Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

Freydis raised her fist high in an upward motion, blood was already streaming across her forearm like a spiderweb. Sharp icicles stabbed through the ground where Sora stood, but Sora easily rolled out of the way. It was as if she could feel them before they struck.

  She retaliated with a strike of her own, and the grass around Freydis’ feet grew longer and twisted, holding the Arch Warlock in place, just as the warlock child had done to her chekt. Then, Sora drew her sword and charged.

  “You use tools of metal when such power is at your mercy?” Freydis said. “Our Lady said you were the most powerful.”

  Freydis clenched her fist, and a droplet of blood splashed the ground. The grass holding her withered upon its touch. She extended her hand to the side, then swung toward Sora. Rocks spewed from the field and slammed against Sora’s shoulder, disrupting her attempt to cleave Freydis’s head.

  She took the hit in stride, using its momentum to carry her into a roll. When she stood, she decided to take a page out of Freydis’ book. She looked inward, embracing her power, and the mass of earth beneath Freydis broke free, tossing the warlock backward.

  “Now that is strength!” Freydis admired after she hit the ground. “What about this?”

  She twirled her hands, and thick vines wrapped Sora’s midsection, forcing her arms to her side. Freydis stood, grinning as she clenched her bloody fingers.

  But she made the mistake of thinking that, like her, Sora needed her hands for magic. That she needed anything but her mind. She knew nothing of the raw power that burned within. Sora would have to enlighten her.

  She thought of fire, and fire came. It burned away every remnant of the vines, and for the first time, Sora saw terror etched upon Freydis’ face.

  “It’s over, Freydis,” Sora said. “You chose the wrong side.”

  A loud screech distracted them both as Aquira darted down behind her at Wvenweigard, who had managed to catch up.

  “Kill the imposter!” Freydis shouted and pointed toward Whitney, as if unaware that Wvenweigard was under attack. Then, while Sora was still distracted, Freydis darted forward and drove her jagged knife through Sora’s shoulder.

  Sora cried out and slammed a fist forward, knocking Freydis back. She pulled the dagger free and tossed it to the ground. She didn’t need to draw on blood any longer, but that molten fire within came roaring back in full force. Sora screamed, and a pillar of flames shot up from the ground but dissipated just as quickly as Freydis blocked it with a sheet of ice. Freydis then drove her own fist into Sora’s chest, just below her open wound.

  Sora flew back, feeling like her ribcage had compressed into her heart.

  Freydis charged forward and struck Sora again. “She said I couldn’t compare! Well, look at us now.”

  Sora was hit with a barrage of elemental magic. It all happened so fast she couldn’t even figure out what was happening before she was flat on her back.

  “Sora!” Whitney cried out, a reminder of what was at stake.

  Sora kicked upward and caught Freydis in the chin just as the warlock was about to mount her for another attack. Then, rising, Sora turned to see Wvenweigard fighting Aquira, flinging spikes of ice and unable to catch her. Now, Whitney had joined in. There was no way he would survive. Freydis may have been using him as a plaything, but Wvenweigard wouldn’t hold back. And neither would the Drav Cra warriors closing in on all of them.

  Sora growled, something bestial-sounding that came from deep inside. The darkness crept in on her vision once more, and flames and shadows danced.

  “For once,” she said, extending her hand, “that bitch was right.”

  Fire poured out of her like a thousand hearths. Like ten thousand suns, it engulfed Freydis, making the fires of Winde Port look like a mere match. The Arch Warlock tried to fight it, conjuring ice and water, but both melted and evaporated as Sora refused to relent. She screamed, unleashing every ounce of rage which had filled her since her earliest memory. She heard the voice of every man, woman, and child calling her knife-ear, telling her she was worthless. She saw the face of every mystic, taunting her within the red tower. Then, she saw Nesilia.

  Her roar contorted into a single word. “Move!” she shouted, then hoisted the other hand and raised another pillar of flame beneath Wvenweigard. Whitney jumped back as the fire overtook the warlock.

  Sora felt herself growing weary but refused to let up. Somewhere within it, Freydis screamed until all noise other than the roar of flames stopped.

  Sora collapsed to her knees.

  Whitney rushed to her, Aquira following.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m—Frey—“

  “They’re dead,” Whitney said. “Really, really dead. Aquira, you’re up. Fly to the cathedral and give the signal!”

  Aquira screeched, nestling against Sora’s side.

  Sora nodded. “Go.”

  The little wyvern took off into the night sky, and Whitney helped Sora to her feet. A contingent of Drav Cra charged them, ready to avenge their Arch Warlock. Then a terrible scream echoed that definitely didn’t belong to Freydis. Terror and sadness unconsciously clouded Sora’s mind.

  The warriors stopped, staring up at Mount Lister in fear. A rumble started in the distance. They turned to flee, but the earth shook, splitting rock. An explosion of light emanated from Mount Lister, and a crack coruscated down it toward them.

  “What’s that?” Sora said, weak.

  “Hold on!” Whitney shouted.

  Suddenly, they were falling.

  Caught in a wild landslide, they plummeted. Rocks split off the walls around them, battering them. They slid, but the ride wasn’t smooth at all. Sora felt as if they were going into the very depths of Elsewhere.

  XLIV

  The Knight

  “Hold the line!” Torsten screamed as Nesilia’s army crashed against the shields in front of him. He stabbed and thrust Salvation, but every possessed body that fell was immediately replaced by another. Torsten’s ranks gave up ground fast. It actually felt like a tidal wave slamming into them, even with the spiders gone.

  It didn’t take long for the shield wall to be compromised either. Dire wolves, which Torsten had now started thinking of strictly as hellhounds—no natural animal left within them—pounded over the formation with no care for their own survival. Grimaurs slashed down from above. Demons body-hopped and attacked from behind before priests could absorb them, and as the number of remaining priests dwindled, that happened more and more often.

  Darkness, in conjunction with dirt kicked up from trampling feet, made it impossible to see far. Torsten’s world was reduced to the allies and enemies directly around him. He dodged talons and blades, hacked and slashed. Bodies smashed into him from every direction. There was no room to parry or fight anything one on one.

  A hellhound soared over the men and tackled him. Claws ripped off one of his pauldrons before he plunged his sword through its chest. As he went to stand, a host of goblins jumped on him and stabbed away, mostly connecting with armor.

  He flung one. Smashed another against a stone wall so hard it left his own shoulder burning with pain. He spun, only to find a black-eyed cultist charging him. The man gripped Torsten’s throat with unnatural strength, and a knife raced toward his head.

  Torsten bashed the man’s arm down, freeing his neck. The knife grazed his flesh as he dipped out of the way, grasping the cultist’s robes and hurling him at more possessed. He staggered, rasping, desperate for a fresh breath of air as the stifling dirt swirled around the markets. He needed to get free, but couldn’t.

  Even as he tried again, a grimaur dove onto the back of a soldier in front of him, digging in. Torsten swung and de-winged it, but the paralyzing agent in its talons petrified the victim. Shouldering by, Torsten narrowly avoided a slashing sword, then gutted something, the chill of a demon being freed overwhelming his senses. In this murk, he couldn’t even tell if any priests were left down here.

  Finally, he managed to fight his
way to the edge of the fray.

  “Sir Unger, the markets are overrun!” Sir Pimpero Bali yelled.

  A hatchet landed in the man’s neck, leaving his head hanging by a strand. His body collapsed.

  Torsten swore and huffed to catch his breath.

  He started up the slight incline of the Royal Avenue, and he turned to look upon the chaos. There was no order. They’d been overwhelmed on multiple fronts. Archers could no longer help as enemies surged over the walls. Not that they could’ve aimed without risking hitting one of their own, anyway.

  We’ve bought as much time as we can, Torsten realized.

  All he could do now was have faith that Sora had upheld her end of things, drawing in Nesilia by revealing her presence in dramatic fashion. And that Caleef Mahraveh had held back the waterfront invasion, and somehow managed to capture one of the wianu.

  “Retreat!” Torsten screamed. “To Old Yarrington. Retreat!”

  Sadly, most couldn’t. The men still fighting across the markets wouldn’t even be able to see which way retreat was. The archers on the walls struggled for their lives. And now it was against more than monsters. Torsten spotted the pale skin and markings of Drav Cra berserkers, charging in from northern Yarrington. They’d broken through as well.

  Commanders relayed Torsten’s orders, and those that could retreat did. Nesilia’s quicker monsters broke out of the mob to give chase. Archers posted in the windows of shops and homes along the route let fly.

  “C’mon, Sora,” Torsten whispered to himself as he broke into a jog up the hill. “We need you.”

  It almost felt fated that Yarrington should be in the hands of the daughter its greatest king had apparently rejected. Was Iam playing a joke all along?

  Suddenly, somebody emerged from an alley and tackled Torsten from the side at full force. His knees cracked the stone, but years of battle had honed his reflexes. He twisted as he went down, elbowing back and catching the attacker’s chin. When his torso hit the ground, he’d freed himself enough to duck out of the way of a heavy gauntlet that split the stone pavers beside his head.

  Torsten pushed off on his elbow, whipping Salvation in a wide arc with one hand. His assailant jumped back, the quick counter shaving a thin line across the man’s breastplate. Rand stood before him, longsword drawn, blood pouring down his face through a straggly beard not befitting of a Shieldsman.

  “You coward!” Torsten roared.

  “Torsten, you—“

  Before Rand could finish the sentence, Torsten was on his feet and rushing him. Rage fueled each swing of his sword, knocking Rand off balance as he did his best to parry. Before he could break Rand’s grip with another strike, the traitor grabbed a retreating conscript and pushed him at Torsten.

  “It wasn’t enough for you to get our King killed?” Torsten said, stalking forward. “You had to drive your sword into the throne itself?”

  “You don’t understand!” Rand replied, hoarse.

  “Lucas was a good man. Everything you never could be!”

  Torsten pressed again. His claymore gave him superior reach, and he trounced Rand with raw strength. Clearly, he hadn’t been training. His face and neck were as gaunt as the crazies spending a lifetime in the dungeons.

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” Rand said. He blocked, and the force sent him staggering.

  “Tell that to the blood on your hands!” Torsten raised his sword, but before he could swing, a hellhound came out of nowhere and bit his arm. Salvation dropped.

  Rand recovered and stabbed forward, but Torsten yanked the beast down, and Rand hit it instead. When he released the heavy animal, it dragged Rand with it and pulled the sword from his grip.

  Torsten ripped his arm free of the beast’s clenched jaw, a fang stuck in his bare wrist. The momentum sent his fist crashing into the side of Rand’s face. A second left hook sent him flying through the window of a bakery.

  Glancing up and down the street, Torsten saw the chaos rushing up the avenue. Spiked logs were lit on fire and were now rolling down, crashing through the enemy ranks. Cavalry at the top prepared for a charge. Under heavy attack by grimaurs, the archers on rooftops fired almost aimlessly.

  Torsten bit his lip, then scooped up Salvation.

  “Lucas’ parents had a place just like this,” he said. “Now it burns, thanks to your master’s army.”

  He moved through the shop’s entry, and Rand jumped at him from behind. His gauntlet cracked against the back of Torsten’s bald head, and he staggered into the counter. Rand quickly clutched Torsten’s blindfold and pulled. Torsten held it, but without two hands couldn’t get a good angle with his sword.

  Another earthquake hit. Like with Bliss, a primordial howl echoed along with it. But this time, it wasn’t Bliss. It shook the room enough to rock them both into a wall and knock them apart.

  “What is she doing?” Torsten asked, peeling himself off the ground.

  “I don’t know,” Rand replied, using the counter to try and stand.

  Torsten pointed out the window, where the battle raged. “Is that her freeing this world?”

  “I don’t know!” he screamed.

  “You knew when you killed my friend!”

  Torsten charged, and Rand caught his hands. Torsten’s shoulder rammed into Rand’s chest and planted him onto his back, splitting the wood floor.

  “You betrayed your people!” Torsten shouted as he punched the Eye of Iam sculpted into his Shieldsman chestplate. “You betrayed your king.” He punched again. “You betrayed me!”

  The third blow splintered the wood right beside Rand’s head. The weakling writhed to get free. His arms lay back flat, and he coughed up a gob of blood.

  “All your blame for Oleander and you became the executioner for something so much worse,” Torsten said, voice quaking. Again, he had Rand at his mercy, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it, no matter how much he hated him.

  “Torsten…” Rand gurgled. “She took control of the glaruium in my armor. She did it. She brought the sword down.”

  “Liar!” Torsten snarled.

  Rand shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t… I—I don’t know if I would have done it myself anymore. Or if she made me. I don’t know. I—I just want to see her…”

  “Your sister?” Torsten replied. “You’ve betrayed her memory worst of all, Rand Langley.”

  “No, I talked to her!” Raising his voice sent him into a fit of coughing. “I talked to her. This is what she wants. She’s saving our world.”

  “You know that isn’t her.”

  He squeezed his eyelids shut. “It is. It has to be.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Torsten shoved off the floor with his fists, retrieving Salvation on his way. He squeezed the grip, staring down at the pathetic excuse for a man. He’d left him like this in Latiapur, and, somehow, he’d come crawling back like a rat. If he’d killed him then, Lucas might still be alive. But he knew that wasn’t true. Nesilia used Lucas to taunt Torsten, and if Rand hadn’t been the one holding the sword, it would have been someone else. Rand was a tool. Nothing more.

  That was how Torsten knew Rand’s Sigrid didn’t remain in any capacity. Not in her upyr form. Not in Nesilia’s mind. No sister would ever use a brother in such a way. Rand groaned as he dragged his body and propped up against the counter, his crushed armor constricting his movements.

  “Just do it,” Rand moaned. “End it already. I don’t want to live anymore. Not like this.”

  Torsten hoisted Salvation. He could see hope in Rand’s eyes that it might finally end. Instead, he rested the blade against his shoulder and moved to the doorway. He could hear sobbing behind him, but that was the least Rand deserved.

  Madness awaited outside. The cavalry had charged down, trampling goblins and possessed men, but the Drav Cra had halted their charge. A giant, furry beast rampaged through the market, its tusks killing ally and enemy.

  Above the clamor of it all, Torsten heard the familiar be
lls of Yarrington Cathedral chiming. He remembered the plan. When Freydis was dead, Aquira was to fly up and ring those sacred bells.

  “Please…” Rand rasped, crawling into the threshold of the bakery shop’s doorway.

  Torsten glanced back at the traitor and his broken body. In that moment, all he could feel for the man was pity.

  “I’m no executioner,” Torsten said, and then rushed out. He stuck to the shadows of the overhangs, but it was impossible to avoid a fight. Horses rumbled by. Arrows glanced off all around. Buildings burned. Others crumbled.

  He’d allowed Rand to steal his focus for the last time. Former Shieldsmen arrayed at the top of the hill, at the archway welcoming citizens to Old Yarrington. It was broken in the center, the sign hanging from one side. The Shieldsmen covered his approach. All those who retreated from the markets flowed through the castle gates and mounted its walls.

  Old Yarrington was located upon a bluff, but grimaurs were already terrorizing the civilians hunkered down in mansions, and beating at the windows of the Cathedral.

  “Sir Unger!” Sir Mulliner said, approaching the gates with a regiment. “You made it.”

  “Barely,” Torsten said. He stopped to gather his breath. “Sora. Did she do it? Is the warlock slain?”

  “I’m not sure. She chased her out beyond the walls, and I—I… I had to call a retreat. We collapsed the northern stairs to Old Yarrington. The heathens will have to go around, but it won’t buy long.”

  “You did well,” Torsten said. “Pull all defenses to the keep. Hold, as long as you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Where are you going?”

  “To the Throne Room, to end this.”

  “What if she failed?” Mulliner asked.

  Torsten seized him by the shoulders and gave a firm shake. “I have faith, my friend.”

  Sir Mulliner nodded, and not a second later was barking orders throughout the courtyard, prepping the castle for the maelstrom of death that was to come.

  Torsten rushed into the courtyard, where he found Uhlvark sitting by the fountain, arms around his knees, chin to his massive chest.