The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “And you’re the ugliest.”

  The comment earned Whitney a right hook across his already injured jaw from the one-eyed lackey. He would have gone down, but the other guards forced him upright.

  “We hang him at dawn for the murder of Tayvada Bokeo,” Darkings ordered. “Such a sad city these days. They will revel in the entertainment. Throw him in a cell and tie all his limbs. We don’t want any miraculous escapes.”

  Whitney spat out another gob of blood. “Then you captured the wrong man. Miraculous escapes are my specialt—” A cudgel to the back of the head had him on his knees and seeing bright lights. By the time he could see clearly again, Darkings was crouched in front of him.

  “You’re nothing, boy.” He reached into Whitney’s jacket and removed the letters patent presented to him by Torsten and sealed by the Crown itself. On it, was proof of his noble name and house: Blisslayer. To his horror, Whitney remembered that in the chaos created by Queen Mother Oleander, there was no time for the newly named Master of Rolls to add a copy to the archives.

  It was just a name and a worthless piece of paper, yet as Darkings raised it to one of the candles mounted on the wall, Whitney felt his heart sink. Fire caught the corner and spread, the ink melting away as it flaked into ember and ash.

  “You will die as nothing,” Darkings said as he dropped the papers to the floor to finish burning. Then a second blow to the head sent Whitney face first into cold marble, and his whole world went black.

  XIV

  THE KNIGHT

  It was two days marching before the stone of Fort Marimount shone under the light of the moons against a sea of darkness. It was said that the natural portion had been excavated by dwarves and used as a foothold for hunting the ancient dragons that stalked the region. The fortress itself was built across a shallow valley, half-sunken into the rock with a stone stronghold rising from its edges. The Glass Road, running north and south, led right through it like an armored bridge with a gate on either side. The farmland they passed on the west side helped feed the capital, and on the east was the Haskwood Thicket where Muskigo’s men were said to be waiting.

  The valley didn’t cut across all the Southern Reach like the Jarein Gorge did up north, but Torsten knew Muskigo wasn’t foolish enough to go around it. He’d looked into the afhem’s eyes after all.

  Marimount guarded the Southern Reach, the last bastion of defense before Yarrington. Muskigo had already ambushed many of the surrounding villages when the Glass was distracted by Liam’s death. Taking the Fort would make it easy for him to invade the heart of the realm without risk of being surrounded, to impede trade routes from the south and east, then put Yarrington under siege and to starve them out.

  Redstar zipped up a nearby hill on his black horse, two gray dire wolves flanking him along with a Drav Cra dradinengor and the warlock, Freydis. Torsten felt like he was stuck in a nightmare every time he saw the man, still dressed in robes like a heathen instead of being armored properly like a Glassman off to war ought to be. Flame wrapped his hand for light. A torch would have been easier, would’ve required no drawn blood, but Redstar seemed intent on unsettling Torsten’s men with his dark magic… or perhaps he thought he was impressing them.

  “Torsten,” Redstar said. “I bring news from the valley.”

  “Nobody asked you to,” Wardric grumbled.

  The dradinengor led his horse in a circle around Wardric. He didn’t speak, only stared. The man had a beard so thick it was hard to tell where it ended and the furs draped over his shoulders began. Torsten recognized him. He was Drad Mak the Mountainous, leader of the southernmost Fyortentek clan. Torsten didn’t know many of their kind by name, but this one was larger even than Torsten and had led so many successful raids against the towns surrounding Crowfall over the years that, as Wearer, Torsten had been forced to help bolster defenses.

  Now they marched together.

  “I prefer to rely on scouts that know the land, Shieldsman,” Redstar said. “Not fools with eyes.”

  “Just spit it out,” Torsten said.

  Redstar said something to Mak in Drav Crava.

  “Yes, Drad Redstar,” the dradinengor grunted in response, then sneered at Wardric before riding to their people. Redstar then fell in beside Torsten.

  “I had my followers in that ruin—you remember it, don’t you Torsten?” Redstar said.

  “I remember the face you wore.”

  Redstar referred to the dwarven ruins southwest of their current position where, not too long ago, Torsten had been deceived into believing Redstar was his long-lost mentor, Uriah Davies.

  “Ah yes. You know, I always did dream of being some great knight after King Liam stole my sister. I always imagined what it would have been like if he took me too.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before trying to stop him with blood magic,” Wardric bristled.

  “Stop him?” Redstar snickered. “Liam invaded in the name of his peaceful god and stole a young daughter from the hands of her father… yet, somehow you paint me the villain? I swear, the hypocritical nature of you people never ceases to astound me.”

  “You’re welcome to leave at any time,” Torsten said. “Now what did you want to tell me?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Spit it out, I said!”

  “My followers called on the Buried Goddess to listen. To hear the rumblings through the earth. They tell me that Marimount is not the Shesaitju’s only target.”

  “And where else might they attack?” Torsten asked.

  “Nesilia does not reveal all, only glimpses from so deep below. She speaks of grating mud, of river water sloshing beneath the feet of great beasts.”

  “I thought you said your work in bringing your goddess back was complete?”

  “I am her vessel, I only do as she asks.”

  “What would you do then?” Torsten asked.

  “The only logical targets for the afhem and his afhemate are here and Winde Port. I suggest you send a portion of your army east to the port city just in case. My men can go if you’d like?”

  “And miss the battle?” Wardric said. “You truly are a worm, Redstar. Are you that frightened at the thought of fighting?”

  “The armies of mortals are nothing compared to the goddess we slew in the woods. I am merely trying to help my nephew.”

  “How quick your loyalties turn,” Torsten said. “Now, are you finished?”

  He nodded.

  “My scouts inform me that Muskigo’s army gathers before the fortress and he, himself is in the lead. Siege towers and catapults are preparing to breach the walls, and Prefect Calhoun of Winde Port sent word by galler, just this morning, that the only ships in Trader’s Bay are anchored merchants and our fleet.”

  “And what does Iam tell you?” Redstar asked.

  “He tells me that the sick feeling in my stomach is from being next to you, not doubt in our strategy. As we speak, Commander Citravan of the Winde Port guard rides this way. We will surround Muskigo here at Marimount, and we will end this rebellion before all the Black Sands decide to fall in with him in the name of their Caleef.”

  “You shifted forces from the east?” Redstar asked, incredulous. “Why was I not informed about this?”

  “Because you’re not the leader of this army, heathen,” Wardric said. “You’re here to do what Sir Unger tells you, then go home to your ice.”

  Redstar slowly drew his dagger and held it over his lap. “Torsten, I would advise your man not to speak to me in such a manner, lest he experience pain no mortal should know.”

  “You dare threaten a member of the King’s Shield?” Wardric reached for his sword.

  Torsten raised his hand. “Enough. None of this is up for debate. The King placed me in command. Redstar, you will take the Drav Cra west around the fortress and through the valley. When the flaming arrow hits the sky tonight, our cohort from Winde Port will charge from the east and you from the west. With the enemy surrou
nded, we will flood out of Marimount, surround them, and end this.”

  “You have a fortress, yet you want to initiate the attack?” Redstar asked.

  “This victory must be swift if our new king is to appear strong. Muskigo will expect us to dig in, but he will not be expecting Drav Cra allies. We’ll catch them preparing for a siege.”

  “And this is what Iam tells you to do?”

  “It is what Liam would have done.”

  Redstar chuckled. “Of course. Bold and unexpected Liam. Well, you may be a fool, Torsten, but at least you’re not a coward. We’ll follow your plan for now, but I hope, for your sake, it works. You may hold the ear of the Queen Mother, but her son’s remains open.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And you can’t sleep with him.”

  Torsten’s arm shot out and wrapped Redstar’s throat. Choking him was becoming like second nature. It took every ounce of his being not to fulfill Oleander’s desires.

  “Just do what you’re asked to,” he said, seething. “Fire a flaming arrow into the sky when you’re in position.”

  “I think I’ll just use my hand.” He purposefully sliced his thumb on the way to stowing his dagger, and a flurry of embers formed in his palm. “My Wearer.”

  He bowed his head low, then muttered something in Drav Crava to Freydis. A horde of warriors and more warlocks branched away from the Glassmen, their heathen tokens rattling, furs billowing in the wind. As they vanished into the darkness of the valley, it was impossible to tell them apart from the dire wolves they ran with.

  “Circling wolves,” Torsten muttered.

  “What was that, sir?” Wardric asked.

  “Nothing. Just something Uriah used to say.”

  “Would that he were here. It would make him sick knowing we are fighting beside these savages.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, I don’t trust any of them,” Wardric grumbled. “If Redstar’s trying to curry favor with King Pi, who knows what he might try.”

  “Save your eyes for the Shesaitju. I’ll keep the corner of mine on Redstar.”

  “I know, you’re right,” Wardric said, lowering his head. “It took me long enough, but I do trust the man Uriah trained to take his place.”

  “Trust in Iam, my friend. We’re just here to do his work.”

  Torsten kicked the sides of his horse and spurred it on ahead. The northern gate of Marimount clanked open to greet him. Soldiers ran out to help the traveling army with supplies. Lord Eveliss, Duke of Marimount, rode out to greet them. Gentry Eveliss came from a distinguished house of Yarrington who presided over the southern reach. His father and his father’s father had served the Kings of Glass for generations.

  Eveliss himself, on the other hand, was about as green as they come. Barely able to grow a beard, he reminded Torsten of Rand.

  “Sir Unger,” Eveliss saluted. “Everything is prepared to your specifications.”

  “What of Black Sands?” Torsten asked.

  “They remain out of range behind the tree line, preparing their siege engines. The man you described as Afhem Muskigo is in their lead.”

  “Excellent,” Torsten said. “Wardric, ready the first legion at the southern gate. At my command, we charge their camp and end this.”

  Wardric saluted and continued on ahead with Eveliss to prepare. Torsten dismounted and headed up onto the ramparts. Archers used pulleys to haul wood buckets of arrows up from the courtyard. Others carried food and water stores up from Marimount Keep. Torsten had no intention of withstanding a long siege but learned long ago it was always better to be prepared.

  He climbed the watchtower, the highest point in the southern reach. From there beside the gate, he looked upon what was to be his canvas for battle. On a clear day, he might be able to see all the way to the mists of the Fellwater and along the coast of Trader’s Bay, but presently, the sight was even more ominous.

  The greenish glow of nigh’jel lanterns stole away the darkness. Thousands of them—creatures born in the vastness of the Boiling Waters now confined to small, glass and bone lanterns—stretching across a vast swathe of forest. There seemed like even more than when Torsten had stumbled upon the Shesaitju camp in the swamp.

  In their light, he could see the charcoal-colored wooden planks of siege towers—that unmistakable wood from the palm trees littering the black, sandy, Shesaitju coast. Massive stones were being loaded into catapults.

  “Lord Eveliss could have lent more urgency to his words,” Torsten said to the archers posted around him as if any of them were listening. The siege wasn’t just being prepared. From what Torsten could see, Muskigo appeared to be planning to unleash the fury of his forces that very night.

  There was no time to waste.

  Torsten leaned out over the ramparts. “Muskigo!” he bellowed. It carried across the cold night air, and at the sound of his voice, all his men stopped what they were doing. It grew so quiet he felt he could even hear snow flurries bouncing about on the light breeze.

  Torsten saw motion behind the cover of the thicket. He kept his peripherals on the alert, waiting for the other units to get in position.

  A thunderous rumble was the first indication that Muskigo had answered the call. He rode out alone into the clearing. His zhulong mount let out a roar that, combined with its heavy footsteps, shook earth and sky. Gold plating wrapped its tusks, but it wore no armor. Its thick, rust-colored scales and rock-hard hide were all the protection it needed.

  Muskigo himself wielded a long glaive, staff made of blackened wood and a flawless emerald set in the curved blade. It caught the light of the nigh’jel hanging from the post on the back of his mount, which made it glow as if there were some great power sealed within the gem.

  Even from so far, Torsten recognized the afhem. He could never forget that intense glare. The Shesaitju were from a place where winter never brought snow, yet Muskigo barely wore a hint of armor, tattoo-covered body bare against the cold.

  But Torsten had seen the man fight in the Fellwater Swamp, and there was no better way to measure a man. He was a true showman who would freeze to death if it meant intimidating his enemies.

  “Muskigo!” Torsten roared again. “Surrender now, and you alone will be tried for your crimes. Spare your men!”

  Muskigo didn’t answer. He moved closer still, until he was so near a single arrow could easily end it all. Now Torsten’s men atop Marimount’s walls could see, in detail, the great zhulong and the man’s corded muscles. Torsten heard some of the archers already beginning to mutter about how he didn’t need armor.

  “Stop this!” Torsten shouted. “No one need die here today. We can all find peace in the light of Iam.”

  Finally, Muskigo stopped and looked up at Torsten, his eyes boring through him.

  “The time of the Glass is over,” he said. His voice was calm, like the rising of a wave carrying with it the threat of devastation.

  “Caleef Rakun swore fealty to the Nothhelm’s in perpetuity. Stand down, and he will not be harmed. We will continue in the prosperity of King Liam that has helped both our lands flourish.”

  “It is too late for that. Your child-king thinks he can insult the mighty Sidar Rakun? His flesh, borne from the Black Sands—our beaches themselves. His blood, fused from the waters of the Boiling Waters. You’ve sealed your fate; all afhems will stand with me now. We will carve through you, straight to the capital, and free our great Caleef ourselves.”

  “In the name of Iam and your king, you will lower your arms and surrender. This is your final warning.”

  “The boy is no king of mine! I will string him up in the Boiling Keep and bleed him over the waters as his father did to mine so long ago. Pray to your god, Glassman. You will see him soon.”

  Muskigo snapped on the reins of his zhulong and raced back toward the forest, leaving Torsten with a hundred different responses on the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t expected diplomacy to be an option—not with the size of Muskigo’s army—but he didn’t exp
ect such coarseness either.

  He looked to the sky, his blood boiling. A flaming arrow arced across the inky darkness to the west.

  Commander Citravan.

  The green lanterns in the forest suddenly drew back his attention. All at once they began to stir, their bearers falling into formation. As they spread apart, the numbers seemed to swell, ranks stretching across the breadth of Fort Marimount, extending deep into the thicket.

  There was some shouting in Saitjuese, then a crank and a loud snap.

  “Hold ranks!” Torsten yelled. He grabbed onto the parapet as Celeste illuminated two chunks of rock soaring through the air. They slammed into the walls, chewing out stone, and causing the entire keep to buckle.

  “It doesn’t appear catching them napping is still an option!” Wardric called up from the bailey.

  “Hold!” Torsten answered.

  He looked back to the eastern sky and braced himself for another round of catapult fire. One of the boulders smashed into the base of the tower on which he stood. He reeled with the impact, feeling the vibrations in his glaruium armor and his bones. In the forest, the siege towers begin to budge, and through the two in the center, a pair of zhulong charged, a massive battering ram being hauled between them.

  Time was running out. If the Shesaitju advanced, they’d trap his forces within the keep. Their only route of escape would be funneling through the South Gate straight into Muskigo’s hands while he held off the smaller forces to the east and west.

  “Redstar!” Torsten screamed, and just as he finished the word, a ball of fire traced across the sky like a shooting star. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see magic.

  His head rang from the crashing of stone, but he gathered himself and raced downstairs to the South Gate where Wardric waited with his horse. The rest of the King’s Shieldsmen sat atop their own horses at the front of the mass of Glass soldiers—their mighty cavalry.

  “Open the gate!” Wardric shouted. “Archers, loose!”