Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Most of the people in the arena were either trampling each other to escape or petrified, but a few courageous warriors trickled down to help.

  “My King, we have to run,” Lord Jolly said.

  He pulled Pi free by the hand just before the nearest Current Eater exploded out of the water toward them. Its weight compromised the arena wall, and it tumbled back into the water. The tip of one of its tentacles stabbed into Lord Jolly’s calf and hoisted him into the air.

  “Release him, you unholy beast!” Torsten roared.

  Everything happened so fast, Mahi hadn’t even seen Torsten recover, yet there he was. He tore a glaive free from one of the Serpent Guards, knocked Dellbar aside, and brought the blade crashing down on the end of the tentacles.

  Mahi’s guards had little luck piercing the beast’s thick skin. Not him. The giant Shieldsman cleaved it in two in a single stroke. Lord Jolly fell free, and the tentacle lashed back, spewing out blood like a garden fountain.

  “Take him!” Torsten yelled. “Take the King!”

  He seemed dizzy as he moved, but he grasped Pi by his cape and shoved him toward Bit’rudam. Dellbar ran to Lord Jolly in the opposite direction and helped him up the stands, higher and beyond the Current Eater’s reach.

  Torsten whipped the blade around, slashing another tentacle. He couldn’t move fast, and every attack seemed off-balance like a warrior suffering heat fatigue. But she’d never seen anyone strike with such raw power—not even Babrak.

  Inspired by a Glassman acting so bravely, more Shesaitju stirred to protect their Caleef, leaping onto the beast. It shook them off like ants, but the distraction worked.

  Mahi took the petrified King’s hand, then offered Bit’rudam a nod. Her protector summoned the remaining nearby Serpent Guards to them, and they took off around the concourse. One tentacle raked a few in, but Torsten earned its attention back, his efforts even drawing Shieldsmen to him from all around that portion of the arena.

  “I swear, this wasn’t us,” Pi huffed as they ran.

  “I know that,” Mahi answered.

  Bit’rudam reached a wide ramp leading out of the stands and waved for them to hurry. Serpent Guards shoved dozens of fleeing Shesaitju aside to clear a path. Some fell, others tripped, and another of the Current Eaters rampaged toward them from the south side of the stands, its roars like thunder.

  Or is that really thunder?

  Mahi glanced south, and the thick, dark veil of clouds remained paused at the breach in the dam. Rain fell in angled sheets on the strong gale but moved no closer, and bolts of lightning coruscated throughout the blackness. As they flashed, Mahi saw silhouettes of large, rectangular shapes sticking out from the waves.

  “Long live Afhem Babrak!”

  Mahi heard the words before she saw where they came from. She shoved Pi away, then whipped around and caught a Shesaitju man jumping down at her from the stands above.

  A shiv carved out of loose stone drove toward her chest. Her elbow caught the attacker in the throat, loosened his grip, and she wrenched his forearm back to stab him through the eye with his own weapon.

  Bit’rudam tore him off her. Mahi ripped the shiv free and flung it over her protector’s shoulder, hitting another loyalist to Babrak in the shoulder. Serpent Guards swarmed the man and gutted him, then formed a circle around her, bashing more fleeing civilians aside.

  “No, the King!” Mahi yelled. “Protect my husband!”

  The words sounded foreign from her lips, and her cries were drowned out by the added chaos. Bit’rudam and the Serpent Guards marched down the exit aisle with her in the center, keeping everything and everyone away. Pi was stuck on the outside of them, jostled this way and that by the rushing throng.

  Mahi pushed Bit’rudam aside and ran back to help him, and that was when she saw it. The shapes within the hovering storm came into focus, and at their lead was a Shesaitju warship. A giant figurehead in the form of a sawfish stuck out from the prow. Angled sails were painted with the crest belonging to the Trisps’I—Babrak’s afhemate.

  A man so large it could only be him stood upon the bow, watching. Beside him was a red-robed woman. She seemed to be hovering, but the rain made things blurry, and her hands were raised toward the sky with bolts of lightning jumping to them, somehow causing her no harm.

  “Pi, get to the Boiling Keep,” Mahi called.

  “I can help…” he stammered. “I want to help.”

  “You will. But first, get to safety!”

  Before she could order a Serpent Guard to stay with him, the nearest Current Eater flattened all those caught in its path, cleaving a mass of stone away from the arena. Bit’rudam clutched Mahi and tugged her back into the protective circle. More people fell into a mad scramble in the undersized exit, and Mahi made eye contact with Pi for but a moment before he darted away, lost in the heap of flailing bodies. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Babrak—the man who’d taken so much from her—raise his fat arm. From such a distance, she could only imagine his grin as he let his arm fall.

  The robed woman besides him did the same, streams of lightning dying at her fingertips as the rain, wind, and clouds suddenly dissipated. More ships by the dozens were revealed as if from nowhere, all Trisps’I. The raging sea calmed as well, allowing them to safely sail through the beach while waves radiated outward that would keep the Latiapur navy at bay.

  Hundreds of arrows darkened the sky, fired from archers upon the decks. The sun vanished behind them. They were aimed without prejudice. Even the Current Eaters would be caught in the volley.

  Serpent Guards threw themselves over Mahi as they hurried her down the exit ramp. She couldn’t see a thing, could only hear the zip of the arrows falling, and the chorus of screams, rent flesh and clacking stone as they landed.

  Now, Mahi knew without a doubt.

  Her new enemy was capable of feats unlike any she’d ever witnessed. And her family’s oldest enemy, Babrak, had no honor. He’d aligned himself with Nesilia, and through the guise of a dark magic storm, attacked Latiapur from the sea, where it was thought to be impenetrable.

  XVII

  The Mystic

  Sora limped along, barely having to put on any performance at all. She’d planned to fake a fall anyway, but she’d actually caught her ankle as they disembarked the cart.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Whitney skulked along the dark edges of the room, careful to not make a sound.

  By now, they’d all recovered, and Brouben stood at the head of them, speaking quietly to a guard wearing armor black as night and covered in long spikes. Brouben called them clanbreakers—they looked as fierce and violent as any dwarf Sora had laid eyes on.

  An onslaught of memories blasted her, of Nesilia’s destruction of those poor dwarves called the Strongirons. Using Freydis and the Drav Cra, she’d been merciless, cutting down so many just to prove a point. Now, without Nesilia’s callousness, fear gripped her heart at the thought of being captured and perforated by the clanbreakers.

  What if anyone made it out alive and blamed her?

  In Yarrington—even Winde Port, they had rules. The guards wouldn’t run them through with their swords, even if they’d been caught performing any of Whitney’s stupid cons. They’d have been arrested sure, maybe thrown in a dungeon for the rest of time, or in the worst case, chop off their heads in front of a crowd, but at least then they’d have been prepared.

  Here though, Sora wasn’t so sure. Whitney had always said the dwarves valued gold above all else, and that guard had mentioned execution for simple breaking and entering. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had the right to kill first and then interrogate the corpse.

  I’m sounding more like Whitney every day, Sora thought.

  “Father!” Brouben called as an old dwarf shuffled through the gate leading to what appeared to be a barred vault situated within the ribcage of the dragon skeleton.

  This must have been King Lorgit Cragrock. He wore a bright red cloak, but the end
of it was a patchwork of other fabrics—various colors and patterns. He looked like he’d always been old. His hair—which seemed to be making a determined retreat from his forehead—was nearly white as the snow they’d trudged through to get to the mountain. Deep chasms in leathery skin were buried beneath thick, furry brows. A gray beard climbed up his cheeks almost to his eyes and fell over glinting chainmail, every link crafted from gold. He was frail—not skinny. From the look of things, no dwarf was skinny. And just like the colossal dwarf head they were now inside of, he wore a golden, winged helm.

  “Brouben, what’s it now?” he asked, a voice as weary as he looked. “What’s this ramshackle group of humans ye got with ye? Prisoners? Since when do we bring prisoners to the throne room? Take em to the dung—“

  “Fathe—“ Brouben cleared his throat. He was already at work, undoing everyone’s shackles. “King Lorgit Cragrock, please forgive the deception, but I needed to get em to ye. These are me friends… new friends. They’ve got somethin to say.”

  The King stopped, cocking his head to one side like a confused puppy. “Are me eyes growin old, or is that Dwotratum Goodbrew?”

  “Aye, that be me,” Tum Tum said, stepping forward.

  Sora held her breath as the King glared at Tum Tum. She wasn’t sure Cragrock had the strength to punch Tum Tum, but if looks could kill…

  The King approached slowly, eyeing Tum Tum the whole way. “Ye’ve got nerve returnin here after so long,” he said.

  “And I don’t do it lightly,” Tum Tum said. “There be trouble. Much of it. And I be thinkin, there’s no one better to face the trouble head-on than me own King.”

  King Lorgit laughed, but it was filled with fire. “Do I look like Pi Nothhelm to ye?”

  Tum Tum looked taken aback, but Sora saw it coming. The old adage seemed true. A dwarf never forgives nor forgets.

  “Did ye think I’d kept a room for ye?” Lorgit spat. “Ain’t ye even wondered where yer father were—may he drink with Meungor. Ye swore me off as yer King long ago.”

  “Not true, me King.” Tum Tum managed to squeeze the words out, but Sora could see it plain on his face, the news that his father had died was clearly a shock. She was grateful Tum Tum fought the urge to ask what had happened. There’d be time for that if they all lived. If not, he’d be able to ask his father in person.

  “Now yer callin me a liar?” Lorgit stroked his beard with his many-ringed hand. There was silence, long and agonizing. He looked at Brouben, then back to Tum Tum. “Ain’t got nothin more to say.”

  Lorgit then turned his back to Tum Tum.

  Sora scanned the room for Whitney. If the dwarven king returned to the Iron Bank so quickly, Whitney would have no chance to execute the heist. Sora and Lucindur would need to enact the next part of their makeshift plan immediately.

  “We traveled a long way,” Lucindur said, doing an excellent job of just that. Her voice was soft but commanding, same as it always was.

  It amazed Sora how such a slight woman could practically demand the attention of anyone in any room across Pantego. It was a talent Sora hoped to learn. Whitney had told Sora a lot about his time with the Pompare Troupe during his endless stories on the way back from the Citadel. He’d said that Modera and Fadra may have run the Troupe on the outside, but honestly, it was Lucindur. She knew how to unite people, care for people, and scold people when necessary. Even in Sora’s short time with the woman, those things were evident.

  Sora just wasn’t sure how much of the woman’s magic played a role in things.

  Lorgit stopped but didn’t turn around. Lucindur, apparently, took that for an invitation to continue.

  “You’re truly the last hope we have, Your Grace,” she said.

  With those last words, the pride Sora knew all dwarves to possess kicked in. Perhaps, Lorgit had seen through his son’s flattery, but Lucindur spoke with such confidence, Sora almost believed it.

  Lorgit spun, almost a smile on his face. But Sora misread his intentions.

  “Ain’t that convenient,” he said. “Ain’t heard a word from ye Glintish folk until just weeks ago when one of yer own came here under the banner of the Glass, and now, here ye are again. I gave ye an army, and what did ye do with it?”

  Just then, Sora caught sight of Whitney slinking along the tail of the dragon skeleton. The fact that Aquira sat upon his shoulder completely shocked her. Somehow, she knew that was his doing, but she couldn’t worry about it now.

  She and Whitney locked eyes, obviously both thinking the same thing.

  A Glintish under the banner of the Glass requesting an army? Sounds like Torsten.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Lucindur said.

  Brouben cleared his throat. “Father, I told ye. We were out—“

  “Outmatched?” Lorgit said. “In all me years alive, I ain’t never seen a man outmatch a dwarf. And yer tellin me them gray-skins found a way to slaughter—“

  “As I told ye, Father—“

  “Don’t ye say it.” Lorgit’s face was the color of a ripe plum.

  “How do ye expect me to defend meself if ye keep tellin me not to talk about it?”

  “I ain’t lookin for defense; I’m lookin for quiet!”

  The request was granted apart from what was surely an involuntary harrumph from Tum Tum.

  Whitney motioned for Sora to do something.

  “Your Grace,” Sora said, improvising. “What is this about? If I might ask.”

  At the same time, Brouben said, “Father, I don’t think—“

  “By Meungor’s shinin axe, yer finally right on a point,” Lorgit interrupted. “Ye sneak these flower-pickers in, disguisin them as prisoners—in me own throne room! Yer lucky I don’t have me clanbreakers shred all of ye on the spot.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Brouben said. “It seemed the only way.”

  “Only way for what? They want more of our warriors killed in their squabbles?”

  “Warriors?” Sora said. “Your Grace, we don’t need soldiers…”

  “Then spit it out,” Lorgit said, interrupting Sora. “What’s an outcast and a horde of outsiders doin in my home?”

  Whitney let out a sharp raspberry, then covered his mouth with his hand. Sora sucked in a breath, doing her best not to look at him, hoping everyone else would do the same. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

  “I sent me own son to Yarrington to help those fools govern their coin,” Lorgit said. “Seems like it ain’t done nothin good. Ye ain’t here for soldiers, then yer here for gold.”

  “They ain’t here for gold neither,” Brouben said. “Please, listen to them. If ye won’t listen to me…”

  For a moment, Lorgit calmed, and just as he was about to speak, Sora did.

  “Nesilia, the Buried Goddess—“

  “For the love of all shog-shuckin, yiggin horse-lovin—Enough already!” King Lorgit shouted. It was a strange sound coming from such an old man, deep, resonant.

  The clanbreakers edged forward at the outburst from their king, undoubtedly ready for violence should it come to it. Perhaps they were even hoping for it.

  Sora watched as Whitney used the distraction and continued the climb further up the dragon skeleton. At first, Aquira looked skittish, as if afraid of the great beast that was her ancestor. Sora’s heart nearly melted as Whitney turned his head, nuzzling against her for a moment. However, then her eyes drifted to the armor-clad warriors below them, faces forward. She wondered how they could possibly fight in that getup, and hoped she wouldn’t learn. Two slits were carved out of their helmets for eyeholes. They didn’t even look like they could turn, much less see what was beside them.

  That boded well for Whitney as he crept along the dragon’s spine toward the spot at the crest of the beast’s back where Lorgit’s throne sat. No less than ten large braziers similar to those in the main hall kept the throne room lit. That also meant if anyone turned around, he’d be shining like the sun atop th
e dragon’s back.

  Sora cringed as he leaped nimbly from bone to bone until he was safely hidden behind the king’s massive throne and waited for his next move. It was quite the feat, she had to admit. To do such a thing so quietly as he had—perhaps he wasn’t exaggerating all of his tales. She smiled, then remembered her face and cleared it of emotion.

  “Your Grace,” Sora said, taking a place next to Lucindur. “Your son tells the truth.”

  “And what do ye know?” Lorgit said.

  Sora was confident the word “knife-ear” was sure to follow, but it didn’t. She supposed that was a mark in the positive column for the dwarven King.

  “Yer people have been just as quiet as hers.” He pointed to Lucindur.

  “All the more reason you should believe something important has occurred,” Sora said.

  A look washed over him that made Sora think he might be considering it. Until he spoke.

  “Ain’t a thing more important than preservin this mountain and me people. Now, if that be all, ye can find yer way back to the warmth, and feel lucky I don’t have yer heads taken from yer shoulders.”

  “Father, ye can’t expect us to simply sit back while the world ends,” Brouben said.

  “That’s precisely what I mean us to do. Ye don’t know what yer triflin with, boy.”

  What did that mean? Did Lorgit know more than he was letting on? Sora chewed her lip and considered Nesilia’s previous tactics with the Strongirons. Had she gotten to Lorgit and secured the Three Kingdoms as her own?

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Lucindur said. Brouben put a hand on her arm, but she yanked it away. “With all due respect. We were there.”

  Lorgit glared at her. There was something there in his eyes, emotion thick in the air. Though, Sora couldn’t place it. Anger? Pity?

  “There?” the King asked.

  Lucindur hesitated, but to her credit, it wasn’t for long. “Nesilia and her whole army… we saw her.”

  The King, however, didn’t pause for a second. “Aye, and I’m tellin ye, ye saw wrong.”