Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Archers on the wall lost discipline and turned to fire down at the spiders.

  “Over the wall!” Torsten shouted. Before he could again, a blur of movement in his peripherals spun him, and he cut a goblin down.

  Their incoherent language assailed his ears as the tiny lizard-men scrambled over the ramparts. Torsten deflected a small spear, then he kicked one of the beasts into a group. Nearby archers were forced to draw their short swords and join the melee.

  Without hesitating, Torsten shouldered through them and ran for the enemy horde. The now-empty pots of boiling oil hung on ropes, and Torsten dived, catching one and swinging.

  His bulky frame slammed into the piling of earth and corpses rising against that portion of the wall, breaking it apart. He held on with one hand even as the stress threatened to rend his arm from his shoulder.

  A grimaur plunged and sliced the rope as Torsten attempted to climb back up, sending him onto the lower death-pile. Blades in the hands of black-eyed men and women slashed at him. He parried and stabbed. A hellhound snapped at his wrist, but his armor endured, and he flung it against a wall.

  The grimaur rushed down at him, talons first. Torsten kicked a possessed man down the pile with his heel. As the grimaur closed in, Torsten sprang away, timing it to grasp the thing’s legs in a bundle and be hoisted into the air. Unable to support his weight, the beast flapped a short bit before sputtering. Torsten let go and got his off-hand over the ledge of the ramparts.

  Goblins and hellhounds attacked his dangling feet, and Torsten swiped Salvation in wide arcs to keep them away. His brothers-in-arms heaved him up, and as Torsten rose, he spotted Bliss, floating at the gates, twisting the earth before it into a lance of rock and spikes that pummeled the gates and wall.

  The soldiers got Torsten over the ledge while a goblin grasped his ankle and stabbed at his armor with its bone knife. He rolled onto the parapet, palmed the reptile’s head, and crushed its skull in his mighty grip.

  Then he stood, shouting, “Shoot at the mystic! Everyone, take her down!”

  Orders were impossible to issue in the mounting chaos. Nesilia’s forces invaded at multiple levels. Still, enough heard and turned their bows upon Bliss.

  It seemed that her ability to have the projectiles phase through her took some focus, and as she avoided the volley, her earthen battering ram began to fall apart.

  She screamed, releasing a shockwave of wind that sent all the soldiers atop the wall flying back. Torsten braced himself against the torrent, dirt whipping against his cheeks.

  A loose bow caught against his ankle, giving him an idea. He remembered the war in the east—that mystics could only draw on Elsewhere so much before exhaustion took its toll. And like Nesilia, Bliss was limited by her possessed body.

  Torsten sheathed his sword, snatched a clump of arrows out of a fallen soldier’s quiver, and fitted one against the string. Archery had never been his strong suit, but every Shieldsman had trained in it. And even if it was a lesser skill for him, that still made him superior to half the archers they had.

  He stood and fired.

  His arrow caught Bliss on the shoulder and actually sank in. There was no blood, but she screeched as if in physical pain. A second later, she reverted to her ethereal state, and the projectile fell through.

  “You fool!” she boomed. “You can’t defeat me!” With another scream, she flung a ball of flame.

  Torsten, predicting the reaction, had already taken off down the wall. He ducked and weaved through his soldiers as they battled to hold their positions. In each arched opening, he stopped long enough to fire an arrow at Bliss.

  She continued to howl and hurl fire, angry at the man who’d helped destroy her prior form. Vengeful, just like her sister Nesilia. And in doing so, Bliss was draining her magical reservoir, pushing her current body because she didn’t know its limits.

  Torsten struck her once again in the gut, then slid to duck into a watchtower. He checked his quiver to find it empty. He peeped over the ledge, and Bliss was nowhere to be seen. Her ram summoned from the earth had crumbled entirely away.

  “That will buy us some time,” Torsten muttered.

  He forced himself to his feet and reached for Salvation so he could rejoin the melee. His men were doing an admirable job holding back the goblins, and the points where possessed dead were piled high enough for more of Nesilia’s army to scale.

  As Torsten turned toward his central post, a tattered, red robe wavered in front of him. Bliss’ hard, emotionless face smiled a heartless smile. He wasn’t sure he believed she was truly Bliss until then. Her eyes may have now been black instead of that vibrant purple they’d been as a giant spider, but they were indeed hers.

  “You’re all alone this time,” she said. “Nobody can save you.”

  Her hands extended, and lightning coruscated out. Torsten lowered Salvation in time to absorb the bolt, but the shockwave sent both him and it flying back over the wall.

  Luckily, he landed on the thorax of a giant spider, bounding off and rolling to a stop near a pile of rubble. He could hardly see straight. Couldn’t settle his jaw enough to speak. His hands twitched from the lightning, dancing in his veins.

  Feet stomped all around him as soldiers battled. The tiniest spiders swarmed his body, then his face—thousands of legs crawling all over him. They bit at his blindfold, his armor. He couldn’t even breathe.

  “Tooorstennnn,” a voice echoed. At first, he wondered if it was Iam, finally calling him home. Then, the creatures coating him fell away, and a great hand wrapped his waist.

  Uhlvark’s pockmarked face appeared over him, one eye closed as if studying Torsten. He flicked away another spider as if it weren’t the size of a wagon wheel. Then, he lifted Torsten onto his feet.

  “Do your feeeeeet work, friend Torsten?” he asked.

  “They do indeed, Uhlvark,” Dellbar said.

  The High Priest strolled closer, using his cane to navigate the growing field of flesh. With his other hand, he dragged Salvation across the stone, too heavy for him to lift.

  “I believe you dropped this?” he said. “The wall isn’t lost yet. My priests surprise even me with their bravery.

  Torsten shook out his head and straightened his blindfold so he could see. His muscles still spasmed, but standing felt increasingly normal with each passing second.

  “Dellbar, retreat to the castle,” Torsten ordered as he reclaimed Salvation and used it to find balance until he gathered his bearings.

  Dellbar considered it, aiming his empty eye sockets toward the sky. “Yes, I believe you’re right. I’m needed there.”

  “Uhlvark, take him to the castle!” Torsten ordered.

  “But, I here to fiiight.” Uhlvark’s giant head looked between them, spit flying and lips flapping.

  “Dellbar needs your protection!” Torsten said. He steadied a hand atop the giant’s massive arm. “And I need him, alive.”

  Uhlvark snatched the High Priest up with two hands, gently as he was capable of. “Must saaaave friend!” He repeated over and over as he lumbered back up the Royal Avenue toward the castle.

  Torsten spun to face the city gates and the madness still there. His men were holding. Against the tide of darkness, they stood their ground. Grimaurs plummeted from the sky, punctured by arrows. Spiders lost limbs and clicked their chelicerae in fear. Bliss had taken her best shot, and Torsten had endured. Though she was missing again.

  “Hold steady, men!” Torsten shouted as he strode forward, emboldened by his luck. “Reform ranks. Second battalion, to the walls.” He pointed to a forward commander. “Brace the gate. Hold them off!”

  Even as terrified as they were, soldiers snapped to action, and morale soared as they’d survived Nesilia’s first wave. Fresh reinforcements climbed the walls and joined the archers to keep the tide of battle on their side. More wooden beams were jammed into the stone behind the inner gate, re-bracing it.

  Nearby, an ancient-looking priest without a hint of
hair drew on his light. With as long as he’d served Iam, it grew bright enough to shine like a small sun. Demon spirits were drawn to it by the dozens.

  “The darkness cannot drown the light!” Torsten yelled. “We will hold, we will—“

  The words trailed off when Bliss appeared above the wall. Her form was so faint she was barely visible, but her compassionless grin didn’t wane. In that briefest moment, Torsten remembered what Dellbar had said, that the darkness and light couldn’t exist without the other.

  At the same time, the ground below that brave, old priest crumbled, and a giant spider burst through, crushing his frail chest between its jaws. Freed demon spirits burst forth, zipping into the soldiers around them. Some fell to their knees, grasping their heads as they fought the possession. Conscripts gave in quickly.

  “Kill them!” Torsten screamed. “Take them out!”

  So far across the square, his commands fell on deaf ears. He took off, shoving through a crowd of his own men, slashing down every beast in his way. The newly possessed soldiers ambushed those around them, stabbing and biting at throats. One, however, tossed his weapon aside and ran toward the great crank which opened the gate.

  “Stop him!” Torsten yelled as he pushed something aside. A grimaur zoomed at him, and he ducked right before the toxic talons slashed his throat. “Stop!”

  He sprinted again, but the possessed man already had his hands around the lever. The gears for both inner gate and portcullis shrieked.

  Ripping a short sword out of the hands of one of his own men, Torsten flung it. His aim was true, the blade soaring through the ranks of his soldiers before stabbing through the possessed man’s arm. As the man fought to remove the sword, Torsten drove his shoulder into him, and they both crashed into the wall behind him. But as the body slumped, the man jammed his other arm into the crank, leaving the gate slightly ajar.

  That’s all it took.

  “Close the gate!” Torsten yelled, stuck in the clinch with the possessed soldier. “Close the gate!”

  The front line of soldiers ran to close it, others to try and free Torsten and the jammed body.

  Simultaneously, spiders, possessed men, and beasts shoved into the gaps in the gate, mobbing it in seconds. Priests stationed all around the square banished the demons as they gave up their possessed bodies, but it was too late. The horde pushed and shoved until the portcullis was clogged.

  The iron gates soon followed. A wave of flesh and madness smashed against it, and the soldiers trying to push it closed not only struggled but failed. A final gust of magical wind blew it wide, and Bliss appeared in the open entry, arms spread as her seemingly permanent smile.

  “Shields, steady!” Torsten ordered, squeezing his way to the front to lead the defense. “Do not lose heart. We will hold this gate!”

  He stopped before the first row of shield-bearers, his grip on Salvation tightening.

  “Why do they wait?” stammered one of the terrified soldiers around him.

  Torsten wondered the same. Bliss’s ethereal body floated, and behind her stood a host of possessed cultists, black eyes like onyx behind their expressionless masks. Hellhounds snapped, foaming at the mouths. Goblins hissed.

  “Why even resist?” Bliss asked. “We will take this city.” Spiders crowded around her, filling the ceiling of the tunnel through the thick fortifications. Their skittering legs matched the pace of Torsten’s heartbeat.

  “Then we will take the next,” she went on. “And every statue, every church, every letter written about Iam shall be wiped from existence. All these millennia later, the God Feud will finally end!”

  “Yes, sister, it will,” spoke a familiar voice. The swarm parted, and Nesilia stopped beside Bliss. Rand followed close behind her.

  Torsten’s heart flipped at the sight of the traitor. His jaw clenched. But Rand didn’t return the look. His thousand-meter gaze aimed straight ahead. He was lost in his mind somewhere, like when Torsten found him so long ago, drunken and ready to end his own life.

  “Ah, so now you show up to gloat?” Bliss spat.

  Nesilia flashed out of view, appearing behind Bliss a second later and plunging a knife into her back. The mystic’s body dropped to the ground and vacillated between spiritual and physical form. The spiders screeched in reaction, collapsing from the ceiling and writhing on the ground. Their legs curled into tight balls, twitching.

  Lightning crackled around her, but Nesilia seemed to absorb it, her bright eyes flickering an electric blue as she jammed the dagger in deeper.

  “Thank you for breaking this city for me,” Nesilia said.

  “Sister… what…” Bliss moaned, her spirit form slowly separating from the Aihara Na’s body. Nesilia clutched her throat as if to bind them together just a bit longer.

  “Did you really think I’d let you see your vengeance?” Nesilia hissed. She pointed toward Mount Lister. “This is where you buried me. Right there!”

  She twisted the knife, even as magical elements slashed out from Bliss’ fingers. Nesilia’s upyr body resisted them, even seeming to be strengthened by them.

  “Now, I will bury you there. The One Who Remained.” She scoffed. “You will watch for all eternity as I claim my world. No longer am I the Buried Goddess. I will gladly relinquish that title to you, sister of mine.” Nesilia glanced up, straight at Torsten, and bared Sigrid’s upyr fangs. “Enjoying yourself, Torsten? I’ll be right back.”

  “Sister, no,” Bliss groaned. “You can’t—“

  Nesilia winked, then vanished in a haze of dust, dragging Bliss with her. The spiders continued their shrill cries, legs spasming in agony. The rest of the horde, however, remained, with Rand left in their lead.

  “You see what she is now, Rand!” Torsten shouted. “She’s no liberator. She is rage, and vengeance, and hate.”

  Rand looked up but said nothing. The horde stormed around him. Torsten and his legion braced themselves for the crash of iron, tooth, and talon. They were dug in now, fighting to hold out as long as they could while the endless masses flooded the city.

  The ground trembled, and Bliss’ distant cry echoing from the north squelched even the clatter of war.

  Torsten had to buy Sora as much time as possible to find a way to take down Freydis. To find a way to draw in the Goddess who he now knew held grudges for thousands of years.

  XLI

  The Thief

  Whitney felt helpless in the Throne Room, listening to the distant rumblings of war. He’d been sequestered there with Tum Tum, told to protect the Brike Stone, and keep Lucindur safe until the time was right. To him, it felt like they were being punished, made to sit in time-out while all the real warriors fought the battle. He knew it wasn’t true, but at the same time, he resented it.

  The Throne Room was empty save for them. The castle, although filled with Shieldsmen and Serpent Guards, watching every entrance and dark hallway, felt equally abandoned. Just empty rooms and haunting memories. He could recall the first time he’d been there, under much more joyful circumstances.

  He, Sora, and Torsten had just returned from the Webbed Woods where they’d killed a goddess, stopped Redstar, and saved the world. That was the day he became Whitney Blisslayer, and in light of current events, it all felt like a sham.

  No one had killed Bliss. No one had stopped Redstar, and they sure as Exile hadn’t saved the world. If anything, they’d set off a chain reaction, which all led to this moment. Bliss was right outside, slaughtering people—in a new body, sure, but it was her.

  Whitney fought back the feeling of despair, threatening to bury him. He had to do something.

  “You know what we are, right?” he asked. “We are the children during family workday who are told by their father that he’s got ‘a very important task’ for us to do. They just don’t want us to get in the way.”

  “Speak for yerself,” Tum Tum said, spinning his warhammer. “They be savin the best for last.”

  “Whatever.”

  It really
did feel like a complete farce. Of the three of them who’d been in the Woods that day, Torsten went blind, but still, he’d killed Redstar on the Dawning, and he walked away with enchanted-yigging-sight. Sora had been possessed by the Buried Goddess, but she would still have the chance to kill her, and she’d come away from it with godlike powers.

  What did Whitney get?

  Not only had he not killed Bliss, but that meant he didn’t truly earn his ennobled name. And to top it all off, he got to spend six years wallowing in Elsewhere.

  Whitney grumbled as he climbed the dais. There was a time his head would have rolled before his boot even hit the step. But now, there wasn’t a soul in the place to care. Like the throne meant nothing at all.

  No King. No Kingdom. Just live or die.

  He plopped down on the Glass Throne, looking around skeptically like the Shieldsmen posted beyond the doors might come pouring in at any moment. No one did. Not even Lucindur or Tum Tum said a word about it.

  “Even this doesn’t feel remotely like I’d expected it to,” he said, knocking on the armrest with his knuckles. “Hard as a stone and slippery.” He groaned and theatrically slid down the seat until he was slumped on the floor.

  “This was partially your plan, you know?” Lucindur said, calm as ever, from her perch on one of the Royal Council chairs, hands folded in her lap, salfio on the seat next to her.

  Whitney let out a sigh. On his back, staring at the beautifully painted, vaulted ceiling telling grand tales of old, he let his fingers play over the Brike Stone in his pocket. As much as he hated to admit it, Lucy was right. This was how it had to be. But, while they waited there, listening to the echoes of walls crumbling, men dying, and gods laughing, Sora was out there in the thick of it, hunting an Arch Warlock. He had no way of knowing if she were safe or even alive.

  “You weren’t there, in the Webbed Woods,” Whitney said. “We were so stupid to think that would be the end of anything. It was the beginning. We awoke the gods.”

  “Are ye admitting to doin somethin stupid?” Tum Tum asked, chuckling. “I never thought I’d see the day.”