by M. A. Torres
Rise of the Whiteface Order
Kevin Martinez and the Crimson Knights, Volume 2
M. A. Torres
Published by Black Spire Books, 2020.
Book and cover formatting by Authorpackages
Kevin Martinez and the Crimson Knights; Rise of the Whiteface Order
Copyright © 2020 by M.A.Torres.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
M.A. Torres
[email protected]
https://torresauthor.com
Cover and interior art by Isabel Westling
Map art by Tiffany Muro
ISBN: 978-1-5136-4306-9
First Edition: December 2020
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Rise of the Whiteface Order (Kevin Martinez and the Crimson Knights, #2)
Prologue
Chapter One: | Who’s Your New Friend?
Chapter Two: | Back to School
Chapter Three: | The Dubious Duo
Chapter Four: | Scary Stories and Freaky People
Chapter Five: | The Knights of Whiteface
Chapter Six: | A Masquerade
Chapter Seven: | The Vincents
Chapter Eight: | Battleground: Wakefield Middle
Chapter Nine: | Return to Derathiel
Chapter Ten: | Kevin Parker The Dreamer
Chapter Eleven: | A Bandit Rendezvous
Chapter Twelve: | The Mental Patient
Chapter Thirteen: | A Spectacle of Fire
Chapter Fourteen: | The Crystal Field
Chapter Fifteen: | Judge, Jury, and Executioner
Chapter Sixteen: The Has-Been
Chapter Seventeen: A Pleasant Return
Chapter Eighteen: | A Night to Remember
Chapter Nineteen: | The Young and the Old
Chapter Twenty: The Lost Ones
Chapter Twenty-One: An Unlikely Ally?
Chapter Twenty-Two: Agent Law
Chapter Twenty-Three: Mother Issues
Chapter Twenty-Four: | The Devil at my Shoulder
Chapter Twenty-Five: | A Christmas Wonderland
Chapter Twenty-Six: We Found Him
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Anxiety
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Christmas Eve
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Aura
Epilogue
FLAMECLAW
TOMBSTONE
DIAMONDPEAK
WHIPLASH
LIGHTNING
THANK YOU
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For Consuelo and Melissa. The greatest women I know.
Prologue
He rode through the crystalline forest just beyond Castle Randall, angry, defeated, and humbled. Raven maneuvered his black horse past the crumbled remains of his catapults and trebuchet, which hours before were launching boulders and zombies into the Castle Randall courtyard. He prodded his horse further into the forest, away from the site of only his second lost battle.
Defeat was foreign to Raven, his thousands of years in existence had brought him only glory and adoration—the worship from the thousands who adored him, from those seeking his help, and from those who held him in high esteem and above any of his siblings. The memory of those days seemed distant now—a faded dream of a time of when the universe was as it should be. Now he was a shell of his former self, shrouded in filthy black rags and in need of others more powerful than he.
He pulled his horse to a stop after an hour of southward riding, just past the forest and on a vast plain of yellowed grass. He dismounted and fell to his knees, then dug his sharp fingers into the ground, looked up into the pre-dawn sky, and let himself become one with the earth.
The foliage rose like snakes to envelop him, entering the gaps between his boiled leather wraps and penetrating the fissures of his dark skin. Raven opened his mouth, and his root-like tongue flowed out, tangling itself with the rising foliage. His body unraveled from its humanoid form into thousands of gray and brown roots, some thin, some thick, which joined the others in an intertwining dance. Raven’s previous form melted away into a glob of undergrowth, sinking into the earth until nothing remained but the black rags of his hooded cloak. His dark destrier had remained at his side, un-spooked by the transformation. It waited patiently until the foliage returned—and began to devour the horse itself.
A thousand miles south, an ancient graveyard stood bare and solemn—its weathered gravestones and mausoleums marking the dead within. Dry leaves tumbled softly in the breeze among a maze of stone statues depicting Emory, Grimm, and Amos—the gods who once governed the realm of life and death.
The nearby town of Warmliff stood barren too—its people succumbed to or driven north by Raven and his army. Only vacant buildings stood watch—structures of adobe and stone, both humble and vast, ready to receive their occupants again, but only nature was answering their call. Several were inhabited by flocks of birds, bands of rodents, goats, and other wildlife. Foliage had encroached their walls and windows like a spider’s web, eager to reclaim the structures as their own.
On a small plain between the town and cemetery is where Raven came to be. The foliage sprouted swiftly from the earth to resume its intertwining dance, slowly creating a humanoid shape. It stood, its head still joined to the earth by strips of roots. As Raven raised his head, they detached and slithered into his mouth as his tongue.
He advanced towards the cemetery, the empty town at his back. Behind him, the earth gave birth once more, this time to a quadruped being. As Raven reached the graveyard gate, his black horse had taken shape behind him.
He walked silently through the desolate cemetery, past the weathered gravestones, both new and ancient, and past the familiar shape of his brother and enemy—the fallen god, Grimm. He reached an ancient stone stairway and began to descend into the grounds beneath the cemetery. Before long, he was inside a subterranean cave, standing before a large mausoleum rendered of white stone, round and tall. Columns encircled its perimeter and stood as the base for its domed roof. The dome reached high to the cave’s ceiling, its apex jutting through, allowing the soft rays of daylight to seep inside. Two large, heavy, iron-studded doors sealed its entrance, and opened on their own as Raven approached.
Inside was a torch-lit chamber, with a stone sarcophagus atop an elevated altar. Crystalline branches, tall as men, rose from crevices within the marble floor. Raven entered and ambled through the maze of branches towards the altar. He paused at the foot of the first step and lowered his head like a scolded child.
“The one wielding Flameclaw is dead,” he announced with his voice of synchronized many.
From within the sarcophagus emerged a dark hand. Its fingers were thin, pointy, and black—a black with no detail and no reflection—a black void of light, a black void of life. The hand was followed by a white face, devout of features, except for a lone left eye, which pierced black and angry. The dark being slid the stone lid aside and crawled from the sarcophagus, its thin body as dark and void as its hand. It stood and approached the altar edge.
“The one with the flaming sword is dead, but yet you stand before me defeated. Your vast army is lost, and the
mirror was not retrieved,” responded the dark figure. Its voice was like Raven’s—many voices speaking in unison. Except the tones were feminine—that of many women.
“Another boy took his place. A boy whom I had mortally wounded just moments before. He raised Brealin’s sword; it lit for him, and he engaged me with it.”
“Are you certain you had killed him?”
“Yes.”
“How did he return? Have you felt Emory’s presence? Only she can bring the gift of life...”
“No. I haven’t sensed her since that day, thousands of years ago. She ceased to exist when she stole our power and sealed the underworld gate.”
“So, you were defeated by this... boy?”
“There was another. He wielded Grimm’s hammer. He used it against me.”
“The challenge is greater than expected.” The dark figure stepped down from the altar. She ambled past Raven and into the crystalline branches. She clutched one with each hand and closed her left eye. A faint translucency enveloped her hands—a translucency and sparkle similar to those of the crystalline leaves themselves. It crept up her arms and to her shoulders, as if she were merging with the branch. She raised her head, and her eye opened once again.
“I can see our allies in that faraway world. They work diligently to bring us there. They work tirelessly to find the child. No doubt those wielding your brothers’ weapons are from that world... if we only had the mirror, we could travel there now, and find what we’re after.”
“There is nothing left of Princess Hayla’s army. I will consolidate the soldiers I still have throughout Derathiel. I will lead them to Castle Randall once more. It stands broken and vulnerable. Only a few stand guard. I know the mirror resides there.”
“Give it up, Zaron... Raven had his chance, and Raven was defeated.”
Raven glared at her angrily. “Zaron is no more... My name is Raven now. I am no longer the earth god.”
“Changing one’s name does not alter their creed. Save your anger. Let others try to succeed where you could not.”
Before he could respond, the sound of trotting horses filled the chamber. Raven turned slowly and glanced at the mausoleum’s doors. Footsteps drew near, then two men clad in ornate armor reached the doorway.
The man on the right was tall, lean, and well built. He wore a gray breastplate adorned with a flying bird sigil. The plate rose over his shoulders, with a red cape that flowed down to within an inch of the ground. He wore gray upper arm and forearm plates, and gray cuisses and greaves. His helm was bullet-shaped, with a “t” opening at the face. A red comb, made of flowing horsehair, soared from the helm’s apex.
The man on the left was shorter and heavier. Molded into his right breastplate was a rearing stallion. His helm was similar to his companion’s, but lacked the flowing comb.
They both unsheathed their swords. Raven reached back and paused, realizing his powerful mirrored staff had been destroyed—no longer in his possession. He glanced around the chamber, searching for something to use as a weapon. He found nothing sufficient, so he did what he could—he opened his hands and readied his claw-like fingers.
“WHAT IS THIS?” he screamed.
The two knights walked into the room, each sidestepping down his side of the chamber, surrounding the former god. Raven glanced side to side, ready to defend himself. The sounds of a vast army lingered above him on the cemetery grounds.
He was outnumbered but felt no fear. His mortality had never concerned him. Thousands of years he had existed, born from Mother Amos’s womb at the dawn of time. He had been immortal living as a god, immune to sickness, suffering, and death—all eventualities saved for those other beings; the ones he was created to oversee. Oh, how he pitied those humans—born one day, and dead the next. Some seemed to have existed for the sole purpose of suffering—born into a life of misery, then dead before experiencing a moment free from it. Now he stood surrounded and outnumbered, perhaps about to die at the hands of those he so once pitied.
He stood ready to fight, unknowing what would become of him if he was struck down. Before the brief face-off could escalate, however, the black, white-faced figure released the crystalline branches and approached him. She placed a re-assuring hand on his left shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid,” she announced loudly. “We are all but allies in this room.”
The two knights lowered their weapons and removed their helms. The tall, lean one had flowing blonde hair, brown eyes, and a pointed hook nose. The shorter knight was bald, with grey eyes, and a dark beard that grew well into his neck.
“Come closer, my friends.” The dark figure invited them with a wave of her arm. They obliged and approached the middle of the chamber. As they drew near, the tall soldier’s eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee.
“My lord, my god, you do exist! Tales of your fall have been told for centuries, but here you are! My god Zaron, we have prayed to you all of our lives! I am Lord Whitefield, from Whitestaff.”
The shorter knight dropped to one knee as well, a tear running down his cheek. “The gods are real! The gods are real!” he cried. “My family and I have long worshipped you, Zaron! I am Lord Tusk, from Northshuary. I am at your service!”
The dark figure resumed her place upon the altar. “Zaron, meet the northern lords.” She looked at each of the kneeling knights with her one dark eye. “Yes, the gods are real, my children. They all exist, and they need your assistance now more than ever. They need to recover what they’ve lost.”
“We will assist them, my lady. Anything for the gods,” offered Lord Tusk.
“My army and I stand to serve the gods too, my Lady,” said Lord Whitefield.
“Good! Good! I have a very important mission for you both. You will answer Princess Hayla’s call for aid. Win her trust, get access to her castle, and when the time is right... strike! The mirror resides in Castle Randall, of that I am sure. And we need it to achieve our goals.”
“Princess Hayla... you want her dead?” asked Lord Whitefield.
“If need be, my friend. So long as we retrieve Maviel’s Mirror, I don’t care what becomes of her.”
The two knights nodded.
“Go, my friends. Help your gods, and they will return the favor many times over, for they reward those who keep faith and allegiance!”
The two knights stood. They bowed to Raven and donned their helms.
“How can we contact you, my lady? Once the job is done?” asked Lord Tusk.
The dark figure pointed to the crystalline branch before her. “Pluck a branch from this tree. Make sure it has plenty of leaves. Crush them and place them over the surface of a mirror. I will appear to you there.”
The two lords tore small branches off the larger crystalline branch. They placed them in their pouch and bowed before exiting the chamber.
The white-faced woman turned her attention to Raven. “We cannot allow these boys to find any of the remaining weapons.”
Raven nodded.
“Take what remains of your forces and find your lost weapon, Diamondpeak. Protect it at all costs. I have instructed Parelore to do the same with her weapon.”
“What of Lightning? Whispawn’s bow?” he asked.
“The Midnight Wings are scattered throughout Derathiel in search of it. When it is found, they will notify me; then, I will notify you.”
Raven nodded. “I will do as you ask.” He turned and began to walk out of the chamber.
“Raven! Before you leave... I have one more question for you.”
Raven paused at the doors. “Yes?”
“Do you know the identity of these boys?”
Raven thought for a moment. “Yes... I heard a name—the one who used Brealin’s sword. They called him... Kevin.”
“Kevin...” the dark figure echoed. “Thank you, my friend. I will pass this on to our allies in Wakefield Falls. His identity will be found. He and all his allies will be killed.”
Chapter One:
Who’s
Your New Friend?
Why did I live? I felt the essence of life escape my body, and the cold, dark, emptiness of death envelop me. For a moment, there was nothing—no feelings, no consciousness, no me. I had ceased to exist. Then the light appeared—as bright as the morning sun, but absent the blinding strain. A light that brought the most peaceful calm and a light that flowed with love—the love of an endless sea of my mother’s hugs, so deep and so fulfilling that I longed to stay there forever. Then I saw them emerge from the brightness—two figures, human silhouettes made of light and wearing crowns of gleaming flames. They approached me with extended arms. I felt love emanating from them, and they aimed to embrace, not restrain. But then they pause, their arms fall to their sides, and the light dims. I run towards them, but something pulls me away, back to my mortal shell, and back to that land within the portal. My eyes open. I’m in that chamber—rising from the tiled floor within the castle spire, feeling stronger and more alive than ever. I raise Flameclaw and meet Raven in battle once again.
This dream has been my nightly companion, each episode birthing more questions than answers. This night brought the two light silhouettes. Who were they? What were they doing there? Why did they invite me into the luminance before rescinding their invitation? I wish Jey were here; I know he’d have an informative answer. Gosh, I miss him. I have so many questions, and I know he would set my mind at ease—but alas, he is gone. His wisdom and strength forever lost, and his burden is now mine—completely mine.
All these unanswered questions... My mind nowadays is plagued by these mysteries and my efforts to solve them. But the most compelling question has been—Why me? Why did I come back? Why did I not die...? Why me?
It was their third visit to Wakefield Mall in as many days. Ms. Martinez dragged Kevin and his sister back for more Christmas shopping. This day, however, would be for Tara’s annual picture with Santa—a day she looked forward to every year. Come December 1, Tara would hound their mother relentlessly, reminding her several times a day about her yearly appointment. She believed Santa would not receive her letter if she didn’t deliver it personally, so this was one annual event she never passed up.
