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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “This was no accident.” Torsten reached through the fire and grabbed the body by the arm. He tried to pull, but it wouldn’t budge. A fur-clad hand fell upon his shoulder.

  “It is too late,” a warrior said. “His ashes will join the others in the dirt as his soul is passed to Skorravik, where he may spend eternity in glorious battle.”

  “He is a soldier of Iam.” Torsten went to pull him out again, but this time, the warrior wasn’t so gentle, grabbing Torsten and pushing him away. Torsten reached for his sword before he realized it was at the bottom of a Winde Port canal. A gathering of Northerners glared at him, knuckles whitening on the grips of their axes.

  Torsten backed away slowly, then returned on his path to the camp. His blood was boiling with rage. A few more warlocks were burning their dead. Ashes into the dirt. Torsten tried only to look at the ground. If he saw one more of his people caught up in their heathenistic ways, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  Iam’s followers were buried in death so their mortal vessels would be hidden from the sight of the Vigilant Eye while their souls rose to Iam’s waiting arms. The process was longer, and with all these bodies, it would take a new graveyard to do, but his people deserved eternal rest for sacrificing their lives. Redstar, his followers—all they wanted was to take the easy way.

  Civilians filled the camp, both refugees and the thousands who had escaped thanks to Sora’s fire. Only one name was on their tongues being praised: Redstar. Torsten could even hear it over the screams echoing from the hospital tent where the wounded were being treated and amputated. He never thought he’d prefer that terrible sound over anything.

  He made his way up to the Shieldsmen’s camp. A few soldiers recognized him along the way and offered a salute. Most were too busy commending heathens to notice.

  “Wardric!” Torsten called. “Wardric!”

  He found the main tent where they’d planned their attack. A few younger Shieldsmen sat inside, sharing a drink and laughing like they were common soldiers and not the best the Glass Kingdom had to offer.

  “Where are Sir Wardric and Yuri Darkings?” Torsten asked the only one he somewhat recognized, a blonde with a crooked nose. He wasn’t sure of his name with his head so fuzzy, but he was a young Shieldsman too green to be dragged along on Torsten’s ill-fated ambush. Torsten was sure he had overseen a few sessions of the man’s training before he took the vows.

  “Sir?” the blonde Shieldsman scrambled to come to attention, spilling his drink in the process. “You made it.”

  “A surprise to everyone it seems.”

  “I—with the fire—we—”

  “It’s not important,” Torsten said. “Where are they?”

  “I haven’t seen them since they got back from leading you to the tunnels, sir.”

  “Any of you?”

  The other two Shieldsmen shook their heads.

  “He was temporary commander of the King’s Shield,” Torsten said. “You charged without orders from him?”

  “It all happened so fast,” the blonde Shieldsman said. “One moment, Redstar and all those crazy warlocks were lined up in the field, kneeling and chanting and cutting themselves. The next, the walls took to flames, and the King’s uncle called the charge. If we didn’t listen, all of the civilians fleeing the gray men would have died.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You men made the right decision for those people. But the battle is done. I need to find Sir Wardric so we can discuss the next move. Muskigo remains at large, and now he is east of the ravine, near the ancestral lands of his people and ready to spread his uprising.”

  “I swear, sir, none of us have seen him.”

  Torsten’s gaze turned to their drinks, then back to the blonde Shieldsman’s eyes. “Keep an eye out, all of you. If you find him, send for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” said all.

  Torsten thought he heard a snicker as he walked away but ignored it. Members of the King’s Shield, drinking and carousing as if one battle ended a war? Torsten wondered if he was still in the freezing depths of the canal, dreaming before his body gave out. Or perhaps death had taken him to another plane entirely.

  Is this Elsewhere? Is this my eternal exile?

  He left the white helm in his tent, then swept through the other tents of his order, searching for Wardric but only finding more of his men celebrating victory. It was as if his army had raided the abandoned taverns of Winde Port for all their ale.

  He stopped and spun a tight circle, unable to stop hearing the whispers of praise for Redstar. His breathing picked up. The warmth in his chest was dissipating now, so he felt the chill of the air once more. He was near ready to drop to a knee and give up when he noticed the luxurious carriage Yuri Darkings had arrived in. The reins for its two horses were sliced, the animals nowhere to be seen. But Torsten’s eyes were drawn somewhere else, to a small smattering of red on the entry’s frame.

  One of his men said something to him from behind, but Torsten ignored it and approached the carriage. His legs were still incredibly sore, one of them gashed deep. He fought the pain and pushed forward. The door wasn’t locked, which he found odd considering the wealth and importance of the man who owned it. He swiped his hand over the red spots. Dry.

  He slowly pushed the door in and what he saw made his stomach turn over. This time he fell to his knees and had to fight with all his willpower not to retch. Wardric lay on the lush, silk bed—or rather, his body did. His throat was slit end to end, blood so dark it looked like pitch stained the sheets and pooled across the wooden floor.

  Torsten’s fingers slid through the liquid on his way to investigate the body. He wasn’t sure why he needed to check if Wardric was alive. Maybe instinct. Maybe he was hoping for a miracle. But it was clear from the moment he entered, his friend was dead.

  Torsten crawled backward. He was breathing so fast it felt like his lungs were going to pop.

  “Iam guide me,” he rasped. “Iam guide me...” He repeated that over and over as he clutched at his chest. His armor was there, stained red and still tight against his frame. He had to unstrap his chestplate just to feel like he could draw air. A few of his men saw him floundering in the snow and ran over. Their faces were blurs, their words, muted.

  All he could focus on was the man blithely strolling across the battlefield. His crimson robes flapped in the wind. His pale skin blended with the snow, the mark on his face like a bloodspot.

  Torsten went blind to everything else in the world. He rose, threw off his chest plate and stormed at the man.

  “Sir Unger,” Redstar said as he approached. “You should see one of my healers. They’ll sew you up in no time.”

  “You killed him!” Torsten thundered. He seized Redstar and slammed him to the ground. The Arch Warlock went for his dagger, but Torsten ripped it away from him and held it at his throat.

  “What are you talking about?” Redstar grated.

  “Wardric. I found him, Redstar. I found him slaughtered like swine so that you could lead the charge.”

  Redstar closed his eyes and let his head fall back into the snow. He looked exhausted but not afraid, which only propelled Torsten to press the edge of the blade tighter against his skin.

  “Deny it!” Torsten shouted.

  Redstar tilted his head and looked toward the ground. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Don’t talk to her,” Torsten snapped, yanking Redstar’s head back straight. “This is between me and you.”

  “This is between you and you, Sir Unger. Look around. I have just taken Winde Port back, and all you want to do is drive us away because we don’t follow your god.”

  “What do you want, Redstar? The King forced you at my side. Is that not enough?”

  “Torsten, I suggest you get off me.” His eyes signaled for Torsten to look around. A crowd had gathered around them. Drav Cra and Glassmen, King’s Shieldsmen and warlocks of Nesilia. Drad Mak stood amongst a group of fur-clad warriors, each one more tremen
dous than the next, but none more than him. He gripped his axe in two hands. Freydis and two other warlocks held their daggers to their palms, black face paint making their eyes bright with rage

  “You think I’m afraid of them?” Torsten looked up but never let the knife shift. “This man killed Sir Wardric Jolly! He left his body to rot in that carriage!”

  Nobody answered.

  “Reach into my pocket,” Redstar said.

  “What?”

  “Wardric was nothing but a lap dog. Why would I kill him? Now, reach into my pocket and find the answers you already know.”

  Torsten pressed against Redstar’s throat with his elbow and did as instructed. He removed a stack of letters.

  “What is this?” Torsten said. “What are these.”

  “Correspondence between Yuri Darkings and the rebel afhem. A lot of yammering about the Glass Kingdom’s fortunes fading and the unworthy heirs of Liam the Conqueror. Riveting stuff really, but I’ll let you decide.”

  Torsten leafed through them with one hand. Some were written in ink on parchment, the seal of the Darkings house at the top. Others were etched into dark gray sheets of paper made from the black palms of the Shesaitju beaches, signed by Afhem Muskigo. Page after page. He spotted instructions that Torsten was planning to head to Marimount, ways to avoid Glass scouts as his armies were moved into position.

  “Sir Wardric caught Yuri and his son sending a galler bird into Winde Port. He wasn’t able to stop them warning Muskigo of your ambush, but he detained them and sent for me. When I got there, I found his body and them fleeing.”

  “And you just let them run?”

  “I sent my wolves after them, but they haven’t yet returned. I had to make a choice. The traitors, or take advantage of our summoned wind and flame and charge on Winde Port.”

  “A blessing called upon from Nesilia herself by the hero of Winde Port,” a Drav Cra warrior said.

  “What did you say?” Torsten said. He yanked Redstar upright and stood, knife still at his neck. “This man is no hero!” He looked to his own men, whose faces were twisted by concern—even the King’s Shieldsmen watching. “He turns to dark arts and fallen gods. His every breath is an insult to Iam.”

  “Torsten, put down the weapon,” Redstar said.

  “Don’t you all see? Every word out of his mouth is a lie! These letters, forgeries meant to spoil a house that has loyally served the Glass for decades so he may deceive us all; just as he wore the face of Uriah Davies to fool me.” He flung the letters onto the ground.

  “Wore a face?” Redstar laughed. “I am one with the magic of Elsewhere, but even I cannot wear a face.”

  “Lies! Shieldsmen, I want you to arrest this traitor for the murder of Sir Wardric Jolly.”

  The men of his order looked to each other, but not a soul moved. Torsten searched the faces for a familiar one. Sir Nikserof Pasic or any of the most celebrated Shieldsmen he’d led into the ambush, but there were none present. They were all dead or injured. And all that remained were men he hadn’t yet fought beside and whom he’d barely been a part of training.

  “That is an order from your Wearer!” Torsten said.

  “Control yourself, Torsten,” Redstar whispered. “Look to your God.”

  “Look to my God? Look to my God? I’m going to do something I should have done back in the Webbed Woods. It’s time this kingdom is free of—”

  Redstar slid his head forward, catching the side of his neck on the dagger. Blood leaked out, but the slice didn’t catch anything vital. As Redstar collapsed, Torsten knew what was coming, but he was too slow. The Arch Warlock whipped around, extended a hand, and all Torsten’s muscles became paralyzed. Redstar tore the blade out of his hand with a thought and Torsten couldn’t do a thing.

  Northerners ran to Redstar to stop the bleeding. He pushed them away. The more blood, the stronger his hold on Torsten would be.

  “I took Winde Port!” Redstar shouted, the rage in his voice making the very air vibrate. “With this power and faith you eschew, I took it. Perhaps, Sir Unger, you too have been swayed by Muskigo to betrayal. Perhaps that is why the rebel Afhem still lives.”

  “I…” Torsten opened his mouth to speak, but Redstar closed his fingers, and with it, Torsten’s lips went rigid as stone.

  “Do not speak.” Redstar turned to the crowd. “This is the man who you would follow as Wearer? A man who would kill your King’s unarmed uncle just because he’s too frightened to accept help from a goddess who loves all of you just as she loved Iam? How many lives among you did she just save!”

  Redstar swiped his arm down and forced Torsten to his knees. He begged his muscles to move, but even trying made his entire body burn.

  “Shieldsmen,” Redstar went on. “You charged with me. Clearly, your Wearer is broken. If I release him, he will kill me. So, I ask you, as the royal uncle and the only man who can lead this army effectively, arrest him. We will drag him before the King, and there, he shall be weighed justly for his actions. Perhaps even he can be saved of whatever it is that haunts him.”

  His men seemed petrified as they looked to each other, none willing to make the first move. Then, finally, the blonde Shieldsman Torsten had scolded for drinking back at camp stepped forward. He was emboldened by alcohol, and Torsten dug through his mind to find a name with which to beg. He couldn’t.

  So instead, he just struggled to squeeze a single word through his magically sealed lips, “P… please.”

  The Shieldsman took Torsten by the arms. Redstar released those limbs of his magic so they could be wrenched behind Torsten’s back.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” the Shieldsman said, “but he’s right. He saved this city while you were gone. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

  Redstar smirked. “Thank you, Sir Mulliner,” he addressed the Shieldsman.

  The sense of pride in Redstar’s voice as he spoke the name Torsten couldn’t find made Torsten feel ill. Never in his life had he wanted to kill someone so badly. Even Muskigo he respected for his prowess, but Redstar was a trickster demon in human form. Whether or not anything he said about Wardric was true, he could have told Torsten on the docks about what happened with the Darkings. He could have revealed the truth then, but instead, allowed Torsten to make this spectacle.

  “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Torsten,” Redstar said. “But you are in need of help. He leaned down, his breath hot on Torsten’s ear. “Pi may breathe now thanks to the Buried Goddess, but it seems Iam favors me now, too,” he whispered. He turned to walk away, releasing his mystical hold of Torsten’s body.

  Torsten had been waiting for that exact moment. “I’ll kill you!” he roared. Sir Mulliner tried to restrain him, but Torsten used his massive body to tear free. Another of the Shieldsmen who’d been drinking with Sir Mulliner grabbed him, but Torsten tossed him aside like a doll. The man’s face smashed against a rock.

  Sir Mulliner ran to his friend, and Torsten tore the sheathed longsword off the Mulliner’s belt while he was distracted and sprung at Redstar. He didn’t get far. The pommel of a sword bashed against the back of his head and knocked him face first into the snow and dirt. The last thing he realized before he spun into oblivion was who had taken him down like the raving lunatic Redstar made him seem.

  One of his own men. A King’s Shieldsman, but not Sir Mulliner or another relative stranger. It was Nikserof, a man of the old guard with whom Torsten had endured a crucible of blood, barely able to stand from his wounds. Nikserof watched in horror, and as Torsten’s vision began to go fuzzy, he knew that he’d given him no choice.

  XXX

  THE THIEF

  Gray mist swirled around Whitney as he was jarred back to consciousness. There was no telling how long he’d been out, but nothing looked as it had just moments ago. Where there were night skies, there was now a vibrant red expanse, as if fire filled the heavens. Strangely, the sound of waves was still there, though he no longer felt wood beneath him. Instead, dry chalk billowed with each
movement as he coaxed himself to rise.

  Before him, the shore of an endless ocean stretched out to the horizon. The fog rolled along it like the wheels of a chariot. But something about the water was… off. It was black—the color of old blood.

  “Where the…” Whitney exhaled.

  “How did we?”

  Whitney spun toward the accented voice behind him.

  “You!” he shouted, then lunged at Kazimir with abandon. “This is your fault!”

  Somehow, he tackled the impossibly fast upyr and brought him down. Whitney mounted him and was able to drive one fist into his nose. Kazimir caught his next punch, and while he waited for his hand to be crushed, Whitney noticed the blood pouring from Kazimir’s nose. Whitney was so stunned to see it, he allowed Kazimir to push him off.

  The upyr wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The look on his face would have given Whitney enough joy to sustain him for a lifetime, had he known where the yig he was.

  “No, this isn’t possible,” Kazimir said. “Not again.”

  “All things are possible here,” said another voice.

  Whitney whipped around again toward the voice. It was frail and withering.

  “Oh great,” Whitney said. “Who the yigging exile are you, now?”

  The man was nearly doubled in half he was so hunched over. A robe hung down, whipping back and forth in the black waters along the shore. He stood beside a tiny rowboat that somehow didn’t float away despite not being moored. A hood covered his head, casting a deep shadow over his face. If he even had a face.

  “You may call me the Ferryman,” the stranger said.

  “Right, and I’m the world’s greatest thief,” Whitney replied.

  “I know exactly who you are, Mr. Fierstown.”

  Whitney took a step back, eyes wide. “Then you’ll know that’s not my name anymore.”

  “A man cannot escape who he is. I’ve been waiting for you… both of you.”