Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Nesilia really did it.

  Stories of unconquerable Latiapur filled tomes, and in mere minutes, Nesilia and her new allies were able to make history bow its knee.

  “I’ll kill you!” Lucas growled, recovering quickly. He slashed, leaving a shallow incision on Rand’s left arm as he spun away.

  “I told you all to run,” Rand said, panting.

  He dropped back into a defensive stance, but the ground quaked again and shook enough dust off the walls and ceiling to have them both in coughing fits. The sound of flooding seawater grew louder and more distinctive, like standing behind a waterfall.

  “Because that’s all you know how to do,” Lucas said.

  “No. I just refuse to die without talking to her again.”

  “She’s dead!” Lucas shouted.

  Chunks of stone fell off all around them. Booming crashes from above reverberated, and Rand had no idea what they could be the result of. And then, they both stopped as they noticed the far-off arena entrance and the water raging through it, spitting foam as it sloshed against the walls.

  Amidst the distraction, Rand reared back and swung as hard as he could at the wall. The blow resulted in cracking off stone, another cloud of dust, and shooting sparks at Lucas’ face. Then, he did what everyone thought he did best.

  He ran.

  Lucas gave chase, shouting drowned out by the deluge pursuing them. Having been brought down from the city gates with a bag over his head, Rand had no idea how to get out of the undercroft except through the flooding arena. However, the Glass Castle had many warrens and tunnels connecting one place to another and even auxiliary entries for servants and supplies. He hoped he’d find the same here.

  “You won’t get away again!” Lucas barked, voice now nearer.

  Rand ducked, but not before feeling Lucas’ blade shave hairs from his scalp. Too close.

  “You’re crazy!” Rand shouted. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  He skidded to his knees, then flipped over to raise the claymore in time to block Lucas’ next attack. Their blades locked, and Rand’s jaw clenched as he resisted Lucas’s upper position.

  “So be it,” Lucas said, seething. “You won’t deceive Sir Unger any longer!”

  “He deceives himself, trusting a broken Kingdom.”

  “Only in trusting you.” Lucas slid his blade free of their entanglement, allowing Rand’s to slice his forearm as it dipped so he could gain an opening. His sword crashed down toward Rand, but not before the flooding water rushed around the corner and struck him in the back.

  Lucas toppled forward, giving Rand the chance to grab his weapon hand and push it aside. The heavy current then heaved them across the floor, and they both lost grip of their weapons.

  Unarmed, they tangled, punching, kicking, and biting. Rand wasn’t sure what he hit, stone, or his opponent, only that the current was unreasonably strong and that the water rose fast. Both were shoved against a wall at the end of a tunnel. By then, they were no longer fighting, but flailing for the surface, desperate for air.

  Rand and Lucas broke through at about the same time, and they both caught sight of one another, then, the giant claymore stuck in the hinges of an open cell door.

  Lucas kicked, then dove for it. Rand did the same. They groped through the water, the hilt shifting in the wild current, and every time one of them managed to get a finger on it before the other pulled them away. Soon, they were both pulled beneath the surface again.

  Rand popped up and quickly landed a fist on Lucas’ chin with a wild punch. Lucas reeled, and Rand grasped him by the shirt, wrenching him back into a choke lock. His arm squeezed Lucas’ throat as he took frantic elbow after elbow to his ribs. Rand clenched his teeth and held on until the blows softened, both by Lucas losing his strength, and the pure volume of water closing in around them.

  Lucas’s neck started to lilt. His arms went limp, stretched back by the current. Rand kicked his feet, fast as he could to keep his mouth above the rising water, but he continued to squeeze, just in case.

  Then came a deafening bang.

  He found himself blinded by an explosion of stone and debris. Water sloshed and splashed, and a shockwave hurled him. He tumbled in the water, stopping at a crease between the wall and floor, where a hefty chunk of stone fell on his foot and pinned him.

  The arena’s outer wall had come crashing down, breaking open the street above the tunnel. A shaft of light pierced the water, revealing the sky and providing more light so Rand could see his own leg.

  He grabbed and yanked. A layer of leg skin scraped off against the abrasive surface, but he managed to free himself. The saltwater burned the fresh wound while he kicked for the surface.

  Clambering up the rubble while more floodwater rose with him, he reached the square surrounding the arena’s north side. Lucas’ hand gripped his leg, fingers digging into the wound.

  “You won’t—“

  Rand silenced him with a kick that sent him back into the rising water, then pulled himself over the broken ledge. Feet stampeded all around him. Hundreds of Shesaitju civilians fled the arena, while others dressed like warriors approached from around the city.

  The city’s infamous Serpent Guards surged out of the main entrance in a tight formation. Shieldsmen here and there leaked out of other archways.

  Rand shook out his foggy head. Any of them might recognize him, or worse, Torsten might spot him. He hadn’t gotten enough of the toxin into him to completely knock him out, and Torsten was bigger than the average man.

  So, Rand pushed to his feet and fell in with the crazed throng. The sounds emanating from the arena sent chills up his spine. Crushing stone. Screams. Roars that could belong to nothing but the same tentacled beast he’d watched his sister’s body upon in Yaolin City.

  He wasn’t sure where to go next. Then, he spied what looked like King Pi fleeing with the rabble, guided by one Serpent Guard. The boy-King of Glass. The boy who’d died in the arms of a wicked mother who’d punished everyone around her, and then rose from the dead to cause a devastating war.

  His chestplate was scratched and dented, white clothes torn, and his hair disheveled, but there was no question it was him.

  “Remove Torsten from the equation,” Nesilia had told Rand before she dispatched him, wearing the body of his sister. “Without him commanding the Shield, the boy-King, and Latiapur, are sure to fall. Then, the seat of Glass will come undone.”

  “Why not kill him?” Rand had asked.

  “Because I want Torsten—a man of the most unshakable faith—to watch his failure with his blessed vision. I want he who thought himself able to stop my return atop Mount Lister to know it was my doing.”

  Rand might’ve failed to render Torsten completely useless, but if he could take Pi out himself, Nesilia would get what she wanted anyway.

  Then, maybe, she’d release his sister.

  Then, maybe, Sigrid could have her life back.

  XX

  The Knight

  Dellbar the Holy rubbed Torsten’s back and whispered in his ear, beseeching Iam, begging their God to retake control. On his hands and knees, after Mahraveh saved him from the floodwater, Torsten could do naught but listen to the chaos erupt.

  But he was lucky for his leather zhulong armor—at least the beasts from the Black Sands were good for something. The grimaur toxin had already dwindled in his bloodstream, and sensation slowly returned to his left side.

  In his peripherals, he spotted Lord Jolly being torn away from King Pi. Torsten didn’t hesitate. He pushed Dellbar aside, robbed a Serpent Guard of his glaive, and brought it crashing down on the tentacle of a beast he’d thought to be a thing of Panpingese lore.

  Blood, cold as death and black as night, splashed his face as the creature reeled. Torsten stumbled forward, the weight of the weapon and the effects of the toxin keeping him off balance. Lord Jolly collapsed beside Dellbar, and Pi ran to Torsten.

  “Take him!” Torsten yelled. “Take the Kin
g!”

  He shoved King Pi at Mahraveh and the other Shesaitju warriors, then slashed again at the monstrous creature. The resistance as his blade cut through its flesh was unlike anything he’d ever experience. Like chopping stone. The force of it ripping through the other side sent him down to his knees. Another tentacle kissed his chest and sent him flying up into the stands.

  “Torsten!” Lord Jolly shouted, running to his aid.

  He got Torsten to his feet, both of which he could now almost feel again. The wianu’s strike seemed to knock some sense into his compromised body. And with that, came the impossibly bright lines of pain tormenting his torso. Rand’s stab wound was the least of it. To see to the injury, they’d removed his chestplate, and without it, the beast’s hit had easily fractured a rib or two.

  “Torsten, what in Elsewhere happened to you?” Jolly questioned.

  “Nesilia baited us all,” he said, throat still sore as the muscles re-acclimated. “Leaders of armies and countries defying her, all of them together.”

  “I knew the ceremony should’ve been in Yarrington!”

  “Then maybe—“ Torsten lost his train of thought when he heard Dellbar, still muttering, “Iam help us. Iam take me,” under his breath, while he crouched behind stands, tracing his eyes again and again.

  “Lord Jolly, listen to me,” Torsten said. “You need to get Dellbar out of here alive and reach Hornsheim. He must rally the priests.”

  “You’re worried about him?” Lord Jolly asked. He pointed to the flooding arena. “Even with one arm, I know how to fight on the water. We need me here.”

  Torsten shook his head. “Iam chose him. If he dies, even in the face of destruction, the Order will convene to replace him. We will need all of Iam’s shepherds and their flocks. Take the west exit. Lucas and my horses are the fastest in the realm. Fetch them from the city’s stables.”

  Pi and Mahraveh were headed to the northern ramp, and it was better not to bring everyone together for Nesilia to pick off again. Pi had an entire contingent of Serpent Guards and the hero of Nahanab to guard him.

  “And you?” Lucas asked.

  “Me? I am the shield that guards the light of this world,” Torsten said, reciting the final vows of a Shieldsman.

  The monstrous wianu was half-upon the arena’s lower concourse, fighting off Serpent Guards and Shieldsmen alike on a path toward Pi and Mahraveh. Its giant tentacles swung wildly, breaking apart stone and skewering grown men like their armor was made of parchment. Through Torsten’s blessed vision, the entire thing appeared as one ugly mass of shadow. Absent light, like Nesilia had been.

  Torsten launched himself high, kicking from one stand to the next, landing on top of the creature’s head and driving the glaive down into its left eye. It got stuck only about a forearm’s length in, but he twisted it from side to side, earning distressed screeches.

  “Sir Unger, are you insane!” Sir Mulliner shouted. He and a cohort of Shieldsmen arrived from the western side of the arena, busy helping to organize the retreat of those civilians seated there.

  “Keep its attention!” Torsten ordered.

  A flurry of tentacles all zoomed toward him. He loosened his grip and slid off the side of the monster’s head, dangling adjacent to its maw. The stink gave what he’d experienced in that Panpingese inn a run for its autlas. It snapped at his feet while fighting off Sir Mulliner’s men.

  Torsten pushed off a set of teeth, narrowly avoiding losing a foot. Then, he broke the glaive in two, swung back in, and shoved its broken shaft into the top of the sea creature’s mouth, keeping it from biting down. Unlike the thing’s outer skin, this flesh was soft, and the jagged edge sank right in.

  Recovering quickly, Torsten pushed back, dropping from its maw and landing back in the stands. Sir Mulliner was there to help him while the monster flailed around like a mad boar until the shaft shattered in its mouth. It swallowed the sharp, wooden shards without any hesitation.

  “Protect the Master of Warfare!” Shieldsmen echoed, forming a wall in front of Torsten with heater shields. Torsten glanced left toward the central exit Mahraveh and Pi had been heading for. A flood of people shoved down the generous passage, which now seemed all too narrow. Another of the wianu approached them from the opposite side of the arena. A third devoured those who’d fallen into the waters, plucking others off the walkways with its long tentacles.

  They made it, Torsten thought.

  “Retreat!” he called out. “In Iam’s name, Mulliner, get everyone out of here!”

  The Shieldsmen broke rank immediately. They were young, probably more terrified than he could even imagine. He was too. Possessed people were one thing, but these legendary monsters were pure evil.

  The one he’d injured propped up above Torsten, using its tentacles like legs, covering him in cold shadow. Its head turned, so its one remaining eye stared directly at him. Torsten’s heart was a heavy stone and felt like it was trapped in a vice as he froze there. All the other sounds of death and chaos were muted.

  Even Torsten’s fear melted away. He felt only crushing and immeasurable sadness. Pain, as if he’d lost everyone and everything he loved all at once. He could do nothing but focus on the eye and discover that it wasn’t soulless like how it appeared; it was filled with pain and rage and suffering. It was precisely the absence of light, of Iam’s grace.

  The wianu descended upon him, ready to devour, shadowy tendrils extending around him.

  Then, it screeched.

  Barbed Shesaitju arrows peppered every inch of its backside, some sneaking through its tentacles to clatter on the stone around Torsten. It must’ve absorbed more than a hundred—enough to bring down even the mightiest beast.

  Not this one.

  The distraction, however, allowed Torsten out of its soul-crunching gaze. It also guarded him against a barrage of arrows that would’ve shredded him with his lack of armor.

  He ran up the stands. There was no time to whisper a prayer as he grabbed a shield off a fallen Shieldsman, chest caved in by a blow from the monster. Glancing back, he saw Shesaitju ships sailing into the flooded arena. Somehow the approaching storm broke right at the breach in the dam, guiding them in on a robust and focused current.

  He’d never been one for naval warfare or ships in general—that was Lord Jolly’s purview—but none of it made sense. The Boiling Waters were said to be treacherous and violent, with safe access routes pathed out to existing docks like the one King Pi had arrived on. A fleet couldn’t merely approach, miss a labyrinth of razor-sharp rock, and avoid being spotted.

  And then Torsten saw her... On the bow of the lead ship, floating over the deck, streaks of energy crackling over her fingers, a mystic. Torsten had fought in the Third Panping war, and it was like he was thrown back in time, the way her red robe seemed to ripple in a wind that didn’t quite match what he felt.

  At first, he thought it was Sora, back again at the least expected time. But this woman was old, ancient even. He could tell, even from so far away. He didn’t have time to study her much longer. The wianu went into a rampage, its tentacles slapping and breaking apart Tal’du Dromesh with new fury. Another across the arena was struck by arrows and lost its grip on the stands. It tumbled down in a mess of dust before splashing in a heap.

  The Shesaitju archers arriving with the fleet nocked more arrows and let loose another volley.

  “Retreat!” Torsten screamed. “Back to the Keep.”

  He sprinted up the stands, long legs taking him from one row to the next. Shieldsmen and stragglers throughout the place ran for whatever cover they could find as well. His acute hearing picked up the thrum of another volley fired. He dropped into the space between two levels—amidst bodies already skewered by the first salvo—and raised his shield. The three-pronged projectiles battered against it. It took all his strength to hold it up, considering the injuries he’d already sustained. One arrow stabbed down, missing the flesh of his foot by the length of an eyelash. Others tore through a grou
p of Shesaitju women and children nearby.

  There was no strategy for the attack beyond instilling fear. Wasting arrows on innocents and remnants? The last fell and Torsten sprang up, his arms sore at every joint. Unable to carry the shield, he was forced to drag it up to the top row of the arena. He peered back as often as he could. Straggling Glassmen and Shesaitju were picked off one by one. The ships all approached the lower concourse, the wianu leaving them be and instead, continuing to rage and break apart centuries of history. Zhulong statues broke free and tumbled down the entire height of Tal’du Dromesh, crushing and maiming as they went.

  And so Torsten did the same. He reared back with the shield using two hands and bashed the base of one of the still-standing statues. Once, twice, using his mass and might until the stone broke. He wedged the shield behind it and gave it a shove to send the massive statue bouncing down the stands.

  It crashed through the bow of one of the invading ships. Wood splintered everywhere and at least a dozen gray men were thrown into the water. The one ravenous wianu still swimming lost control, devouring many in a single gulp.

  The mass of archers had stowed their bows to prepare for the invasion, but a handful dotting the masts of the nearest ships fired arrows up at him. Torsten deflected them with the shield, nearly slipping from the upper ledge. He glanced down. The long drop was sure to break his legs, if not bring death. But nearby, damage from a rampaging monster caused a portion of the arena wall to fall, bashing through the square and revealing a part of its extensive undercroft. Water surged the rift like it had an appointment.

  It was a longshot, but Torsten had no choice. He skirted the top row toward the arch nearest the break, arrows whizzing by his head, or glancing off his shield. He struck the statue at that arch until another arrow grazed the back of his calf. The thing started to wobble loose, but he couldn’t wait for results.

  Torsten dropped the shield, removed his blindfold, squeezed it tight in one fist, then threw himself off the top of the arena toward the water-filled opening.