Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Sounds more like he’s taking credit for all of this to me,” Lucindur said.

  “Sora was brilliant,” Whitney said, ignoring them both. “You should’ve seen her. She turned that dumb Redstar into a blubbering fool. Torsten sliced Bliss from neck to navel. It was disgusting, all those little spiders pouring out. And me… I got wrapped up in her web like an idiot.”

  “I thought ye killed the bitch?” Tum Tum said, snickering.

  “Forgive me for interrupting your reminiscence, Whitney, but what’s this all about?” Lucindur asked.

  “You should’ve seen us coming home,” Whitney said, still ignoring her. “Our smiles were falling off our faces. ‘We killed Queen Bliss. We stopped Redstar.’”

  “To be fair, from what I hear, ye would’ve done just that if Torsten would’ve killed the bastard,” Tum Tum said. “Damn knights and their honor.”

  “That’s the point though. It was three of us versus two of them. Now, it’s what—us versus a bunch of goddesses and their armies? You think we have a chance?” Whitney asked as yet another growl echoed from the battlefield, followed by the floor quaking. Little rocks and dust fell from the ceiling. “I’ve spent the last six years… well—whatever—bragging about killing a goddess who is right out there, right now, destroying a city that has never even been attacked.”

  Lucindur rose and approached Whitney. He didn’t see her, but he heard her footfalls.

  “Get up,” she said, kicking him.

  “Hey!” Whitney complained and rolled a bit.

  She kicked him again and again. “Get up!”

  Whitney scrambled down the dais, finding his footing. “Fine, fine! I’m up. I’m up.”

  Lucindur followed him down the stairs. She moved a hand toward his shoulder, and he flinched.

  “My daughter is three thousand kilometers away, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again,” she said. “You may not have killed Bliss or stopped anything, but you didn’t have an angry, protective mother on your side last time.”

  “But—“

  “No buts. We will win this thing.”

  “How do you know?” Whitney asked.

  “Because I will see Talwyn again,” she said. Then, she whispered, “I have to.”

  “And ye didn’t have a dwarf with nothin left to lose, neither.” Tum Tum grinned a big toothy grin as he stepped up beside them.

  Another boom filtered in through the walls. Whitney winced.

  “I need to go out there,” he said. “Sora might be in trouble.”

  “And she might not be,” Lucindur added. “She is more powerful than any of us. If she is in trouble, we all are. You cannot save her this time, Whitney Fierstown.”

  “Maybe not. But I can try.”

  Lucindur grabbed his arm. “You cannot stop this on your own.”

  “We’ll have our chance, lad,” Tum Tum said. “In the end, it’ll all come down to us.”

  “And if it ends with the castle coming down on us?” Whitney asked.

  Tum Tum shrugged.

  “We should at least be in the crypt,” Whitney said.

  “Sure,” Tum Tum said, laughing, “let’s go to the mountain where the last God Feud took place, surrounded by dead kings, somewhere south of where Nesilia was buried. That sounds safe.”

  “You’re right,” Whitney said. “That’s exactly what we shou—“

  The ground shook and sent Whitney sprawling against the stairs. He got to his hands and knees just as another tremor rocked the castle.

  “Shog in a barrel. That’s it.” He knew where he needed to be, and it wasn’t hiding in the castle.

  He rose, dug his hand into his pocket, and grasping the Brike Stone, fought against the feeling that his soul and body were going to be torn away from each other. As he pulled it out, all the room’s light seemed to evaporate like rainwater on a hot day.

  He tossed it to Tum Tum. “Hold onto this. I’ll be back,” he said.

  The dwarf was left with no choice but to catch it. The moment he did, he froze, gawking at it silently, like his brain had stopped working.

  Lucindur strode forward and whisper-shouted as if the big bad army might overhear her, “Where are you going?”

  Whitney stopped at the side entrance, the place where the Royal Council was meant to enter.

  “If a castle full of the best soldiers this place has to offer can’t keep you safe, an exaggerative thief won’t do much better,” Whitney said. Then, without another word, he cleared the threshold and tore off to the only place in the castle he knew he’d be able to get a glimpse of what was happening on the outside.

  He passed many guards who objected to his leaving the Throne Room, but who were under strict orders not to leave their post. They were there to keep people out, not in.

  It took focus to remember where the Shield Hall was in such a labyrinth. Still, familiar landmarks told Whitney he was headed in the right direction. After a few more turns, he finally burst through the war room’s door.

  He was met by a Shieldsman, sword extended outward.

  “Mister Fierstown,” the soldier said. “What are you doing here?”

  Mister? Whitney thought. When had he ever been called anything other than ‘thief,’ or ‘hey, you!’ in this damnable castle.

  He cleared his throat. “Just doing my part, Sir…”

  “Hystad, sir. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Just keep… uh... keeping the keep safe,” Whitney said.

  Sir Hystad finally sheathed his sword and returned to his post beside the large window.

  Whitney took two steps forward until he stood beside the massive planning table upon which sat many carved figurines spelling out the precise plan Torsten and the Shesaitju princess—or whatever she was—had devised. As Whitney pored over it, he wasn’t even sure it was a good plan, but it was the best they had.

  He looked around at the statues of so many Wearers of White, wondering if Torsten’s visage would be represented there someday. Then, he found himself hoping it wouldn’t be too soon.

  “What do you think of Torsten?” Whitney asked the Shieldsman.

  “Sir Unger?” Sir Hystad repeated. “Best there is.”

  “We’re all about to die, Sir Hystad,” Whitney reminded him. “There’s no better time for the truth.”

  Sir Hystad laughed nervously. “Well, hah. He’s… he’s a bit of a grump sometimes.” Then, he stood tall and said, “But still, the best there is.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Whitney said.

  Whitney walked just a bit more, and there, directly in front of him, was a statue he hadn’t noticed when they’d been planning. Sir Uriah Davies—the face Redstar had stolen in the dwarven ruins and the Webbed Woods. For Whitney, it felt like so long ago that he and Torsten embarked upon that grand adventure, getting captured at Oxgate. Eventually, they both escaped, albeit at different times. Whitney was shocked Torsten had ever forgiven him for that.

  Under his breath, Whitney echoed Sir Hystad’s sentiments. “Best there is.”

  His attention returned to Sir Uriah Davies’ sculpture. The sight disgusted Whitney. To think that the memory of such a valiant warrior had been so stained by evil…

  “Yigging Exile,” Whitney said, almost a whisper, “what am I, some kind of hero?”

  Then, he turned and started toward the balcony overlooking the Northern Mason’s district to his right and Mount Lister to his left.

  “Yeah, maybe I am,” he said.

  “Sir?” the soldier said.

  Whitney ignored him.

  Far below the balcony, the city’s northern fortifications still stood, doing what little it could to protect against the enemy’s various magics and brute force. As soon as they broke through, it was just a shallow strip of homes, then up the sharp hill Old Yarrington was built upon, and they would be at the rear of the castle.

  It was then that Whitney considered the incredible arrogance of whoever had built the castle. To leave suc
h a wide opening on the exterior of the fortress showed how sure they were that no one would ever breach the city. Looking to his right, where the Drav Cra’s gargantuan, hairy mounts slammed over and over again into the wall, Whitney doubted the Glass Kingdom’s intelligence.

  He leaned out, hoping to catch sight of Sora, but only saw the vast army and what could’ve been remnants of Sora’s magic flame petering out in the muddy fields. The rumbling appeared to have come from catapults. The fields north of the city were strewn with boulders.

  Everything shook as the Drav Cra used their chekt like battering rams, with barely enough archers posted in the area to make more than a display of defense. Not that they could’ve accomplished much. Freydis and other warlocks outside flung balls of flame and exploding ice, keeping many from aiming—incinerating others.

  All while each chekt caused clouds of dust, and drove the Glassmen upon the ramparts to their knees. Whitney’s eyes combed the ranks but still didn’t see Sora anywhere. He did, however, recognize Sir Mulliner, barking orders for his men to retreat down the stairs and prepare the city ambush. Then, just as they’d cleared the parapets, the wall came tumbling down with a sound like thunder. However, it was precisely part of the plan, in the exact location the dwarves had been working so hard to compromise. It was just what Torsten had expected.

  The opening led the Drav Cra army into a funnel where the shield-bearing ranks of Mulliner’s men made quick work of them. At the same time, archers waiting in windows unleashed barrage after barrage. Wherever Sora was, she unleashed fire upon them, and Whitney even spotted tiny Aquira zipping around blowing more flames.

  It was a blood bath and every Drav Cra who entered died just as quickly. The one thing Torsten hadn’t accounted for were their giant mounts.

  Massive vines grew out of the ground and pulled the breach in the wall wider, allowing one chekt to squeeze through. It stomped across the left side of Mulliner’s ranks like a boulder through a barley field. Men were flattened beneath their hairy feet. A building full of archers came down as its tusks raked across the first floor. That was when Whitney finally saw Sora. She leaped across a rooftop, her fire lashing out like a whip around the beast’s throat. She jumped to the street, slamming the thing down face-first where it could be killed by many blades.

  But the damage had been done.

  Just like that, the northern defenses were partially breached, and Drav Cra filtered through the ambush. Mulliner and Sora still had the upper hand, but the enemy had the numbers, and the warlocks continued to use their magic vines to widen the entry. Eventually, they’d be overwhelmed.

  Whitney swore again.

  Sir Hystad shifted uncomfortably behind him, obviously having witnessed the same thing.

  “Aren’t you going to go help them?” Whitney asked.

  “I have my orders.”

  “Yeah, well, some orders aren’t worth keeping,” Whitney said, turning his attention back to the foothills of Mount Lister just behind where the bulk of Freydis’ army was positioned. According to Torsten, that was where the crypt had split open when Pi was resurrected and possessed by Nesilia. Whitney had been in the city during that time, just before setting off with the Pompare Troupe. He had a vague recollection of the upturned earth, thinking it would have been best to fill it in with stone and forget about it altogether.

  However, that was before he and Sora went down there to visit Liam. Dwarves were supposed to be the best, but Whitney had witnessed their shoddy craftsmanship. At the time, he didn’t know what it meant or why he should care, but now…

  He took off at a sprint, knowing precisely what role he was going to play in this thing. He checked his new daggers as he ran. Whitney knew they were laced with silver, prepared in case he was the one to drive a crippling blow to Nesilia in her upyr form. For now, it was just another blade for which to kill humans and monsters—and Whitney didn’t like killing.

  The dungeon stairs passed beneath him three at a time, and he didn’t bother to stop when he got to the bottom, just allowing his momentum to carry him into the iron bars of the first cell. He pushed off and ran in darkness, knowing there would be nothing but a straight hall. He swiped at spider webs that covered him and passed by only a few occupied cells. Their inhabitants grasped for him, all saying the same words that had Sora so freaked out on their previous visit.

  “I see you.”

  Whitney just continued by, still unsure if they were possessed like the men he’d seen in Panping, or just mad loons not even fit to help in the fight. It didn’t matter. The dungeon soon opened up into the Royal Crypt. He didn’t know why, but he felt such a strong sense of urgency that his stomach roiled. Seeing those great beasts breaching the walls, even though it was part of the plan, had Whitney uncomfortable. Sure, they were supposed to break through, but they weren’t supposed to slaughter the whole of the front lines in a matter of minutes. Knowing Sora was down there didn’t give him any comfort either. Freydis wasn’t charging. She was being smart, remaining at a distance, and using her magic to benefit her army, rather than driving the attack.

  Stopping in the mouth of the entrance, Whitney scanned around, seeing the many statues, and a new one built for Liam just across from his casket.

  That wasn’t the reason he was there, though. He’d seen something when he and Torsten were arguing. Not many would have noticed it, but Whitney prided himself in being observant. It was the mark of any great thief. He figured out how best to enter and exit every place he ever visited. He needed to know how to get in to reap his reward and escape the guards if they were to interrupt the caper.

  Just above Liam’s new statue, a thin seam in the new stone forming a small dome for the altar allowed the tiniest sliver of light. Whitney cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck.

  He moved to the statue and peered up. It was three times his size, but there were plenty of crevices for climbing. He tested the handholds on Liam’s stone greaves. Once he was convinced it was sturdy enough, he grasped and pulled himself up. One hand after the other, placing his feet where his hands had just been. Next was the stone belt, and then the cuirass.

  Finally, he stood upon Liam’s shoulders, took a moment to consider the metaphorical implications of it, then he started the climb to the crown upon the old King’s head. It was fashioned just like the one Whitney had stolen. Whitney patted the statue.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said.

  Reaching the top, he stretched his arms only to find he was still an arm’s length away.

  “Shog in a…”

  He looked around, desperate for something to give him that little bit extra.

  Upon his last visit, each of the kings had been holding weapons. But now, most had empty hands, those weapons appropriated by Hovom Nitebrittle to be used in the battle—some of the metal contained within Whitney’s daggers, he figured. One body’s hands, however, weren’t empty. King Liam held a thin, iron pole.

  Whitney knew Torsten now used Liam’s old blade, but that was taken long ago when Hovom had the luxury of time. It seemed he’d used that opportunity to give Liam something to rest his hands upon until the sword was returned. Where all the other kings were slumped over and leaning against their caskets, Liam was upright like the proud man he was said to have been.

  “Torsten is gonna kill me,” Whitney said, shimmying his way down.

  Before he could change his mind, he wrapped his cloak around his elbow and drove it through King Liam’s casket. Glass shattered and splintered, spraying outward. Whitney felt tiny cuts along his cheek and neck but had no time to care. He grabbed the pole and pulled. Unexpectedly, it held in place. Whitney pulled harder, and the pole came free, dragging Liam’s body with it. Whitney leaped out of the way just before the corpse fell upon him.

  “Blech,” he said. He sloppily circled one eye with his free hand and backed away.

  Then, just as he’d done when leaving the Whispering Wizards’ Tower many moons ago, he placed the pole in his teeth like it was the
Splintering Staff, and started his ascent. The staff had been a light wood, and this iron pole, though thin, was far heavier. But Whitney managed. Once at the top, he whispered encouragement to himself and stabbed the new portion of the ceiling.

  A few chunks of stone toppled down, bouncing off his arm and the statue below.

  “Best masons in the land,” Whitney scoffed. “Are dwarves good at anything?”

  He jabbed it again, and more came loose. He continued until he could see the sky beyond. Dirt and grass poured onto his face. He kept at it until there was a hole large enough to pull himself through to the surface, though he was going to have to jump for it.

  He looked down and dropped the pole. It took a few seconds before landing with a resonant ping. It was a long way if he missed the leap.

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made bigger jumps with longer falls, but if he missed this one, Sora’s life was at stake, too. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way. She was more than capable of handling herself, but something inside of him said they’d vastly underestimated their enemy—if that were even possible.

  He closed his eyes, inhaled, then opened them again and pushed off the highest point on Liam’s crown. His fingers found purchase… in loose soil covering the rebuilt sections of the crypt. The dwarves hadn’t even packed it solid.

  Immediately, he began slipping. He clawed at the dirt, feeling no stone at all. Scrambling, pulling and scratching, dirt dribbling into his open mouth, he felt an elaborate root system and seized it. Pieces broke off, getting in his eyes, but he was able to get a good enough grip to climb the rest of the way out.

  He wiped at his face. Rubbed his eyes. Spit.

  He stayed there on the ground for a bit, letting himself breathe. The air felt cold against his sweat-soaked face even though it was summer. And it was dark—way darker than any night other than the Dawning. The moons were just a soft haze in the sky, providing almost no light at all.

  He got the impression it was nothing natural. However, Whitney could still see the horde of Drav Cra warriors and dire wolves gathered before the wall, pushing inside little by little. The breach in the wall was now much more significant than planned for, with remaining chekt able to rumble through and level buildings with ease.