The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Whitney placed his hand over the wounds, still pretending to be blind even in crisis. Never surrender the grift until the grift is through. “This wasn’t done by a normal wolf,” he said, remembering his and Torsten’s encounter in the woods.

  “I s-saw it. It was huge!” the boy said.

  “Redstar,” Whitney whispered and shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Careful with him,” Whitney said to the boy. “Don’t agitate the wound.”

  “What do we do, Father?”

  “That doesn’t look like it came from a wolf at all,” Sora whispered in Whitney’s ear. “And it’s too late in the season for bears.”

  “It was neither,” Whitney said.

  “So, the boy was seeing things?”

  “Dire wolf,” Whitney said.

  “There’s no way. They don’t come this far south… ever.”

  “Tell that to the ones that attacked me and the knight just a couple of days past. You were following, didn’t you see.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I saw you too break camp and rush away one night for no reason. I didn’t see why.”

  The rancher released a hair-raising cry and kicked his legs, drawing their focus back from their bickering. The boy sprung at Whitney and shook him. “Please, Father Gorenheimer, you have to help him!”

  Whitney finally felt a tinge bad for pretending he was a priest. Earning the cloth of Iam meant some training in the healing arts, but Whitney knew about as much about that as his bumpkin father. The rancher’s eyes were closed, his breathing was shallow, and sweat beaded on his forehead even though it was mid-autumn. Even looking at the bubbling, bloody gashes across the man’s ribs made Whitney’s stomach turn.

  “Fever has already set in,” Sora said.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Whitney whispered, turning himself toward her and away from the boy. “I’m no priest, much less a healer.”

  “Please, Father. Would you pray for Iam to heal him?” The boy hugged his father, tears freely flowing again.

  “Take the boy over there,” Sora said. “Pray the most believable prayer you’ve ever prayed. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “This is not why we are he—” Whitney began before she cut him off.

  “So, you want to let this little boy’s father die when we might be able to help? Wetzel taught me a few things.”

  Whitney surveyed the boy. A part of him felt he’d be better off without a father forcing him to stay at the farm like his own always wanted. Of course, Whitney got the chance to choose to be orphaned and not be made one.

  “Where’s your mother?” Whitney asked.

  “He’s all I got.” He wiped snot from his nose. “Please, you gotta help him.”

  “Oh, shogging exile.” Whitney kicked the dirt. The boy looked stunned at his language. “Okay, come over here with me and let my friend here examine him. She’s an expert on the healing arts.”

  He wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and led him away, so his back was turned to Sora. He instructed the boy to close his eyes tight and believe really hard. As Whitney muttered what he knew must have sounded like incoherent religious jargon, he glanced back and peeled up his blindfold a bit to watch Sora pull Wetzel’s knife from its sheath. The dying man didn’t move, barely breathed. Sora grabbed hold of the blade and winced, this time drawing far more blood than she’d done when she made fire.

  With her other hand, she scooped up a handful of the rancher’s blood, then clasped her bleeding hand over it.

  Whitney struggled to continue praying with the boy as he saw wispy, blue smoke rising from Sora’s hand and the bloody mixture. Her face contorted in agony as she clenched her fist and placed it against the man’s heart. There was a pulse of light. The man lurched, then shook. Sora started to convulse with him, but before Whitney could run to her, the rancher bolted upright.

  Sora collapsed next to him.

  “What happened?” the man asked, breathing heavily.

  Whitney raced to Sora’s side while the boy embraced his father.

  “Pa! You’re okay?”

  “Son, what happened? The wolf…”

  “The new father prayed, and you were healed!”

  The man looked up, but Whitney barely noticed. “Thank you, Father. I… I don’t know what to say.”

  He said something else, but Whitney didn’t care to hear a word of it. Sora wasn’t moving, and her breathing had slowed to a crawl.

  “Sora?” Whitney shook her. “Sora, are you okay?”

  XXII

  THE KNIGHT

  Several lonely days passed trekking south from the dwarven ruins, and Torsten hadn’t run into as much as a titrat or squirrel. His feet were sore and blistering, but at least one thing was going for him: silence. The self-proclaimed ‘greatest thief alive’ had been nothing but a ceaselessly-chattering bother. Torsten was happy to hear birds again. Insects, the blowing wind, anything but Whitney’s mindless blabbering.

  Being alone wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. It was the way he’d felt since Liam grew too ill to give sensible orders and the way he was damned to continue onward. Everyone he’d ever trusted seemed to be losing their minds; from Liam to Oleander, and now good Sir Uriah Davies—one of the finest King’s Shieldsman he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. The man who’d taught him the art of swordsmanship might as well be dead. He let Torsten leave with enough food to reach the Webbed Woods, but every time he bit into the stale bread he felt a deep chasm growing in his belly.

  He couldn’t remember how many times he’d knelt beside Uriah under the gilded Eye of Iam in Yarrington Cathedral, how many battles he’d marched to at his side in the name of the Glass Kingdom. Now, he worshipped fairy tales in the cult-dens of fallen gods.

  “Iam,” Torsten whispered toward the moon one night, “if this is a test, I do not understand.”

  He sat at the edge of a small bear cave, arms wrapped around his torso to stay warm. He didn’t want to risk a fire again and had forgotten to ask for a blanket when he’d left the cultist’s compound. The night air bit at his cheeks, growing colder every hour. Soon the bears would be returning to their hollows for hibernation, but until then, he had cover from the wind.

  He reached beneath his undershirt and grabbed his necklace—an Eye of Iam made of blown glass. He could still remember the day Liam had given it to him. It rained the day Torsten was sworn into the King’s Shield. Liam told him Iam was weeping with joy.

  Torsten closed his eyes and squeezed. “Since the day I felt your light upon me, never have you led me astray. You saw fit to take Liam from this plane, and I did not question your wisdom. But these last few days… what have I missed, my Lord? What sins have I committed to earn this heartbreak? Send me a sign, oh, Vigilant Eye, that I still number among your champions.”

  Torsten released the amulet and opened his eyes. Silence reigned but for the rattling of bare branches silhouetted against the night sky. Almost the last of the leaves had fallen, and Torsten noted Pantego’s moons. Celeste was full and orange like an orb of flame, but Loutis, the gray, lifeless, rock was crested on its side as if, together, they were the eyes of a winking giant.

  Their proximity to Iam’s Star—always pointing north, the brightest in the sky—meant it was winter’s first day. A rough time to be stuck in the wilderness. That helped explain the quiet. Tinkers and traders who might generally travel the roads were hunkered down until spring. Farming villages, like Oxgate had been, were stagnant, their peoples cuddled for warmth, hoping theirs wouldn’t be the next target of Black Sands, or worse.

  Torsten couldn’t help but feel like the sight was fitting for his straining kingdom. The branches, like the hands of a bony army, wagged their fingers, taunting him.

  He shook the thought away.

  “Give me a sign,” he whispered. A gust of wind tore through the cavern and sent a shiver. He tucked his arms tighter around his torso. “Let me feel your light.”

  Just then he he
ard an outlandish snort—wet, almost like a sneeze. He raised his hand to the handle of his claymore, then crawled forward to poke his head out of the cavern. If it were a bear returning home, his night’s rest would come to a swift end. He hadn’t the stomach to fight any more hulking beasts.

  He brushed aside a bit of shrubbery, and that was when he saw the unnatural, soft, green light glowing like a beacon and drawing nearer. He’d fought in enough skirmishes against the Black Sands to know what it was.

  A long pole rose up. On its end, a lantern made of glass and bone housed sloshing water and a luminescent creature. The nigh’jels dotted the surface of the Boiling Waters, the sea south of Latiapur, the Shesaitju capital city. They were like any other jellyfish by day, but at night their tentacles glowed as green as emerald, oscillating along their wiry tentacles.

  Torsten drew his head back into the shadows of the cave just as a set of giant paws pounded by. A wet spray of mucus arched from the gargantuan snout of a zhulong, narrowly avoiding contact with him.

  The zhulong wasn’t alone. Upon its back sat a man with ash-gray skin, clothed in boiled leather armor and wrapped in layers of ratty cloth for warmth. Neither the zhulong nor the Shesaitju warrior had spotted him. The green light from the nigh’jel lantern cast a sickly shadow that Torsten thought fitting.

  Black Sands, here?

  By now, he was on the western fork of Southern Pantego—a wild place with little but sparsely occupied villages, and further south, the Webbed Woods. Across the bay, the Shesaitju made their home on Pantego’s eastern fork. There was nothing over here for them. Attacking Oxgate and Troborough and other towns nearer to Yarrington made strategic sense, but the capital wouldn’t even likely hear of a raid in the mostly inhospitable region in the shadow of the Webbed Woods.

  He crept out further, staying low.

  The zhulong stopped at the crest of a nearby hill, and Torsten froze. He loosened his claymore from the scabbard strapped to his back. Then, a second mounted beast arrived from the other side of the hill. The glow of two nigh’jels coalesced and danced against the darkness as the men exchanged words in old Saitjuese.

  Between the wind and other night sounds, he could only hear every few words, and understood even less. With every conquest, Liam made sure to impose the language of Iam. “Understanding your potential enemies,” he would say, “is the key to any victory.”

  What would he think of me now?

  Torsten didn’t have time to dwell on the thought. The two men clasped arms, then took off in opposite directions, one toward him and one away. Torsten stayed quiet until both nigh’jels were at a safe distance, then hurried up the hill.

  The grass was wet with slobber. Claw tracks ran down the slope, vanishing into darkness and muck. One rider’s nigh’jel faded like the stars at dawn just at the edge of the vast, wetness of the Fellwater Swamp which bordered the Webbed Woods. It was a foul place, so Torsten had heard. He’d never been there himself, never had any reason to go so far south, so far from real civilization. But so many of his men—good men—would have had to pass through the muck as they followed his orders to find Redstar in the Webbed Woods.

  The rank stench of stagnant water assailed Torsten’s nostrils. In the daytime, insects would be nipping at his neck, refusing to surrender to winter’s chill. There was nothing else in this fetid place, no reason at all for the Shesaitju to be there.

  Torsten was exhausted, but rest could wait. His bag of food secured, he set off after the zhulong heading south and its Shesaitju master. At the base of the hill, the tracks disappeared in mud and mire. He didn’t need them. The still-visible, gentle, green glow of the nigh’jel lantern was enough.

  He started to jog. Eventually, the zhulong would outpace him, but swamps slowed beasts and men without favor. He kept his steps choppy so his boots wouldn’t sink in too deep, and made sure to breathe through his mouth.

  With all that had befallen the kingdom, Torsten knew he had to find out what the Black Sand’s scouts were doing so far from home. The Shesaitju were once a militant people. They worshipped battle, ascending through victory, and respecting those who claimed it. Their battles with King Liam had been fiercer than any other, but when he brought them to their knees, they respected him for it.

  Respected him, not his queen.

  Liam’s body wasn’t even cold before the Shesaitju Caleef, Sidar Rakun, had apparently set his forces out to raze more than half a dozen defenseless villages to the ground. Villages filled with men, women, and children. Torsten was exiled before he had a chance to learn how many had died, or how many others were displaced, forced to find refuge in places already too populated and underfed.

  The glory of the Glass was at stake.

  A cold fog swept through as the moons reached their peak, moistening his skin, even beneath his armor. The nigh’jel he’d been following was lost now, so all he could do was hope he remained headed in the proper direction.

  Eventually, he grew accustomed to the stench, same as his younger self had with the smell of waste buckets when he lived among the shanties in South Corner, Yarrington. The cold air made his throat sore, and his ears feel like they could be snapped in two like a fresh carrot.

  In an attempt to distract himself from the miserable trek, he found himself wondering where Whitney had run off to. He hated himself for it but wondered nonetheless. He imagined the thief was sitting by a warm hearth, enjoying a nice meal, bragging about all the impossible feats he’d likely never accomplished. That’s what cowards do when the world crumbles around them. He probably wasn’t even a real thief. Just talked his way out of his cell while Torsten was desperate.

  Torsten was busy cursing himself for being so foolish when one of his feet sunk knee-deep into mud.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, the thick sludge working its way into the crevasse in his armor where the greaves met the kneecap. He looked up, but the fog was so thick now, even the moons hid behind it.

  He grabbed hold of his leg and tugged. Nothing. He repositioned himself, bent at the waist, and pulled with all his strength. The ground gave out under his limb. A mound of mud collapsed and sent him sliding into a pool of stagnant water as thick as molasses.

  “What was that?” someone said in Saitjuese—words Torsten was barely able to translate.

  He slowly lifted his head from the mud. Two nigh’jel lanterns hovered nearby, the only things visible in the smog. Their wielders sloshed toward him.

  Torsten remained still, feeling wet mud rippling around him as they neared, so covered in muck he may as well have been a log. He waited until he could see the shadow of a leg. He grabbed it and swept the man off his feet. A quick elbow to the head knocked the man unconscious. Torsten let out a roar as he rolled over the body and tackled the other one.

  A long fauchard thrust at him from the second Shesaitju warrior. He sidestepped, catching it between his arm and hip before twisting to yank it free. Torsten grabbed the man by the throat as he fumbled for balance, forcing him to his knees. He snagged the lantern and held it between them.

  “What are you doing here?” Torsten asked through gritted teeth.

  The ash-skinned warrior gargled for air. Torsten loosened his grip as the man grated something in Saitjuese.

  “Speak common, knave,” Torsten said. “You’re far from home. Scouting out more villages to slaughter?”

  The Shesaitju warrior regarded him, eyes as gray as his flesh. His thin, painted lips creased into a grin. “Afhem Muskigo has surprise for you, Glassman.”

  “That wasn’t an answer,” Torsten barked, tightening his grip again. “Tell me why you are here, or I will squash you like an ant.”

  “The time of Glass is over. Like tides from Boiling Waters, this will not stop.”

  The man drew a blade from his boot and sliced at Torsten. The knife drew a thin line of blood on the side of his neck, but he pulled back just in time, so it didn’t cut deep enough to be fatal.

  Torsten got his two massive
hands around the man’s head. The Black Sandsman thrashed and flailed, slopping mud everywhere. Then Torsten wrenched his hands to the side, and a sickening snap brought silence as the body crumpled into a heap at his feet.

  He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to killing, but he knew better than most how stubborn the Shesaitju were. Warriors until the bitter end. They bowed to Liam in their defeat out of respect, but many of their afhems didn’t support the decision. They abandoned their lands with their loyalist followers to become swords for hire.

  Are these mercenaries working for Redstar?

  He couldn’t imagine a more likely reason they’d be so far south but for gold.

  Or did the Queen… he didn’t finish the thought. He wouldn’t put it past her, seeing an opportunity for more men to feed her obsession with the Webbed Woods. Hiring the very people who’d just caused so much unrest.

  Torsten knelt beside the other warrior, still unconscious. It might be morning by the time he woke. Torsten seized their weapons, tossing them across the swamp, then picked up a lantern again.

  He trudged forward, staying as low as possible. The one benefit of being in the muddy waters was there were no fallen leaves for his boots to crunch. Although the fog was thinning with every step, it was still difficult to make out his surroundings. He was moving downhill, and the sound of water lapping at the coast greeted his ears.

  It wasn’t long before another set of sounds came. Voices and splashing, the sounds of a forge—hammers on anvils. He slowed his pace and ditched the lantern. Then, finally, his altitude lowered enough for the fog to break completely. He’d expected to see a small encampment fit for a mercenary crew, but what he found stole the breath from his lungs.

  Boiling Waters met the coast, and in the soggy delta was an army in waiting. Nigh’jels illuminated their camp as if it were morning but in that sickly, shimmering green. Black Sands ships were moored throughout the delta, sails sweeping over their bows like the tail feathers of the great gallers. Zhulong filled a series of stables, snorting and rolling gleefully in the muck. Tents numbered in the hundreds, and lanterns hung from warrior’s hips weaved between them—fireflies at dusk. Thousands of them.