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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Open the gate!” Wardric shouted. “Archers, loose!”

  Torsten caught Lord Eveliss' attention. “My Lord, barricade yourself and your most loyal guards in the keep. If we fail, hold them off as long as you can.”

  He glanced between Torsten and the slowly rising gate. Another bang of rock on stone sent Eveliss into to a crouch. Torsten hoisted him back up by his fanciful collar and shoved him toward the keep, then turned to take his position at the head of the army, claymore drawn.

  Green tinted dust swirled about in front of the gate as it rattled, colored that way by the distant nigh’jels. All he could hear was the chattering of armor and rapid breathing as some of the less experienced soldiers behind him shivered in fear.

  Torsten, however, was calm, his hand steady. It had been a long time since he saw battle but there was nowhere else where he truly felt at home. The simplicity soothed him. Kill or be killed, in the name of God and Crown.

  “Men of the Glass!” he yelled. “The Vigilant Eye falls upon us today, forgiving of what we must do. Our enemies pillage and raze. They would slaughter our women and children, destroy our very way of life. But their master is only mortal, as our great King Liam proved so many moons ago.

  “I beg you now, find the strength of light in your heart, for we are the sword of peace. Let us show now that the Glass will neither bow nor break. Our lives for Iam!”

  “Our lives for Iam!” Wardric repeated along with the entire army. Nervous as so many of them might have been, together the boom of their voices shook the walls. Torsten didn’t wait for the echo to quiet. He snapped on his reins and charged forward, the thundering sound of pounding hooves and footsteps just behind him.

  A volley of Glassmen arrows momentarily blotted out the light of the moons before they went stabbing into the forest to a chorus of screams. Then came the snap-hiss of another round being loosed from atop the keep. Torsten closed the distance on the tree line and could now see the silhouette of men within the green glow.

  His gaze was fixed on only one: Muskigo atop his beast. The afhem barked orders in Saitjuese, sounding panicked, clearly having expected a long siege and not to fully unleash his army so soon.

  Suddenly, a cluster of trees straight ahead went up in flames. Their naked boughs were too powdered with snow for it to spread but it was enough to burn the bark fast and hot and coat the forest in a thick fog of smoke.

  Whale oil, Torsten realized.

  “They’re trying to split us!” he shouted. “Forward. Charge through with all your might Glassmen, and let Iam’s light shield you!”

  The red radiance of flames coalescing with that of the nigh’jels made it seem as though he were charging into Elsewhere itself. But he didn’t slow. His horse leaped over a tendril of flame and into the Shesaitju ranks.

  His claymore arced down, gashing one of the battering-ram-pulling zhulong across its thick hide. He swept it to the other side, expecting to find a soldier, but it was only a silhouette in the smoke. His men rushed through the blaze at his rear. Torsten whipped his horse around, trampled another Shesaitju soldier, but again, wasn’t able to quickly find a second target.

  He spun, searching the smoke, expecting to hear the clash of metal and the unforgettable shrieks of death as two great forces collided but the cries were scattered, drowned out by the sound of feet on earth as the unit from Winde Port and the Drav Cra converged from the east and west.

  Something was strange. The last Shesaitju he slew had a post sticking up from his back, but that wasn’t it. That was normal. They hung their lanterns from tall poles attached to their rear armor at night so that their hands would be free—but this one was positioned horizontally in a way that would make it difficult to traverse the dense woods and impossible to fight effectively. A half-dozen lanterns hung from it alone, each filled with a nigh’jel hanging at different heights, tentacles pulsing green.

  “Torsten!”

  Wardric dove from his horse and tackled a Shesaitju drawing back a bowstring. The man’s arrow sped over Torsten’s shoulder, and the thought of having to remove another of their barbed projectiles stopped his heart. He watched it stab into a burning tree, then noticed more of the lanterns strung up between boughs.

  His men raced by, plowing through only a handful of enemy soldiers who had abandoned their posts at catapults to take down as many Glassmen as they could before dying.

  “Torsten, where are they?” Wardric asked. He unsheathed his sword from a gray chest and stood.

  A Drav Cra horn sounded, followed promptly by fur-clad warriors swarming the forest. From horseback, Torsten could see, but down in the fog of smoke, everyone was a shadow.

  “Stand down!” Torsten ordered! “Fall back. It’s a trap! Fall back!”

  Wardric echoed his command and Torsten spurred his horse out of the woods. He coughed as he emerged on the plains, smoke filling his lungs.

  “Drad Redstar, where are the enemies?” Freydis said, her hair wild as the fires.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Redstar questioned as he approached.

  All Torsten could manage was to shake his head.

  “Must I do everything?” Redstar moaned. He hopped down from his horse and advanced toward the burning trees. Glassmen and Drav Cra poured past him in full retreat. He stopped, removed his dagger, and drew a deep cut across his hand. Blood dribbled onto the snow-covered grass.

  He whispered something, then swiped his wounded hand to the side. In an instant, all the fire was snuffed out, and the smoke swirled out to either side. Then, a soft light bloomed in his palm as if holding a star. Murmurs of confusion broke out across both armies until Redstar laughed.

  Torsten jumped down and ran to his side. With the smoke and fire cleared, Redstar’s illumination spell revealed the entirety of Muskigo’s camp amongst the trees.

  A single boulder sat by two operational catapults, and all the rest were simple planks of wood balanced to appear like weapons. The siege towers were hollow, with wheels that barely worked. The battering ram didn’t even have a ram under its cover. Thousands of nigh’jel lanterns were strung up everywhere as well as littering the ground by corpses.

  There were no supplies alongside their tents. No food or water, none of the essentials needed to man a successful siege. And amidst it all, were the bodies of no more than one hundred Shesaitju warriors and a handful of Glassmen.

  That was all.

  “What sorcery is this?” Torsten snapped at Redstar. “What have you done!”

  “What have you done, Shieldsman?” he replied. “It appears to me that Muskigo’s army is not here.”

  “You think I can’t see that!” He whipped around. “Wardric, send scouts out in every direction. Find where they went. We won’t be caught out here in the open. Everyone, return to Marimount!” He went to take a step, but Redstar stopped him.

  “What of the men you summoned from Winde Port?” he asked. “I see no new faces among these men.”

  “He signaled his approach. They’re likely still in the for…” The words got lost in his throat when one of his men shouted and pointed east. Sitting on his zhulong, atop the hill, moons at his back, was Muskigo. He fired a flaming arrow straight up into the sky, then disappeared over the peak.

  “That treasonous scag,” Torsten swore. He rushed back to his horse and took off toward the afhem.

  “Sir, it could be a trap!” Wardric called.

  “Don’t follow,” he called back. “Get them all back to the keep!” He snapped his reins as hard as he could.

  A horse appeared next to him carrying Redstar. Two dire wolves dashed at his sides.

  “I said don’t follow!”

  “You’re not the king,” he answered.

  They crossed the hilltop and Torsten could hear the echoing snorts of the zhulong long before he saw them. A full regiment of mounted Shesaitju raced across the plains, so far now they were only shadows. Muskigo was chasing after them, all headed east toward Winde Port.

 
Between Torsten and Redstar and the Black Sands riders, was the unit of a thousand men he’d summoned from Winde Port to surround Muskigo. They looked like they’d been hit by an avalanche, trampled and broken, groaning and in need of physicians.

  Massacred.

  Commander Citravan was at the front, his helmet caved into his skull.

  Torsten wasn’t sure how they didn’t hear it happen until he remembered the chaos in the smoking forest, his men screaming in the heat of battle as they fought to kill barely a hundred men—Shesaitju warriors who had sacrificed their lives to be a distraction.

  Marimount was never the target at all.

  Torsten glanced at Redstar, speechless. The Arch Warlock looked back. He didn’t smile like usual, but he wasn’t mournful either. In fact, he didn’t look surprised at all.

  “The eye far above is blinder than the one beneath our feet,” he said, calmly. “May She save us all.”

  XV

  THE THIEF

  “Oh, One-Eye?” Whitney called out.

  Darkings’ scarred lackey ignored him like he had during Whitney’s previous twenty attempts at gaining his attention.

  “Buried a bit north of here and to the east, there is a ring so precious you’ve likely never seen its equal,” Whitney went on. “Let me out, and it’s yours. You’ll never work in a shoghole like this again.”

  He considered bringing up the broken crown stuffed into a chimney in the middle of the Panping Ghetto but hated the idea of giving up his greatest prize. Even in half, it once sat upon the head of Liam the Conqueror.

  “Shut your mouth!” the guard finally grunted from his seat down the hall. “Ah, yigging shog, look at what you made me do.” He threw down a deck of cards and the guard across from him plucked a few autlas off the table.

  Whitney poked his head as far through the bars as he could, pulling the chains on his wrists and ankles tight.

  “Don’t blame me. You threw an anvil down against the archer? You need that ring if you’re expecting not to lose all your money in gems.”

  “Enough, thief. Pray to whoever you think’ll care and eat your last meal. Dawn is coming, and it’ll be the last one you see.”

  Whitney stared longingly back into his cell. “That slop is my last meal? I thought I’d at least get chicken. Looks more like what the chicken ate for supper.”

  He turned and climbed up a bench to peer through the tiny window slot at the back. It was dark as pitch outside, which would only mean one thing; dawn was about to break. Never before had Whitney been so sure he was going to die. He’d always had a plan, but right now, he had nothing and no allies to speak of. He could usually get guards to come around and take a bribe, but these guys weren’t biting. Probably because they worked for Darkings and not the Crown, and that meant they were well paid.

  C’mon Whitney, think! But nothing came. All he could imagine was that Sora… poor Sora… was in the hands of a ruthless assassin while he was left to hang.

  He found himself subconsciously grabbing at his throat, swallowing hard.

  “The ring and the Splintering Staff,” he said. “I have them both hidden nearby. I can take you there right now. They’re yours. Worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime. Just let me out.” He emphasized those last words, shaking the cell door.

  The guard rose and silently began unlocking the cell.

  “Oh, thank you,” Whitney said. “Thank you. You won’t regret this. I will—”

  “Shut it, thief!” the guard said. He reached through the bars, grabbed Whitney by the scruff of his neck, and pulled him hard into the bars. Whitney’s head cracked against the metal before he staggered backward.

  “You ain’t going nowhere but to your death,” the guard growled.

  His gems partner arrived as well, along with another of Darkings' goons. They unlocked Whitney’s chained limbs and dragged him along. He tried to fight, but he could barely stand, his head was ringing so loud. Plus, each act of resistance only furthered their resolve to injure him more. By the time they’d hauled him out of Darkings' basement, down the street, and to the upper wharf where the gallows had been set up, he had been kicked, punched, and otherwise beaten more than a dozen times.

  A gathering had amassed. Word about hangings always traveled quickly within big cities. Nothing roused the common-folk more than watching one of their own flail at the end of a rope. Usually, it was cultists, leaders of rebellions, bandit crews, or—apparently murderous folk. Or in Whitney’s case, men set up to look like one.

  Through swollen eyes, Whitney saw people of all shapes and sizes, most of them poor, and most Panpingese. Light, bronzish skin, pointed ears, and expressions of profound sadness.

  “All right, last chance,” Whitney said to Darkings' lackey. “I’ll get you the ring, the staff, and... I can’t believe I’m saying this… the Glass Crown of Liam Nothhelm.”

  “I’m going to enjoy watching your neck snap, scag.”

  Whitney was handed off to the city guard, proudly donning the blue and white of the Glass Kingdom. He was promptly shoved through the growing crowd. The looks of sorrow among the Panpingese quickly transitioned to rage as vegetables and hard chunks of bread slammed into his body from every direction. What appeared to be a turnip clipped his ear and even drew blood. The soldiers made as little effort to shield him as was physically possible.

  Everyone with pointed ears wanted to take a shot at the bastard who killed Tayvada, even if it meant spoiling much-needed food. It appeared Tayvada was loved dearly. He was probably the pride of their community, using the wealth of the Traders Guild to provide food and other necessities. For the first time since finding his drained corpse, Whitney felt a hint of remorse over the man himself. None of them realized they blamed the wrong guy. From their viewpoint, he agreed.

  The soldiers walked him up a small flight of stairs and tossed him down on the wooden planks. Raising his head, he watched as many of the onlookers spit toward him. Whitney never cared whether he was liked before, but now he knew he hated being so reviled. Thieves who meet their end usually did so rotting in a cell or falling from a rooftop. Public execution was never what Whitney expected, or deserved.

  He watched Bartholomew Darkings ascend the steps from the opposite side of the platform, donning his best formal silks. He licked his lips beneath thick mustache and edged toward Whitney and his detainers. A hush fell upon the gathering mass as the former constable of Bridleton and son of the Master of Coin positioned himself at the front of the platform.

  “Nice shirt,” Whitney remarked. Darkings didn’t even pay him a passing glance. “Did your mother sew that—” He lost his train of thought when, out of the corner of his vision, he saw someone familiar watching from the shadows. Standing under the pitched roof of a bell tower was the white-haired assassin who’d taken Sora. He leaned against a column, grinning.

  “Good people of Winde Port,” Darkings announced. “Especially the fine folks of the Panping Ghe…” He cleared his throat. “District”

  “Welcome!” he shouted.

  Thunderous applause rained down on him.

  “Yes, yes,” he continued, motioning for the crowd to quiet. “My name is Bartholomew Darkings, beloved son of our great Master of Coin. My family helped build Winde Port centuries ago, and so I stand here today, a man of the merchant city just like each of you.”

  Yeah, minus the fact that you live in a mansion on a hill the whole ghetto could fit into. Whitney scoffed internally.

  “I hope for today to be more than the execution of one worthless whelp,” Darkings continued. “I hope it to be a day of eternal memory. One we can look back upon as the beginning of a new era. For too long, you’ve been forced into obscurity. This fact accented by the death of one of the greatest men in all of Winde Port being brutally murdered in a place where, with even the slightest presence of city guards, it could have been prevented.”

  Murmurs of agreement carried across the crowd. Whitney would’ve rolled his eyes if they weren’t
so fixated on the assassin. Never in his life had just seeing a man made his throat clench. All the hope that his good luck would get him out of this drained away.

  “Had it not been for my personal guards receiving a tip about this… scoundrel being in our fine city, Tayvada Bokeo’s death may have gone days without notice.”

  “I didn’t even do it!” Whitney finally drew enough focus to shout. The last word came out as a grunt, one of the guard’s boots finding his ribcage.

  “But no more!” Darkings shouted, inviting an uproar from the crowd. “The Darkings have returned to Winde Port. Returned home. And we will fight to make our city safer for everyone!”

  Darkings turned to face Whitney, eclipsing the menace watching from a distance, and winked.

  “It all starts now,” he said. He raised his hand, and the soldiers roughly pulled Whitney to his feet. They gave him a shove toward the center of the gallows where a noose hung.

  “This man is a fraud!” Whitney shouted, but no one could hear him over the cheers. Without the dark eyes of Kazimir upon him, he felt like himself again.

  Darkings came close and said, “No one cares about you, thief. Your name means nothing. You will go down in history only as the man who sealed my hold on Winde Port. And nobody but I will ever know.”

  Darkings turned back to his captive audience and waved his arms for them to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man who stole Tayvada Bokeo’s life in cold blood. Whitney Blisslayer!”

  The crowd cursed his name. The executioner wrapped a coarse rope around his neck, then stepped back to a lever, ready to plunge Whitney into Elsewhere. Things got so crazy it sounded like a riot until a lone, gruff voice cried out.

  “Stop!” Whitney couldn’t find its owner in the crowd. “Ye ain’t got the right to hang a noble at these gallows.”

  The people parted, revealing Tum Tum. The rotund dwarf stood tall, however short he was.