Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Not only those, but the entire Royal Council that hadn’t been in Latiapur also stood by the entry. A mixture of young and old, all equally inexperienced. King Lorgit’s son, Alfotdrumlin, even stood among them. Torsten had nearly forgotten about that arrangement, figuring early on, after what happened at White Bridge, that the dwarven king would’ve recalled his youngest son.

  “Sir Unger, Lord Jolly, what’s happening out there?” asked Casper Brosch, the Master of Scrolls.

  “Nothing,” Torsten said.

  “Sir Unger merely provided the people a reason to believe,” Jolly added.

  Brosch’s features darkened. He stepped forward, moving around the side of Torsten’s zhulong, where the truth was clear as day. “By Iam…” he traced his eyes and bowed his head. “I was hoping by the reception that the messages we’d received were false.”

  “Unfortunately, every word was true,” Torsten said. The stablehand ran up to help, unsure how to treat a zhulong. Torsten dismounted on his own, and the beast just stood there, unmoving, as the kid pushed on its hide. The poor creature was probably shell-shocked from its new environment.

  “Nesilia has taken Latiapur after forging an alliance with a usurping afhem named Babrak,” Torsten went on. “Caleef Mahraveh and a bulk of her land forces made it out alive and will arrive soon. Their fleet is… decimated. And our young King fell during the fighting. I saved him once, but I wasn’t strong enough to do it a second time. I… failed.”

  “We were betrayed,” Jolly said over him, so his last statement went unheard. “And we will have our vengeance.”

  Torsten heard a few of the handmaidens weeping. They’d spent most of their time with Oleander, but nobody else in the castle would have spent more time in Pi’s presence, preparing his outfits, cleaning his quarters.

  At the same time, the Royal Council forced their own exaggerated reactions. Master Fenwick, Master of Husbandry, howled toward the setting sun as if he’d been stabbed in the gut. Torsten didn’t blame them. None had known Pi long or well enough to genuinely care for him. They were simply carrying out their jobs all before it sank in that they were now counsel to a Crown without a head to sit on.

  “Master Pymer, under there is the body of our King.” Torsten pointed to the wrap on the back of his zhulong. “He is…” His throat got tight.

  “Do what you can to prepare him to join his family,” Jolly ordered the Royal Physician. “He’ll be laid to rest once more in the grave already dug for him.”

  The man strode over and peeled back the top of the wrappings. Torsten didn’t need to see Pi to know how he likely looked. Abijah Pymer’s retch told enough. “I’ll… uh… do what I can,” he stammered, then whispered a prayer under his breath.

  “Lord Unger… uh… Sir,” spoke a small voice. Torsten glanced left, then down, to see a little face, the stablehand, caked head-to-toe with dirt and shog.

  “Yes?” Torsten asked.

  “Do you think that, maybe… uh… maybe in the same grave, our King might, you know, come back to life again?”

  Torsten sighed and pressed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder, so much larger, his fingers stretched down over his shoulder blades. “I think we’ve truly lost him this time,” Torsten said softly. The boy’s chin fell to his chest. “But who are we to doubt the will of Iam?” Torsten added.

  At that, the boy’s face lit up. “I hope he does. He was nice. He would always drop an extra bronzer after I brought him his horse to ride.”

  “And you should hold onto that memory. Use it. Fight with it.”

  “With all due respect, Sir Unger, he’s just a boy,” said Taskmaster Lars. “He won’t be fighting.” It had been a long time since Torsten had seen the old wretch, roused from the bottom quarters of the castle barracks. His white whiskers were as messy as a rat’s to boot. But he was good at his job. Had been since Torsten was a young man. Keeping track of all the troops’ training schedules, names, retirement benefits—it was a man everybody liked to pretend didn’t exist.

  “Unfortunately, my friend, he might,” Torsten said. “We all might. Make no mistake, I have seen what Nesilia is capable of, and it will take every single one of us to resist.”

  His gaze arced across the faces of the nobles, all immediately changing from feigning sadness to real, intense fear.

  “But, first. We prepare,” Jolly said. “I’m from the far North. We’ve been through far worse.”

  Jolly earned a few reticent chuckles. Torsten watched as soldiers helped the Master Physician remove Pi’s body from his mount. They carried it toward the lower entry into the castle’s undercroft like he was a fragile ceramic vase. As if gentleness mattered any longer.

  Torsten couldn’t help but wonder, as the stableboy had, if maybe this wasn’t the end. Surely, Iam wouldn’t let his chosen line go out like this? But he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the case. The Nothhelms had distilled their bloodline over generations, eliminated rivals, sought perfection. It only made sense that, eventually, the blood ran out.

  Focus, he told himself. It doesn’t matter what comes next if there is no next.

  He shook out his head and started off toward the castle entry. The Royal Council followed along behind him like baby ducks.

  “Has any word come in from his Holiness, Dellbar?” Torsten asked.

  The Master of Scrolls cleared his throat. “He was with the King, was he not?”

  “Damn,” Torsten swore, taking that as a “no.”

  “During the attack, I dispatched him and Lord Jolly to Hornsheim to rally the priesthood and bring them here, but they were separated. Nobody has heard a word from Dellbar since.”

  “He’s fine. I’m sure of it,” Jolly said. “The man’s hardy as an ox. But I’ll send search parties as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Priests?” the dwarven Master of Coins scoffed, from far in the back of the small group. “Yer sayin there’s to be a battle, and yer invitin priests?”

  “We need everyone,” Torsten said.

  “Oh, what a Commute this be turnin out to be,” Al groaned.

  Torsten reached the maw of the Throne Room and stopped. The Glass throne sat across the hall, lonely, no guards lining the long carpet leading to it. What did they have left to defend?

  He turned and pointed to the Master of Scrolls. “Brosch, send gallers to Hornsheim on multiple routes. Nesilia has an army of grimaurs, there’s no telling where they patrol.” He turned to Fenwick. “Then, with the gallers, riders, both, to Westvale and Fort Marimount. They are nearest to us. Any man of fighting age they can spare is to be summoned here, along with all rations and arrows.”

  Torsten reached the throne and paused for a moment. For so long, Liam had sat there, when he was around—even when his mind wasn’t. Then, Pi, the massive chair, making him look so small. A Nothhelm, for all its existence.

  Exhausted from just about everything, Torsten sat on the dais, back to it. Knowing how he’d failed its owners was too distracting, and the Kingdom needed him one last time.

  “Sir Unger, did you hear me?” Master Fenwick asked.

  “Sorry, what was that?” Torsten asked.

  “The Lords of those cities are proud. They’ve long been loyal to the Crown, but sending all their food and defenses when we’re at war? I’m not sure they’d go for that. Especially—“

  “Especially what?” Torsten snapped.

  “Especially when there is no…” The man’s eyes drifted toward the empty throne, then back. “… King…”

  “Tell them that if they don’t comply, they will be stripped of their titles and their holdings,” Lord Jolly proposed.

  Leurevo Messier, Master of Masons and son of Westvale’s presiding governor, stepped forward. “I’m not sure we have the authority to do that.”

  “They’ll listen, or we will all die!” Torsten didn’t mean to shout, but his volume made all the nobles wince except for Jolly, who leaned comfortably against a column. It echoed across the mostly empty hall. Dealing with
men like these was the bane of Torsten’s existence. He preferred the battlefield, but with so many others absent, somebody had to do something.

  “And what about Crowfall?” Messier addressed Lord Jolly.

  Kaviel Jolly was the Master of Ships, himself. He took a moment to consider it. “If Nesilia’s army is coming, we have to assume the Drav Cra are with her. Crowfall has stood for hundreds of years, and it will remain. We Jollys are sturdy folk. Crowfall will hold Winter’s Thumb as long as she can, but I’ll request that they send half their food stores by ship.”

  “Half?” asked the Master of Stores. “I’m not sure that’s advisable. They need it all for the harsh winter. And what if there is a siege?”

  “Make no mistake, Master Westerly. Nesilia’s target is Yarrington,” Torsten said. “This is personal for her. Extra supplies in Crowfall help nobody. We will deal with re-distribution after we win.

  “He’s right,” Lord Jolly said. “Besides, if Crowfall lends full support, Westvale will follow. It’s how it’s always been.”

  Master Westerly bowed and backed away, though didn’t look convinced in the slightest. Neither did any of the others.

  Torsten faced the chubby, dwarven Master of Coin. “Lord Alfotdrumlin. Have you spoken with your father? I know our agreement was only for eliminating Drad Mak and defending White Bridge, but we’ll come to a new one. We must get King Lorgit to send us your brother’s army and more.”

  “I’m not for thinkin that’ll happen,” Al replied.

  Torsten punched the polished marble of the dais so hard his knuckles split open. The dwarf winced. “Empty the coffers! Offer the Royal Family’s jewels, their clothes, everything. How do none of you understand that it doesn’t matter what we have now if we lose everything?”

  “It’s uh… not that,” the dwarf stammered. “Me father hasn’t answered a thing since I got here. I hear they shut down the city completely after the battle at White Bridge. No communication.”

  “Typical dwarves, hiding in their holes when things get scary,” Master Brosch said from behind the pack.

  “Say that to me face!” Al barked.

  Torsten’s glower silenced both of them before things escalated.

  “He’d go silent, despite your brother himself witnessing Nesilia’s true power?” Lord Jolly asked.

  The dwarf rolled his stocky shoulders, then blew a raspberry. “Me father has left his own son here and locked me out. What do ye think?”

  Torsten cursed under his breath. “Well, keep trying. We could use the help of dwarven engineers to bolster our defenses. For now, use some of the jewelry to ensure the support of our nearest lords. And pay every inn and brothel and place with beds ahead of time to house folk from neighboring towns on the route from White Bridge. Fettingborough, Troborough, Grambling, I want the people here, not feeding Nesilia’s army.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that. I’ll be needin to have the effects appraised first—“

  “There’s no time,” Torsten said. “Jewels are your people’s specialty. By luck and happenstance, you’re stranded here, managing the coffers of a kingless kingdom. Estimate, and get the job done.”

  His beard parted as he opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he nodded.

  “Now, we must begin preparing defenses,” Torsten said. “Lars.” Torsten looked around and didn’t see the Taskmaster anywhere. “Lars!”

  The withering old man appeared across the Throne Room, by the entry, peeking in.

  “Yes?” he croaked.

  “Work with the Royal Blacksmith, Hovom Nitebrittle. Every set of armor, every weapon made of glaruium, toss them into the Torrential Sea. Steel and iron only. Once that’s done, begin outfitting every citizen of Yarrington of age with whatever we have.”

  “I’m sorry, I know defenses are your prerogative, but why would we discard our sturdiest armor?” asked Messier.

  “Because Nesilia was buried in that mountain. She has command over the metal and would use it against us.”

  “That’s absurd,” Messier argued.

  “I’ve seen it—felt it, myself.”

  “But what would the Shieldsmen wear?” Brosch added.

  Torsten bit his lip. Then he stood, looking out over the inexperienced and tiresome Royal Council, and the empty Throne Room. Beyond them in the entry hall, soldiers and Shieldsmen had gathered to try and listen. Most were too young to have armpit hair. Few had seen a battle, and mostly those who had died in Latiapur

  “There is no King’s Shield any longer,” Torsten said, voice shaking. “For there is no King to shield. We failed in our duty, and as Wearer of White, named by the late King Pi, I will disband the Order.”

  He could hear the gasps of shock from the soldiers outside the Throne Room. Some even started to trickle in, kicking etiquette to the curb.

  “We have no advantages in this coming war,” Torsten said. “No glaruium armor or weapons. No Order of legendary warriors. All we have is each other. And if we stand together, we can beat back this darkness.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected in reaction to that, but it wasn’t what happened. The people in the entry hall gasped again and parted. Torsten and the Royal Council looked on in confusion.

  Then, a horse raced through them, right into the Throne Room, it’s fur-covered hooves indicating it was northern breed. The sigil on its rider’s boiled leather armor and his thick beard revealed the same.

  The horse skidded to a stop on the slippery surface, and the man dismounted so fast he fell onto his side. Blood stained his sleeve and the horse’s neck. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which were completely bloodshot. Men rushed to help him, but he pushed them out of the way and scrambled toward the throne.

  He barely made it before his legs gave out and he fell to his hands and knees. There, he remained, trying to speak but unable to catch his breath.

  Lord Jolly pushed everyone out of his way and grabbed the man by the collar with his only arm. “What is it?” he asked. “Speak!”

  “It’s…” the man huffed. They waited patiently. “It’s Crowfall, my Lord. The Drav Cra they… I don’t know what happened. But they took the city.”

  Torsten sank back onto the dais. He stared, forlorn, at the paintings filling the vaulted ceiling, telling stories from the origin of the Glass Kingdom after the God Feud to now. All the great kings and their legendary victories. And he wondered if there would be another victory to paint up there, or if it’d all come crumbling down.

  “Sir Unger, what do we do?” one of the councilmen asked. It didn’t matter who. The same question seemed to echo off all their lips.

  “We prepare,” Torsten said, sitting up, gaze flitting toward Jolly, who was now on his knees, running his one hand through his hair. “For our war has already begun.”

  XXXII

  The Servant

  Freydis stood at the bow of a Drav Cra longboat, squinting against the wind and the driving snow. She’d sailed these waters many times, but this time was different.

  This time, she was Arch Warlock.

  This time, she was Nesilia’s first in command.

  And she wouldn’t waste time with trivialities like Redstar always had. Sowing fear into the minds of his enemies. Playing games. Seeking relics.

  No, Freydis sailed as her people were meant to—as a conqueror. With all the tribes united under her command by word of the Goddess herself, expanding the fleet so her entire army could cross the strait was easy.

  Many grumbled, afraid to head back south into the warmth of summer, into the lands where they’d been betrayed, losing Mak and so many others. Those who grumbled loudest earned vines around their hearts.

  Then none complained.

  “Do you see, Redstar?” she sneered to herself. “All it took was faith in her. All you cared about was yourself.”

  “Crowfall nears!” one of her scouts shouted from the crow’s nest.

  Freydis dragged her hand hard across the rail, tearing it open on the roug
h wood. She drew on the fresh blood, digging deep into the connection to Elsewhere. Nesilia said it was emptied of souls, and Freydis could feel it. There was so much latent power for her to draw upon.

  She waved a bloody hand in front of her, forcing the snow and the fog to the side, giving her a clear view. And there it was, the dark stone walls of Crowfall. Built onto a series of sharp hills like a crow’s talon, the low points gave the city an added natural defense thanks to high positions for archers.

  Only the most foolish dradinengors in history had attempted to raid the city proper, each of them dying. Nearby towns and villages—even the outskirts of the city—fell prey to the Drav Cra all the time, but Crowfall’s walls had never been breached. The Jollys had kept the place safe for generations.

  No longer.

  Freydis reached again into the reserves of Elsewhere and launched a ball of flame up into the white sky. The men rowing at her back stopped, and all around her, the Drav Cra longboats followed their example, forming a line across the calm water.

  Bells chimed. Glassmen scurried around their city like ants. Archers gathered atop the parapets of the tall walls. What little was left of their fleet after the war in the south sprang to action, letting down their sails and loading in soldiers for defenses.

  “Sacrifice as many as it takes,” Nesilia had told her. “They must learn that the North is ours.”

  Freydis listened to the bated breaths of the warriors filling the ship behind her. They were eager to raid, chomping at the bit like the dire wolves caged up beside them, ready to kill those who thought themselves superior.

  She lifted her sliced hand, the blood dripping down her pale arm, and then let it fall forward. All at once, shouting in Drav Crava sounded from the dradinengors on the other ships.

  Young men and women walked to the bows, all of them, faces painted red and white. They were a new wave of warlocks, recently indwelled. Some were weaker than others. Some were nearly worthless in this new flock, but all together for the first time, they would be unstoppable.