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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “It is,” Torsten snapped. The boy shuddered, his whole body slammed back against the carriage wall. If any of the Shesaitju wanted to go for him, he wouldn’t stop them. Countless times in his mind he’d replayed those moments after the battle, and every time the truth was evident.

  He’d killed one of his own men.

  After finding Wardric’s body and accusing Redstar, Torsten publicly attacked the King’s supposedly-reformed uncle, having to be restrained to keep from killing him. But that wasn’t why he found himself chained up in a carriage. In his rage, Torsten threw a King’s Shieldsman aside like a rag doll. The boy was just trying to keep Torsten in check, and for his efforts, his head hit a rock. Dead on impact.

  Torsten deserved to be where he was. He was meant to lead an order whose sole purpose was to shield the followers of Iam from evil and darkness, and he’d failed them. Torsten didn’t even know the fallen Shieldsman’s name. He’d played so spectacularly into Redstar’s hands that they were now the same thing. Murderers.

  “I… I don’t want to die…” the boy whimpered.

  “If you are truthful," Torsten replied, "Iam will not let you."

  “His light… it—is it gone?”

  “Never.”

  The boy hung his head against the bars and began to weep. Torsten knew he was telling the truth. Nobody is that good an actor—except perhaps Whitney Fie—Blisslayer.

  Torsten cursed himself for thinking of Whitney at a time like this, yet simultaneously wished the thief were there. He'd have known how to pick the locks holding Torsten in place, how to smooth-talk his way out of a mess of his own making.

  Torsten recalled watching him flee Winde Port by ship after helping with the failed ambushing of Muskigo. The thief had no reason not to. He’d only helped in exchange for Torsten aiding in the search for Sora, and judging by how his blood mage friend burned down all of Merchants Row, she was in perfectly good health and in no need of aid. Whether she truly was touched by Iam, Torsten didn’t know, but there was something special about her. He’d seen it in her eyes.

  She’d stopped Redstar in the Webbed Woods, survived being captive to the Dom Nohzi, single-handedly ended Muskigo’s brief occupation of Winde Port, and in doing it all, saved Torsten’s life twice when he was supposed to be saving hers. The memory helped Torsten cling to the faith that Iam remained with him despite his failings. For whatever reason, He was working through her; using that same wicked magic Redstar used for evil to do good. To make light from darkness.

  It has to be a sign.

  And Torsten needed one.

  Through the bars, he could see the faces of Yarrington citizens celebrating their victorious return. Afhem Muskigo and his rebel army had been battered and forced to retreat. The price, in gold and lives, was grave, and his influence would continue to spread amongst the people of his conquered homeland. Much of the Glass army and their Drav Cra allies remained in Winde Port to prepare for an extended campaign into the Shesaitju lands to end the rebellion, but it was a victory nonetheless.

  Only, the cheering citizens didn’t praise the Glass soldiers or King’s Shieldsmen who had died in the fighting. They celebrated Redstar. The man who’d ‘summoned wind and flame to drive the gray men away.’ And Redstar, in turn, heaped all credit upon Nesilia’s shoulders, never mentioning once that the fire had sprung from Sora’s hands. Torsten even wondered if the unnatural wind Redstar’s magic appeared to be behind had actually been Sora's doing—Iam protecting Winde Port from invaders through her hand.

  There was nobody to tell them it was all a lie. Even the King’s Shieldsmen marching back with them remained silent as Redstar’s name dripped from the crowd’s lips. Thanks to Torsten, they had no leader to guide them, to show them that they were being deceived.

  Torsten hadn’t seen the masses in such jubilation since Liam’s last war nearly a decade ago. Even the snow couldn’t keep them indoors. Sure, mothers wept for those lost, but the victory had been swift and overwhelming. More fathers were left to embrace returning sons than expected. Priests of Iam thanked their God for success and prayed for the souls sacrificed in defense of the Kingdom of Glass. However, they weren’t alone.

  Men and women dressed in crimson, hooded robes, wearing white, expressionless masks with a single line of red running down from one eye-hole dotted the crowd. It was the garb worn by cultists to the Buried Goddess. Torsten had broken up plenty of rings in his day as a Shieldsman, rooting them out of basements in the city or caves beyond. Never had he seen them openly on the streets unless guards were chasing them.

  Presently, nobody else even seemed to notice them. They blended in, and why wouldn’t they? For riding at the front of this victorious army were the true followers of Nesilia, the Buried Goddess. They needn't hide behind masks. The warlocks and dradinengor chieftains of the Drav Cra, and their Arch Warlock, Redstar, uncle to a king he’d once cursed and tried to kill.

  Torsten couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen Redstar's plot.

  The carriage turned onto the Royal Avenue and drove along the walls of the castle. Only months ago, the Queen Mother, Oleander, thrown into a frenzy by the condition of her son, had lined that wall with the hanging dead for no reason good enough to excuse. Now, Glass soldiers and city guards stood along it, cheering and carousing.

  Torsten knew that with Liam gone, the people, more than anything, were starved for a hero. A name to revere as they had him before he fell sick, before all these dark times of rebellions and broken faith. Redstar had given that to them. While Torsten failed to subdue Muskigo, Redstar had turned air and a spark of fire into a miracle victory.

  Even if it wasn’t true, Torsten didn’t blame the people for believing it. He blamed himself. He was the one who refused to end Redstar’s life in the Webbed Woods so that he could return him to Oleander as a gift and reclaim his title as Wearer. He was the one who thought respecting the commands of King Pi to be more important than striking down evil.

  Selfish, foolish, murderer.

  The carriage stopped. Yuri’s assistant’s crying grew louder as he realized what would come next. The Shesaitju stirred and tried to get a better look through the narrow openings. All but the Serpent Guard, still quietly staring.

  The doors opened and the King’s Shieldsman, Sir Nikserof, appeared along with a few others. Lines of regret wracked his face.

  “This is where you get off, Sir,” he said as he stepped in, hand on his sword and ready for any of the Shesaitju to make a move.

  “You don’t have to call me that,” Torsten said.

  “You’re still Wearer until the King says otherwise, Sir.” He knelt in front of him and unlocked the chains on Torsten’s ankles, then his wrists. “We won’t have you appear before him chained up like a dog.”

  Torsten stretched out his limbs. He lay a hand on Nikserof’s armored shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t. I must believe it was an accident, Sir. Stress from the ambush, from nearly drowning and freezing to death. You should have been with a healer, not finding more bodies and trying to lead an army.”

  Torsten opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He stared longingly upon the face of a good, loyal Shieldsman, a man who’d followed him into battle without question and barely made it out alive. Accident…. He couldn’t say. In that moment, he saw red, and whoever got in his way would have met the same fate as that Shieldsman. Nikserof was just lucky he was behind him.

  “All right, up you are.” Nikserof lifted him. “And don’t forget this.” He shoved the white helm into Torsten’s chest and then helped him toward the exit.

  “W… what about us?” the boy at the back of the carriage asked.

  “Quiet,” Nikserof said. Torsten was surprised at his tone. It was kind but authoritative. He liked Nikserof and wished he’d known him better, like so many of the other Shieldsmen. The saddest part was that of all the Shieldsmen left alive, he knew Nikserof the best.

  “I’ve got him,” another Shieldsman bri
stled. Sir Austun Mulliner yanked Torsten down as hard as he could. He’d been friends with the Shieldsman Torsten killed, so Torsten didn’t blame the man for rough treatment.

  He couldn’t even bear to look Mulliner in the face. Instead, he watched Yuri’s assistant’s terrified eyes through the bars as the rolling prison rumbled away. There was no saying what would happen to him during an interrogation, but this much was clear: both were accused of being complicit in the death of a King’s Shieldsman, and only the man responsible stood unchained before the castle.

  “Ah, Sir Unger. I hope the ride wasn’t overly dreadful.” Redstar approached from behind him, flanked by Freydis. She was as menacing as ever, and still hadn’t even bothered to wash the blood from her knotted hair after the battle. Redstar snapped at a few of his warriors, and they led a collared dire wolf toward the outer stables. He and his people, making themselves at home.

  Torsten’s insides began to boil just from the sound of him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “You must understand, Torsten. This is not what I wanted.”

  “Oh, I think it’s exactly what you wanted. The ear of the King. You're not different from Bliss, spinning your lies about your fallen goddess.”

  Redstar leaned in. “I spin nothing, old friend. This heart knows only truth.”

  Torsten’s fists clenched, and his brow furrowed. He stared at the high doors of the castle, unwilling to look Redstar in the eyes. “Did you tell Uriah that before he died?”

  “We didn’t have a chance to speak. I did not kill your friend, and I didn’t ask him to chase me. Regardless, in killing Bliss, we have already avenged his death. You should be thanking me.”

  Torsten finally whipped around to face him, and it took every bit of his willpower not to strangle the man. Freydis stepped between them, her hand on the hilt of her dagger. The fingernails of Torsten’s free hand dug so hard into his palms they drew tiny arcs of blood. Somehow, he held back. He had no desire to make Redstar’s case for him further, that he was an unhinged murderer incapable of donning the white helm.

  “One day, your blood will stain my sword,” Torsten said. “For now, our king awaits us.”

  Redstar laughed, clapped his hands. “I look forward to it.” He walked on ahead, Freydis returning to his side. The doors swung open and in they went, foreigners and heathens. King’s Shieldsmen who’d remained behind stood on either side, features twisted by confusion.

  “Sir, what is—”

  “Just watch the doors,” Torsten told them. “Everything is fine.”

  “Let’s go,” Austun Mulliner said from behind, giving Torsten a light shove.

  “Enough, Sir Mulliner,” Nikserof snapped as he caught up. “He’s still your wearer.”

  Austun looked between Torsten and Nikserof, bit his lip, then marched off toward the Throne Room on his own.

  Torsten drew a deep breath and continued through the soaring greeting hall. Vibrant colors painted the carved stone walls, and light filtered in through the grand, stained windows illustrating the history of the kingdom. The statue of Liam Nothhelm the Conqueror seemed like it was staring at him as he went by, stoic. He couldn’t imagine how the great King would have looked upon him now. He’d trusted Torsten to be Wearer after Uriah passed, and look where he’d led them.

  Redstar’s grin stretched from ear to ear as they headed straight into the Throne Room. King Pi sat slumped on the Glass Throne, the Glass Crown sitting crooked upon his head, tangled in long hair. The Royal Council watched from behind. Among them was not one familiar face except Wren the Holy who’d gone pale at the sound of Freydis openly wearing her heathen trinkets in the Throne Room. He looked like he was going to faint.

  Queen Oleander stood directly at Pi’s side, gorgeous as ever. A long dress the color of a clear sky hugged her figure, stopping just above her ankles. Her silvery hair was pulled back into a braid that fell to her hips, accentuating her perfect jawline. Her cheeks were no longer red and puffy from crying as they’d been the last time Torsten saw her, tormented over dealing with her unpredictable son. Again, that trademark confidence Torsten knew so long oozed off her.

  “Welcome, brother,” Oleander announced. “And Sir Unger.” Her glower fell upon Torsten and his heart sunk to his stomach. He’d instructed her before leaving for war to regain her son’s trust, and judging by where she now stood and the demeanor she wore, her time in Yarrington had been fruitful. She, in turn, had tasked Torsten with eliminating Redstar, yet her traitorous brother strode down the hall alive and well, a bounce to his step.

  “My lovely sister.” Redstar strode up to the dais and swept his arms low into a bow. “I trust you’ve heard news of our glorious victory.”

  “Your victory over the Shesaitju was expected. Other developments, were not.” She spoke to Redstar, but her heated glare never left Torsten.

  Torsten reached Redstar’s side and fell to a knee. “Your Graces,” he whispered.

  “Rise, Wearer,” Pi groaned, still slumped and staring off to the side. “We need not waste time with formalities. There is much to address in the wake of what happened at Winde Port.”

  “Your Grace, if I may—”

  “You may not.” Pi’s head finally turned to face Oleander. “Mother, inform them of what has transpired.”

  “Uh, Your Highness,” Wren interrupted. He used a cane topped with the Eye of Iam and shuffled forward to reach Pi’s ears. “Should this be discussed with them here?” He pointed to the warlock standing in the shadow of Redstar, then to the Drav Cra warriors standing at the entry to the room.

  “His Holiness is right,” Oleander said. “Please send your dog outside, brother.”

  “But of course.” He murmured something in Drav Crava, and Freydis turned to leave, sneering at Torsten on her way out.

  “How forgetful of me,” Redstar said. “I wouldn’t want to stain these hallowed halls.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Wren whispered to Pi.

  “Step back and do not interrupt my son again,” Oleander snapped. The lump bobbed in Wren’s wrinkled throat as he slid backward. He traced where his eyes should have been with his fingers, then kissed the top of his cane.

  “Go on, mother,” Pi said.

  “Of course, my precious boy.” She took a step forward, swaying her hips as if to draw all the guards present into a trance. “It appears the betrayal of Yuri Darkings was more thorough than we’d ever expected. The chambers of Caleef Rakun were left unlocked before he departed for Winde Port. Many King’s Shieldsmen were lost battling off his Serpent Guards, and Caleef Rakun was able to escape into the wilderness, alone.”

  Redstar cackled.

  “You find that humorous, brother?” Oleander questioned.

  “Not at all. It’s just what I’ve come to expect when the King’s Shield is placed in charge of something. You’ve really let the order go to waste, haven’t you Sir Unger?”

  “How dare you!” Torsten growled before being immediately silenced.

  “Quiet,” Pi ordered, low but authoritative. “I dispatched you to work together in ending this rebellion and clearly that has not happened.”

  “Not for lack of trying, nephew,” Redstar said.

  Torsten stepped forward and again fell to a knee. “Your Grace, this man tried to undercut me at every turn. I know you asked me to work with him in leading this army, but how could I trust him after everything he’s done, with him questioning my every move?”

  “Choose better moves,” Redstar whispered.

  Torsten rose and pointed to the Arch Warlock. “Do you see? This insufferable heathen stood in my way at every turn!”

  “The army speaks of his heroics in retaking Winde Port whilst you fell into a trap laid by the traitor Darkings,” Pi said. He leaned forward in the oversized throne. “Do you deny that?”

  “I deny nothing. He would place all the credit at the feet of the Buried Goddess, but it was Iam who shed His light behind us. I felt it there, as we were surrounded
by death, as I once felt it fighting beside your father.”

  “You would blame Iam for reducing half of Winde Port to ash?” Redstar asked.

  “I would credit him for seeing this kingdom restored to its rightful glory!” Torsten approached Oleander and took her hands. She didn’t fight it.

  “My Queen, you know him,” Torsten said, referring to Redstar. “You know what he is capable of. I know I failed you, but do not fall for this deception.”

  Her ruby lips parted, but no words came out. Torsten could see the flicker of doubt in her features, finally. That vulnerability she’d revealed before he set off for Winde Port when her son eschewed her.

  “You do not appeal to her, knight,” Pi said. “You appeal to me, and me alone.”

  “Watch out, Your Grace,” Redstar said to the King. “He might try to bed you, too.”

  “How dare you!” Oleander snapped. Finally, her mask of composure slipped to the floor. She lunged at her brother, but Torsten was there to intercept her. He refused to let another fall prey to the trickster.

  “Is this not a hall for speaking truth?” Redstar demanded. “Do you not see the way he lusts for your mother, King Pi? I wouldn’t be surprised if that were how he weaseled himself into the post of the Wearer after your father fell ill and Sir Davies died when it is widely spoken that the late Sir Jolly was far more qualified.”

  “He never wanted to wear the white helm,” Torsten said.

  “Or perhaps he wasn't as adept at fulfilling my sister’s… baser needs when Liam couldn’t.”

  “And how would you know?” Torsten said. “You were too busy fleeing to the Webbed Woods chasing monsters and cursing the Prince. Your current king!”

  “Opening eyes is never easy.”

  “Quiet!” Pi thundered. His voice filled the hall, louder and with more timbre than any boy his age should be capable of. He stood upon the throne now, piercing golden eyes, so like his father’s, fixed on Torsten.

  “Sir Unger,” he said, calculating. “I am blind to nothing that happens in these halls. Your attempted dalliance with my mother would be enough to have you hanged if I decide so, or if I was foolish enough to believe that it was not she who took the first step.”