The Redstar Rising Trilogy

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The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 75

by Rhett C. Bruno


  The storage room was locked, but the tapped barrels of ale stacked along the wall were merely plugged. Rand unsealed one, grabbed a mug, and let it pour. Stealing... It went against everything a member of the King’s Shieldsman should stand for.

  He didn’t care. Trapp shouldn’t make it so easy.

  He let the mug fill halfway, then raised it to his lips and guzzled it down. The Dockside stuff had a sour tinge—nothing like Old Yarrington mead—but he was so used to it now, it went down like water. And every ounce down his throat was like one turn of a gear loosening the vice squeezing his head. He hated himself for breaking his vow so quickly, but after Tessa’s horrid, decaying face began to blur in his mind, the guilt vanished. He wiped his lips, then went to fill the mug again. He was just about topped off when a hand slapped the bar counter behind him.

  “Ye gonna pay for that?” a man asked.

  Rand turned slowly, mug in hand, and saw Gideon Trapp standing behind him. The man had a gut the size of one of the kegs and shaggy mutton chops running down the sides of his head to draw attention away from his balding pate. His teeth were a rotten shade of yellow, like any man born in Dockside who never left.

  “Are you going to fix our window before my sister freezes to death?” Rand asked, taking a step closer, looking down on the man. Months of wallowing had eaten away much of the muscle he’d earned in King’s Shield training, but he still towered over most Docksiders.

  “I told you, I can’t do nothing till we thaw out a bit.”

  “By then you’ll be scraping our bodies off the cold floor.”

  “Better than the streets. Now, I’ll ask again, are ye gonna pay for that?”

  The portly man didn’t back down, just puffed out his soft chest then grabbed Rand’s wrist. Rand’s forearm shot forward and barred Trapp’s throat, slamming him against the stack of barrels. He pushed harder and harder until spit bubbled in the corner of the Trapp’s mouth as he struggled to speak. It was only when Rand heard that familiar gurgling of a clenched airway that he realized what he was doing and backed off.

  Trapp fell to the floor, gasping and pawing at his throat. The sight made Rand envision another of his victims besides Tessa’s. With full clarity, the bearded visage of the Royal Physician, Deturo, flailing as the noose tightened and the color fled his cheeks passed before his eyes. He blinked a dozen times, trying to force the vision away.

  Rand reached into his pocket, removed the last bronzer he had left to his name, and slapped it down on the counter. In the same motion, he grabbed the mug and headed upstairs.

  “Yer lucky yer sister has such great… mugs… or ye’d both be out in the cold!” Trapp rasped.

  Rand stopped and regarded the man. In a district so poor, only the dishonest were so obese. Rand could have killed the fat slob in a second if it wouldn’t have left his sister without a proper way to make a living. There were worse taverns, which would ask more of her than to show skin.

  “Speak about her like that again, and I’ll drown you in your ale,” Rand said.

  “I don’t care what you used to be; you won’t get the jump on me again. Now get out of here. One more screw-up, and I’ll tell yer sister she’s through! Don’t care how pretty she be. Ye can take it up with Valin, or go crawling back to your friends at the Glass Castle, deserter.”

  It was no secret to anyone in Dockside who Rand was, or what he’d done. There weren’t many from the place who rose so high. The only reason the crown didn’t barge through his door to drag him away and punish him as a deserter was because Docksiders kept their mouths shut.

  “Just leave her out of this,” he growled.

  Rand’s hands quaked as he turned to leave. He used both hands to grip the mug, ale sloshing over the rim. It wasn’t rage, though he was desperate to unleash some on the man. Just the thought of being so near the sweet release had his entire body aching.

  He waited until he was back in his room. Downing a second full mug of Dockside ale was enough to make him feel light as a feather. It tasted like swill, but that just meant it kicked like an angry zhulong. Plus, he’d been drunk so long, it was like his body forgot how to act any other way.

  “I’ll show ye a screw-up,” he hiccuped to himself, his accent breaking through training. He made it two steps across his room before he tripped over the chair leg and came crashing down on the floor face-first. His lip split open, and splinters drove into his hand as he failed to break the fall.

  Rand couldn’t bring himself to get back up, laid flat across the floor, and that was when he noticed the glimmer of the armor tucked under his bed, the metal forged with glaruium from the heart of Mount Lister.

  Despite the dust and snow powder covering the room, somehow the King's Shield armor remained clean, so polished he could see his reflection in the chestplate. There wasn’t even the faintest dent or scratch, for even though he’d claimed the lives of dozens whilst wearing it in the name of the Queen, it had never seen battle.

  He barely recognized the man who stared back in its reflection. Bleeding, eyes puffy and red, cheeks gaunt from malnourishment. He reached out to crawl toward it, and his fingers brushed through his sister's still-wet blood on the floor. Now, Gideon Trapp would be riding her even harder thanks to Rand causing more issues downstairs. Drunkenly stumbling through the tavern, knocking over tables every other day was bad enough, but striking the owner?

  “Some knight,” he whispered as he dragged the armor out and lay it across his hay bed. He could remember proudly standing in it, still donning the helm of the Wearer of White before Torsten returned to reclaim it. He could remember being in the castle bailey, ordering his men to string up the innocent at the command of the mad Queen Regent. He could recall Tessa’s face, heartbroken, knowing the feelings he’d held inside for so long and feeling them just the same.

  And even then, Rand had said nothing. Even then, he was a loyal knight serving his monarch. All he had to do was speak out, and maybe Oleander's wrath would have turned to him instead of her handmaiden. It could have been him hung from the walls like meat in a butcher shop, putting an end to his miserable life.

  It was then he knew what needed to doing. For the first time in a long time, Rand’s mind was clear.

  “I’m so sorry, Sigrid,” he whispered as he tore his sheet out from under the armor, then took his sister’s. He tied the ends together while muttering, “Ye’ll be better off, ye will.”

  He stood on the bed, tying one side securely around a ceiling beam, and with the other, he tied a tight noose around his neck.

  Staring down at his armor, he began reciting the words of the King’s Shield. “We are the Armor of Yer Holy Kingdom. Our lives are given freely under the sight of Yer Vigilant Eye so Yer children may thrive in this world Ye have blessed us with.” He sniveled, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

  “I shielded nobody but meself,” he sputtered through tears before mustering the courage to continue.

  “We are the right hand of Iam. The sword of His justice, and the Shield that guards the light of this world.” He hung his head. A tear rolled down his cheek and splattered on his armor. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, a minute or an hour. To take one’s own life was a sin by the teachings of Iam, but he was bound for Elsewhere anyway. Eternal torment in the bowels of the underworld was all he deserved.

  There was a knock at the door. The sound startled him, and his feet slid hard to the side, knocking the mangy bed out from under him. His feet dropped, stopping a good half-meter from the floor. His neck wrenched upward, the cloth tightening around his throat so fast the corners of his vision went blotchy.

  Sigrid! he thought, imagining his sister finding him like this. He grasped at the cloth and flailed his legs to try and pull the bed back. His toe caught its edge, but the wood frame cracked, and the bed tipped. His body swung the other way, his vision growing blurrier as he struggled.

  At a certain point, he gave in and allowed his eyes to close. There was no fighting anymor
e. He could almost see the other side and the end to his torment. All he could hear was the creaking of the cloth pulling on wood.

  Suddenly, something wrapped his legs and lifted him. Air rushed down his throat, filling his lungs with new life. He gasped awake from the precipice of unconsciousness. He rolled his eyes to look down with his peripherals and saw two arms around them. Then, taking another breath, they became more manifest, covered in the loose sleeves of a white robe. Just as suddenly, they vanished, and Rand’s weight once again pulled him toward doom.

  Just before he could wonder what cruel trick this was, the bed reappeared beneath his feet. He tapped with his bare feet until he found footing. The relief was immediate, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Even laying down after a hard day at training under Sir Unger or Sir Jolly couldn’t compare.

  He felt a body against his and fingers against his neck. The handmade noose lifted over his ears, and without the support of it, his wobbly legs gave out. He collapsed onto a man’s chest.

  Chest stinging from exertion, throat burning, he steadied his breathing, every one like a tendril of ice as the cold air went down.

  “It’s okay, my child,” the man said, laying Rand down on the bed, his voice still indistinct. “Breathe.”

  The world came slowly into focus, and with it, the man hovering above him. Rand thought he’d died and gone to Elsewhere when he saw him, that this was some demon’s trick. For cradling him and rubbing his back as if to beckon the air in, was the unmistakable face of Wren the Holy, High Priest of the Church of Iam.

  VI

  THE MYSTIC

  As a lover of music, Sora could say with certainty what she was listening to was no such thing. Three of her new pirate companions picked and plucked at strange, homemade-looking instruments of a variety Sora had never seen before and hoped she’d never hear again.

  To see such hardened and grizzled men drinking and being merry, laughing and joking; it was unsettling.

  She’d only been on Gold Grin’s pirate ship for a few hours, but already she wanted to go back to her little captain’s quarters and sleep. If she weren’t afraid of offending Gold Grin, she’d have already retired into the small quarters they’d provided for her far below the deck. It being separate from the rest of the crews' bunks by only a curtain didn’t have her any more eager.

  Aquira was already there although she’d protested at letting Sora wander off unprotected. Sora knew it wouldn’t help anyone to have a wyvern flittering about, least of all, Aquira. The pirates were all spooked by her, something about ancient Panpingese curses. In Sora’s experience, Aquira had been anything but a curse. The little, winged reptile had saved her life more than once.

  She let her head fall into her arms folded on the table in front of her. She tried to imagine the music being better than it was; tried to imagine it was Fabian “Feel Good” Saravia, her favorite bard who’d frequently come through Troborough.

  It was no use. It was trash. Brigands without an ear for music gallivanting around because there was nothing else to do on the high seas—besides stare at her now. She noticed one of their gazes fixed upon her while the grubby man tapped his foot along to the sorry excuse for a tune.

  She turned sidewise and self-consciously raised the neckline of her dress. Then she allowed her mind to drift toward Yaolin City and her plans once she arrived. The problem was, Whitney was supposed to be her guide. She knew nothing of the city—even being Panpingese. Their customs were as foreign to her as she was to these pirates.

  It reminded her of her first day of church in Troborough. Father Hullquist stood at the altar beneath the glittering Eye of Iam and read from ancient scripture. The villagers sang hymns with him, then one by one were invited up the aisle to bask in the pinhole shaft of light piercing the center of the Eye.

  Those first days, fresh off the caravan of war refugees, she felt so out of place. Wetzel had barely spoken to her above an incomprehensible grumble and had her towing supplies all over town. It wasn’t until a tawny-haired boy slapped her on the rump as she trembled before the priest and said, “You’re up,” that she was able to breathe properly. From that day, she and Whitney had been inseparable.

  Until he left…

  “Left,” Sora spat to herself. At first, the pirates were a distraction, but now that she’d settled in, her mind returned to those dark places which had her confined to her quarters on the corsair for so long.

  This wasn’t like the time he’d abandoned her in Troborough and set off to find adventure she could barely dream of. She’d been responsible this time. Wherever he was, Sora had sent him there.

  “Girly,” came Tum Tum’s voice, pulling Sora from her ruminating. “Yer gonna hafta move on someday. Why not start?”

  Tum Tum was a nice enough man, even for a dwarf. Sora hadn’t known many dwarves. Even those who'd plowed through Troborough on the occasional caravan usually kept to the Twilight Manor, filling Hamm’s coffers with coin and their gullets with ale. But if there was anything to be learned from how she’d been treated in places like Bridleton and Winde Port, it was people are people no matter what race.

  Tum Tum sat beside her and threw his feet up onto the table. He was clean. Really clean. The pirates treated them well, allowing them to bathe in heated salt water which was great for their wounds. Tum Tum’s now-untangled hair and beard were combed and braided. She didn’t know what the standard of beauty was for dwarves, but she’d imagined he was on the handsome end of the scale.

  They were in what she assumed to be the pirate ship’s galley. It was a massive galleon, so many times larger than their little corsair ship it was impossible for her to guess just how many rooms there were. All she knew was it was comforting to know that someone besides her and Tum Tum—someone who was skilled in naval fairing—was piloting the ship.

  The galley, like the rest of the ship, wasn’t ornate, but it was homey. It was clear the pirates took care of their vessel. Trinkets and paintings lined the walls, all appearing to come from different places—loot displayed like trophies to their greatest conquest, not unlike Liam's Throne Room

  She’d have never thought such dangerous men would be so meticulous about their ship decor or the quality of their food, but they showed great care even to the smallest details. Looking down at the chopped mutton before her, drenched in thick, rich gravy, topped with kernels of corn, she wished she had an appetite.

  “Haven’t touched yer food,” Tum Tum said.

  “Where did they get sheep?” Sora asked.

  Tum Tum shrugged and snatched a piece from her plate. He made a deep, satisfied moaning sound as he bit into it.

  Sora once again regarded the musicians—if they could be called that. Big, toothless grins plastered their faces. One with a patch over an eye drummed on the top of a clay mug with the tips of two dirks.

  “Whitney would have made some cheesy joke,” she said to Tum Tum without looking at him, “about how they were a merry band of pirates. Then he’d have thought himself a genius for the play on words.”

  Tum Tum laughed. Sora smiled.

  “Aye,” he said. “Whitney could tell tales with the best of em. Never could tell where his jokes ended and his adventures began though.” He took a deep breath, then lifted his pint. “To Whitney. It’s a quieter life without him.”

  “Yeah,” Sora said, not having a mug of her own to lift. “To Whitney...”

  As tears welled in the corner of her eyes, she realized she hadn’t cried since they left their ship. It felt like a personal record after what happened.

  “What if I killed him, Tum Tum?” she asked. In the days since, she’d never been able to ask that question out loud. She couldn’t bear the thought.

  “Ye did what ye had to,” Tum Tum said. “If ye hadn’t, that gods-damned vampire’d have done it and we’d all been dead. Ye saved our lives, lass. Ye should be celebrated. I know Whitney wouldn’t have had it any other way. Ye should have seen his face when I assumed the two of ye were mar
ried back in Winde Port. Cheeks red as an apple.” He chuckled. “Matter of fact, make believe this party be for ye, for savin our skins and riddin the world of that monster. Ye deserve it.”

  “I deserve nothing!” Sora snapped. “You know what I did? I burned down a whole city, and I killed my best friend or worse.”

  “Now stop it!” Tum Tum stood, shoulders barely clearing the height of the table. “Ye did no such thing. That place was overrun by them gray men, and ye saved us all. In yer own way, ye even saved Whitney from a much worse fate.”

  The music stopped as their host, Gold Grin, appeared within the threshold of the galley. Even across the way, she could see his teeth glistening in the light of the candles.

  “Carry on, boys!” he exclaimed.

  The men cheered, and the music struck up again, a little more lively and a lot less in tune. The feet clomping on the floor sounded like they were keeping the beat to at least a dozen different songs.

  Sora watched as Gold Grin picked up a silver goblet and made his way toward the table where she and Tum Tum sat with a skip to his step.

  Sora raised her head and furiously wiped her eyes. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want the man to see her in such a state. Probably something Whitney had told her. Showing weakness to pirates was the quickest way to wind up one of their wenches.

  “That’s more like it,” Tum Tum said, his back to the pirate, not knowing the reason for her sudden change in demeanor.

  “Guests!” Gold Grin addressed them. “Hoping yer comfortable?”

  “Damn,” Tum Tum said. “Comfortable that is. We be damn comfortable. Anything beats sailing toward nowhere.”

  Gold Grin looked to Sora, and she managed a nod.

  “Good to hear,” Gold Grin said. He pulled up a chair and sat with its back facing the wrong direction. He crossed his arms and leaned in before continuing. “Now tell me, what makes ye want to go to Yaolin… really?”

 

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