Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I promise, we didn’t,” Sora said, her heart heavy. She’d seen from the eyes of the goddess herself. “We saw it, right after her army ravaged the Strongiron Kingdom in the East.”

  “More hogwash.” Lorgit waved his hand in dismissal. “Whatever trouble the Strongirons be in, they did it to themselves. Prolly stirred up the nest of forgotten beasts. We’ve seen our share. Those soft-bellies never know when to stop diggin.”

  Sora considered telling him that she was there, but that truth might get them killed sooner rather than later. He clearly didn’t care for a rival dwarven kingdom so far away, but they were all dwarves in the end.

  “Father…” Brouben tried again to reason with the King.

  Lorgit turned to his son, a look of disapproval on his face. “Ye think ye know these folk?”

  Brouben didn’t answer.

  “The place now called the Glass Kingdom… ye know what we call it?”

  “Morrastreaudunimum,” Brouben answered without a moment’s hesitation.

  “That’s right. Morrastreaudunimum will always be Morrastreaudunimum no matter how many times those flower-pickers change its name. Been that way since before King Andur Cragrock, me great-great-great-great-grandfather, brought our folk to the mountain just to avoid ye filthy humans.” The King’s features turned soft. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Balonhearth as any good dwarf, but ye know this weren’t where we was supposed to be.”

  Brouben shifted, and Sora could feel his discomfort.

  “Before the Drav Cra rode south on their chekt—foul, smelly beasts,” the King continued, “our people were all happy down there. Warm weather and all. We built the place those flower-pickers now bury their Kings. Built most of their castle too, and that damn bridge ye have so many wild stories about. Then, the bastards turned on us. Used their chekt and dragons against us until they nearly got those creatures extinct like so many others. Drove us north to here.”

  He motioned with his hand.

  “Father, what does all this mean?” Brouben asked.

  “It means we are resilient,” Lorgit said. “Strong. Ain’t no way no one, goddess or not, gonna be drivin us from our home again. We learnt.”

  “But Father—“

  “No buts. We be traders and merchants, Son. We know a good deal when one comes along.”

  Deal?

  The king turned without another word and started back to the Iron Bank. Above, Whitney pulled himself behind Lorgit’s throne.

  Below, the clanbreakers returned to the gate, armor clattering.

  Sora couldn’t breathe. Had Lorgit struck a deal with Nesilia? If he had, they were in more danger than they’d thought. The glint in Lucindur’s eye told Sora she was thinking the same thing.

  If they had any chance of surviving, Whitney would have to move soon. His chance, slim as it was, was now gone. One of the clanbreakers on the right pulled on the gate of the Iron Bank, and it squeaked as it opened.

  “She got to ye, didn’t she?” Brouben said, voicing Sora’s own thoughts. His words were barely more than a whisper, hard to be heard over the roar and crackle of the many fires, but it made Lorgit stop dead in his tracks in the middle of the threshold.

  “I never thought ye, me own father, King of the Three Kingdoms, to be a coward,” Brouben continued.

  With that final word, the clanbreakers tensed, and Lorgit turned. “What did ye say?”

  “Deaf, too? Yer a coward,” Brouben repeated, slowly, emphasizing each word. “She’s got ye by the balls, and ye can’t grow em enough to get away.”

  What are you doing, Brouben? Sora thought. You’re going to spoil the whole rotten plan!

  “Stop talkin, now,” the King practically growled.

  But Brouben ignored him. “Ye don’t get it. Are ye gonna kill me? We’re all gonna die just like the Strongirons if ye don’t step up. Because they’re all dead, we can’t ask them what did it, but why would these people lie? We’re all gonna die without ye. All of us. Them, me, ye.”

  Lorgit didn’t speak, he just waved his hand dismissively and turned.

  “Ye don’t deserve the crown,” Brouben said. Cold ice covered everything in the room. “Me brethren been sayin it for years, but I always told em they was wrong. But ye don’t deserve to be King of the Three Kingdoms. Ye don’t deserve to be my father.”

  King Lorgit cleared his throat and flattened his beard. “Take him to the deep mines,” he ordered his men. His voice was serene, calm, collected. “All of them. Chain em up and don’t give em a pickaxe. Let’s see if they can hit quota with their fingernails and sharp tongues.”

  The clanbreakers stomped forward, and Sora tried with all her might to think. She had to do something.

  The memory of her first grift alongside Whitney exploded into her mind. It had been Sora waiting for Whitney that time atop the Jarein Gorge. She remembered the feeling well, praying to whoever that he would leap out from his hiding place behind that rock in time to save her from the vile deeds Grint Strongiron and his gang had in mind for her. Funny how many things came back to dwarves, and specifically, the Strongirons.

  That snapped Sora to attention. She locked eyes with Whitney, who peered out from behind the throne. She gave him the faintest of winks, then looked within. She remembered her anger as Nesilia made her watch while she slaughtered Grint’s own brethren, as if Sora herself wanted it. And that anger fueled her reach into the ever-present well of Elsewhere, now more prevalent than ever. Her hand wagged just the slightest bit.

  The cavern quaked.

  The clanbreakers broke stride, rushing toward their King.

  Heat sprouted up from the many basins around the room, including one hidden within the dragon’s skeleton. Sora hadn’t intended it, but the flames threatened to make a roast giant’s meal of Whitney. The dragon bones chattered; the braziers erupted, shooting flames every which way. Tendrils leaped from their pots and drew a line between Whitney and Aquira and the others, clanbreakers included.

  The clanbreakers grabbed the King as he stumbled.

  “What’s the meanin of this!” Lorgit cried.

  Brouben took advantage of the opportunity, hurrying to the mouthpiece of a large horn situated at the eastern wall. It soon became apparent that it would act as a bell tower, warning the whole city of danger.

  The sound it made was so resonant, the walls trembled.

  “Father, come on!” Brouben shouted as the flames crept toward Lorgit.

  The King stared at the flame, awestruck. “I thought I listened well… Why?” he said to himself. Sora had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Father, we can settle our differences later!”

  King Lorgit snapped to and nodded. The clanbreakers grasped him and rushed toward Brouben.

  Sora didn’t relent. Even as her head grew fuzzy from exertion and her skin became pale and cold. She couldn’t keep this show up much longer, but Brouben rushed everybody onto the same cart that brought them up to the throne room just in time. Lucindur grabbed Sora and helped her on, then held her upright. They exchanged a knowing glance.

  This time, as the cart took off, there were five extra passengers—four if you consider Whitney wasn’t with them. Tum Tum and Brouben took the lead on the seesaw once more and began pumping. Everyone else did their best not to get stuck by the clanbreaker armor.

  Sora breathed in and out slowly, letting Lucindur’s gaze calm her. Then, under her breath and covered by the many sounds around her, Sora whispered, “Go steal a stone, Whitney. And come back to me.”

  XVIII

  The Thief

  It was official: Whitney had never seen so much gold in one place in his entire life. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so much gold if he’d added it all up. King Lorgit Cragrock was rich. No, Barty Darkings was rich—Lorgit Cragrock had the wealth of a god. No, ten gods. Shog in a barrel, all the gods.

  Whitney hadn’t had time to make sure Sora made it out of the King’s throne room. He didn’t have time to thin
k about his own escape either. He had just dropped through the dragon skeleton’s ribs as soon as the others had loaded onto their cart. Hearing the sound of a cart pumping through the tunnels gave him solace to know that he’d be alone to do his deed and that Sora and the others would be safe below, within the city. Right now, though, none of that could be his concern. He needed only one thing: the Brike Stone.

  Looking down at his hands, Whitney could’ve sworn they were glowing gold in the reflection of the stuff. He took a few timid steps, careful not to disturb anything. Coins were strewn everywhere like a metal carpet. Just one bagful from this place would set Whitney up for life.

  Then again, just one of the coins would cover the remainder of his life if he didn’t get that Brike Stone and stop Nesilia once and for all.

  Chests, overflowing with gold and jewels, surrounded him. What looked like the newest of them hadn’t even been unloaded from a wooden wagon yet. It bore a familiar crest, a bundle of grapes, though Whitney couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before.

  “This is something else, huh, Aquira?” he said.

  The wyvern chirped in response, then flew up ahead a ways.

  He pressed forward after her. Piles and piles of treasure threatened to bury them both—truly enough to keep all Pantego living comfortably for many years. It was impossible to tell the breadth and depth of the chamber, the glow and gleam of everything was so disorienting. When he made it to the end of the room, he saw an opening on his right and walked toward it.

  “Come on, girl.”

  Inside was something more akin to a palace sleeping quarters than something that should’ve been found inside a vault. Indeed, a bed rested at the crest of the half-circle wall on the far side. Whitney nearly laughed out loud when he saw it, expecting a small version of a human bed. Instead, it was huge—big enough for ten of the dwarven King to sleep in without bumping into one another, even if they all had a fitful night.

  Torches burned in sconces on the stone walls, light dancing like Talwyn on a stage. Whitney assumed it to be the right side of the giant stone-carved dwarf head he was inside of. The furniture was all made of stone as well, dressers carved out of the walls themselves. Whitney could only wonder how the drawers opened and shut.

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” he said to himself and to Aquira, if she was even listening as she zipped around.

  Approaching the nearest one, he cracked his knuckles and wiggled his fingers. He ran a hand along the edge, feeling for any traps or alarms. Finding nothing, he tried to open the first drawer. There was no handle, and it was so finely carved, not even his fingertips could fit into the almost invisible lines.

  “Curious.”

  He placed his palm against the face of the top drawer. He slowly felt for any inconsistencies, anything that might hint at a secret button or release mechanism. Still, he found nothing.

  “Any ideas, girl?” Whitney asked Aquira.

  In response, she flew from her perch on his shoulder and landed on the top of the dresser. He watched her, expecting something, then felt stupid for doing so.

  “Smart but not that smart, I guess.”

  She snorted once, a dismissive sound if he’d ever heard one, then reached down with her front limb, which was attached to her body by membranous wings. She gave the drawer face a gentle push. There was a click, then the drawer shot outward toward Whitney. It stopped, and he helped it the rest of the way.

  “I stand corrected,” Whitney said. “You are so much more than anyone credits you for. Except maybe Gentry.”

  Aquira made a sad sound.

  “I know. We’ll see him again soon. I promise. And maybe he’ll still have some of those peanuts you like so much, huh? All right, now, let’s see what’s inside.”

  There were six such dressers, each one with four drawers filled with clothing and keepsakes that Whitney could’ve sold to any merchant in the realm and used the proceeds to live in luxury. He now regretted never pursuing dwarven kingdoms in his younger, thieving days. They did have stuff worth taking, just, only their Kings.

  What he didn’t find was anything that even slightly resembled the stone Tum Tum had described. He searched under the bed—or at least he’d tried to. The bed, too, was carved from stone and permanently affixed to both the back wall and the floor. There wasn’t even a mattress on it, meaning the King slept on a slab of cold rock.

  “Sounds about right for dwarves,” he remarked.

  The walls were mostly bare except for tapestries, all of which hid nothing behind them. The art within the Glass Castle had depicted great battles—kings against kings, gods and goddesses at war, but these were something else altogether. They bore the visage of frothy ale, each one in a different style container.

  Whitney shook his head.

  “C’mon, Aquira. Think,” he said, just as much to himself. “Sora’s distraction won’t keep them away for long,”

  There were no other doors in the chambers. Or was there?

  He gave thoughtful consideration to the nearly flush drawers. From where he stood, in the center of the room, the dressers looked more like solid blocks of stone. What if there was a door somewhere with similar characteristics?

  As if Aquira had read his thoughts, she started circling the room. Whitney watched her, floor to ceiling, inspecting every inch of the place. Finally, above the bed, she hovered in place.

  “Find something?”

  She puffed.

  She was pretty high up. High enough that Whitney couldn’t reach the spot, even standing on the bed.

  “What is it?” he asked. She puffed again. “Oh, right. Words. How would a dwarf get up there if I couldn’t?”

  Aquira shoved her back legs against the wall. Nothing happened.

  “No, not that,” Whitney said.

  She did it again.

  “It’s not working, Aquira.”

  She screeched, swooped down, and hit Whitney on the shoulder, then flew back up and did it again.

  “Hey! Watch it… oh!”

  In a moment of realization, Whitney reached out and began pushing on the wall, moving his hand with each failed push. His fingertips brushed something—a slight depression in the otherwise perfectly smooth walls. He pressed, and the sound of stone shifting was his reward.

  Not only did a door appear next to Aquira, but smaller slots opened in line with one another like a ladder.

  “Dwarven engineering,” Whitney said.

  He climbed and lifted himself onto the ledge. The passage was short, built for a dwarf. The doorway was dark, and the room inside even darker. It reminded him of Bliss’s lair, just more organized. And no spiders or egg sacs. He hoped.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled his daggers from his belt, one in each hand. Many people had weapons that were special and unique to them, but not Whitney. He couldn’t even remember where he’d gotten these particular blades, and if he lost them, he’d just pick up a couple more.

  Putting one foot inside, Whitney peered around the doorframe, and his heart leaped into his throat. He swung his daggers furiously, sparks jettisoning in every direction as the metal struck dwarven armor. He stumbled backward, nearly slipping off the ledge onto the hard bed below. Then, a feeble laugh escaped his lips when he realized it was just that—armor. There was no dwarf inside, just a mannequin holding a flashy set of armor which now looked like it had been through its first skirmish.

  “Hold it together, Whitney,” he said under his breath. “You’re acting like this is your first job.”

  His first job hadn’t been anything special. Sure, he’d stolen plenty of things in Troborough growing up, but early on, he’d been commissioned by a fence in Westvale to rob a noble. It turned out the nobleman was kind of a big deal. Whitney had been successful, though, and that’s all that mattered.

  This, however, might have been the most important job he’d ever taken. This wasn’t about worthless trinkets or priceless gems. This was his chance to prove he wasn’t just the
World’s Greatest Thief, but the World’s Savior.

  “That has a nice ring to it, huh, Aquira? ‘Whitney Fierstown, Savior of the World.”

  Aquira made a noise that sounded far too much like a raspberry to be anything but, and Whitney followed her within.

  Feeling the wall, he noted they were in a hallway. The deeper he went, the less light poured in from the room below. His hand touched something—an unlit torch. Snatching it from its holder, he thought to return to the king’s bedroom so he could light it on one of the others. That thought was stolen from him as Aquira blew a swift breath of flame, and the tip caught with a dull roar.

  “You are quite the useful little devil,” he said. “Glad I thought of you sneaking to me.”

  With a torch lit and held out in front of him, Whitney could see the tunnel for what it was. Utterly unremarkable.

  “All right, where are you, oh, Stone of Brikey goodness?” His last word was cut off as a soft click met his ears.

  “Shog,” he whispered.

  Sure, this wasn’t Whitney’s first job, but he certainly was acting like it was. It truly had been a while in his time. He slowed himself down.

  He’d encountered traps like this before. The plate in the floor would trigger some kind of defense, be it arrows, boiling pitch raining down from above, spikes jutting out from the walls or some other horrible method of death. The trap wouldn’t spring until Whitney removed his foot. The trick would be finding the source of the defense before moving.

  “Aquira, I need your eyes.”

  One thing no one would have accounted for was a wyvern accompanying a would-be thief.

  “Just like in the bedroom. Check the walls. If you see anything strange, anything at all, let me know.”

  A short while later, Whitney heard her screech from the darkness ahead.

  “Find something?” he called.

  She responded in what he assumed to be the affirmative.

  “I can’t see you.” He leaned forward with the torch as far as he felt comfortable doing, wincing the whole time.

  He heard wings flapping, then Aquira appeared in the cone of light emanating from the torch. She stole the torch from his hands with her teeth and returned to her former position.