Red Vengeance Rising

By Kenneth McDonald

Jaron Feldergrass has found the humans who have captured his people, but is too late to stop the kidnappers. While the general-turned-mercenary K’rol Vhael leads his strike team deeper into the mountains, Jaron and his cousin Beetle must find their own way and their own allies. Against them stands a Red priest and his unnatural minions. At stake is more than the lives of Jaron’s people, as the powers that the priest unleashes threaten to transform the entire Cinder Valley. The third book in the series “The Colors of Fate.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Jan 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311286208

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Red Vengeance Rising

Book Three of The Colors of Fate

Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover image is adapted from the painting Expulsion - Moon and Firelight by Thomas Cole (1828). The image is in the public domain.

* * * * *

Works by Kenneth McDonald

Wizard’s Shield

The Ogre at the Crossroads

The Colors of Fate

Black Shadows Gather

Green Hearts Weep

Red Vengeance Rising

The Mages of Sacreth

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Grimm’s War

Grimm’s Loss

Grimm’s Love

The Godswar Trilogy

Paths of the Chosen

Choice of the Fallen

Fall of Creation

Daran’s Journey

Heart of a Hero

Soul of a Coward

Will of a Warrior

Courage of a Champion

* * * * *

Chapter 1

The sounds of fighting echoed loudly in the confines of the courtyard behind the old villa. The plaster on the back of the house was cracked and faded, while the bricks in the courtyard were thick with weeds that had pushed through the mortar. The windows gaped empty, the glass that had filled them long since removed.

The two combatants moved back and forth across the overgrown surface of the courtyard, exchanging strokes from their weapons in rapid sequence. The woman fought with two swords, and was dressed in a suit of mail fashioned from overlapping iron scales. Her opponent wore a tunic of chainmail, bolstered with metal plates on his shins, forearms, and shoulders. He fought with a sword in one hand and a small shield in the other, the latter equipped with a protruding iron spike that made it a weapon as well as a tool for defense.

The pair fought in a quick, fluid style, darting parries and counters that had them swirling around each other rapidly. Perhaps nine out of every ten strokes was deflected with a parry or by the man’s shield, while those that made it through those outer defenses glanced off of armored bodies or limbs. At first glance it looked like a brutal fight to the death, but as the fight dragged on it became clear that the two were training. Thrusts that might have penetrated mail were tugged back, and slashes were turned to present the flat rather than the edge of the blade. One such swing glanced off of the woman’s head. Both fighters wore helmets, iron caps with flaps of leather that offered protection to the cheeks and neck, but the smack stunned her enough that her opponent was able to drive her back into one corner of the courtyard. His face, intent to that point, split into a grin as he lunged forward. He thrust with his shield to keep her pinned back into the confined space where her quick movements couldn’t help her.

The woman didn’t accept her fate meekly. Kicking off the back wall, she shot forward into an attack that swept one sword with full force toward the man’s head. He brought his shield up in a reflexive block; the sword clanged loudly off of the iron spike as it was deflected. The move obstructed his vision for just an instant, but he had already brought his sword forward, anticipating the follow-up attack from her other sword. But instead of lunging she fell into a crouch, transferring the momentum of her charge into a spin that ended with her leg sweeping out to catch his. The man stumbled as his knee crumpled under the impact of her boot, and he fell over onto his back, his sword clanging loudly on the bricks.

The woman sprang up and was on him before he could recover, turning his shield aside with one of her swords and pressing the other gently against his throat. Yield, she said.

I yield, he said. He dropped his sword and tossed aside the shield, holding up his hand. She tucked one of her swords under her arm and helped him up. Almost had you that time, Mara, he said.

I switched hands, she said.

Excuse me?

My swords. I used the longer in the left hand, this time.

He looked at her a moment, then shook his head. I sensed something was off. Well then, congratulations, I guess. He walked past her, toward the house.

Nathen, she began. You said you wanted my best…

And I meant it, he said. He turned to face her again, the smile back. My ego can survive our little bouts, my dear. You are an excellent fighter, and should never hold back with me.

He clapped his hands and a servant emerged from the house, an old man dressed in a simple woolen smock. Nathen held his arms out and the man began removing his armor, putting the pieces on a table near the entry. Mara walked over to join him. The scabbards for her swords sat on the edge of the table, and she checked both blades carefully before sliding them into the plain leather sheaths.

I have a job for the company, he said, as the servant helped pull the heavy coat of mail links over his head. Underneath his tunic was damp with sweat.

Oh? she said, unbuckling her own armor. The metal scales jingled softly as she removed it and laid it out beside her swords. She lingered there a moment as if reluctant to leave them.

Nathen’s eyes flicked over her; they didn’t miss much. But his tone remained light, conversational. Yes, it’s Baron Iverson, in High Tilveras. He’s got a bit of a peasant revolt going on.

Peasants? she asked, her distaste clear on her face as she turned toward him.

I share your sentiment, but apparently these would-be rebels are getting backing from one of Iverson’s rivals across the border. From what I’m told they’re getting training, weapons, even the odd mercenary soldier.

Anyone we know? she asked.

He shook his head. None of the registered companies, anyway. Thank you, Jaem, that will be all.

The old man nodded and retreated. Nathen went into the house; after a moment Mara followed him.

It’s hardly a full-out war, but it won’t be a cakewalk, the mercenary was saying, his words echoing off of the plain stone walls of the villa. The upper story of the place was a ruin, the wooden walls suffering disproportionally from the years of neglect, but the lower level was still mostly intact. Their boots crunched on pieces of loose plaster as they walked down a hallway past the kitchen and dining areas. The floors had been swept, but the ceiling was in even worse shape than the outdoor wall, with obvious cracks where water had penetrated through and worked damage. You said you wanted action, to test yourself.

I didn’t sign on to fight farmers, she said.

He paused in an archway at the end of the hall. Let’s see what the assignment involves, before we judge, he said. This will be your first real job with us, Mara.

He stepped aside as she reached the arch. That gave her a clear view of the room on the other side.

The bath chamber was as battered as the rest of the house, with several obvious cracks in the floor, and a tile mural that had more gaps than tiles left set into the floor. But the bath itself was still intact, and filled with water that gave off wisps of heat. Flower petals floated in the water, and more had been trailed over the floor between the arch and the steps that led down into the pool. There were two stone benches to the left; one was draped with two clean white towels, while a brass bowl was set on the other. The bowl held a smaller censer inside it that produced wisps of smoke. Mara recognized the familiar scent of burning ophir, and even that faint tang made her muscles start relaxing.

When did you do all this? she asked.

He leaned against the wall and grinned. Being Captain does provide certain… perks.

She met his smile with a raised eyebrow. Do you do this for all of your soldiers, Captain?

He pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward her. Well, Gorvel prefers full-body oil massages…

She laughed, and rose slightly on her feet to meet him as he kissed her. He took her in his arms, pressing his lips against her neck. Her skin tingled at the contact. I’m all sweaty, she said.

I don’t care, he said, placing kisses up her neck and along the line of her jaw. He flicked a finger across one nipple through her shirt, drawing a gasp from her.

I stink, she protested.

I don’t care, he said again. His grip tightened, and his lips came up to tease her chin, moving up toward hers.

Yeah, well you stink too, she said. She reached for his hands, but he grabbed them in hers.

I don’t care about that either, he said. He steered her toward the closer bench. She knew what came next, her body was already responding, but there was something else, a vague tendril of unease that rose within her belly. She looked past him at the room, where the deep shadows had taken on a sudden malevolence. Something’s wrong, she said. This isn’t right.

She expected resistance, but he stopped his approaches abruptly, and turned her back to face him, his hands still holding hers tightly. That’s because this isn’t real, he told her.

She blinked at him in surprise. What do you mean?

He smiled sadly. I mean, you’re dreaming, Mara. And you’ll have to wake up soon, very soon.

The feeling of fear surged within her. No, she said. No, this isn’t… you can’t… Pain exploded in her body, her legs. She tried to get away, but Nathen’s grip on her arms had become like iron. Let me go, she whined, disgusted at her own weakness.

It’s time to wake up, he said, and thrust her roughly backwards. She stumbled on the uneven surface of the floor where the tile mural had been, and then fell over the edge of the pool. Her arms windmilled as she tried in vain to stop her descent, and then she was falling, falling…

* * *

Mara woke with a start. Pain was there to greet her, pain overlaying the more prosaic discomfort of her arms, bound tightly behind her back, and her throat, which felt so parched that each breath was a strain. Her clothes were pressed against her body, sodden with sweat, and she could feel the layer of grime covering her skin. Her head pounded but at least she was lucid; the effects of whatever drug they’d dosed her with had faded.

Memories of what had happened struck her with almost as much force as the physical effects of her imprisonment. She was captive, helpless, taken though her own carelessness by people who clearly wanted her dead—or worse.

She was wondering what had dragged her up out of the dream when she heard a noise, a clatter of a metal chain. She didn’t know where she was, only that the place where she was being held was dark and confined. Her limbs scraped on hard walls when she tried to move, and while she guessed that the ground beneath her was bare earth, it didn’t give in the slightest when she scuffed at it.

With a loud creak of protesting metal hinges light spilled in with blinding intensity. She couldn’t see, and couldn’t protect her eyes; she had to twist her entire body to try to shield her face from the brilliance.

A shadow fell over the opening, blocking enough of the light that she could blink her eyes furiously and look up. A dark form loomed over her. She couldn’t make it out, but had little doubt who it was even before she heard that familiar, contemptuous laugh.

So, you’re awake. Get up then, or don’t… but if you don’t then you don’t get food or water. Best make up your mind soon, we’re moving out shortly.

The shadow withdrew. Still almost blind, Mara shuffled her body forward until she felt the solidity of the wall against her head. Pressing her shoulder against the hard surface, she pushed herself awkwardly up onto her knees. Groaning as the movement awakened fresh pains through her battered body, she lifted herself up until she could see outside of the cramped box where her captors had kept her.

The sun was half-hidden behind a web of clouds that thickened into a dense bank hanging over the western horizon. She guessed that it was the day after she’d been taken prisoner, but there were no clues other than her overpowering thirst to suggest how long she’d been lying there unconscious.

Likewise there were few hints as to their current location. As her eyes finally adjusted to the unaccustomed brightness, she could see that they were in a narrow, densely-wooded valley. The immediate environs were clearly a former mining camp, obviously long abandoned, but she knew that there were dozens of such sites within a day’s travel of Mulstone. Her prison had been a wooden storage crate barely larger than a coffin, probably the most intact thing left in the camp. A stream wound through the valley, passing through the site of the camp. She saw a mule cropping weeds at the water’s edge. Standing next to it checking its panniers was the man she’d struck in the fight in the stable back in town.

And in front of her, taking clear amusement from her difficulties, was Jille Kerney.

We’ve got a long walk ahead of us, Jille said. She carried a compact bow and a long knife stuck through her belt; a glance over at the bearded giant showed a pair of throwing axes riding on his hips and the hilt of another knife sticking up from one boot. She wondered absently what had happened to her swords, and to her horse.

Her attention was drawn back as Jille tossed something onto the ground in front of her. It was a waterskin, along with a small bundle wrapped in canvas. You’ll need your strength.

My hands, Mara gasped. The words were barely audible, and Jille clearly hadn’t heard them, but Mara twisted her body and raised her bound wrists.

For a moment Mara thought the other woman would ignore her, but she hesitated and finally said, Turn around. Mara complied, still standing inside the box. She could feel the other woman’s presence behind her even before she took hold of her arms. She could smell her over the stink of her own grimy body as Jille leaned in, twisting the ropes holding her wrists until her arms twinged painfully.

I hope you try to resist, the woman whispered. "Caleb would love to get a chance to pay you back for that hit you got in back in town."

Mara couldn’t say anything. It took all her effort not to cry out as the pressure on her arms intensified. She heard the familiar snick of metal and leather that announced a knife being drawn, and tensed before the pressure eased and her arms fell free. She gasped again, this time in relief as blood started flowing back into her hands.

She turned slowly, rubbing her chafed wrists. Jille had retreated to join her companion, apparently unconcerned that she would try to escape. It looked like it was only the two of them, but in her current shape she wasn’t sure she could handle even one, even if she could somehow get her hands on a weapon.

Jille talked quietly with her big companion. It seemed pretty clear to Mara that they weren’t planning on lingering here for long. She clambered out of the box, nearly collapsing once she was clear of it. She crawled over to the waterskin. She worked the stopper out and drank deeply. The water had a nasty taste to it, but she didn’t stint herself, taking relief in the way it soothed her parched throat. The food in the wrapped packet was hardly better, a brick of mealbread caked in grease, but she forced herself to eat every last crumb.

All right, time to get moving, Jille said.

Where are you taking me? Mara asked.

Jille came up to her, so close that if Mara had still had a blade she could have easily stabbed her in the heart. No place nice, she said. You basically have two options, Mara. Do as I say, keep up, and cling to the desperate hope that somewhere I’ll let my guard down, make a mistake. Hope… it can be a cruel thing, can’t it? The other option, of course, is to stay and die. But lest you think that is the easier option, I won’t make it so simple. There’s Caleb, for one thing, she said, inclining her head faintly in the direction of her companion. The bearded man didn’t seem to be paying any attention to their conversation, but Mara could almost feel the interest radiating off him like a