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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Whitney’s throat went dry. “So, you expect me to just… stay here?”

  “It is all you can do. I hoped you would see on your own, but the people I’ve sent here aren’t expecting miracles. They’re dead, and they know it.”

  “Well, I’m not. There’s a way out of everything, and if this really is all Sora’s fault, she’s up there figuring out how to reverse it.”

  Kazimir exhaled, then laid a hand on Whitney’s shoulder. Whitney winced out of reflex.

  “I’ve seen many strange things, but for men, Elsewhere is permanent,” Kazimir said. “There is nothing your friend can do. Fight the truth if you must, but do yourself a favor and make things easier on yourself. Be the man you think it’s impossible for you to be, because there is no worse torture, and that is all this foul place feeds on. One day, the Sanguine Lords will pardon my failure. I will wake up on the other side, and I won’t be here to keep you from turning this nightmare into true exile. Until then, don’t ruin my rest.”

  The upyr walked away, leaving Whitney to stare down into the water at his reflection. Dead him still looked like the him he knew, at least until the broken shaft of the sickle floated into his knee and disturbed the water. He grabbed it and considered ramming the pointy end through his own chest. His hands shook but eventually dropped it.

  If Elsewhere was like this, he couldn’t imagine where he’d wind up should he die a second time. He looked up and saw Wetzel hurrying Young Sora indoors. Apparently, she had returned from the Fierstown’s, probably kicked out once Whitney’s parents saw her. She looked at him before the door slammed behind her. Straight at him.

  Ever since he’d gotten to Elsewhere, he’d had this eerie feeling like people were looking through him, but not her.

  “He’s wrong,” Whitney told himself. He stood, clenching the shaft so hard his knuckles turned white. “Maybe I am dead, but I don’t belong here.”

  An invisible wall may have trapped him in Troborough, but he’d been trapped in worse places. He’d find a way out, and if he couldn’t, he still had Sora out there in Pantego, seeking out true magic from the mystics. She’d sent him here, the girl who’d grown up in that shack, and he had to hope she wouldn’t stop until she found a way to undo it.

  Even if it took years, he’d wait. He’d keep his mind. If Elsewhere wanted him to live out the nightmare of being a worthless farmer in a worthless town, he’d be the best damn farmer there ever was.

  XIV

  THE DESERTER

  Rand’s armor felt heavy as he made his way to the heart of Yarrington. Every suit of Shieldsman armor was reinforced with glaruium mined from within Mount Lister, the sturdiest and rarest ore Pantego offered. They were passed down from generations, re-fitted for each man by the castle’s eldest blacksmith, Hovom Nitebrittle, who’d trained beneath dwarven artisans to become the only Glassman possessed of the skills to work the metal.

  Now, Rand’s had a loose fit. He hadn’t realized how much muscle he’d lost since he fled his post. The vast, open fields he’d spent days and nights training and exercising in had been replaced by a room the size of a horse’s pen and enough alcohol to drown the horse.

  The training of a Shieldsman, however, was eternal. He’d learned that lesson well at the docks. He may have never wanted to kill again, but defending Sigrid was different. As Wren said, he would agonize in the bowels of Elsewhere if it meant creating a better world in which for her to live. He was already destined for that rotten place anyway. Until the Drav Cra were driven from the city, a Docksider like her would never be safe.

  Yarrington Square was different from Rand’s memory. Usually, when a harsh winter came, the merchants kept to the southern portions of the kingdom. But with the Drav Cra in town—they were an entirely new customer base. Maybe they didn’t have autlas, but they were out in droves buying things that were of no use to nomads living in the far north. Formal clothing, pottery, furniture; items they’d never seen before, but they seemed eager to get a taste of Yarrington.

  They traded their weapons and furs for all the southern trinkets and fineries, hauling it all back to leather tents just beyond the city walls, where their women, children, and elders lived while their army helped secure the kingdom.

  There are so many. Have they all abandoned Drav Cra? Rand wondered.

  It all seemed so incredibly innocent until Rand looked a little closer. For all the Drav Cra marveling at useless items, they were also sharing their clothing with Yarrington. Furs from bear and wolves—oversized coats, boots and gloves—all crafted by masters of keeping warm through the coldest winters, and in that way, they were winning over the locals. Even in the square, painted warlocks by the walls invited Glassmen into their circles for prayer, drawing bloody symbols on and around a slain goat, and surrounding it with candles and burning incense.

  Idols to the Buried Goddess were worshiped without fear of reprisal.

  “Yarrington is being invaded. Quietly, peacefully, the enemies of Iam flood these walls from the Drav Cra.” Wren’s words echoed in Rand’s mind.

  He could see why even young King Pi might see the beauty in this blending of cultures. But it all seemed incredibly calculated.

  The Drav Cra never stayed put for long. They were raiders and nomads, playing the part of wholesome guests until they decided to be raiders and nomads again. They were used to striking at small villages around Crowfall and even as far east as Hornsheim, yet here they were, welcomed into the walls of Yarrington. Perhaps the number of warriors present was few with others out fighting rebellion, but he'd already seen firsthand how little they thought of southern men and women. All the realm believed that the rebels were south in the Black Sands, but they were forgetting to look right underneath their noses.

  “Repent!” shouted an old man on a podium where the Square met the Royal Avenue. He wore tattered, brown robes and had his head shaved with the eye of Iam painted large and sloppily across his forehead, indicating him a monk of a more fanatic sect of the Church of Iam known as the Order of the Holy Eye. They rejected the Kings of Glass as chosen and heeded only the direct word of their God.

  “Brothers and sisters, you must repent!” he continued. “You welcome these heathens and destroyers with open arms. Those who would deny our holy Lord His glory!”

  A crowd of Glassmen started to gather around him. Guards took notice and inched closer. As Rand instinctually did the same, he remembered that, as far as the world could see, he was one of them—higher ranking, in fact, than any of them.

  “The boy seated upon the throne does not speak for us!” the man continued. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke with such vim it looked like he might burst a blood vessel. “Only Iam can. How many of these monsters slaughtered our kin in the North? They are children of the great deceiver. She who tricked the heathen gods in the feud over Pantego. She who lies buried beneath that very mountain!” He stuck a finger out toward the flattened summit of Mount Lister presiding over the city.

  “Bah! You’d all be roasting on Shesaitju spits if not for us,” said a Drav Cra warrior who’d remained behind with his people as he passed.

  “Even now, they mock us!” the monk said. A few grumbles of agreement broke out. “These corrupt men. These depraved men. Heathens!” The monk turned his wrinkled finger in the direction of the warrior who’d spoken. In that moment, the surface of peace melted away as a dozen angry eyes fell upon the warrior.

  “We must not stand idly by while they ravage the realm of Iam. Brothers, we must take up the sword and drench His holy realm with their heathen blood. We must bury them with their goddess, or they will do the same to us!”

  More cheers rang out, this time with more vigor. The crowd, stirred like a nest of angry hornets, turned upon the nearest Drav Cra warrior. The guards battled against the masses to reach the rabble-rousing monk.

  “How many of your kin have died in their raids!” the monk shouted.

  “My brother died in Crowfall thanks to them,” a man in the cro
wd called out.

  “How many of your children have been sacrificed to the wicked cults who worship the false goddess with them? They are the very spawn of Elsewhere! It is time we tear the imposter, Redstar, from his seat in the castle and burn him in the fires. We will ensure he’ll never see the Gate of Light nor his blasphemous Skorravik.”

  “Aye, why don’t you savages go back to your tundra!” another voice cried out to the Drav Cra warrior who’d spoken up.

  The warrior didn’t leave. In true Drav Cra fashion, he turned to face his accusers and drew his battle-axe. “Which one of you wants to die first, then?”

  Rand took a few steps closer. In the faces of the incensed crowd, he could see the truth of the situation. The tension boiling over would eventually lead to Yarrington’s ruin. If the entire Drav Cra horde was near the city, even a small squabble like this could ignite the flames of open war. Perhaps that was what Redstar wanted. He’d already done enough horrible things to weasel his way into power, and Rand likely didn’t know the half of it.

  “That’s what I thought,” the warrior spat. “A bunch of southern flowers.”

  “Heathen scum!”

  A man burst through the crowd and charged the Drav Cra warrior. The swing of his battle-axe sent the Glassman back onto his rump. But the Glassman wasn’t alone. All it took was one to show bravery, and now a good portion of the crowd stalked toward the warrior.

  “Kill the savage!” a local screamed, waving his hand to coax the mob forward, but his body froze mid-stride. His eyes darted side to side, the only part of him able to move.

  “Nesilia is the one true!” Three men, garbed in crimson robes, wearing emotionless white masks appeared behind the warrior. Each had one hand raised, fresh blood trickling from their palms, and gripping a knife in the other. They weren’t Drav Cra warlocks, but members of the Cult of the Buried Goddess. They were a group Rand had dealt with even in his short time as a Shieldsman. Usually relegated to abandoned basements or caverns beyond the city, now, they found themselves emboldened by unexpected allies.

  “Donning masks doesn’t make you one of us!” The warrior whipped around and slashed even at his saviors. They retreated just as more guards arrived to hold back the swelling mob.

  The Glassman attacker let out a breath as he collapsed to the dirt only to be trampled by his own people with sights on both the cultists and warrior.

  “See how they turn us all against each other!” the monk yelled. “Tricksters and demons in human form!”

  The chaos allowed Rand to shove his way through the edges of the crowd and seize the monk. There was truth to what the man was saying, but men like him had a knack for starting fires.

  “You want to get everybody killed?” Rand questioned as he dragged the monk west along Royal Avenue toward the Glass Castle. The glass spire presided proudly over the city, shining even with the sun veiled by snow and clouds.

  “I speak only the truth,” he answered.

  “Well, you can enlighten everyone in the dungeons.”

  “Don’t you see?” he cried, manic. “You have been deceived!”

  “Would you shut it? I’m on your side.”

  With his armor on, no one questioned Rand as he entered the Old Yarrington. He kept his head down so he wouldn’t be recognized, but he had no idea where his post should be. He wasn’t even sure he was supposed to be in Yarrington and not out in the field subduing the rebel Black Sandsmen. At least with a rabble-rousing fanatic from the Order of the Holy Eye in tow, he’d be subject to fewer inquiries unless he ran into the Shieldsmen's Taskmaster, Lars Kesselman.

  They reached the bend in the road where it ran parallel to the castle’s outer walls. The sight of them stopped Rand in his tracks. The walls were bare now, the wind howling along their flat faces, but he could still picture the bodies, ropes tied around their necks, creaking together as if part of a symphony.

  Rand squeezed his eyes shut. “Focus,” he whispered to himself, hands trembling and head aching.

  “You are troubled, brother,” the monk said. “We of the Holy Eye can help you.”

  “Quiet,” he grumbled. He opened his eyes, and the bodies were gone.

  Soon I’ll be free of them, he told himself. Soon all will be made right.

  They reached the gates, where a few Glass soldiers stood guard. He expected them to question him, but instead, they parted for him to pass. Redstar may have set up camp in the castle, but Rand's order still held sway among the commoners.

  “Sir, allow me?” one of the guards said, motioning to the monk.

  “Excuse me?” Rand said, surprised.

  “Is he a prisoner? I’ll take him to the dungeons.”

  Rand swore under his breath. He’d hoped to use the monk as a means to traverse the castle with a ready excuse. “I’ve got him,” he said.

  “Sir, I insist. You shouldn’t have to sully your armor in that pit. Please, let me do my job?”

  It was a sincere request from a good soldier. Rand sensed a future Shieldsman in that armor. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Garihad, sir. Garihad Yulniz.”

  “Yulniz, eh?” Rand said.

  “Yes, sir. I believe you must know my father.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” Phillip Yulniz was a revered and retired member of the Shield and had served as Taskmaster under King Liam and Uriah Davies years back.

  Rand sighed and handed the monk over. “He’s a rabble-rouser from down in the Square,” he said. “Do what you do, soldier.”

  The soldier pounded on his chestplate in salute, pride on his face, then grabbed the monk and headed around the back of the castle. Rand considered giving the monk a message for Torsten before he was gone but decided against it. After Redstar was removed from the equation, Torsten would be free. Plus, according to Wren, Torsten occupied the lowest, most secure sanctum of the castle dungeons. It was nowhere a mere fanatical preacher would be held.

  Rand slowly crossed the bailey. A legion of young Shieldsmen trained on one side. Sir Nikserof Pasic sat overlooking them, chatting with Hovom, the castle blacksmith, and another Shieldsman Rand recognized as Sir Austun Mulliner. Nikserof behaved like a commander, but Rand had only known of two King’s Shieldsmen able to act in such a way in Yarrington. There were captains in every city throughout the kingdom, but here, Torsten was the commander, and if he wasn’t around, Sir Wardric Jolly had always been his second, just as he was for Torsten’s predecessor.

  Neither was present now.

  Sir Nikserof wasn’t green at least. Rand remembered a few lessons he’d received from him in swordsmanship. He was an expert at that subject, but still, he was no Torsten Unger.

  Rand drew a deep breath when he realized he was standing still again. Being back at the castle brought all the horrid memories to the forefront of his mind. He turned his head away from the Shieldsman and continued toward the castle gates. Even with his now-shaggy hair and beard, he might be recognized. His days as Wearer, although few, were memorable.

  He turned, facing the other end of the bailey where a group of Drav Cra warriors practiced throwing their axes at dummies. Their chief strode through their ranks, barking at them in their harsh language. He had a beard that looked like it’d never been cut, with a bald portion along the right side of his jaw where a series of deep scars lay. The white paint covering the right half his face only seemed to accentuate them, like he was proud of how near he’d come to death.

  It was as strange a sight as Rand had ever seen. Painted, fur-clad Drav Cra warriors before the backdrop of the Glass Castle. And while tension remained between the commoners in the Square, these groups of soldiers paid no attention to each other, whether good or bad. Whatever had happened in Winde Port left them fused by battle.

  Savages, literally at the gates, trusted enough that nobody was keeping so much as a wary eye on them. So much had changed it made Rand’s head throb. He tried to gather himself, leaning against the statue of King Fentomir flanking the Great Hall
entry.

  He looked up and saw the visage of the Fentomir, then let his eye wander down the line until it rested on King Liam’s statue. After a moment, his gaze drifted to the slab of rock that would eventually be carved into the likeness of King Pi. Rand couldn’t help but wonder what kind of legacy the young boy would leave.

  In his mind, the image shifted into the birthmarked face of the chieftain Redstar. He shuddered at the thought of the Glass Kingdom falling into Drav Cra hands.

  He was pulled from his reverie when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the outer wall’s gate crank where he and his soldiers had forced Tessa to her death. He could remember that look on her face like he was there. Betrayal, sorrow; a mixture of all the awful things a person could feel.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered.

  He knew he was drawing attention to himself, muttering under his breath and shaking his head like a madman, but he couldn’t help it. Her shrieks hammered around in his skull. Calling out his name, just like how Sigrid had when the savages got their hands on her.

  Am I really any better?

  “You,” someone addressed him.

  He turned and saw the source of all his pain. Oleander Nothhelm, wife of Liam the Conqueror and the mother of the Miracle King, approached him. Her dress was long and lovely, the same deep blue color of her lips and nails. The last Rand saw her, she was frazzled and broken, yet now she was the picture of royalty. Even after everything she’d done.

  “Are you dull?” she asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Shieldsman, I’m talking to you.”

  “Y-y-your Grace,” Rand managed to squeeze through lips, paralyzed by an onslaught of emotion. His hand fell to the pommel of his longsword before he could think about it.

  She leaned down and stared into his eyes. She was going to recognize him, blow the whole thing. She was going to recognize him, and he’d have no choice but to kill her, no matter how much he fought the desire.