The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  All his talk of fighting for freedom, yet he was clearly working with Darkings, a man wicked enough to turn to the upyr and blood pacts. Sora suddenly realized how foolish she was to believe there was more to Muskigo. They were royals, helping each other, and the people be damned.

  The series of crashes had drawn all the soldiers’ attention to the courtyard. All the refugees and handmaidens were cleared out.

  Sora was alone.

  She picked up a shard of a broken clay plate which must have fallen in the chaos. Aquira dug into her shoulder and growled as if she could read Sora’s mind. Then, they headed straight for Muskigo.

  Sora knew now that she could help her people. She could end the looming war and keep what happened to Troborough from happening again. Maybe not forever, as there would always be greedy lords and ladies wanting more, but at least enough to make fewer orphans and refugees.

  She could end the fighting.

  XXIV

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten raised a hand, stopping the legion—one hundred of his finest King’s Shieldsmen at his back. They had been trained during Uriah Davies' reign as Wearer, by Wardric as the eldest in the order, and by Torsten himself, after he took on the mantle. Not since King Liam turned the entire army of Glass into a hammer of faith had the Shield led an operation like this.

  Yet, perhaps the most astounding thing about where they now stood was that Whitney, the damnable thief without a filter hadn’t failed in leading them.

  Torsten looked up through the grille of a gold-clad grate and into the courtyard of the prefect's estate. He placed a finger over his mouth as a pair of gray legs passed, then regarded his men. He knew a few of their names—Mulliner, Reginald, Nikserof—but he wished he knew them all. He wished he’d been forced to spend less time at Oleander’s side or watching to make sure Liam wasn’t taken advantage of after he’d grown too ill to speak. In fact, he longed for the days when he had been one of them—an anonymous face in the great order, following a worthy Wearer whose accomplishments were so vast he’d never be contested by a murderous, Drav Cra Arch Warlock.

  This will change everything, he told himself.

  “Muskigo is somewhere above us,” he said aloud, voice low, but carrying down the narrow passage. The dwarves, although small in stature, developed spacious tunnels to accommodate men and even some giants. Torsten was thankful for that as he traveled through the main lines, but now that they were within the estate’s infrastructure, things were tight. They were forced into a long line, no more than two men crammed across, and the ceiling so low he had to crouch. A pain in his neck now but it would help them swarm into the courtyard when the time was right.

  “We are with you until the end, Wearer,” the man nearest him said. “Or let Iam strike me down.”

  He was young but hardened. Three lines of scars ran across a chin like an anvil. His eyes glinted with a healthy blend of fear and resolve, proving he was not a man driven by bloodlust but a true warrior. Torsten recognized him but wasn’t sure of his name.

  No more heeling like a dog at the feet of royals. This is your order. These are your men.

  “What’s your name, Soldier?” Torsten asked.

  “Xander Corsocova, Sir,” he saluted.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I… Westvale, Sir. Born and bred. Trained by Sir Wardric Jolly under the command of Sir Uriah Davies a few Dawnings back.”

  “It’s an honor to be here beside you, son. Can you do something for me?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Ask the name of the man on either side of you, who trained them, where they’re from. Then, tell them to do the same.” He knew some of them might already know each other, but these were the finest, selected by Wardric. That meant they were posted all across the western half of the kingdom.

  “Sir, the—”

  “There’s time. We await a signal from Winder’s Wharf to move. It’s an order. Here we stand, ready to die in Iam’s name, I would like to better know the brave men at my side.”

  Xander nodded and turned to Nikserof, the Shieldsman beside him, to ask the same questions. Then on and on down the line. Torsten listened to the answers of those nearest and watched the rest. Some were calm like Xander, others more visibly taken by fear. But, as a few men joked in their answers and earned low laughs, the terror began to dissipate.

  Liam’s armies were a unit. Thousands of men unified in resolve and their trust in him. Uriah’s King’s Shield was an extension of that. No single member mattered, only the unit as a whole. Alone, they were only drops of rain, but together, a great hurricane.

  But the time of great and famous men was over. Torsten had led for a single battle and been deceived. He had to argue with a heathen imposter for every move, under the orders of a king whose voice had yet to lower, in the shadow of a Queen Mother now best known for killing her own people.

  “What about you, sir?” Xander asked while the rest continued.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, sir. If I overstep…”

  Torsten looked up into the courtyard, flakes of snow danced by, melting just beyond the grate. Then, he turned his gaze down upon the sewer and the layer of muddy water running past his feet. He remembered why the stench and darkness of such a place barely affected him.

  “South Corner, Yarrington,” Torsten said finally, eyes closed. “Born to a no-name father and a streetwalking mother. Iam saw fit to lead me into the arms of Liam Nothhelm and never once have I looked back.”

  He regarded Xander, who stared at him in disbelief.

  “We are all Iam’s children,” Torsten said. “No matter where we come from.” He reached out, took the man by his pauldron and shook. “Now we are ready.”

  A crash echoed in the distance, followed by a bell, and shouting in Saitjuese. Dust trickled off the ceiling as footsteps pounded across the ground above.

  Torsten grinned. “Maybe there is still hope for the boy,” he whispered to himself and above. Not only had Whitney led them successfully but his distraction appeared to be working as well.

  Torsten positioned himself below the grille. His fingers twirled the Eye of Iam hanging from his neck. “Forgive me Iam, for what we must do. Watch over us, but do not judge, for in the name of peace we take up arms against those who trespass against Your light.”

  As he prayed under his breath, so too did his men, each in their own way. Some mouths moved silently while others took a knee, speaking to the inside of their eyelids. He let them all finish in their own time, and when he saw the whites of all their eyes, he traced his own.

  “We are the armor of Your holy kingdom,” he said, raising his voice enough for his men to hear. They quietly echoed every word—the words of the King’s Shield, which Torsten couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the opportunity to recite.

  “Our lives,” he continued, “are given freely under the sight of your Vigilant Eye so Your children may thrive in this world You have blessed us with.”

  Torsten raised his hand to the sewer grille, then raised his voice even louder. His men did so as well. “We are the right hand of Iam. The sword of His justice, and the Shield that guards the light of this world.”

  He shoved the grille with all his might and jarred it from its setting. Xander gave him a boost and his feet fell upon the snow-filled courtyard, the first of all his men—as it should be. If Liam had taught him anything of war, it was that no leader inspires his men like one willing to head the charge.

  The rest flowed in after him, men with long swords and heater shields at the front, spears and pikes at the back—the wedge and hammer.

  Torsten spun to study the yard wrapped on four sides, at two levels by an arcade utterly devoid of Shesaitju. Bells rang louder in the distance, accompanied by a series of crashes. Whatever Whitney had done, it cleared the entire place.

  Torsten signaled to Xander. “Secure the front door,” he ordered. “Muskigo is somewhere in here. We take him now, or we die trying
.”

  Xander saluted, then led a smaller unit toward the palace doors. Torsten surveyed the courtyard again, trying to decide the next move. And that was when he heard a scream of agony too near to be Whitney’s doing. He drew his claymore and swung back to face the direction it’d come from.

  A bar of spikes had swung across the Arcade’s central passage from one side. Xander screamed and flailed, trying to free himself from the bar which had him pinned against the wall. The sound of Saitjuese orders cracked the air, the voice familiar. Standing on the walkway right above where Xander met his fate was Afhem Muskigo, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Torsten.

  The moment he saw him, Torsten knew Redstar’s betrayal was complete. He had warned Muskigo, sending any and all competition for command of the Glass Army to their doom.

  Muskigo barked something and archers flooded in from surrounding rooms. They lined the second-floor balconies overlooking the courtyard as well as the roof.

  “Ambush!” Torsten shouted. “Form up. Form up!”

  King’s Shield armor was durable, laced with the glaruium of Mt Lister herself, but it was not impregnable. At the right angle, the Shesaitju’s barbed arrows could pierce it, as Torsten knew too well. And now his men would learn too.

  Arrows zipped around the courtyard from every direction like angry hornets in a stirred nest. They stabbed at angles, stung shields. The Shieldsman right in front of Torsten took one to the weak, flexible mail around his throat as they all closed rank. Another arrow glanced off Torsten’s white helm, sending him staggering and knocking the helmet off his head.

  “Wearer!” one of his men shouted. Whoever it was grabbed him and raised a shield, but was stung from behind by another projectile. Torsten went to pull him back and received a mouthful of innards as another arrow erupted through the man’s stomach.

  He wiped blood and bits of flesh from his eyes. Metal clanked all around him as the King’s Shield formed a circle of shields.

  “Shields…” Torsten coughed, the tang of copper heavy on his tongue. A wave of frantic bodies crushed him in the center of the circle, pressing against his chest, stampeding his feet. He could hardly breathe.

  Of all the battles he fought under Liam, he’d never felt so… hopeless.

  Every arrow clashing against their shield wall stole a bit more breath from his lungs. And those were the ones that didn’t sneak through the cracks, shredding flesh and sinew of one of the men he’d foolishly led to their dooms.

  He pawed at his chest for the pendant of Iam—something to squeeze as he prayed for a miracle. But his arm was pinned between two of his men jockeying for position under the umbrella of shields being slowly picked apart. He was able to loop a finger around the necklace when someone banged into his side and caused the chain to snap off his neck. The pendant cracked as it hit the ground, then shattered beneath a boot.

  Torsten fell to a knee, finally able to gasp for air. He pawed at the shards, and in the reflection of the largest piece, he caught a glimpse up into the balcony. All the breath he’d only just regained fled his lungs at the sight of Muskigo standing there.

  The gray man watched like a galler bird, eyes set upon floundering prey, so focused that he didn’t see what was coming up behind him.

  The blood mage—from a village razed at his very command—walked up behind him, something sharp in hand. A strange, scaled creature, which looked like it could be a newborn zhulong sat perched on her shoulder.

  Iam is still with us!

  Anger contorted her features just as it had in the Webbed Woods when Redstar pushed her to the brink of death. Torsten watched her weapon sink into Muskigo’s shoulder blade, and then his mass of soldiers shifted and obscured Torsten’s view. Swimming through the mess of legs and armor, Torsten clambered for a better view. Arrows battered the metal on the other side, but he lifted his head regardless.

  Now he saw Muskigo hulking over Sora, sword to her throat as she crawled back across the floor.

  “Muskigo!” Torsten roared. “Come down here and face me like a man!” The barb of an arrow slashed his cheek on its way by. His men pawed at his shoulders in an attempt to drag him back to safety.

  He stood strong.

  Muskigo momentarily turned his attention from Sora to meet Torsten’s glare. The girl grabbed the sword by either side of the blade with her bare hands. Blood leaked from her palms as she squeezed and fire swirled around her. The scaly creature on her shoulder leaped at Muskigo and dug sharp fangs into his shoulder. The afhem released a roar, sword slipping from his grasp.

  The attempt to kill their afhem had some of his men distracted, but others rallied. Arrows flew at Sora, flaking to ash before they reached her flame-covered body. Another charged her from behind and swung a curved sword, but a flick of her finger sent fire hurtling into the man’s face.

  Muskigo ripped the creature from his flesh and threw it back at Sora. It screamed loud enough to be heard over the din of battle as it skidded to a stop. Muskigo backed away slowly, lowering into a Black Fist fighting stance.

  “This is for my master,” Sora said. “This is for my home!”

  Fire exploded from her hands. At the same time, it shot forth from the scaly creature’s mouth. Both streams merged together.

  Muskigo spun out of the way, but a part of the blast caught his side and sent him flying backward so hard he broke through a wooden post. The rest hit the structure of the roof and courtyard, igniting the wood rafters and melting the stone columns of the arcade as if they were iron under the smelter.

  The entire half of the building sagged, then began to crumble away. The devastation rippled across the entire building, wood catching everywhere. Torsten and Sora’s eyes met for but a moment before the ceiling caved in around her. She grabbed her scaly friend and vanished.

  “We’re not alone!” Torsten hollered. He could feel the energy flooding his muscles, his despair fading beneath the blinding glow of fire. “Fight toward the exit. Push!”

  Half of Muskigo’s men surged across the crumbling upper walkway to dig him out of the rubble. The others continued the assault, but Torsten’s men seemed reinvigorated by the spreading inferno.

  The mass of shields and armor shuffled out of the courtyard and into the entry hall. Walls collapsed around them, and the ceiling fell away. Torsten never felt such incredible heat, but he took comfort knowing the Shesaitju hadn’t either. They preferred their nigh’jels to fire, and this fire was unnatural. Its arms licked and spread as if fueled by the rage of the very girl who ignited it.

  Shesaitju soldiers fell upon them as they reached cover. “Shift!” Torsten ordered. The men at the edges of the formation turned their shields and those behind thrust spears through the openings.

  “Wall!” Torsten said, the shield closing once more with a thunderous clap.

  “Push!” They pressed forward toward the front entry as if one unit. Less than half the men he’d come with remained, but in the King’s Shield, that counted for hundreds.

  A large portion of the ceiling crashed down, breaking their formation. Torsten didn’t wait for Shesaitju to flood the gap. He leaped over the bodies, his claymore carving a bloody arc across the chests of his enemies. He parried a spear, then ducked under another. A Shieldsman—Sir Nikserof Pasic—jumped forward, blocked an attack from his flank and pulled him back to cover.

  Another chunk of the ceiling gave way ahead of them, crushing a mass of Shesaitju warriors. Torsten, seeing an opening, waved his men onward, over the smoldering rubble. He lowered his shoulder, and cold air filled his lungs as he broke through the estate doors, finally feeling like he was able to breathe. Icy snow and burning embers met in a macabre dance, sweeping across the entry. Dark clouds swirled in the darkening sky, bringing with them a robust and west-blowing gale that felt like daggers upon his bleeding cheek. The prefect's estate was wholly consumed, but it wasn’t alone.

  The strong wind rapidly carried flames across the city. At the same time, a strange voice echoed through th
e air. The words were long and trailed off, but it sounded like Drav Crava, as if he could hear Redstar chanting across the battlefield.

  The wind allowed the inferno to bridge Winde Port’s canals like forest wildfire. Building after building caught, even though it was snowing—an unstoppable force of nature’s wrath.

  Torsten turned his attention to the streets. They were out of the cauldron, but Muskigo’s army still filled the city. A cluster of unmanned zhulong stampeded through the streets, throwing massive tusks in every direction.

  “We are the right hand of Iam!” Torsten shouted as his men formed rank again. “The sword of His justice and the shield that guards the light of this world!” The zhulong crashed into them, throwing Nikserof aside like a rag doll. Another couldn’t dodge the pack, taking a long tusk through his abdomen.

  “Fight toward the gate!” Torsten ordered after the beasts passed. “We shall make it out of here alive, men. Iam is with us!”

  Torsten emerged from the shield wall and brought his claymore down upon a Shesaitju warrior’s skull. He heaved Nikserof to his feet by the forearm, and they fell back into cover. In and out of the formation he and others went, taking five with them for every Shieldsman that died.

  But they were dying.

  Torsten knew they wouldn’t last long surrounded by enemies and fire, but now he wasn’t afraid.

  Just like in the estate, their formation slowly ebbed west through the overwhelming force. The finest men the Glass had to offer would only die if they took hundreds more with them. The further west they edged, the louder Torsten could hear Redstar’s voice, as if the warlock was directly beside him.

  The wind grew stronger as well, and Torsten saw the fire hopping across the rooftops. The distraction helped give them breadth through the army, and now it was beginning to catch the palisade wall surrounding the city.

  Torsten’s giant hands snapped the neck of a Shesaitju, cracking like a branch underfoot, then he spun, pulling his sword free and bringing it down through the shoulder of another. A blade slashed his thigh, but his armor dulled the blow. He grabbed the man by the neck, and as he raised him, a ram’s horn filled the air. One long blow.