“Iam forgive me for what I must do,” he whispered under his breath. Then, he raised his blade.
At the same time, Redstar bit his other hand, drawing fresh blood. He raised his palm and Torsten felt all his muscles tense. He remembered the woods, how Redstar flung him and his companions around like rag dolls.
The Arch Warlock was clearly weakened from his time in a cell since Torsten still felt a twinge of control. It stung as much as the fire on his leg to try and move his muscles against the magic but he gritted his teeth and fought to try and break free.
“Sir Unger!” someone hollered from down the hall.
Torsten couldn’t turn his head but he peered over with his eyes. Wardric stood in the corridor, fully armed. Beside him was a female Drav Cra warlock, her wild hair threaded with jagged beads made of bone. She sliced her hand and raised it. Her power, combined with that of Redstar, flung Torsten back, slamming him hard against the wall. His claymore clattered to the floor.
“Release him!” Wardric drew his sword and raised it to the warlock’s neck.
“He assaulted Drad Redstar,” the woman hissed.
Torsten’s entire body seized. His back was crushed against the stone so hard he felt his ribs beginning to snap inward. A scream bubbled in his throat, one that would certainly rouse Pi if he hadn’t been already.
Redstar stood, then dusted off his clothes. “Ah, my dear Freydis,” he addressed her. “I was wondering when you and the others would arrive.”
“Shall we send him to the goddess, Drad Redstar?” she asked.
“No, my over-eager friend. Release him. They’re our allies now.” Redstar lowered his own hand.
Torsten crumpled to the floor. Somehow, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be manipulated by blood magic—like an infant in the arms of its mother. It was a feeling he’d hoped never to experience again.
“My apologies, fair Shieldsman,” Redstar said. “It was only a misunderstanding.”
Freydis lowered her bloody hand as well, but Wardric still wielded his blade.
“It didn’t look like it,” Wardric said. “Why does that monster walk free?”
Torsten tried to stand but his muscles were as sore as they’d been on his first day of King’s Shield training. He stared ahead at Pi’s chambers. In a moment of weakness and fear, he had nearly broken the oath he made to the boy beyond its finely carved door.
“It’s fine,” Torsten said, panting. “Stand down, Wardric.”
The Shieldsman didn’t listen, only extended the blade further underneath the flaking white paint on Freydis' slender neck.
“What is the meaning of this, Torsten?” he asked. “I rode to bring you urgent news from the Southern Reach and find a barbarian horde camping at our doorsteps. This woman claimed to have been invited.”
“By the King himself,” Redstar pronounced with a flourish.
“Don’t speak, knave!”
It took all the energy Torsten had to gesture to Wardric to lower his weapon. “It’s true,” he began through labored breaths. “Our young king has decided to free Redstar and make an alliance through him with the Drav Cra.”
“That’s madness,” Wardric said.
“But true.”
“You see? Just a squabble amongst new friends,” Redstar said. He sauntered over, abounding confidence in every stride, then hoisted Torsten up by the shoulders. He brushed his own shoulder, and gave Torsten a playful slap on the cheek. “Good as new.”
Torsten’s stomach churned at his touch but he was too exhausted to push him away.
“Now, Sir… Jolly, I believe?” Redstar said. “What news do you bring from the South?”
Wardric slowly lowered his blade, but didn’t drop his guard. Freydis on the other hand remained still and silent, her pale, gray eyes seeming to glow from the black paint smeared across the top half of her face.
“I bring news for the Wearer, and him alone,” Wardric said.
“It’s fine,” Torsten grumbled, rubbing his temples. Now that the dominating magic had worn off, his head was starting to ache. “What is it?”
Wardric’s gaze darted nervously between Freydis and Redstar until eventually, he took a step forward. Disgust contorted his features but he continued anyway.
“Muskigo’s army is on the move,” he said. “They’ve left their ships to drift into the swamp’s fog and march north under the light of nigh’jels, straight toward Fort Marimount.”
“And then Yarrington,” Torsten finished.
Muskigo had made the first move, and if he took the ancient dwarven fortress, he’d have a stronghold within direct reach of Yarrington. The villages he’d already raided would be nothing compared to the slaughter he could unleash around the capital.
Torsten wasn’t sure what to say next. He’d fought in many wars, but never at the helm. His mind was racing when Redstar clapped loudly.
“Looks like we won’t have to wait to test the King’s brilliant plan,” he said. He turned to Torsten. “I so look forward to getting to know you better.”
The crimson half of his face creased like parchment as his smile formed, deeper and more gleefully than ever before. And it was then that Torsten knew he’d missed his best chance. Because now, he truly did need the traitorous leech.
“Come Freydis. We have much to catch up on since I left for the Woods.” Redstar went to Freydis' side, and she sneered at Wardric before they continued on down the hall together. Two warlocks, free in the Glass Castle, yet somehow that wasn’t Torsten’s biggest problem.
In only days, Muskigo had apparently learned of his Caleef’s detainment and was on the march. There was no time for conscriptions to be filled out or properly trained, unlike the throng of hunters and heathens at the castle gates who were already prepared for battle. Now there was no way out of it. Torsten would have to march beside the man whose curse had once killed Pi only for him to breathe again; the man whose actions led to Uriah Davies' death, Oleander’s breakdown, and Torsten to experience fear at the hands of Bliss like he’d never imagined before.
X
THE THIEF
It was dark by the time they’d left the Guild Hall. The moons, Celeste and Loutis, hung high above the city. Celeste shone orange and bright through a thick fog, but Loutis could barely be seen peeking through. Whitney still couldn’t believe how chilly it was so far south. He saw Sora shiver out of the corner of his eye and absent-mindedly shed his cloak to wrap around her.
She smiled, then asked, “You know where we’re going?”
“Yeah, I’ve never been to the Panping District, but it’s not far from the bay.”
“The Panping District?”
“I’m sure there’s another name for it, but that’s what I’ve always called it. C’mon this way.”
They passed shops and houses all locked up for the evening. Some still had wares up for display and Whitney had to keep his hands in his pockets to control himself. Furs from Hornsheim, globes from Yaolin City, and a suit of armor forged from dwarven bronze that might have made even Torsten jealous. Nigh’jel lanterns from Latiapur hung from posts along the way, the tentacles of the amorphous creatures within pulsing a soft green light. The Shesaitju may have been locked up, but apparently, the people of Winde Port were happy to keep using those.
Whitney followed the lights to a rickety bridge crossing over a canal. Beyond, the light grew scant with only a candle here or there glowing in windows rotting off their hinges. Women dressed in clothing far too slight for the weather beckoned Whitney and Sora toward dark alleys. A portly Northern merchant chatted with one down on a gondola docked in the freezing water.
“His place should be just around the corner,” Whitney said.
“Good, I don’t like this side of town.”
Wharf Street and Delanie Road crossed at a lightless church. It seemed all but abandoned. Snow covered the carved, wooden gates. Nobody even bothering to have swept it away. The stone was chipped, and the stained glass along the façade and
up the spire was so dusty, the design was indecipherable. It was always unusual to see a Church of Iam be so forgotten in the Glass Kingdom. But Whitney had seen it before, and he knew that although they’d pledged themselves to Liam and the Vigilant Eye, the Panpingese people it was constructed for simply never showed up.
“Come on,” Sora said. “I’m cold.”
“Light a fire.” Whitney began walking again but stopped when he saw Sora standing at the end of the street, staring.
“What is this?” she asked.
Ramshackle, wooden row houses were crammed along a narrow street that, beyond the church, cheapened to dirt. Ropes covered in drying clothes were hung from one window to the next, some hanging lower than Whitney’s head, barely able to dry in the cold. A few Panpingese men and women lay huddled in a structure that didn’t look like it’d had a roof for a century.
The air reeked of smoke from the chimneys so tightly clumped together they created a thick cloud. Beneath the scent of burning wood was something else less pleasing.
“It smells like shog and piss,” Whitney said.
“Looks like it too.” She scanned from one side of the street to the other, incredulous. “This is the Panping District?”
Whitney knew what to expect. There were certain… amenities… that could only be found in a place like this, and he’d spent plenty of drunken nights in Winde Port. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the real name of the place was the Panping Ghetto.
“According to the city map,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Sora said. “Tayvada was dressed nicely. He is a trader in the guild. Surely he has enough money…” Her voice trailed off before she said, “He has to live here, doesn’t he? They make all of my people live in this… this filth.”
“I’m sure he’s just a man of the people.” Whitney took a few steps and Sora followed. A man bundled beneath a stack of furs groaned and rolled over onto the path. As they went around him, another woman in a candlelit window stared at Whitney, her almond-shaped eyes unflinching.
“Supposedly, he lives just over there.” Whitney pointed to a larger row house at the end of the street. It was in much better shape than the buildings flanking it, with patterned wood panels at the second story, but it was still far from luxurious.
“Sora?” Whitney asked.
He looked back and noticed that she’d fallen behind. She kneeled in front of a pair of skinny children. The older of them coughed while the other leaned against him, wrapped in a ratty blanket. Whitney couldn’t tell if they were faking. Begging was a full-time occupation in some parts of the world, and nobody earned better than children.
“Sora,” Whitney said. “Leave them be.”
She ignored him, and instead, opened one of the full coin purses they’d earned for selling Grint’s stuff. She placed a gold autla in each of their hands and smiled, watching as their eyes went wide. They’d probably seen bronzers or even silver before, but never gold.
They said something to Sora in Panpingese, the words rattling off their tongues so choppy and fast that Whitney didn’t pick up any of it. He knew a bit of the language from his travels, but Sora, on the other hand, knew none.
Whitney took her arm and gently guided her away. “C’mon, Sora. Tayvada’s house is right up here.”
She shook him off. “Are you heartless? No one should have to live like this.”
“We can’t help them all.”
“Oh?” She lifted the purse, removed a coin, and flung it up through an open window. “Are the people of Yarrington more deserving of our riches?” She took another and flicked it onto the ground.
“No, but we didn’t need money then.”
“We don’t need all of this.” She went to dump out more coins, but Whitney grabbed her arm. He could see the rage in her amber eyes, that same rage she used to release an explosion of light and energy that defeated Redstar. He was just glad she wasn’t bleeding.
“We don’t know that. It won’t be cheap if we need to purchase passage at a time like this. And if we need to buy a ship ourselves, it’ll be even more.”
“We can go by land,” she said softly.
“War’s coming. There’s a merry band of mercenaries on the road back that likely want us dead, plus an incredibly wealthy ex-constable who definitely wants us dead. We need to leave here as fast as possible, and nobody can touch us on a boat. We’ll go see your homeland and maybe after, you can come back here and we’ll load up as many children as you want, bring them to Panping so they can starve there instead.”
Sora was stunned by his words. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the harshness, or because she’d become accustomed to him joking, but he was an expert on the ugly truth of the world. It was never an easy thing to realize.
“You give one coin to each of them, and they’ll eat for a week,” he said. “Then we’ll be long gone, and it’ll be back to normal for them. Some people are just plain unlucky, Sora. But we’re living, breathing proof that it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s all up to them to fight for more.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Growing up with a loving family on a farm was so difficult for you.”
“There’s more opportunity in a city, that’s for sure. Now, let’s just do what we came here to do.”
He risked putting his hand on her back. She didn’t fight it as he guided her toward Tayvada’s house.
“Now, when we get in, let me do the haggling,” Whitney said. “I know these types. They’re vultures in gentlemen’s clothing, traders. The moment you think you’re their friend is the moment they bend you ov…” The words trailed off as Whitney remembered what had happened on the road with that lecherous dwarf. He winced ahead of time, expecting to feel Sora’s scorn, but she didn’t hear him.
“Seriously?” Sora asked after taking one disgusted look at Tayvada’s house. “This is the city you talk so highly of. The place so accepting of all peoples and cultures?”
“A lot of people got displaced by war,” Whitney said. “They needed homes quick, and they lost so…”
“I get why we need to leave, but you’re really defending this?”
“No, I’m just saying that not everything is so black and white. Look at me.” He grinned. “I don’t even have a home.”
“Would you stop comparing yourself to these people?”
“I compare myself to everyone. You know that.” He gave her a friendly nudge, but she wasn’t having it. Her whole face had been stuck scowling since the moment they crossed the canal.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said. “Let’s just speak with Tayvada and get out of here.”
“Fine by me,” Whitney replied, relieved.
He approached the man’s door and slammed on the knocker while shouting his name. A thin line of flickering light came from beneath the door, but nobody came. He tried again. Still nothing. A stray cat hissed and leaped out from the browning bushes, giving them both a scare. The thing set Tayvada’s front gate squeaking on its rusty hinges. Whitney couldn’t help but notice his was the only home on the whole street with a perimeter fence and gate.
“He’s probably asleep,” Sora said.
“Let’s go find out,” Whitney decided.
“We’re just going to go in uninvited?”
“Uh… thief, remember?”
“You’re supposed to be acting like a noble, if that’s possible for you.”
Whitney tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He shot a smile at Sora and pushed it open. “I am. We found the door ajar, and like any good citizens, wanted to check if everything was all right. The richest man in a place like this?”
“Somehow, you’re going to make an enemy out of the only man who can help.”
“C’mon.” Whitney peered through the opening. A single candle burned on the mantle, nearly down to the wick. He waved for Sora to follow.
“Tayvada!” Whitney called. “You home?”
There was a thud upstairs, th
en Aquira came screeching down a flight of a dozen or so stairs. Whitney was up on the dining table, daggers drawn before he knew what happened.
Sora jumped in front of the door before the wyvern could escape.
“What’s wrong, girl?” she asked, kneeling down. Aquira hid behind her leg and hissed at the staircase. Whitney thought he saw a speckling of embers spew from her mouth like spit, a failed remnant of the majestic, extinct dragons it devolved from.
“The sound came from upstairs,” Whitney said, pointing with a wavy blade.
“Well, are you going to get down from there and check it out?” Sora asked.
“I’m pretty sure he’s not home.”
Sora released an exasperated sigh, then removed her fancy glove, pulled out her knife, and drew a line of blood across her palm. She crept toward the stairs and started climbing. Aquira, however, didn’t go further than the first step.
“Smart girl,” Whitney said to the wyvern before reluctantly following Sora.
As they climbed, the dim light from the candle burning downstairs became even dimmer and was replaced by the orange glow of Celeste’s light gushing in through open windows.
They split up at the top, Whitney going to the left, toward where the sound might have originated. Sora went right.
Whitney found nothing but rooms, empty of life but packed with valuables. He could almost see gold autlas dancing before his eyes, but his visions were abruptly ended by the sound of Sora’s scream. He turned and took off down the hall. If anyone was in the house, they were now fully aware of his and Sora’s presence.
Clearing the threshold of what was clearly Tayvada’s bedroom, Whitney saw what had frightened Sora. Hanging from the ceiling like a butterfly’s cocoon, was what remained of a Panpingese man. Blood stained the body all the way down from a slash on his neck, still dripping from his jet-black hair, pooling across the floor, and seeping through the planks in the wood.
“Shog in a barrel,” Whitney whispered.
“Is that…” Sora could barely get the words out.
“Yeah, it’s him.”
Whitney sheathed his daggers and moved in for a closer look, covering his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt to ward against any potential smell. People about to die tended to make a mess of themselves. Those who did die always did.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 46
