Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

Freydis drew her jagged knife, lifted her unscathed palm, and sliced it straight across. All the other warlocks throughout the fleet followed her lead—three to a ship, with one on each giving their own lives by stabbing themselves through the chest while the other two cut their hands. A worthy sacrifice.

  And as their blood poured out, so too did the power of Freydis and those left living. As one, they raised their bloody palms toward Crowfall and drew on Elsewhere. The bells continued to chime as the waters before them started to ripple.

  Freydis smirked. So much power. It was as if she could feel the weight of the sea in her fingertips. Lone chunks of ice floating about, leftover from winter, broke apart from the vibrations. Her ship rocked violently, all the warriors forced to hold onto whatever they could.

  She didn’t.

  Now, the water yanked on her like a magnetic force. Her heart raced, blood pumping through her limbs as fast as it could. In her peripherals, she could see some of the young warlocks falling to their knees, unable to handle the magic flowing through them.

  Black started to close in on her vision, but she held firm. The sea didn’t just ripple now, it raged. Spiky waves rose and fell, running on opposing currents that could never occur naturally. One of their longboats was caught on it and pulled up ahead before being capsized.

  Still, Freydis held. Blood now gushed out of her hand, making her entire arm numb up to the shoulder. Her legs grew weak, shaky. One of her men must have noticed because she felt hands on her back, struggling to keep her upright.

  And then, the sea budged. Freydis collapsed to her knees and released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Gasping for air, she watched as the water before their ships rose into a tidal wave as tall as the walls of Crowfall itself and raced toward the city. Freydis’ fleet was drawn along in the undertow at speeds beyond what rowers might be capable of.

  Terrified shouts from Crowfall’s commanders echoed. The bells grew louder. Freydis could see none of it over the wave, only imagine. Imagine the water ripping through their oversized ships that compensated for their lack of magical ability. Imagine the drowning soldiers, burdened down by too much expensive armor to breathe. Imagine the fortifications crumbled to dust and detritus by the sea itself.

  And that’s exactly what happened. Portions of the wall broke apart, flooding the lower sections of the city. The wave ravaged their ships, and her longboats finished them off at ramming speeds.

  She was too exhausted to move, but she remained kneeling on the ship’s bow, even after it scraped onto the docks along with the dozens of others. The Drav Cra army charged off. What remained of the Glass archers picked off many from above, but not nearly enough. The dire wolves were let loose and clambered up the rubble to tear them to pieces.

  Without the walls, the Northern Glassmen were too compromised to resist. Her people swarmed them, even with all the city’s defensible high points. And her army wasn’t alone.

  While they charged, Wvenweigard finally arrived from the east with a throng of chekt. It was a long route around and through the mountains, and it looked like some of his forces didn’t make it, but there were enough.

  The warlock charged out in front atop one of the great beasts, flinging fireballs at any Glassmen in their path. A horde of grimaurs flew with them, dicing up the archer’s positions on that side of the city.

  Crowfall had stood in the hands of the Glass Kingdom since their first King—that feckless coward who’d abandoned the Drav Cra for weakness and warmth—sent men north to defend it against people who had once been family, now proclaimed by them to be worthless savages.

  That great city, once untouchable, now, in mere minutes, had fallen. Exhaustion tugged at Freydis, but she watched and listened with a smirk on her lips… until the screams stopped, the bells stopped tolling, and all that was left were the screeching grimaurs.

  XXXIII

  The Thief

  Sunlight refracted through the glass spire, blinding Whitney even at such a distance. He’d never found Yarrington to be all that impressive—not after seeing places like Myen Elnoir and Brekliodad—but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be beautiful.

  He hadn’t been back to the Glass capital since that crazy battle atop Mount Lister, where Torsten had lost his sight, and Whitney had lost Sora. He’d met Lucindur soon after when the Pompare Troupe’s juggler died during Nesilia’s cultists’ rioting. It astounded Whitney the way events tended to strike one another like flint, the sparks bouncing from one thing to the next, setting flame to unintended targets.

  More and more, he felt like a pawn in someone else’s game. Gods and goddesses, no less. Like he was nothing, just an insignificant speck on a world so vast, not even he had seen half of it.

  If he followed the trail from his imprisonment for stealing the Glass Crown, he’d find Sora, lose Sora, find Sora again, then lose her and find her all over. He wasn’t even sure that was it if he counted seeing her in Nowhere. Enough to make his head spin off his shoulders. That job had sparked so many things, and it had all led them to this place.

  They’d been walking for a few days after having found carriage rides through Westvale and further south to some of the fringe towns, stopping only to resupply. It hadn’t been a comfortable journey, but it was better than being in the far North, frozen to the bone, and chilled to the core.

  “My feet are killing me,” Whitney complained. He couldn’t help himself.

  “We heard ye the first dozen times,” Tum Tum said. “Ye wonder why we call ye flower-pickers.”

  “I don’t wonder, and I still don’t think it’s insulting.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  They kept walking through colorful hills, and Whitney fought every desire to actually pick Tum Tum a flower, snickering to himself and then wiping his face of the smile every time the raven-haired dwarf peered upward.

  “It’s nice to see the city,” Sora said. She stopped to dig through her bag and passed around a water skin. “Despite all the horrors that have taken place there.”

  “That old place?” Whitney said, taking a swig and giving it to Lucindur.

  “So, this be Yarrington?” Tum Tum said. “Ain’t impressed.”

  “You’re just trying to get me back for thinking Balonhearth was a rubble pile,” Whitney said. “Won’t work. I don’t like this shog hole, either.”

  Yarrington stood on the horizon like a beacon of hope, or bastion of despair, all depending upon one’s name and status. Acres of farmland surrounded its tall, stone fortifications. Within, was a blanket of thatch homes that slowly became more substantially built the closer they got to the castle. At the base of the mountain, Old Yarrington and its many mansions threatened to give the castle a run for its money. In the north and west, the city butted up to the Torrential Sea and Mount Lister, respectively. Natural defenses. Dockside alone should have dissuaded attackers—no one in their right mind would want to go to that sewage dump, and to think, that used to be the nice part of town.

  “Ah, yes. The place where the high and mighty look down upon the lowly, eyes filled with Iam’s grace,” Whitney said, circling his eyes. “Good to be back.”

  “You love it,” Sora said.

  Whitney shrugged. “Beats Troborough.”

  He’d never admit it out loud, but he missed that little farm town and hope that someday, he’d return.

  “I still don’t know exactly what we are supposed to do when we get there,” Lucindur said.

  It was an excellent question, and Whitney had been mulling it over for as long as they’d been on the road. Sure, they had the Brike Stone—horrifying little thing—but they honestly didn’t know what to do with the Brike Stone beyond repeating what they’d done in the Citadel with the bar guai. Typically, Whitney would have a portion of a plan, and fate, or whatever power, would develop the rest of it on the spot. This time, however, with the Buried Goddess looming over them and threatening all of existence, Whitney felt a smidgeon of concern.

  “F
irst, we’ll find Torsten,” he said, making believe he had it all thought out. “Besides being thrilled to see me, there’s plenty he needs to know.” Whitney gave Sora a knowing glance, and she lowered her head.

  He drew close and nudged her with his elbow. “It’s going to be fine. Remember, this is Torsten.”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t think it’ll be fine,” she said. “Perhaps you don’t remember our time spent with him. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. ‘Witch,’ I believe, was the term he used.”

  “Torsten loves you.”

  They crested a hill that looked down into the Haskwood Thicket, and all Whitney could think of was himself bound up and being dragged down the road by Torsten on their way to slay their first goddess in the Webbed Woods. That gave him hope that they could do it again.

  The Glass Road pierced through trees and farmland, and they followed it through the hills until they reached the fields outside the Eastern Gate. And there, Whitney found something new to a city he thought he knew every nook and cranny of—a dark mass milling around.

  “What in Meungor’s shiny, bald arse be that?” Tum Tum said.

  “Are those… people?” Whitney asked.

  There could be no doubt about it. Thousands of people filled the pasturelands just outside of Yarrington, suffocating crops. They didn’t appear to be hostile or any of Nesilia’s forces, just good, hard-working farmers and merchants.

  As the party got closer, the sound grew deafening. Tents were like tiny arrowheads sticking up from the ground. Campfires burned, sending up puffs of smoke. Above, Aquira screeched, then soared ahead a bit to try to get a better view.

  “Don’t go far!” Sora shouted.

  “She’ll be fine,” Whitney said, knowing the wyvern was more than capable of handling herself. They had a new respect for each other after the Iron Bank. At least, he did, and he hoped she did too.

  “What do you think that’s all about?” Sora asked.

  “Beats me,” Whitney answered. “Let’s find out.”

  The city looked closer than it was, and Whitney did his share of complaining along the way, but eventually, they stood at the outskirts of the still-growing crowd. Blankets of travelers poured in through the Thicket, from the east and south.

  “There’re so many,” Lucindur said. “Are they… homeless?”

  “It’s almost like a pilgrimage,” Sora said.

  “For what, though?” Tum Tum asked.

  “Hey… is that,” Whitney said, standing on the balls of his feet. “It is! Hamm!”

  Before she could protest, Whitney grabbed hold of Sora’s hand and dragged her through the throng toward some of the newcomers.

  “Hamm!” he called.

  “Whitney, slow down,” Sora said, but he didn’t listen.

  He did, however, hesitate when he saw who was with Hamm. Alless—but not the Alless Whitney had spent so long with in Fake Troborough. No, this was the Alless he’d grown up pining after, who was now twice his age and looked it. Still, her eyes were kind and inviting.

  “What’s wrong?” Sora asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. C’mon.”

  After shoving their way through irritated mobs, Whitney tapped the Twilight Manor’s big bartender on the shoulder.

  “Aye?” Hamm said, turning to them. Then, his eyes locked onto Sora.

  “Sora?” he said in utter disbelief. He waited a moment for Sora to respond, and when she smiled, he gave her a big hug. “Sora, it is you! You look to be doing well!”

  Whitney almost scoffed out loud. If Hamm only knew.

  “And you,” Sora said.

  “And who’s this you’re with?” he asked her.

  Whitney’s mouth almost won the race with his heart to the bottom of his stomach. Hamm, however, didn’t let the joke go too far.

  “I’m kidding! Whitney Fierstown again! Get in here,” he said, pulling Whitney into a bear hug. “It’s been a while. Fancy meeting you out here of all places. I thought you’d have been back to the Manor by now. Seen what we’ve done with the place after those gray skins burned her down. And now we’re supposed to shake their hands like nothing happened?”

  Whitney put a hand through his hair. “I saw it not too long ago while I was traveling with my troupe. Was uh—keeping a bit of a low profile, you understand—was still new with the troupe. It looked great though!”

  “I see,” Hamm said, the disappointment on his face palpable. “Well, you remember Alless.”

  Hamm beckoned Alless forward, and she curtsied.

  “Yeah. I… of course…” Whitney could feel his face turn red.

  “That’s how all the young bucks act around her,” Hamm said. Then, turning to Alless, he said, “Isn’t that right?”

  Alless smiled. Like her eyes, it was kind and inviting.

  “Oh, hey… stop me if you’ve heard this one,” Hamm said with his typical charm. “What’s the difference between a Westvale whore—“

  “Hamm,” Sora interrupted. “I’m sorry, but what’s going on here?”

  “You don’t know?” he asked, only a little deflated at not being able to finish the joke Whitney had heard and told a million times.

  Sora shook her head.

  “The King’s dead,” Hamm said.

  “Again?” Whitney asked.

  Sora punched his arm.

  “Dead? King Pi?” she asked. “You’re kidding? What happened?”

  “No one’s telling us, but it can’t be good if we’re all here,” Hamm said.

  “Right,” Sora said. “This can’t be normal. Everyone traveling from so far for the King’s death? Forgive me if this is disrespectful, but no one really even knew Pi, did they?”

  “Aye. You’re right. This ain’t just for the King’s death. Master of Warfare called for us all to seek refuge in Yarrington. Said an army’s marching on the capital.”

  Whitney gave Sora a look. She returned it.

  “Then, shouldn’t everyone be sent away from the capital?” Whitney said.

  “That’s what I said,” Alless added.

  “No safer place than in those walls,” Hamm said, pointing to the city.

  “I suppose,” Alless said.

  “Some say, a horde of demons is coming,” Hamm went on. “Others, the Shesaitju under the usurper who betrayed King Pi. All I know is, I watched them let in a mob of them traitorous gray skins. Marched right past us, through the gates, and said they were allies, while we’re all left out here.”

  “We certainly weren’t expecting this,” Alless said, gazing out over the field of people. “What is this? They invited us all here to what—sleep in the fields? I’m of the mind to turn heel and march right back home.”

  She said it with that same sass Whitney had come to expect from her, and for a minute, that young Alless appeared in all her fury. Then he remembered that he barely knew the real woman at all. In fact, this might have been his first time ever talking to her directly.

  “Don’t do that,” Whitney blurted, knowing full well why Yarrington would want everyone within the safety of its walls. Torsten was attempting to shield them. But how could he explain to all these simple folk that the army wasn’t from Shesaitju or Brotlebir, or any enemy they’d ever heard about before?

  “He’s right. Settle, Alless, dear,” Hamm said with a steadying hand. “Something’s gonna come of this. I’m sure of that.”

  Alless furrowed her eyebrows.

  “I–uh. Yeah, I don’t know. Look, Hamm, uh… Alless… we should get back to our friends. I’m sure we’ll run into you again before all this is through. If they say they want us inside the walls, I’m sure there’s a reason. Just… stay safe, okay?”

  Hamm and Alless now wore the confused looks and exchanged glances. “You, too,” they said at the same time.

  “This isn’t good,” Sora whispered as they headed back.

  “Well, you didn’t think it was a party, did you?” Whitney replied.

  “Don’t think I didn’t see the
way you looked at her, Whitney Fierstown.”

  “I—you—That’s what you’re concerned about?”

  “I’m kidding. But I certainly hope I look so good at her age,” she said. “If I live to see her age.”

  That brought a somber quiet to the rest of their journey back to where Lucindur and Tum Tum waited. They returned just in time to see Aquira descend and find a perch on Sora’s shoulder. The crowd around them screamed and distanced themselves. With all the guards stationed by the gates, none were out here to do anything about it.

  Sora scratched the wyvern’s head. Then, as calmly as if she were ordering a drink, she said to the others, “King Pi is dead, and I’m guessing Nesilia had something to do with it.”

  “Wait, what?” Whitney said, turning to her. “How did you get that?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I… I didn’t... not?” he said, not wanting to sound ignorant. “Hamm said something about Shesaitju betrayals. We know they’re good at that.”

  “You don’t think this is a coincidence, do you?” Sora asked.

  “I don’t know about coincidence, but I didn’t jump to that conclusion.”

  “So, what—you think the world is about to end, the last Nothhelm King dies, and she had nothing to do with it?”

  “Slow down, both of ye,” Tum Tum said.

  “Yes. Tell us—who was that, and what did you learn?” Lucindur asked.

  “That was a friend from our hometown,” Whitney said. “He said the—what did he call him?”

  “Master of Warfare,” Sora supplied.

  “Right—you think that’s… it’s gotta be, right?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Yeah, but he’s blind—“

  “What are ye two blabbering about!” Tum Tum shouted.

  “Sorry,” Sora said. “We think Torsten Unger, the new Master of Warfare, apparently, called everyone in the realm here to prepare for the attack. But I don’t think most of them know exactly what’s coming.”

  “Well, that is one way to get everyone killed,” Lucindur said.

  “Hey, now. This is Torsten we’re talking about,” Whitney said. “He wouldn’t get people killed… on purpose.”