The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “What is this anyway?” Sora asked.

  “Zhulong stew,” Shavi answered.

  “It’s so tender though,” she exclaimed. “I would expect zhulong to be tough.” They were dirty, smelly, scary beasts. Not the kind of animal she was used to eating.

  “You will find it is not only the zhulong whose outward appearance is a poor reflection of what lies inward,” Muskigo said with a smile, lips crooked, all the confidence oozing off him as his commanding façade faded.

  Sora nearly choked on her next mouthful. She wasn’t sure if Muskigo was just being kind to her because he thought she had worthwhile connections in Panping, but now she knew it was much more than that. The way he regarded her wasn’t lecherous like drunks in a tavern either. It was the same way someone else looked at her in those rare moments of vulnerability… Whitney.

  “Anyway, I’m glad to see you are satisfied,” Muskigo said, breaking her train of thought. “When you’re finished, Shavi will find proper clothing and somewhere you’ll be able to sleep.”

  Sora glanced up from the bowl.

  “Nothing nefarious, you have my word. There’s not a man within these walls who would trifle with you now that we are friends.”

  This time she actually did choke. She had to hit her chest to get the piece of zhulong to tumble down her throat.

  Friends.

  Playing this role was all fine and good for survival’s sake, but hearing him call her that had rage mounting within her again. She could feel the water around her begin to boil.

  “Sora?” Muskigo said.

  She hadn’t realized he’d been speaking, so caught up in her thoughts as she was. “Oh, sorry…” she muttered.

  “I have more planning to attend to with my commanders, but I’m glad to see you cleaned up. Tomorrow, if you are ready, I hope we may discuss plans for inviting your people to this fight for freedom. I have been in need of a liaison with the ability to reach out to Panping, and I believe I may have found that in you. Sleep well.”

  “Of course,” Sora said softly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He smiled again, that same reticent look that spoke of many more intentions than wanting an ally. Then he turned to walk away, a host of faceless warriors in the hall falling in around him.

  “He’s more bark than bite,” Shavi said once he was gone.

  “The headless bodies outside might not think so,” Sora snapped before she could stop herself. “Sorry, it’s just… seeing all of that… I remember what happened to my people.”

  “No need to apologize, dear. Sometimes when I look at him, I still see the young boy I cared for while his father was out fighting King Liam. He’s not that anymore, is he?” She laughed, and Sora couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Not at all.”

  “No, but he is a better man than the horror you see outside. Now, lay back. I’ll get your hair so cleaned out you won’t have to worry about it for years.”

  Sora did as she asked. While Shavi went to work, her gaze listed back toward the window where the occasional scream of pain rang out thanks to the war outside. Perhaps Muskigo wasn’t the horrible monster deserving death who she’d been imagining since the day she left Troborough behind, but just because he wasn’t Kazimir didn’t mean Whitney’s views on people like him were wrong.

  Lords and ladies always appear impressive, but they don’t care a lick for the people they step on to get what they want—no matter how much they claimed to. Whether in the name of gods or freedom, the ends were always the same... and only the people suffered for them.

  Even if Sora could never bring herself to be the one to drive a knife into his heart, she’d never help him. And she’d certainly never sit at his royal side and become a person like him. No matter how much of his wealth, wiles, or charms he threw at her.

  XIX

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten tested the ropes on a newly-erected tent. They were loose, the fabric flapping in the wind. What better could he expect from an army that had never set camp before? Untried. Untested.

  He lay his hand on the arm of a soldier. “Stake those in deeper,” he said. “Or you’ll be sleeping in the cold.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man saluted.

  “And you,” Torsten pointed to another, “get a fire started. Staying warm is the difference between life and death.”

  “Wouldn’t want the puny Glassmen getting cold,” murmured Drad Mak as he strolled by, a cracked battle axe propped against his shoulder.

  “Ignore them,” Torsten said. “Out here, the Black Sands aren’t our enemy. The elements are. The Shesaitju aren’t used to being so far north. With Iam on our side, we’ll outlast them.”

  “A weak god, for a weak people. You should hear their villagers squeal and run when my warriors arrive to take their crops. Not a man among them.” Mak laughed again.

  Torsten paid him no mind. He couldn’t, even as arguing broke out between them and some nearby Glassmen. If he stopped every time one of Redstar’s men insulted one of his own he’d be busy for days.

  The men remained shaken by what happened at Marimount. The bodies dangling from the walls of Winde Port didn’t help either. Nor did the biting cold.

  Torsten sighed and pulled his cloak a bit tighter. He remembered something King Liam used to say to former Wearer Uriah, “War has no schedule, no fixed times of meeting. The better prepared army always wins, and it is a leader’s job to have his men ready for anything, at any time.”

  Like most of Liam’s lessons, it was quite simple, at least until panic settled in. And fear of loss and life. Uriah, however, was never rattled. He’d walk the camp before battle, and just the sight of him in his pearl-white armor was enough for Torsten to know they couldn’t fail.

  As Torsten strolled by, offering nods of encouragement to different groups of soldiers, he wondered if he instilled that same courage.

  How could I after Marimount?

  Riding fearlessly to meet with Muskigo at the gates might have helped, but until they defeated him in battle, Torsten knew he was no Uriah. Not even close.

  “Hang the traitor!” a voice cracked through the nervous din of preparations. Torsten turned and saw a bit of commotion. He expected to see another brawl between Drav Cra and Glassmen but realized that a few of them stood side by side, yelling at something together. He hurried over.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, pushing some men aside.

  “Look what we found, sir,” a Glass soldier said. He had a Shesaitju on his knees and kicked him in the back so hard the man hit the dirt. “A raincloud sneaking about.”

  “One of Muskigo’s spies, no doubt,” said another.

  “I do not know what you are talking about!” the Shesaitju man protested, earning another boot to his spine. He had the look of a fighter—strong jaw, hard body, only he wore furs and boiled leather armor that looked western in origin. His black lips trembled with real fear.

  “And who are they?” Torsten asked. Also kneeling in the mud behind the Shesaitju were two identical-looking men in unmarked armor who were unquestionably mercenaries, a stocky, red-bearded dwarf, and an old man dressed in silks that appeared to have at one point been of excellent craftsmanship. Now his clothing was tattered and his features just as ragged, with all the others not faring much better.

  “We be silk traders ye no-good, flower pickin—” The dwarf’s rant was interrupted as Mak the Mountainous arrived to spit on him.

  “Go crawl back underground, dirtmonger.” Mak said as he walked by and went to punch him but Torsten caught his arm. He knew there was no love lost between the two peoples. Their lands shared a border in the north, and even though the dwarves lived beneath the mountains, that didn’t mean their riches were any less sought after.

  “Enough,” Torsten said. Drad Mak turned, daggers in his eyes. Torsten didn’t flinch.

  The men halted their barrage on the odd group of travelers but kept them on the ground—especially, the dwarf, who thrashed
and cursed in ways Torsten didn’t think were possible.

  Torsten approached the old man and knelt. “Who are you?”

  “I…I’m a simple merchant,” he stammered.

  “He’s helping the spy!” someone shouted from the quickly growing crowd. Torsten glared back at him, then turned his attention back to the merchant.

  “I swear in the name of Iam! These men are my protection, Grint Strongiron’s company.”

  “Who is that?” Torsten asked.

  “Me ye dolt!” the wobbly-eyed dwarf barked. “Finest company west of the lake.”

  “A merchant?” Torsten asked. The man nodded emphatically. “Where are your goods?”

  “We were on our way to Winde Port to meet with the Traders Guild when we were set upon by bandits. They stole our caravan, my wares, everything. We hoped to find them in the city, but then this…”

  “Finest company, yet you were taken by a couple of bandits?”

  “Wouldn’t have happened if anybody listened to me,” the dwarf grumbled. “Never stop on the road to help a pretty woman, I tell ye. Especially not a knife-ear witch.”

  Torsten’s brow furrowed. “Did you say Panpingese witch?”

  “I said knife-ear. Her pretty boy mate stole the caravan while we tried to help her. By Meungor’s axe, that’s what we get for trying to be good citizens.”

  “Keep telling yourself that Grint,” the Shesaitju said.

  “She wasn’t no witch,” another one said.

  “Might as well’ve been, the way she conned ye,” the dwarf said.

  “Conned you, too.”

  “Not another word out of you, spy!” the soldier restraining him snapped and shoved him back into the dirt.

  Torsten looked into the terror-stricken eyes of the old trader, then couldn’t help but smirk. It wasn’t that he endorsed thieving, but he had a feeling he knew exactly who was behind what happened. It was Whitney, the newly minted noble, and Sora, the Panpingese blood mage who Iam saw fit to use as his vessel back in the Webbed Woods, saving them from Redstar’s wrath.

  “All right, everyone off them,” Torsten ordered. “They’re telling the truth.”

  His own men looked at him, perplexed. Mak the Mountainous scoffed.

  “The gray man stays,” he grizzled. “By edict of your king.”

  “Don’t you see what happened to Winde Port because of that?” Torsten said. “We’re safer with him far away from here.”

  “I promise, we will go far... very far...” the Shesaitju mercenary stammered.

  “Safer still with him dead!” Mak shouted to a chorus of agreement from all those present. “Why should we listen to you anyway? It wasn’t the King’s choice to go to Marimount, I hear.”

  Torsten kept his head high. “No, but that doesn’t mean locking every Shesaitju behind a wall is right.”

  Mak laughed and turned to a crowd of his people. A warlock stood, emotionless, amongst fur-clad warriors. Torsten wasn’t sure he’d fully realized how much of his army wasn’t his own until then. How many weren’t even faithful to Iam.

  “So now the Wearer doubts his own king, the beloved nephew of Arch Warlock Redstar!” Mak announced. “Yet we’re supposed to follow him into battle, bells on our ears?”

  “He’ll let the gray men slaughter us!” shouted another. “I say kill the spy!”

  Mak brandished his axe while others held the trading crew down. Grint’s company writhed and shouted in protest. The axe went up, but before it fell, Torsten swung his giant claymore to stop it.

  “Enough!” Torsten’s thunderous roar combined with the clang of metal brought an abrupt end to the fighting. “We are together in this fight, whether any of you likes it or not. King Pi shares the blood of both our peoples. Can we not work together to bring glory to his name?”

  Everyone watched in silence. Drad Mak didn’t let off his axe or soften his glare. The Shesaitju warrior scurried away through the dirt toward his crew.

  “We’ll play nice when you get on your knees, kiss the ground, and thank the goddess for your existence,” Mak said, seething.

  “How dare you speak to our Wearer that way!” the Glass soldier holding the dwarf yelled.

  “He is nothing to me.”

  Both sides erupted. Punches were thrown. Someone tackled someone, and Torsten couldn’t see much more in the cloud of dust and snow that formed as a scrum broke out. All he was sure to do was shove the dwarf, trader, and the mercenary crew out of the way.

  “Winde Port is under occupation,” he told them. “I suggest you head back the way you came.” He regarded the Shesaitju man who was clearly shaken. Torsten was smart enough to know the man had nothing to do with this rebellion. Lost on the road without a wagon thanks to Whitney, they probably didn’t have any idea there even was a rebellion. “And I’d suggest keeping him out of any taverns.”

  “Flower picking humans,” the dwarf groaned. “This is why I prefer the Dragon’s Tail. Let’s go, boys. Leave the knights to their foolish quarrels.” He gave the old trader a nudge, shocking the man who was busy staring at the brawl.

  Torsten watched them leave, then squeezed the grip of his sword. The sounds of fighting and cursing were deafening. He went to turn, to demand order when a familiar voice stayed his hand.

  “Better off letting them vent, sir,” Wardric said, approaching on horseback from the side.

  “They’ll kill each other before we get anywhere,” Torsten replied.

  “They won’t,” Wardric assured him. “I’ve been thinking—yeah, I do that from time to time—if we lose, Redstar loses. The Black Sands will wipe him out as well and whatever influence he plans on gaining over the Crown will die with him.”

  “Is it wrong that a part of me thinks that might be preferable?” Torsten looked across the field to Redstar who was barely fazed by the chaos. He sat in a circle beside Freydis and a group of Drav Cra warlocks all covered head to toe in furs and small, heathen tokens and bones. A dire wolf lay at his back, sleeping. They had candles arrayed in a circle between them, lines of blood crossing between them.

  “I fear that man’s devotion to his goddess above any army in this land,” Torsten said.

  “I’m with you sir, but if we face all our enemies at the same time—”

  “They’ll pick us off like wolves, I know. Which is why I hope not to fight a battle here.”

  “But starving Muskigo out won’t work.”

  Torsten looked up the hill they were camped on. A group of horses clomped in from the northwest along with a gold-trimmed carriage. They flew the blue of the Glass Kingdom, but flying proudly above the carriage was another standard—a family crest, a ship with a coin.

  “Right on schedule,” Torsten said. “Come with me, I have a plan.”

  They returned to the center of the camp where several tents stood in a defensive position. The King’s Shield tents were more lavish than the rest, but Torsten was beginning to appreciate why. Most of the men of his order had spent years training. They needed to stay warm and well-fed if there was any chance of defeating Muskigo’s rebellion.

  A map of the Winde Port region was unfurled atop a small, round table. There was no need for figurines to show where Muskigo was. He owned the entire city, from Merchants Row to Trader’s Bay.

  “You invited me?” Redstar said as he approached, a gray dire wolf at his side. The giant creature weaved in and out of a line of King’s Shieldsmen, making each of them quiver.

  “The time to decide our next move has come,” Torsten said.

  “For someone so loyal to Iam, you spend an awful lot of time believing you have any control over our next move.”

  “A man who walks no path cannot be steered to a new one.”

  “A convenient sentiment.” Redstar clapped his hands, then plopped down on the seat at the end of the table. A seat reserved for Torsten during war meetings. “Now, I can’t wait to hear this plan.”

  Wardric scowled at him. Torsten raised a calming hand. A seat was n
o more than a seat so long as they all worked in concert.

  “Muskigo is everything,” Torsten said. “His ruse has inspired his followers to believe they can win even though they lost more than we at Marimount. He thinks he can dig in here and hold us while more Shesaitju rebellions spring up across the southern peninsula. And he’s right.”

  “Sir?” Wardric asked, incredulous.

  A flicker of interest showed on Redstar’s birthmarked face. He leaned forward and started twirling the tip of his dagger on the table.

  “To attack head on is to sacrifice the lives of his captives and a vast portion of our combined army,” Torsten said. “I won’t allow the King’s people to die in chains.”

  “How very unlike your benefactors,” Redstar remarked. “Liam would’ve trampled them himself if it meant victory. And my sister... well… we’ve all seen firsthand how she feels about her subjects.”

  “That’s enough out of you!” Wardric growled. “If you have nothing to add, you might as well leave.”

  “Shall I take my people with me?”

  Wardric bit his lip. “Just show some damn respect to your Wearer.”

  “My apologies.” Redstar pointed his dagger with a limp wrist. “Proceed, my Lord.”

  Torsten caught himself staring at Redstar. Normally, one with such a grotesque birthmark covering half his face, making the eyebrow scraggily and gray, wouldn’t have been so confident. Torsten had been waiting since the moment they departed Yarrington for him to drop his smirk, yet it seemed permanently affixed.

  “Yes,” Torsten sighed, tearing his gaze away. He pointed to a spot on the map: the heart of the city. “The prefect of… late prefect of Winde Port… lived on this estate. Our scouts on the ridge tell me that Muskigo’s Serpent Guards stand outside as he makes himself comfortable within.”

  “A conqueror with taste,” Redstar remarked, back to spinning his dagger. “I like him already.”

  “We have a chance to end this before it escalates, to kill Muskigo and persuade the Caleef to sign a new treaty aimed to spare his people the same fate.”