The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Kazimir’s hand slid down from her neck, fingertips tickling her shoulder, then her forearm before finally coming to rest around her wrist. She let out a squeak. She couldn’t help it, his strength was unimaginable.

  He extended his arm and with it, hers. Then, he licked a line of half-dried blood off her forearm. “We will be so happy together.”

  Whitney sat up but remained silent. Whatever Kazimir said had to be horrific to still his tongue for so long. Tum Tum stood like a statue, watching in horror as the upyr called Kazimir had his way. A simple tavern owner from Winde Port had likely never seen magic, let alone a man move so impossibly fast.

  “I will die before marrying you,” Sora said.

  That seemed enough to shake Whitney. “Marry?” he asked. “Shogging exile, what are you talking about? This creature wants to marry you?”

  “Watch your tongue, thief, or I will devour it,” Kazimir said.

  “Whit, what do I do?” Tum Tum asked quietly.

  “Just stay still.” The ship was beginning to lilt with nobody at the helm. Whitney slowly stood and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. Kazimir squeezed Sora tighter.

  “I don’t think you understand, Kazzy,” Whitney said. “Can I call you that?”

  That was when Sora saw that mad glint in his eye when Whitney was about to do something monumentally stupid. Please don’t, she willed him. Please.

  “Just weeks ago, we killed an actual goddess,” Whitney continued. “She wasn’t some two-bit joke wearing leather and silver clasps, flitting around the night like a bat. She was a real yigging goddess, and we gutted her like a fish.”

  Kazimir chuckled. “If the spirits are correct, it was the dark-skinned Wearer of the Glass and the marked orphan of the Drav Cra who brought doom to Bliss. You were merely a distraction and she… oh, the power within you.” Kazimir again took a break from the conversation to take a whiff of Sora’s neck. She could feel his fingers fluttering from the joy of it.

  Hate welled inside of her. It felt like Elsewhere, yet it wasn’t readily at her fingertips. No spark or preternatural heat. She cursed herself, cursed Wetzel for not training her better. In the distance was Winde Port, ravaged by the work of her hand. The fire seemingly fed on her anger and connection to Elsewhere even after it left her fingers. She had nearly won the battle for the Glass Kingdom all on her own, but now, faced with mortal danger, she couldn’t even help herself or her closest friend.

  “Let them go, and I’ll come with you,” she said. Her natural instincts screamed at her, but she said it anyway. “Be with you. Whatever you want.”

  “Sadly, dear, the time for courtesy has passed. You don’t need to want to be mine for me to take you.”

  His breath was hot on her neck now. She could feel him against her back, an animalistic aura pulsating from him. His sharp fangs brushed her neck.

  “Stop!” Whitney said. “Take me instead.”

  “What?” everyone asked at the same time.

  “Take me, right? I’m a Lord now, technically... I’m not one for bureaucracies. But that’s gotta count for something. The Wearer of White owes me, too. I can give you power, wealth.”

  “Whitney what are you doing?” Sora asked. “It’s my blood he needs.”

  Kazimir seemed amused. “I rejected a Darkings. What could street filth possibly offer?”

  “How about this?” Whitney slowly reached into the folds of his clothing, leaving his other hand raised. Kazimir grew tense until Whitney pulled out the broken half of the Glass Crown. All the precious gems set in its point glimmered even under the dull moonlight. “This here is the Glass Crown worn by Liam Nothhelm himself. Well, half of it.”

  “Meungor’s axe!” Tum Tum exclaimed, stirred from his trance.

  Kazimir approached it, dragging Sora along with him. Even his dark, soulless eyes seemed to brighten with wonder. Whitney shot her a subtle wink.

  “I stole it right off his head,” Whitney said, edging closer. “It broke while I escaped, but still has to be worth a damn fortune.” Kazimir went to grab it, but Whitney pulled it back. “Not so fast. You drop this pact and leave us alone, it’s yours. You can wear it for all I care.”

  “Why should I not just take it?”

  “Honor?” Whitney audibly swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “Honestly, I was just trying to buy a second or two.” Whitney jerked the wheel to the side. “Ah hah!”

  The ship lurched a bit, and everyone took a small step to the left, but little else happened.

  “Shog in a barrel. I really thought that would have done more.”

  Sora growled and used the minor distraction to kick Kazimir in the shin and escape his grasp. Whitney tossed her his dagger, and she caught it mid spin and whipped it around to plunge it into Kazimir’s chest. Her strike met only air.

  “Hands off him, demon,” barked Tum Tum, brandishing his hammer.

  Sora turned back around to see Kazimir somehow already holding Whitney.

  “You children don’t seem to understand how this all works!” the upyr snarled, a knife to Whitney’s throat. Sora’s knife. “Every single one of you is going to die. The only question now is how fast.”

  Kazimir pushed down on Whitney’s shoulder and with his free hand put pressure on his forehead, stretching the skin of his neck.

  “You kill me, and your bosses will be quite mad,” Whitney taunted. “There’s no blood pact on me anymore. You should be going after Bartholomew.”

  Kazimir laughed. “The Sanguine Lords didn’t request the life of Tayvada Bokeo either, yet he is dead.”

  Whitney swallowed hard.

  “How dare you speak his name after what you did,” Sora snapped.

  “Do you think anyone controls whom I send to Elsewhere? The Dom Nohzi’s days are numbered. Only I can lead them away from the fires of exile. We no longer need to hide in the shadows.”

  “It’s okay, Sora,” Whitney said, smiling, trying to stay brave. “Just blow us both away. I know the power is in you. Sail off to your people and see where you came from.”

  Sora knew what she wanted to say; that he was the only people she ever really had. But she couldn’t bring herself to.

  “Just leave him alone,” she managed. “You’ve got what you want!”

  Kazimir leaned down and licked Whitney’s wounded ear. Whitney writhed in pain. The sight made Sora sick. All he’d done for her, and this was how he was going to die. He could have sent her on her way back in the forest all those weeks ago when she found him, but instead, he brought her into his way of life. He promised to show her things she’d never dreamed of. Accepted her. Gave her a purpose, even if she didn’t love what it was.

  Kazimir tore the crown from Whitney’s fingers and shoved it onto the front of his head so hard it drew lines of blood on his temples.

  “I’ve always wanted to taste the blood of a king,” Kazimir whispered. Then, he sunk his fangs into Whitney’s shoulder.

  “No!” Sora yelled as Whitney cried out.

  She felt a sudden rage bubbling again deep within. There was a familiar taste on her tongue—a mingling of iron and ash. She’d tasted it before, felt it before, but something was different this time. It was pure—unbridled.

  “Leave him alone!” she bellowed.

  She wasn’t bleeding any longer, but she raised her hands anyway. She could feel the energy crackling around her fingertips. A blinding light bloomed around her hands—not just her hands, her entire body.

  The light intensified and with it, all the strength fled her muscles like Elsewhere was sapping her. It was similar to conjuring a ball of flame or when she healed another’s wound, only exponentially more intense. Even when she summoned the blast that stopped Redstar in the Webbed Woods, it paled in comparison.

  She almost couldn’t continue standing, yet she couldn’t fall. Somewhere in the distance, she heard screams. Familiar screams, but altogether preternatural. Her name. Someone was screaming her name, but she could barely hear it over
the sound of a rushing wind. Her face hurt like she stood in the middle of a hurricane. But at that moment, she realized she was the hurricane.

  A deep rumble shook the deck beneath her. Then, a crack, boom!

  Her eyes opened, and Tum Tum stood beside her shielding his face with his arm, beard and hair in tangles. The compass beside the ship’s wheel spun wildly. Wind flapped the sails even though the bay remained flat as glass.

  She fell to her knees, barely able to see, straining her eyes to focus on Whitney, but he was gone. Kazimir was gone. Where they had just been, there was now nothing more than scorched wood, two piles of clothes with her knife laying atop them, and the King’s Glass Crown teetering on its edge. Aquira limped over to the spot, sniffing the air as if something were missing.

  “Whitney?” Sora whispered. And then she collapsed, accepting sleep like an old friend.

  XXIX

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten stood on Winder’s Wharf, staring out upon the moonlit bay. He wore a wolf pelt over his shoulders for warmth, given to him by Redstar after he was pulled from the canal. Everyone was cheery now that the battle was won even though they were surrounded by death and destruction, Glassmen and Northmen patting each other on the back.

  What have we won?

  Afhem Muskigo was alive thanks to Torsten’s failure. He’d called the retreat early, and now most of his army crossed Trader’s Bay to the eastern banks, and there were few ships intact to follow them before they regrouped. Torsten wasn’t surprised Whitney’s distraction wound up doing almost as much harm than good. All the vessels moored directly in the harbor were tipped onto one another, hulls and masts shredded by a chain of ropes.

  A sole Breklian corsair ship headed south apart from Muskigo’s army. It was far, but Torsten could see a man waving from the wheel and knew exactly who he had to be. What he didn’t expect, however, was how much he hoped Sora, a blood mage, had made it on safely as well. He could only trust Whitney had changed enough to genuinely care about someone other than himself. He owed her that much after saving his life for the second time.

  “Smile, Wearer,” Redstar said, stepping up beside him. “Muskigo may live, but it is a victory nonetheless.”

  “Winde Port will never be the same,” Torsten said.

  “So it is with war. You should know better than any. How many cities did Liam ravage as he reached further across Pantego?”

  “That was different. He fought to brighten the world.”

  “It wasn’t different for those he… brightened.”

  “What do you want Redstar?”

  “Must I want something to speak with my Wearer?”

  “You’re here to gloat,” Torsten said. “I led my men to their doom while you stole the glory.”

  “I did nothing. The Buried Goddess showed me the moment to strike, I merely obeyed and called upon her strength.”

  “You warned Muskigo I’d be coming, didn’t you?” Torsten snapped, his hand clutching Redstar by the collar before he could stop himself. Over the man’s shoulder, he noticed a handful of men watching, concerned for the Arch Warlock and uncle of the King. More than a few of them were of the Glass.

  Redstar lowered his voice. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have fished you out of that canal after you failed to kill the only Sandsman whose death mattered.”

  “I don’t know what you want, but saving me was the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.” Torsten shoved him and stormed away. His men parted for him to pass, though they were too fixated on Redstar to salute.

  “Where is Sir Wardric?” he asked.

  Nobody had an answer. He’d been searching for the man who’d been left in charge of his army since the fighting stopped. He imagined that he and both Darkings, father and son, were back at the camp. Noblemen like Yuri didn’t have a taste for battle.

  So, Torsten walked back through the city, now cautious to take a true measure of things. He still felt cold and pulled his pelt tight, but the anomalous warmth in his chest didn’t wane. It even dulled the pain of his many wounds.

  The prefect's estate was a pile of glowing rubble like coals in a fire that had burned too hot and too long. A line of homes west of it were charred husks of buildings. It would take half the gold in the royal vaults to undo the damage. Bodies filled the streets—Shesaitju, his own army, civilians unfortunate to have been caught in the invasion in the first place.

  On his way by, Torsten noticed something white glinting in the wreckage. He trudged through the ash and debris and lifted his own white helm, nearly in perfect shape but for a dent on the side. Pure glaruium was a difficult thing to break. His armor was similar to the other members of the King’s Shield, though slightly more ornate, but that helm had been worn by Wearers for decades before even his mentor Uriah. Torsten lifted it, dumped the ash out, then continued on his way with it tucked under his arm.

  The densest stacking of corpses was by the palisade walls, or rather, what remained of them. The wind had spread Sora’s fire before the snow had time to extinguish it. The dry, wooden walls caught in an instant. Barely a segment still stood, the rest ashes.

  “Sir, you’re alive!” someone shouted.

  Torsten turned and saw Sir Nikserof Pasic, one of the old guard, a member of the King’s Shield who’d been in the ambush, sitting on a chunk of burned wood. His steel armor was coated in blood, most of it probably belonging to his own people. A barbed arrow protruded from one arm.

  Torsten approached, and the man went to salute, but he stopped him. “You don’t need to stand for me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He winced.

  “You should see the physicians.”

  “I’m in good shape compared to the rest. Can you believe what happened here? They say the King’s uncle summoned wind and fire to take the walls. A moment slower, we would have died in that courtyard.”

  “He didn’t summon any fire.” That much was true, but Torsten recalled hearing Redstar’s incantation echoing in the air after they escaped their ambush, as if he was willing the fire along.

  Nikserof’s gray brow furrowed. A few more nearby soldiers and Shieldsmen started to eavesdrop. “Then who did?”

  Torsten bit his lip. He couldn’t say that it was the work of a Panpingese blood mage he knew, even if he believed Iam was working through her—then they would not only think him a failed general, but a madman.

  “Iam reached down to save us,” Torsten said. “Redstar may have charged at the right time, but at what cost? We were supposed to save those prisoners.”

  “You haven’t heard, sir?” Nikserof asked.

  “What?”

  “Their bonds were tied to the walls. When they burnt, the people of Winde Port were able to break free, and the gray men couldn’t give chase because our army charged. They’re all back at camp, mostly. Many of them will need new homes but still… it’s a miracle.”

  Torsten looked closer at the remnants of the wall and all the bodies covered in ash. They were almost entirely soldiers from either side, stacked in twos and even threes where the fighting was fiercest.

  “The Buried Goddess is with Drad Redstar,” Mak said from nearby. It seemed he was always around to stir up trouble. “Lucky for you, Wearer.”

  “There is no such thing as luck,” Torsten snapped.

  “The way I hear it, they had to scoop you out of the canal after you let Muskigo survive. Without Redstar, you’d be an icicle. Sounds lucky.”

  “Watch your tongue,” Nikserof said. “That is your Wearer.”

  Mak smiled and bowed. “My apologies. What a fine job he’s been doing.” He laughed and continued on his way. After a few paces, he looked up to the sky. “Where’s your light now!” he shouted, laughing some more.

  “Ignore him,” Nikserof said. “If we didn’t distract Muskigo, they wouldn’t have accomplished a thing.”

  The truth was, Torsten knew that wasn’t true. Perhaps with Muskigo able to lead his army in the defense, they would have lasted longer, but
they still would have lost because there was no accounting for a fire like what Sora caused. More of them might have even perished instead of calling an early retreat to fight another day.

  No, Torsten’s distraction helped with nothing. Sora still would have tried to kill the man she blamed for destroying her home. She still would have failed in the face of a mighty warrior like Muskigo and been forced to use magic. And the fire still would have spread on Redstar’s otherworldly, west-faring wind.

  Torsten merely answered with a grunt and a nod.

  “Have you seen Wardric?” he asked.

  Nikserof shook his head. “Can’t bring myself to climb the hill. I’ve lost a lot of blood, as have many. I think Sir Austun Mulliner headed up there though.”

  Torsten left him, wading through the piled bodies, careful to show the proper respect. Then, turning his head to the sky, he whispered, “Where is your light now?”

  He caught a whiff of something foul and glanced back down. A pile of dead Drav Cra warriors was being burned across the field while the warlock Freydis stood before them chanting. Her words were as foreign as the rattling of her tokens.

  Priests of Iam would arrive soon to help lay the fallen Glassmen to rest as well, as they did after every battle so the dead may be committed to the Gate of Light. But all the soldiers and refugees standing atop the hill overlooking a victorious battlefield would first see the warlocks of the Buried Goddess staining it. Torsten could barely look without thinking impure thoughts; however, as he went by, he noticed a silvery sheen amongst the corpses.

  A King’s Shieldsman?

  “Stop this!” he barked as he ran over. He shoved Freydis out of the way. A few warriors pulled their weapons on him before they realized he was kneeling by one of his own.

  “How did this man wind up in here?” he questioned.

  The shaggy-haired warlock seemed as confused as he was. The black paint on her brow cracked as it furrowed “An accident, I suspect,” Freydis said. “There are so many bodies.”