Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Ancient feuds, ancient ways, and ancient things need to die if we’re going to beat her,” Mahi said. “Sentiment can’t matter.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we feel nothing for this bridge, then,” Bit’rudam said. “Except remembering how the Glass troops crossed here to invade our home.”

  Mahi glared at him. “Sentiments. Can’t. Matter. Torsten put me in charge because he knows that as well. And we will either honor the sacrifices caused by cutting off this route, or we will fail them. It’s as plain as that.”

  She let off him, and Mulliner rolled away, coughing. “My men won’t go along with this. I’ll have them arrest every single one of you in the name of the Glass.”

  “While you slept, I already convinced the ones who matter,” Mahi said. “Now, sit there and watch. And maybe, when we’re finished, you can decide to join this war like the rest of us who realize that all these old Kingdom names no longer matter.”

  Mahi studied his stunned expression for a few seconds, then turned and climbed to the ridge’s highest point. She raised her hand, and immediately all of her men looked to her. Beastmasters to drive the zhulong, Serpent Guards, and Glassmen alike on the bridge prepared to do her bidding.

  “I hope this works,” Bit’rudam said.

  So did she. She wished that the blessing of the God of Sand and Sea could allow her to summon the force of the river at the bottom of the gorge and send it crashing through the bridge. She wished that the Walled Lake would rise up and swallow everything whole like one of Nesilia’s vile Current Eaters. She wished for the blessing offered by anything but vague memories of the past, or numbness to the wind.

  But as she had always known, since the day her father left her to go start his rebellion, she could rely only upon herself.

  “It will,” she said.

  She swiped her hand, and the beastmasters starting shouting and whipping the poor zhulong. The hundreds of them scattered around the gorge wherever they could find footing and began to pull, squealing as their hooves dug in.

  Nesilia had her magic, but Mahi had the raw strength of the Black Sands—centuries of creatures bred in the harsh environment.

  As the beastmasters got louder and more aggressive, the zhulong pulled harder. Some on lower ridges lost their footing and slipped off the ledge. Their weight, squirming as they dangled, would only help.

  They were loyal beasts to a fault. Mahi knew most of her people wouldn’t be able to watch as they exerted themselves so much that many of their hearts would fail. She didn’t dare look away. She owed them that much…

  Bit’rudam climbed next to her and stood by her side. This time, he didn’t dare try and take her hand, but his presence was welcome nonetheless.

  “This is insane,” Mulliner said.

  Mahi ignored him and kept watching. Waiting for the thick, arched stone of the bridge to show any sign of slipping. History said it was reinforced with glaruium, and she would now put that rare metal the Glass Kingdom so revered to the test.

  Their metal, her beasts.

  More zhulong screeched and slipped. The beastmasters kept pushing, and now, she could hear the pain in their voices. They’d given their lives to raising these creatures—her warriors, too—all to teach them how to join in on the Shesaitju tradition of war and killing each other.

  At least now, they’ll help save us.

  “There! Did you see that?” Bit’rudam exclaimed,

  She did. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but the very bridge itself tremored like a shiver up a person’s spine when winter’s chill begins to take.

  She swiped her hand again, and the men positioned on the bridge got to work. They shoved and lifted, heaving the bundles of heavy debris over the bridge’s side, letting them drop. Then, they fled for the western cliffs.

  The ropes extended their full-lengths, then jerked up, the force tearing some, debris plummetting to the waters below. But those weighty bundles were also attached to the damaged towers flanking the bridges. Loose portions of the towers were ripped free, crashing down upon the bridge where the zhulong were already pulling.

  Mahi was no engineer, but she treated it like a battle, like a strategy her father might draw in the sands when she was younger. Exposing weak points in the formation, then exploiting them until the enemy ranks broke, and had no choice but to retreat.

  Zhulong kept pulling, releasing horrid sounds that would plague Mahraveh’s dreams forever. Loyal to their own deaths. More of the towers came apart and smashed, stone on stone echoing like they were inside a sand storm.

  Mahi’s fingers twitched—a meager show of anxiety she didn’t want to be seen but also didn’t think herself capable of. The muscles in her back and neck tensed. Bit’rudam was on his knees, squeezing a chunk of rock and praying, though it sounded more like begging.

  Then it happened. A deep, reverberating crack. Dust shot out of a portion of the perfectly cut and arranged dwarven blocks of stone. Most debris from the towers crumbled inward, and that crack became tangible.

  The bridge had begun to slip. Mahi didn’t think stones shifting could be so beautiful, but it was almost like the Boiling Waters and its frothy waves. It cracked and fell, the bridge coming apart in swathes, dragging those poor creatures unlucky enough to be latched to it to their deaths.

  Mahi wasn’t sure how long the deconstruction of ancient work took. To her, it felt like many minutes, but it could have been seconds.

  Piece by piece, block by block, the center of White Bridge was ruined until the gap left between the two deeper parts of its arched structure was nearly as wide as the gorge itself. Impossible to cross.

  If her father could have seen her, then, she couldn’t imagine how proud he’d be. However, he was the furthest thing from her mind as the last chunks of stone fell loose. Only one thought pervaded. Nesilia.

  “Your move,” Mahi said.

  XXXI

  The Knight

  Sir Torsten Unger had returned to Yarrington in many fashions: victorious after battles alongside King Liam, flower petals lining the streets and horns blaring. Ashamed, locked in a cage after killing one of his own men outside Winde Port. Blind, after Redstar had been thwarted atop Mount Lister, and Nesilia was thought to be stopped.

  But never in pure defeat. Not like this. It didn’t strike him until he saw the glass spire soaring into the horizon, but they’d stared the power of a goddess in the face and were routed. Fully.

  By now, word would have spread not only of his loss but of the Black Sands’ as well. Just as he’d heard rumors along the road of the worsening fate of Panping, of the horde of monsters and men trekking west across Pantego, eyes set upon the White Bridge and the capital city beyond.

  And only then did it truly hit. Months ago, he’d marched away from Yarrington, thinking he would be ending two wars with one fell swoop. Instead, he found a third and realized that, while Kingdoms warred and weakened each other beyond repair, real evil lurked in the darkness, ready to strike.

  Panping had already been claimed. That vast and beautiful countryside, neutered of its defenses by Liam’s last great war. They’d had no chance against demons and worse. Now, thousands of Black Sands warriors joined Nesilia’s ranks, undone by infighting.

  Now, Torsten knew. Yarrington would have to be their last stand.

  “Are you ready for this?” Lord Jolly asked as they stopped before the main gates.

  “Can anyone ever be ready for this?” Torsten replied.

  “No, but someone has to be.”

  The main gates swung open to permit entry to Torsten and his small entourage. What a pathetic sight it was. Traders and grimy citizens crowded the plaza, eyes filled with fright. They whispered about failure and wondered where the rest of the army was.

  Torsten knew how it looked. He’d ridden ahead with such a small number of men, they probably thought that’s all that remained. The truth wasn’t far off.

  “Lord Wearer, what happened?” asked a much-too-young guard statio
ned at the gate. There weren’t even enough soldiers to keep the masses at bay, to keep the prying eyes from looking closer.

  “Move aside!” barked one of the Shieldsmen riding with Torsten.

  “Did the Shesaitju betray us again?” asked another.

  “Where’s the rest of them!”

  On and on, the questions rolled, each more horrifying than the rest. And with each step Torsten’s zhulong took across the stone, the terror gripping the faces of his people deepened.

  Lord Jolly accompanied him so that they could not only begin planning defenses but so Pi’s body wouldn’t decay any more than it needed to before the Master Physician could preserve it for the crypt. Now, Torsten knew that was a mistake. More playing into Nesilia’s hands, if he weren’t careful. She’d sown so much fear that Yarrington was liable to tear itself apart from the inside. And a people without will were ripe for her demons to possess.

  “The rest of our army is coming,” Lord Jolly said, with all the pomp and circumstance of a practiced dignitary accustomed to skewing the truth. “The Black Sands stands with us now.”

  “Against what?” someone from the growing mob asked.

  “Is it true? Has the Buried Goddess really returned?” spoke another.

  “Did she take Panping?”

  “Is the King truly dead?”

  “Has Iam abandoned us?”

  “Enough!” Torsten bellowed, his voice carrying like the bells of Yarrington Cathedral. “All will be made clear in time.”

  “That’s our King!” someone shrieked. “Under here!”

  Torsten felt a tug and whipped around on his mount. A shaggy-looking Docksider peeled back the coverings to reveal Pi’s foot. Torsten drew Salvation and slashed, the blade stopping mere inches from the man’s throat.

  “Get back!” Lord Jolly demanded.

  Gasps rattled all over. Women wailed. Men voiced their rage. Torsten squeezed Salvation’s handle so tight he thought the metal might bend. In that moment, he understood why Queen Oleander could have grown to resent her subjects, why Liam probably did—at least when they weren’t cheering for him.

  All these people who’d only seen Pi from afar, if ever, carrying on as if he were their own son.

  Yet, every eye in the entire city fell upon Torsten, pleading for answers, begging to feel safe. He recalled something Liam had once said to him in a war camp outside of Crowfall during a campaign against the Drav Cra. Torsten was barely a squire then, and on a rare occasion, his great King came to sit by the fire beside him and soldiers.

  Torsten had been so awestruck, he said nothing, but Liam never had a problem speaking with the silence.

  “Not a soul wanted this war, you see,” he’d said, his breath reeking of wine. Back then, Torsten imagined that wasn’t the case but finally allowed himself to admit Liam’s shortcomings to himself.

  “But it isn’t a King’s job to play their subject,” Liam went on. “It’s my job to show them what they should believe. To lead them like a flock of lost sheep to pasture. And they love victory. They feed off it. And that hunger will bring Pantego together in the name of Iam, the one true God.”

  As Torsten held his sword to that man’s throat, he realized something. He had returned to Yarrington in defeat before. After that campaign. Liam called it a victory because they’d killed a powerful chieftain and claimed his daughter—Oleander—but it was a lie. They marched north to stop the Drav Cra raids forever, rather than bolster northern defenses. To completely eradicate and assimilate the northerners into the realm of Iam. And they hadn’t.

  The harsh conditions of the tundra and their enemies’ knowledge of the land had sent them retreating after Liam took Oleander for his own. He’d only made his people believe that was a victory. Made Torsten believe it. And for a few years, their northern cousins were too weak to raid successfully, so it continued to feel like a victory. But then, Liam led his men on another war in the name of Iam, and by the time the raids started again, the people had forgotten.

  He’d inspired them to hate a new enemy. And one by one, they despised everyone who wasn’t them. Drav Cra, Shesaitju, Panpingese mystics—it was all the same. And if the latter were still allowed to exist in the east, maybe they could’ve resisted Nesilia’s takeover instead of falling prey to her.

  Can they really be so wicked if that’s the case? Torsten wondered, for some reason, drawn to his memories of how he’d treated Whitney’s friend Sora. Could war and hate really be Iam’s will?

  “Torsten, don’t do anything rash right now,” Kaviel Jolly warned in a harsh whisper, eyes fixed on Salvation.

  His voice drew Torsten back to the present, and the blade moved away from the haggard man’s throat. He gasped for air as if he’d been plunged underwater. The plaza remained in stunned silence, layers of it so thick, Torsten’s neck started to itch. These people had never been without a King. Nor their parents, or their parents before that. For millennia, a Nothhelm had sat upon the throne.

  Now, they looked to him for answers, and he had none. He drew a deep breath. “Show them what they should believe,” Liam had said. And right then, Torsten decided he would do the same. But not how Liam would’ve done. Torsten would show them what to believe by giving them the truth.

  “Everything you’ve heard is true,” Torsten said. Not from the fortifications of the Glass Castle, but right among Yarrington’s people. Poor, rich, it didn’t matter. They all gathered here together, desperate for guidance.

  “Our King’s marriage to the new Caleef of Latiapur was a trap.” Immediately, came protestations against the Shesaitju. Torsten held out his palm while Jolly tried and failed to calm them. “But not laid by the Black Sands! Their intent for peace was genuine. No, it was Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. It’s true. She has returned and has now taken Yaolin City as her foothold. Her army is vast and dark and threatens to swallow us all if we don’t stand together.”

  The silence returned. Even the few whispers of shock coruscating through the people seemed like explosions.

  “And in her treachery, the Buried Goddess took the life of our young, generous King,” Torsten continued. His voice cracked a bit, and he seized a moment to gather himself. “He will join his family at the Gate of Light.”

  “Who will be King!” someone shouted.

  “I won’t bow to that Shesaitju whore!” screamed someone else, and raucous cheering followed. The crowd swelled like a wave, making Torsten’s mount nervous.

  “It doesn’t matter who is King or Queen!” Torsten yelled. “Not right now. The Nothhelm dynasty gave us this grand Kingdom. Kept us safe for more years than not.”

  “And where are they when we need them most!” another citizen called out, earning a chorus of cheers.

  Torsten struck his chest. “In our hearts! Always in our hearts. The last of their line gave his life to bring together an army that can face the coming darkness. Pi died a hero, and we mustn’t forget.”

  Rumblings of agreement buoyed Torsten’s spirits, but they were fleeting. The fear settled back in. These weren’t soldiers. They weren’t fighters. They were people told that if they served their Kingdom and lived a good life, King and God would protect them.

  “Iam has abandoned us!” a woman shrieked.

  “Dead with the Nothhelms.”

  “Left us to darkness and closed the gates.”

  “No!” Torsten yelled. He guided his zhulong up the incline of the Royal Avenue so he could face down upon the square. His heart raced. He wasn’t used to giving speeches to these types of people. It was somehow more nerve-racking than thousands of battle-hardened soldiers.

  “Iam is with us,” he continued. “Always with us. And He Himself saved us at the White Bridge only months ago.” Torsten’s hand went to his face, and he rubbed the fabric upon his eyes. It felt dirty and smelled far worse, but he feared what might happen should he clean it.

  “I saw it with the very sight He blessed me with. One last miracle… But He is weak now. It falls to us.
We must protect the city, the Kingdom, given to us by Iam and his chosen Kings, or we will not live to see another age. So, I say, let Nesilia come. It doesn’t matter who our King is now, let her bring whatever horrors she can muster.

  “She thinks Yarrington is ripe for the taking, but she doesn’t know its people. My skin may be brown, but this is my city. I suffered here. Lost here. Loved here. And it is here, in the name of Iam and of King Pi the Unifier that we will build a new era upon Nesilia’s corpse!”

  Torsten thrust Salvation into the air, breathless. A complete and utter hush responded to him. It felt like it lasted forever. Then, one of the Glass soldiers by the gate started to cheer. Then another. And another. It was infectious. The crowd erupted, cursing Nesilia, hailing their city, and, most of all, honoring their fallen King. Torsten said no more. He turned his zhulong and headed toward the castle.

  A smirk touched his lips as he heard the hollering on either side of the street. He reached back to pat Pi’s remains.

  “Now, there is a send-off worthy of a King,” Jolly said. “Well done.”

  “It will have to do for now,” Torsten said.

  They only made it one block before Torsten’s heart sank, and his smirk vanished. Did I twist the truth too? he wondered. He believed in everything he said, but there was one part of his speech that irked him. The promising that Iam was still with them. He’d seen no such evidence since White Bridge. Even that feeling in his chest that had stayed with him since he’d found his faith for the very first time felt faint, distant.

  All he had to go on was the fact that his blindfold still had the power to make him see.

  Am I lying to myself?

  The gates of the Glass Castle’s fortifications cranking open ruined any further chance for doubt to seed. Shieldsmen, guards, and workers alike waited eagerly within the forward court, even a young stablehand, barely old enough to lift a sword.