It wasn’t the full uniform of a castle guard, but it would have to do. At the very least, the hauberk had the Eye of Iam painted in blue on the chest. One also wore a kettle helmet that Torsten could barely squeeze around his skull, but it would be enough to disguise his face at first glance.
As he stood, a flash in his peripherals distracted him. He rolled quickly. An axe struck the stone floor right behind him and sent sparks flying. A Drav Cra brute reeled back and swung again. Torsten grabbed one of the guard’s longswords and raised it in time to deflect the blow. It still sent him staggering back into a row of storage barrels. The weapon was worthless compared to his claymore which now rested at the bottom of a canal in Winde Port.
“And they said staying in the castle today wouldn’t be fun!” The mass of muscle came at Torsten again before he could get up, but he was all power. Torsten ducked out of the way of two more swipes until the man’s axe crashed into a barrel and sunk through the wood. Grain leaked out as Torsten rolled forward and slashed up. Blood poured into the meal as the swipe severed the man’s arm off at the elbow. Before the man could scream, Torsten covered his mouth and propelled him to his knees.
“Where is Redstar?” Torsten growled. He waited for the man to stop squirming before removing his hand, but received only a wad of spit on his chest. Before the man could curse him, Torsten cleaved his head from his shoulders.
“Your time in my castle is over,” he said.
Torsten wiped the blade on the savage’s furs, then headed upstairs into snow-covered grounds of the western courtyard. A now-bare cherry tree presided over the frozen dragon fountain.
Torsten could remember being in that very courtyard, holding Oleander on the night Pi threw himself from the tower just behind him.
He sighed and took a step out into the frigid air. He wasn’t sure where Redstar would be. It was the day of the Dawning, and Redstar had intimated he would be spending it with Pi, but surrounded by the castle building and the sky brushed with clouds, he couldn’t tell how late it was or if they’d have begun the trek up to the summit of Mount Lister yet. His former Wearer’s quarters where Redstar made home seemed a good place to look first.
“Quickly, a prisoner has escaped!” Torsten shouted, noting two Glass soldiers patrolling the arcade bordering the grounds.
The guards sprung to action, running toward him without a second glance. Torsten stole one’s sword as they raced by and slammed the door shut behind them. He jammed the weapon through the handles to lock them in. They shouted, banging gauntleted fists against the wood, but it was a long way to any other exit.
Not caring to hear their cries, Torsten headed toward the castle chapel adjacent the courtyard, facing northwest toward Mount Lister as all churches in the kingdom did. He peered in first. Although he couldn't see the whole room, the crystalline altar was empty as he expected. Anyone important would be traveling to the summit of the mountain for the Dawning.
Torsten swept in and made it a few steps down the aisle when he heard a cough. He looked left, hands squeezing the grip of his stolen sword when he saw Hovom, the castle blacksmith, seated on the far end of a pew all alone.
“Wren said you’d pass through here,” Hovom said. “I guess the old man was right.” Hovom stood. He had the longest beard of any man Torsten had ever known, nearly down to his waist. Burn marks from a smithing accident covered half his body, but there was no finer blacksmith in all Pantego, dwarves considered. It was said the secret to smelting glaruium to use in weapons and armor had been passed down in his family since the first kings. He was an odd, quiet man, who rarely left the heat of his irons for anything, even the call of food or drink—only for prayer.
Torsten set his feet and tensed. “Hovom, just let me pass, and you won’t be bothered.”
Hovom approached, sword held out in front of him. Torsten prepared to fend him off when the blacksmith flipped the claymore around and presented Torsten with the hilt, bowing his head.
“Relax, my friend,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you.
Torsten let his shoulders loosen, but not his grip on his sword. After everything, he couldn’t afford to trust anyone. There was no saying who had Redstar’s claws in them. “I’m afraid I’m not 'friend' to many these days,” Torsten said.
“Not all have lost faith in you or Iam.” He ran his hand tenderly along the blade while he remained bowed. “Wren came to me days ago before the deserter attempted to kill Redstar. He spoke in riddles, but I think I understood.”
“What are you talking about.”
“He’d expected you’d be needing this.” He shuffled forward, urging Torsten to take the massive claymore. That was when Torsten finally let himself observe the hilt and his eyes went wide. His stolen longsword fell from his grasp. The claymore’s cross-guard extended from a sculpture of the Eye of Iam, a grip of beautiful leather threaded with gold, and a pommel, silver and sculpted in the shape of a dragon's head. The sword had belonged to King Liam, buried with him in the Royal Crypt.
“That’s...”
“Salvation. The sword of King Liam. The blade broke when the earthquake ravaged the Royal Crypt. Wren gave me very specific instructions to reforge it. He made me vow in the name of Iam to tell nobody of it, not even the King, until you found me here on the Dawning.”
Torsten reached out and let his fingers run across the handle. Then he pulled back. “I cannot accept this,” he said. “The sword of Liam the Conqueror can find no home within the hands of a sinner.”
“The sword’s name says otherwise. Wren said you would need it.”
“Wren is broken, you must have seen it from your quarters.”
“Whatever his Holiness has become, the Wren we knew said you would pass through here at this exact moment.” Hovom closed his eyes and inhaled. “What other proof do you need. I’ve always said, the sword chooses the man, not the other way around.”
Hovom released the weapon, causing Torsten to catch it out of reflex. The heft and length were about the same as his old claymore, though this one was heavier. He turned it over and flicked the blade. “No glaruium?”
“Wren insisted I reforge the blade without it.”
“It is perfect, nonetheless.” Torsten’s heart sank. “Still, I cannot accept this.” He extended it for Hovom to take, but the blacksmith folded his arms behind his back.
“Then you must leave it on the floor. Its time with its maker has come to an end.” He walked by Torsten, stopped, and picked up the rusty longsword he’d stolen. He spun it, and even through his thick beard, Torsten could see his heartbreak. “When all this is over, tell the King our men need new weapons. My children grow old.”
“Wait,” Torsten called. “Do you know where Redstar is?”
Hovom didn’t look back. He pointed up, then continued on his way toward the chapel's front doors. Torsten stood, dumbfounded, staring down at the sword which once filled the hand of the greatest King Pantego had ever known. When he looked up again, Hovom was gone.
Torsten exhaled. Who am I to question the will of Iam? Perhaps he hasn’t lost faith in me yet.
“With this sword, I will reclaim your holy kingdom, Your Grace,” he spoke aloud to the sword. “Then it will find you at the Gate of Light once more.”
Without another word, Torsten crossed the chapel to a side door that had direct access to the western tower, so the King could visit the chapel without being bothered. Hovom indicated that Redstar was above, so Torsten felt confident in checking his own quarters first. The door was locked, but no entry was built to withstand Torsten’s frame. He rammed into it with his shoulder once, then the second time tore it from its hinges.
Drav Crava protests met his ears immediately. A white-faced warlock was descending the stairs and upon seeing Torsten’s drawn weapon, immediately sliced his thigh. A stream of ice struck Torsten in the shoulder and thrust him into the wall. Even though it was ice, it stung like fire and was a spell he’d never faced from a warlock before.
&n
bsp; Torsten fell back behind the turn of the spiral stairs, but the warlock shot ice across the landing between them, making it slick so Torsten wouldn’t be able to pass.
“Stop!” A Shieldsman charged in from the other direction and aimed a spear at Torsten’s chest. Not just any Shieldsman, but Sir Austun Mulliner. He wore the luminescent paint of the Dawning, apparently having attended service before his duty. “Torsten,” he spat.
Torsten kept his new sword raised toward the warlock. “Sir Mulliner, you have to listen to me.”
“How many times are you going to try this?”
“Then just walk away. You don’t need to be a party to this.”
Mulliner didn’t flinch. His grip on his weapon tightened. “Trespassers in the Glass Castle on the Dawning receive no quarter. Maybe this time, Sir Havel will finally get justice.”
“He is a criminal,” the warlock said. “Kill him, Glassman.”
“Do you really believe that abomination speaks for the Crown?” Torsten asked. “I don’t care what you saw in Winde Port, Redstar is no hero. He is a deceiver.”
Mulliner’s armor was so shiny and unsullied that Torsten saw in its reflection that the warlock had slit his hand. Ice shot forth from his palm, and Torsten grasped Mulliner’s spear and turned them both, so the stream of magic hit the wood shaft. It froze solid in an instant. Torsten cracked off the spear end and threw it at the warlock, the point piercing his heart.
By the time the warlock hit the ground, he was already dead, with no ability to draw power from the mass exodus of blood. Torsten promptly used the railing and his sword to propel himself over the landing still slick from mystical ice. He turned back. Austun stood at the edge, and in his heavy Shieldsman armor, it would be difficult for him to get over with ease.
“You won’t stop, will you?” Mulliner said, grimacing. “Until the King hangs our entire Order for your treason.”
“Sound the bells of alarm,” Torsten said, pointing his claymore toward Mulliner. “Don’t find yourself on the end of a noose on my behalf if I fail.” The knight remained still. “Trust me or not, I’m here for Redstar and Redstar alone. The King is in no danger.”
Mulliner didn’t answer, but he slowly backed away to find another way around. That meant Torsten wouldn’t have long before the castle gates were sealed and the intruder alarms rang out. He took the stairs three at a time, all the way to the second highest floor below the King’s chambers.
He slowed at the landing and sidled up against the wall. A single warlock guarded the door to the Wearer's chambers. Another stood a few meters off, staring in the opposite direction. Two of Redstar’s apostles sharing a floor meant to house members of the Royal Council and nary a Glass soldier in sight. What a disgrace. Torsten recognized neither from his previous encounters with Redstar, and no Freydis.
Torsten rested Salvation against the wall, knowing that if he cut but didn’t kill either of these men, their magic would be unleashed. He quickly lashed out and wrapped his massive sword-arm around the nearest warlock’s neck. With the other, he wrenched the warlock’s hands so the man wouldn’t be able to cut himself. He was growing more proficient at handling the blood mages.
“Move,” Torsten growled. The warlock cursed back in Drav Crava, then called to his comrade. The other warlock pulled out a dagger, dragged it along his palm, and turned to face them. Fire bloomed around his hand, but he didn’t throw it yet.
“Drop him!” he hissed.
“First, we need to talk!” Torsten answered. He glanced left, sensing motion. One of the chambers had its door open, and inside was the young Master of Rolls. He looked terrified, and as Torsten passed with the warlock in his grasp, the young Master of Rolls slowly shut his door.
The castle bells sounded and drew both warlock’s attention, distracting them just long enough for Torsten to throw the warlock he held against the wall headfirst and charge the other. A stream of flame shot over his shoulder, so hot his bald head immediately started to sweat. His shoulder slammed into the warlock and drove him to the ground. White-hot hands grasped his bicep, melting through his hauberk and keeping him from furthering his attack. The warlock muttered under his breath in Drav Crava, the whites of his eyes bright against the black paint surrounding them. Torsten fought the pain, grasped the skinny man by the throat and crushed his windpipe until his arms fell limp.
He jumped to his feet and retrieved Salvation from near the stairs. Then he positioned himself in front of the room he’d called home for over a year. He built up momentum and kicked through the door.
The splinters peppering his face were a bracing reminder of how much had changed. As was the sight that greeted him. Redstar’s pieced-together mural remained on the floor, and strung up on the wall was the Queen Mother, Oleander. She was stripped completely bare.
“Torsten,” she said. “By Iam, I never thought I’d be so glad to see you.”
Torsten averted his gaze out of reflex as he approached.
“Grow up, knight,” she said. “Have you never seen a woman before?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back. There wasn’t a scratch on her, but Redstar had many ways to inflict pain. Her lithe limbs were spread wide by the ropes stringing her up, leaving little to the imagination. Someone had sloppily painted her face in the manner of warlocks, the black and white dripping down onto her bosom.
“Who did this to you?” Torsten asked. He had to raise his voice since the window was open and the castle bells continued to chime.
“Who do you think?”
“You’re his,” Torsten caught his breath, “sister.”
“Apparently, I’m a ‘foreign whore, and it’s time I look like one.’ Now get me down so I can rip that traitorous bastard’s throat out myself!”
Torsten didn’t answer. He could barely summon words. Seeing his Queen in such condition broke his heart. She’d never been good at ruling, and after the night she attempted to seduce Torsten, her figure had filled his dreams. But not like this. It was no way for the widow of Liam Nothhelm to be treated, no matter what the cause.
He started untying one of her ankles, then heard gurgling. A vine had crept in through the open window and wrapped around her throat. Her foot got free, and she pointed it to the doorway. The warlock Torsten had thrown against the wall lay in the threshold, stretching his bloody hand through the opening.
“Only Iam gives life,” Torsten said. He lifted his sword, strode over to the man, and plunged it down into his back, straight through the heart. His magical vine loosened, allowing Oleander to cough, then crackled away into dust.
He was about to return to Oleander when Sir Mulliner and a host of Glass Soldiers appeared behind him, weapons drawn.
“Drop your weapon and surrender,” Mulliner demanded. “I won’t ask again.”
Torsten backed slowly into the room, and as the soldiers followed him, they realized who was on the wall. “W—what have you done?” Mulliner stuttered.
“Stand down, all of you,” Oleander rasped. “How far do you think your true Wearer has fallen that he would do this to me?”
“He killed one of our own!” Mulliner and the others kept their eyes fixed on Torsten, refusing to regard their Queen in such a manner. Mulliner edged forward until the tip of his sword was a hair’s breadth from Torsten’s throat.
Torsten lowered Salvation. “It’s true Austun,” he said. “I did. I didn’t mean to, but it happened, and Iam will judge me for that. But I had nothing to do with this.”
He pointed back to Redstar’s mural telling a false version of the God Feud that painted Nesilia a hero. “Look upon that heathen’s blasphemy, he and his horde of devils. He did this to your Queen, his own sister.”
“Do you plan on letting me hang here all day?” Oleander spat.
Torsten took a step toward her, but Mulliner positioned himself between them. He gestured to two of the soldiers and sent them to untie Oleander.
“I have made many mistakes,” Torsten s
aid to Mulliner. “I should have been closer with you, with all of our Order. Then perhaps you all would see Redstar for what he truly is and not the savior he claims to be.”
“Watch your hand, knave!” Oleander yelped and kicked one of the soldiers in the face.
Torsten smirked. He knew it wasn’t the time, but he couldn’t help himself. He was so used to being on the receiving end of her barbs, it was nice to hear someone else facing them.
“You dare laugh at a time like this?” Mulliner said.
“All my mistakes, but my loyalty to the Crown has never been in question. I would die for any Nothhelm, and that means now too. So, you have two options, Sir Mulliner. Try to kill me and fail, or watch me and the Queen walk away.”
“Must everything you do be so dramatic?” Queen Oleander said as a soldier helped her down. She shook him away without even a ‘thank you,’ and strode across the room to the bed, taking no care to cover herself. The entire room went silent. She picked a dark blue dress off the bed and began dressing. That was when Torsten noticed one of her handmaidens lying over the side of the bed with her throat slit.
One of the soldiers went to help her with her dress, but she slapped his hand. “Don’t dare touch me,” she snapped. She got it on without tying the back, then yanked the blankets out from under the body of her handmaiden. The poor girl’s corpse rolled off and thudded against the floor.
“You will stand down, and Torsten and I will walk out of here together as he said,” Oleander said, using the blankets to wipe the paint off her face. “There are no options.”
Mulliner didn’t lower his weapon, but his hand started to shake. “We were ordered by the King to follow only the Prime Minister. Not you.”
“And after I rip out my brother’s tongue, where would you like me to hang you for treason? I hear the sun is warm on the south side of the wall.”
“Your Grace, I...”
“Unless your next words are an apology, I suggest you keep your mouth shut! Now, Torsten, dear, come and help me tie my dress.”
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 104
