze by nature. It had been hard to tell while she was fighting, but now it was clear—she wore absolutely nothing. Only long braids entwined with shells and trinkets bounced off her, clattering as she walked.

  “You must be Sir Unger?” she said, stopping a short distance from him.

  “I… uh… yes, my Lady,” he stammered. “I am.”

  “You’ll have to speak louder here. The winds of our God converge in this place, making it quite loud. Especially when storms brew off the coast.”

  “I am Sir Un
ger, my Lady,” Torsten pronounced. “We didn’t have a chance to speak at the feast.”

  “I know your relationship with my father. You can look at me.”

  “It’s not that, my Lady. You’re… uh…” He glanced up. The Black Sands was a hot place, and it’s people dressed in a way far less conservative than his own, but he didn’t expect her to be nude. And the sun barely seemed to even play against her skin, like she absorbed all the light around her.

  “Oh…” She looked down at her body. “I apologize, Sir Unger. Sometimes, I don’t realize.”

  She strolled over to the arena’s stone wall. Then, grabbing a gold-and-shell-laced dress hanging from a spike meant to keep combatants from daring to climb out, she let it drape over her. While it would have been out of place anywhere in Yarrington apart from a brothel, here, it fit.

  “I cannot believe you are here,” Mahraveh said, returning. The arena held many large rocks that the contestants would use for cover. She found one such boulder planted and raised herself upon it. Then, she snapped her fingers toward one of the Serpent Guards, and he fetched her spear.

  “Is something else the matter, Sir Unger?” she asked. “Am I still not decent enough for your sensibilities?”

  Torsten drew a long breath before starting off toward her. “No, it’s not that. I’m just… not used to the heat of this place.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. As he moved from the shadow of the entry tunnel, the hot southern sun beat down on his bald pate. Even wearing only a thin brown tunic, sweat beaded on every part of him.

  He stopped across from her and bowed his head. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  She nodded but said nothing. Instead, one of the guards handed her a whetstone, and she started sharpening the blade of her spear. Torsten gave her a few seconds more to answer, but still, nothing came. As she slid the stone, sparks flying out, all he could picture was Muskigo. She had his eyes and nose.

  “I have concerns over the security of this location,” Torsten said.

  “What was he like at the end?” Mahraveh asked, neither looking up nor responding to his statement.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Muskigo. There were others there, but I don’t know if they can be honest with me, even if they want to. You don’t care about our god, so you be honest with me.”

  “I see.” Torsten straightened his blindfold, cleared his throat. “He was… Brave—“

  “Another word for outmatched,” she interjected.

  “We all were. Truthfully, I have never seen anything like it, and I have fought many things. Mystics, giants, dwarves—your father stood above them all as a warrior.”

  “He defeated you in Winde Port,” she said bluntly.

  “I’d say we both lost, considering we were both going to drown before he was pulled out of the canals.”

  “I never heard that part of the story.”

  Torsten chuckled. “I’m sure you haven’t. A lot of blunders were made in that battle by both of us. If that damn blood mage hadn’t burned down the entire city and drove his army out, we may have all slaughtered each other.”

  Her whetstone slid out as she missed her next stroke. Her finger caught on the edge of the blade. Even if it drew blood, she was quick to drop her hand to her side.

  If you can help it, Torsten thought, never let the enemy see you bleed.

  One of many lessons Sir Uriah Davies had taught them, and one that had served him well over the years.

  “My father razed the city to cover his retreat,” Mahraveh stated.

  “Perhaps he lit the fuse, but the fire came by Sora’s command,” Torsten said. “Your father and I were too busy focused on killing each other to strategize. Our people are the only reason either of us was pulled out alive.”

  She returned to sharpening her blade. “It’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “How history forms when there is a winner,” she said. “I used to picture my father’s face when word reached us that he had conquered Winde Port, stolen it right from under the nose of the great Shieldsman, Torsten Unger. I’d imagine his smile and your anger.”

  “Your father didn’t smile. He was many things, but he was not one to celebrate until the job was done.”

  “And now he is dead,” she said. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in the words.

  “He is.”

  “I wonder what history will say if Nesilia wipes all of us out. Will it even remember him, or you, or me? Will it even matter that we ever existed?”

  “Of course, it will,” Torsten said. “Even if not a soul remembers, we will know what we did. That we came together to fight the darkness. That means something.”

  “And yet, Muskigo is still dead,” Mahraveh said.

  “Not in vain. My Lady, he showed us that even the greatest warrior in Pantego cannot stand against Nesilia alone. It will take all of us.”

  “The greatest?” she asked. “You claimed your battle ended in a tie.”

  “I said we both lost, but truthfully, I would have died first.” Torsten gestured to the stands of the great arena, bustling with men and woman preparing for the ceremony. “I suppose that sort of thing matters in a place like this.”

  “Only victory matters.” Mahraveh finished sharpening and held the blade up to her face. The tip glinted in the morning sunlight as she turned it over to examine both sides, blowing away the metal shavings. Then, she extended it toward Torsten so he could see.

  “Well done,” he said.

  “I had it reforged after White Bridge,” Mahraveh said.

  “These weapons will be of no use,” Torsten said. “Nesilia’s somehow taken control of the body of an upyr. A young woman who I knew. You remind me of her, actually, back when she was amongst the living.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Mahraveh asked.

  “As long as you don’t also plan on destroying the world.”

  “Only if that’s what it takes to save it.”

  Torsten tripped over his response, then nodded. That was the Shesaitju in her. Victory at all costs, at least until their past Caleef had surrendered to Liam and broken their spirits.

  They could never understand that Sidar Rakun surrendered because he knew, otherwise, the afhems would keep fighting until the Shesaitju went extinct. Just as Torsten knew that even if Sora hadn’t sparked that fire in Winde Port, Muskigo would have razed the city just to label it a victory.

  “It won’t come to that,” Torsten said with as much vim as he could muster. All the wars in his lifetime, he usually had the knowledge to understand what the future would hold, whether they won or lost. Not this time.

  Mahraveh reeled back the spear and stood. She spun it a few times, then thrust at the air, metal humming. “You can learn almost everything you need to about a man by fighting him,” she said.

  “On that, we agree,” Torsten replied.

  “My father hated you,” she went on, “but he did respect you.”

  “Something else we agree on.”

  “When I proposed this idea of marriage, my father knew that if he brought it to you, you’d understand. Not Sir Nikserof, not your King, or anyone else on his Council—only you.”

  “Sometimes logic dictates the only move. Our gods clearly want us to face Nesilia together.”

  “My God is dead,” Mahraveh said, this too without emotion.

  Torsten’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “It is my belief that both our gods gave every ounce of power they had left to bring us all here, alive.”

  “That’s not true,” Torsten said.

  “It doesn’t matter either way. I have to believe that, like them, my father died protecting you for a reason.”

  “He was protecting everyone.”

  Mahraveh grunted, then sat back down. “King Pi thinks very highly of you, Sir Unger,” she said. “He’s not what I expected, but he ran to you like a son to a father. I don’t why, nor do I care, but it’s clear to me that though he is the door, the key to the Glass
Kingdom is through you.”

  “Pi will be a strong and just King, my Lady. Of that, I no longer have any doubt. For a long time, I did, but Nesilia put him through an Exile worse than any of us, and here he is still, ready to do what it takes to face her.”

  “And because you believe in him, so do I. So, I ask of you, Sir Unger, champion of your King. Warrior to warrior. If we defeat Nesilia, and we all get a chance to keep writing history, don’t let my people be erased from it.”

  “Be true to our King, and I promise you, I will not.” Torsten took a deep breath before deciding to sit beside her. He noticed the Serpent Guards tense, closing in without being obvious about it. But his movement was purposeful. If what she wanted was ever to come to pass, the respect would have to go two ways. She wasn’t his Queen yet.

  “Fighting may be all I’m good at, my Lady,” Torsten said softly. “But I’m so tired of it. When we defeat Nesilia, it will be the last war I ever wage.”

  “’When we defeat her,’” she repeated. “I like that.”

  Mahraveh looked straight at Torsten’s face. For the briefest moment, the hard edge of a young woman who had to act like a goddess vanished, and Torsten saw the person beneath.

  In that moment, Torsten wondered if, perhaps, Nesilia’s return wasn’t all awful. Perhaps, Iam let it come to pass in order to bring the people of Pantego together for once after the God Feud ripped everyone apart millennia ago.

  He hoped, though, he knew deep down, it wasn’t true.

  XII

  The Caleef

  “You look positively radiant, my Caleef,” one of the palace sages said, smearing a bit of gold-colored makeup across Mahi’s eyelids.

  Mahi let them pamper her, though she didn’t like it. The old eunuchs didn’t bear names, none they dared to speak, at least. They were her servants, and far too many packed the tiny room in which she prepared for the wedding. She’d ensured it was the very same room—deep in Tal’du Dromesh’s undercroft—where she was kept before competing in the al’ Tariq tournament.