The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Is this enough, Sora?” Whitney asked.

  “This is not a market,” Torsten snapped. “This is more than fair compensation for a woman like her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I have other things to do, and I don’t have any more time to waste with games.”

  Whitney was thinking of some witty retort when he saw the briefest break in the knight’s stern façade. He sighed. “I really am sorry we couldn’t do anything for your king.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Torsten said. “Is that all?”

  Whitney held his tongue, then performed an exaggerated bow as he backed away. “It has been an honor and a pleasure, Sir Torsten. I don’t look forward to it again.”

  “And I hope Iam sees it in his heart to show you two mercy. There is no soul beyond hope if you but open your hearts to the light.”

  “Mine’s plenty open and hers; you said it yourself, Iam worked through her.”

  Torsten grimaced.

  Whitney slapped the coin purse into Sora’s bandaged hand. “Here you are, milady.”

  “Can we please get out of here now?” she asked.

  “Not a moment too soon. Until the Crown calls on us great heroes again!” Whitney raised his arms as he shouted, voice echoing along the towering, stone walls and vaulted, stained glass ceiling. “I’ve always wanted to try that in one of these places,” he whispered in Sora’s ear as he turned.

  She held Torsten’s gaze for a few seconds longer, rage percolating behind her eyes, then finally turned. Torsten and his Shieldsmen did the same. Whitney glanced back at the giant man’s back before he vanished behind the empty throne.

  I’ll miss him, was his first thought. He wasn’t exactly sure why, and he knew nothing good would ever come of seeing him again, but a part of him enjoyed traveling with someone who seldom agreed with a single thing out of his mouth. It was one of the greatest challenges he’d ever faced. Even more so, was getting the stubborn knight to give in to his charms. Torsten would never admit it, but Whitney knew it’d be a long time before he forgot him.

  Guards led them out the front gates and across the castle grounds. A few others stood on ramparts, removing the corpses from the castle walls. Carts carried away piles of bodies that had already been taken down.

  They reached the street and Whitney looked from side to side. “So, where to next?” he asked, breathing in deep and immediately regretting it. Just because the bodies were leaving didn’t mean the stench had yet.

  “What’s the furthest city away from this awful place?” Sora said. “Away from the Shesaitju, and hateful knights, and murderous queens.”

  “That depends. Above or below ground?”

  “Above.” Sora nodded her head repeatedly as if she’d initially doubted herself. She smiled. “Yeah, definitely above.”

  “Shog… I did love the Dragon’s Tail. Dwarves love to gamble.”

  “What about Panping?” she asked.

  “Bringing me to meet the parents already?” Her glare gave him goosebumps. “Sorry…”

  “How about it?” she asked. “I figure, the way Torsten looks at me, it must be the most fun place in the world. Any place he dislikes must be amazing.”

  “He does despise a good time, doesn’t he?” Whitney scratched his head. “It’s a fine city. A bit too many soothsayers for my taste though. They have a way of looking through you.”

  “Well, now you have me. C’mon. Don’t I deserve to see why they call us knife-ears?”

  “Look in the mirror.”

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “You just want to figure out how in Elsewhere you performed that spell in the Woods, don’t you?”

  She blushed.

  “Well, I’m not sure that sort of answer is something we can steal,” Whitney said, “but I’ve never been one to turn away from an impossible job.”

  “Like stealing that doll was really that hard?”

  “Please, that was a cinch compared to my last foray in Yaolin City. But first things first.”

  “What is it this time?”

  “Let’s get out of these rags. I’m tired of smelling spider blood.”

  Sora picked a few coins out of her new purse. “This should do it, and take us the whole way there.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” In one motion, he pulled his dagger and slit the bottom of the bag, the gold tumbling out into his hand. A few pieces clanged against the cobblestone street. Sora lunged at him, but he side-stepped and skipped backward.

  “Lesson number three, my young apprentice,” he said. “Never accept gold from the Crown.”

  “That’s lesson four,” she said.

  “So, you are paying attention! Alright, off we go.”

  He took a few coins and tossed them at a ragged man sleeping under an overhang, covered in mud from wagon wheels.

  “There is no better place to start then from the beginning.”

  XXXVIII

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten stood before Uriah Davies' likeness in the Shield Hall, overlooking the smooth, snow-covered slope of Mount Lister. Celeste, the bright moon, was nowhere in sight. A strange sight, Loutis, haggard and plain being the only faint light that could be seen that night.

  The Shield Hall wasn’t anywhere as glorious as the Royal Crypt, but it was where men like Torsten were buried under the watchful gaze of Iam. Men who’d dedicated their lives to the Crown.

  URIAH DAVIES, WEARER OF WHITE.

  Unlike the tombs of the other Wearers, there was no body buried within his. The statue was made, but he’d never returned. Now, at least, Torsten knew he was at rest through the Gate of Light.

  Torsten drew the longsword that had belonged to Uriah before Redstar stole his visage. He lay it across the statue’s palms, admiring the blacksmithing. The blade was elegant, cleft down the center, but sharp as a wolf’s fang.

  “I’m sorry I doubted you, old friend,” he said, placing the sword vertically between the hands of the statue. He noticed the gauntlets which had once belonged to Uriah on his hands. He’d decided he would wear them in Uriah’s honor, though they needed the attention of Hovom Nitebrittle, the Castle Blacksmith to be properly fitted.

  “There is no greater honor than to die in service to God and Crown,” Torsten said. “I pray you are at peace up there beside our great King in the Light. One day, by the grace of Iam, I might join you. But for now, guide me, as you once did Liam. Please…”

  A deep tremor suddenly shook the ground. Torsten heard glass shattering in the castle as he was rocked from side to side. He had to grab onto the statue just to keep from being tossed. It didn’t last long, and the moment it ended, cries for help echoed all around.

  He jumped to his feet, searching the area. His gaze fell on Mount Lister, where a sliver of moonlight revealed a new gash running down the length of its side. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled toward it, beckoned.

  He left the screams and the chaos of the castle at his back, descended the stairs leading outside and headed toward it. The closer he got to the base of the mountain, the louder the whispers in his head, the unflinching desire to head for the heart of the quake, grew.

  He climbed over a pile of fallen rocks and found himself standing before an opening in the earth. Where Mount Lister met the plain, the ground had caved, revealing the heart of the Royal Crypt within. The oculus cutting through the side of the mountain had been smashed to shards.

  Torsten crept to the edge and stared down. Too many caskets to count had been cracked open, Liam’s among them. His sword, Salvation, had been cracked into three pieces, the hilt pinned between rocks. The remaining half of his Glass Crown lay in the center of the room, glimmering under the moons glow until a shadow covered it.

  Torsten’s eyes went wide.

  Bending to pick up the broken crown, was Pi. Breathing, moving, he stared at the half-circlet as if it were the first thing his young eyes had
ever seen. In the other hand, he clutched the bloody, ragged orepul Torsten had gone through so much to recover.

  Pi Nothhelm, first and only son of Liam the Conqueror and the Flower of the Drav Cra, had been buried, but he wasn’t dead.

  Book Two

  Winds of War

  WINDS OF WAR

  ©2018 RHETT C. BRUNO & JAIME CASTLE

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Fabian Saravia. Cartography by Bret Duley.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.

  All rights reserved.

  Robyn—more beautiful than Oleander and far less cruel.

  PROLOGUE

  Wooden planks coated in a thick layer of moss creaked under Bartholomew Darkings' heavy boots. He closed the paint cracked and weather-worn doors behind him. The Church of Iam was enveloped by darkness but for a faint light filtered in through a circular stained-glass window, so covered in dirt the imagery was impossible to distinguish. A long aisle separating the pews was abandoned. The pews themselves were askew, and the gilded Eye of Iam had fallen from its perch over the altar. Shards of its glass core lay scattered across the floor, coated in dust.

  “Hello?” Darkings called out, crossing the threshold. Only his echo answered.

  He brushed a string of cobwebs from his hair, yelping like a man on fire, flailing to break free. He struggled to dignify himself, catching his breath and straightening his silk tunic. He removed a note from his pocket. On one side was a red hand and on the other, an unsigned invitation to the church with a time and day scrawled beneath.

  “Another one of your made-up stories, isn’t it father?” Darkings said to nobody. “The Dom Nohzi… I should have known better.”

  He crumpled up the note and tossed it aside, then turned toward the door. Just as his fingers wrapped the handle, he heard rustling behind him. He whipped around to find a man shrouded in a dark cloak holding the note. The man drew back the hood, revealing hair as white as the snow sprinkling the streets just beyond the doors. His pale skin didn’t show even the slightest wrinkle, not even at the corners of his eyes which were so dark it was as if they had no whites at all.

  “What resolve you show, Bartholomew Darkings of Winde Port,” the man said. “Waiting all of three minutes?”

  Darkings had met men from Brekliodad before, but none with accents so harsh.

  “Th… there was no one here,” Darkings said. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he used his father’s contact to reach out to the Dom Nohzi, but just the sight of the man made him feel like his heart had stopped. “Where did you come from?”

  “You called for us. You do not get to ask the questions here, Southerner.”

  “Yes, I…” Darkings drew a deep breath so he’d stop coming off like a blathering fool. His was one of the wealthiest families in Pantego, he could deal with a glorified hitman. “I have heard when it comes to eliminating enemies, your order is the best there is.”

  “What do you seek? And I warn you, waste my time, and you will leave here without a tongue.”

  Darkings swallowed the lump in his throat. “I need you to kill a man.”

  “Every poor soul stuck on this plane wants a man dead. The Sanguine Lords are neither man nor god, and we are their silent hand. If he is worthy of their judgment, then it will be so. If he is not, then yours will be the life forfeited. Do you accept?”

  “You’ll kill me? That wasn’t part of my fath—”

  “A man who marks the death of an innocent deserves not to live.”

  Now Darkings' throat went dry. He knew he should have further studied his father’s notes about this ancient order of killers, but he was in such a rush. After what happened in Bridleton, losing everything he’d worked so hard to build, he’d been desperate. He pictured the flames devouring his home, all thanks to that damnable thief. He was through waiting.

  “The man posed as a priest of Iam to rob me of my mother’s last remaining memory. Then, he used a Panpingese witch to burn everything I loved to the ground. He is the foulest, most inso—”

  The cloaked man raised a finger to silence him again. “A mystic?” he said.

  “I suppose. You can kill them both if you want, but all I ask for is her companion, Whitney Fierstown. I want him delivered to me. Alive, so that I may see the life flee from his eyes.”

  The man inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes as if someone had just laid before him the most delectable meal imaginable. He looked at the ceiling and smiled. “The Sanguine Lords accept this offering.”

  Before Darkings could get out another word, the man was less than an arm span away, closing the long distance in a second. He pulled a knife from his cloak and slashed Darkings across the arm.

  Darkings howled in pain. “You said they accept!”

  The man raised Darkings' arm. He held a vial between two fingers and allowed the blood to trickle into it until it was full.

  “Blood given, for blood required,” he said. “This is our pact. If you fail to fulfill your end of the arrangement, my order will hunt you to the ends of the world. They will find you anywhere with this.” He plugged the vial, then shook it in front of Darkings' face before stowing it.

  “Clearly, you have never heard of my family. Whatever you ask for will be paid in full and then some for every minute you add to that bastard thief’s suffering. Gold, gems, anything.”

  “I have no need for riches.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  The man leaned forward, allowing Darkings to see beneath the folds of his cloak. A row of knives was strapped to his chest, sharp as galler talons. He raised Darkings' chin with a single finger, so their eyes met, then answered.

  “Power.”

  I

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten knelt atop Mount Lister, flattened centuries ago in the God Feud. Ice and snow gathered within the Eye of Iam carved into the plain, shimmering like glass when the clouds broke. White flakes danced down from a blanket of gray that hadn’t waned in weeks. King Liam Nothhelm the Conqueror had ruled over the Glass Kingdom for all those years, yet now Pi stood in the center of the plateau, his mother Oleander beside him in a blue, velvet dress. Lush, white furs draped over her shoulders to fight the cold wind. She’d been unable to take her eyes off her beloved child since the moment he awoke from death. Unable to stop smiling, even though he hadn’t muttered a single word since.

  The boy was twelve years old, but he didn’t look it. Even weeks later, the color hadn’t returned to his gaunt cheeks. But it was his hazel eyes, so much like his father’s, that made him seem so much older. They bore the struggle of a whole lifetime. Dark bags hung from them like sacks of wheat, and crow’s feet jutted from the sides as pronounced as a man five times his age.

  Wren the Holy, the blind High Priest of Iam, held a newly crafted Glass Crown above the boy’s head. It was even grander than Liam’s had been. An Eye of Iam in the center was set with a large diamond gleaming as a pupil. By Oleander’s demand, there was a thin line of glaruium laced around it, ensuring that her son’s crown not suffer a similar fate as her late husband’s.

  Wren spoke, but Torsten couldn’t focus enough to hear the wo
rds. He could only think of how much had been lost since Liam’s illness and subsequent death. Uriah Davies, Torsten’s true predecessor as Wearer of White and Commander of the Glass Army, had been lost at the hand of the Queen’s traitorous brother. Without Liam on the throne, an insurgency the likes of which Torsten hadn’t imagined possible had arisen. A rebel Shesaitju force had even sprung up in the south, waiting to strike, ready to take back what they felt was theirs.

  And the Queen... that stunning, proud woman standing beside her miracle son, she had left a swathe of death amongst her own people under the guise of trying to save Pi. Even if Torsten understood how the love of her son could drive her to such awful things, he knew the kingdom would never be the same.

  He could feel it in his bones as he watched the coronation. He expected more enthusiasm—a fraction of joy, even. This was the day a new king was formally recognized; the king of the most vast and wealthy kingdom Pantego had ever known. But as Wren lowered the Glass Crown over the Miracle Prince’s head, properly declaring him king beneath Iam, people cheered in presentation only. Torsten could see it in their faces; they were doing so out of fear and not love. And for all the realms Liam had brought under the rule of the Glass, no foreign dignitaries showed.

  The Queen embraced her son when the ceremony was through, and then Torsten. She whispered something in his ear that he missed. The new king offered nothing, just received the crown and left wordlessly, leaving Torsten and Oleander behind to catch up.

  The boy was now king, both legally and in the eyes of the Holy Lord. A boy Torsten knew little about beyond his having spent the last year cursed by Redstar to see nothing but the horrors of the Buried Goddess, Nesilia.

  It all felt like a bad dream.

  Once they made it back to Yarrington and returned the boy safely to the castle, Torsten left his white armor behind and found himself wandering the streets as he’d so often done as of late. He listened to the people as he walked, how they talked about the Crown now compared to when Liam was king, or more unsettling, avoided talking about it. They were scared. All of them.