Rise of the Red Harbinger
Read Rise of the Red Harbinger Online
Authors: Khalid Uddin
By Khalid Uddin
An Imprint of
Open Door Publications
Rise of the Red Harbinger
Book One of
The Drowned Realm
By Khalid Uddin
Copyright © 2016 by Khalid Uddin
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States
Cover Design by Genevieve LaVo Cosdon, Lavodesign.com
Map Design by Kaira Marquez
Published by
Can’t Put It Down Books
An Imprint of
Open Door Publications
2113 Stackhouse Dr.
Yardley, PA 19067
www.OpenDoorPublications.com
For Jen, Hannah, and Emme,
who perpetually challenge me, support me, and bring out the best in me, even when I doubt in my ability to keep going. You are the reasons I am able to be a dreamer and set ridiculous goals.
I love you.
Chapter 1 The Night of Fire and Water
Chapter 7 A Blind Man in Vandenar
Chapter 10 Grasping at Shadows
Chapter 14 An Unfortunate Identity
Chapter 15 The House of Darian
Chapter 18 The Son of a Daughter
Chapter 20 Clandestine Intentions
Chapter 24 Rise of the Red Harbinger
From
The Book of Orijin
, Verse 3
Every man must burn at a given juncture of his existence.
The righteous man burns within for justice and for peace.
The indecisive man burns his potential out of fear to act.
The wicked man burns in Opprobrium to rid the evil from his soul.
Rain intruded upon
the mountain village of Haedon, tucked away in the northwestern corner of Ashur, the Drowned Realm. This rain had no business there and had not been seen by the Haedonians in generations; it was an ocean falling from the sky. In another town, any other town, this would be an omen to stay in and pray for sun and tranquility. But then, Joakwin Kontez was not scheduled for execution in any other town. The entire village filled Haedon Square, growing angrier and more belligerent by the second. Even the frail, sickly, and old held their ground against the deluge. Every person, to a man, refused to retreat until they knew for sure that Kontez’s life ended tonight.
Hundreds occupied the square and its outer alleyways: men and women, young and old, packed in shoulder to shoulder and surrounded by the two-story wooden buildings in which they worked during the day. They were indifferent to the rain that soaked their robes and cloaks. Visibility was minimal, but it would suffice. Metal lanterns surrounded the perimeter of the hanging platform. There was nothing else to see in Haedon. And nothing else to care about. It only mattered that Kontez be raised into the noose, then dropped. Every voice pleaded for a gruesome, torturous death to come to Joakwin Kontez, the kneeling man on the lonely wooden platform before them. Every voice except one.
A cloaked figure stood among the crowd. Silent. Vigilant. His jaw and face clenched tightly; he resembled more a sculpture than a man. He knew any recognition of his face would mean that his life would end tonight as well. Although only seventeen years of age, Baltaszar Kontez felt like the only sane person in Haedon this night. While the world prayed for his father’s death, he pleaded for common sense and rational thought. Yet, futility gnawed at the back of his mind.
Be brave. There is no other way. Orijin, my God, please protect him.
Oran Von, the Chancellor of Haedon, walked gingerly up the wooden steps to the left of the platform, cane in hand, his knees creaking as loudly as the wood. Titus, Von’s bodyguard and the anointed executioner, escorted him onto the stage. Titus needed only to stand over Von to shield him from the downpour, as he easily doubled any Haedonian in height and weight. In his hooded grey robe, Von, once a tall man, hobbled to the middle of the platform where Joakwin knelt. It wasn’t the rain that made him so slow. The man was a walking corpse; most wondered how he managed to still rule. His deep booming voice, the only one in Haedon capable of drowning out this rain, was the only part of him that didn’t reflect his age.
Von limped to face his people, coughing and hocking. “Joakwin Kontez, you have been formally charged by the people of Haedon for the practice of black magic.” He stopped to cough. “The sabotaging of shops and goods with the intention of attracting more business to your farm, for the malicious destruction of your fellow townspeople’s homes, and for murder.”
Clearing his throat, he continued, “You are a disgusting excuse of a man, and it has been determined that you shall hang until dead. Have you any final words?” Von gazed upon him as a cat would look upon a lame mouse, toying with it before the kill. “I’m sorry; you’ll have to speak up Master Kontez. You do understand that the sack over your head, along with this cursed rain, drowns out your voice?” He waited, stroking the long white beard that hung to his knees. “Nothing to say? Very well, let us carry on.”
Baltaszar struggled to keep from shaking, to stifle screams, to stand idly while a village cheered and watched his father die. The deluge flooded through his hood to the point that it clung to him, each drop another second of time pounding against his head. The rain soaked his short, jet black hair, washed his unshaven face, and caused his feet to squish in his boots. Baltaszar was too focused on his father to let any of it affect him. He yearned for an escape plan. For any possible way to rid his father of this torment. To get his father’s head out of the thick, black, opaque sack, normally used to haul small animals back up the mountain after a hunt. His father was probably drowning in that thing. To attempt a rescue would be futile. It would only mean that Baltaszar would be kneeling up there with his father, which was the reason for the cloak in the first place. Baltaszar readjusted his cowl and wiped the cascade from his eyes with a soaked sleeve.
The rain helped. Nobody would take the time to look under the hood to see who it was. Baltaszar had gone deep into the forest with his twin brother, Bo’az, when they learned that their father had been fated to hang. The entire town of Haedon assumed they had run away weeks before anyway, so Baltaszar only had to make sure he didn’t draw attention to himself. Every step he took would have to be calculated and precise in order to keep his cover. No looking into people’s eyes, no conversations, no incriminating movements. He could not bring himself to celebrate like the other villagers, but he knew he must blend in. He needed to be here. While Bo’az remained hidden as always, Baltaszar understood that the world he knew would end tonight. It was a reality he hadn’t accepted until a moment ago.
Baltaszar knew his father would not want him to risk his life in some foolish attempt at bravery. Guilt already began to haunt him for doing nothing. One day he would avenge this.
Stay strong. Stay brave. This is what he would ask of you.
“Hang him! Hang the bloody fiend! Let him hear the song!” screamed Fallar Bain. Bain most likely was the first villager to arrive, considering he was the first to accuse Joakwin of committing these crimes years ago. “Kill that bastard! End his bloody life! Put an end to the fires!”
“Patience, my friend, let us all savor this moment, as it marks an end to our suffering and dismay! And most importantly, an end to the fires!” Von was milking this for all he could. Baltaszar realized that Von was making this his legacy. In the decades Von had governed Haedon, there had never been a major conflict, only minor squabbles.
However, concern had formed about Von’s age. People worried that, should Von die, there would be no successor who shared his views and methods. Conversely, others grew irritated from rumors of Von hoarding their taxes. In time, no evidence confirmed these claims, but Von never provided any proof to dispel the rumors. Claims became more and more frequent so that, if not for Von’s personal soldiers, he would have been attacked.
The execution of Joakwin Kontez would earn Von the undying fame and popularity he sought. Haedon would remember Oran Von as the man who drove out the dark magic, who didn’t blink at the thought of using one man’s death, or life, as an example to hundreds of others. Von turned to Titus, the mammoth standing at the back of the newly-built hanging platform, who inspected the beams to ensure their sturdiness. “Titus, let us begin with the ceremony!”
The crowd’s screams reached new levels. If the executioner didn’t do his job soon, the villagers would storm the platform and assume the duties themselves. Emotions burned through Baltaszar’s veins, adrenaline filled his body, urging him to move farther back. Yet his mind told him differently. His father was now standing, but not of his own accord. Titus pulled the sack from his father’s shaggy head, and fastened the noose around his neck. Titus shoved him over to stand on the trap door, which would open beneath his feet in a few moments. The villagers screamed their approval through the rain. They yearned to see Joakwin Kontez’s death. Yearned to see him suffer and struggle. They waved hands and fists in the air, fired curses and insults like arrows. The Haedonians ached to see the agony in Joakwin’s face during his last moments. Even though the rain limited their sight, Baltaszar knew the exaggerations would be limitless on the morrow. People would contrive stories about how Joakwin cried and pleaded for mercy. Yet, Joakwin stood tall, proud, the look of a martyr in his eyes.
Oran Von limped down the stairs, looking like a wounded bird with his long hooked nose, so distinctive that Baltaszar could recognize Von by that alone. Another of Von’s soldiers escorted him now, as Titus gripped the lever that would release the door beneath Joakwin. Knowing Von, he likely wanted to be far away enough from Joakwin to not have to see Joakwin’s eyes as he hanged. Baltaszar knew Von didn’t wholeheartedly believe that his father was responsible for all the fires, destruction of homes and crops, injuries, and especially the murder. He couldn’t. Baltaszar remembered Von coming to visit often when he and Bo’az were small. He remembered Von’s friendly, candid conversations with his father. But the visits became less frequent and eventually stopped. Baltaszar assumed it was a ploy to distance himself from Joakwin once the accusations began.
Titus violently threw the lever down. The floor dropped beneath Joakwin; the rope constricted around his neck. Baltaszar’s anger roared inside him. His father flailed wildly, resembling more a puppet on a string than a man. Eyes bulged from their sockets. Hands scratched furiously at the murderous rope as he continued to sway before the applause. Baltaszar held his own breath, anticipating success in his father’s attempt to break free. More anger. Hatred. Even in the rain, he clearly saw the blue in his father’s twitching, spasming face. His father’s arms slowed, barely lifting, and ultimately dropped. They twitched with a hint of life left in him; his eyes had completely forced themselves from his face.
Emotions shattered in Baltaszar like broken glass, cutting and stabbing his mind as he wrestled to push them into darkness, nothingness, oblivion.
His father, a tattered and bedraggled figure, writhed for a few more breaths of air. Joakwin squirmed and convulsed in mid-air, desperately gripping the smallest grains of life. His mouth gaped, searching for air, but the rain intruded instead, only drawing out the process of dying.
And then the stones flew. Mostly of a small and medium size. Like a volley of arrows, the crowd thrust them upon Joakwin, most pelting his limp body while a few strays managed to bloody his face.
Baltaszar clenched his eyes tightly shut to fight back the impending tears because he could not run. In the hours leading up to this moment, he’d tried to prepare himself for it. Yet, as he stood there, hiding in plain sight among the entire town, Baltaszar understood that the man who raised him had lost his life in the most dishonorable way. White-hot anger and hatred coursed through his veins, overpowering the sadness and helplessness that had resided there previously.
As his father swayed from the pendulous rope, the life draining from him, a fire ignited beneath the platform, quickly spreading to, and engulfing Titus, who shrilled like a eunuch as the flames charred his clothes and skin. The hulking brute, normally deliberate in his movements, flailed wildly as the mysterious fire burned through his breeches and leather vest and boots, searing his flesh. The crowd gaped and gasped, first unsure whether to believe its eyes, then too frozen from fright and amazement to help Titus.
The blaze roared, moving to the rope from which Joakwin dangled, and then to Joakwin’s head and body. As the breath drained from Joakwin’s lungs, the rope broke, sending his flaming body crashing to the ground, seemingly giving him new life as his blackened arms and legs violently rolled and flailed.
Although the crowd had not expected this turn of events, it cheered and whooped more loudly as the fire encompassed Joakwin in a smoky shroud.
You cannot sit here and take this. You need to help him. You need to stop the fire.
What? No. I must be strong. They’ll give me a fate worse than his if I interfere.
You shall regret this for the rest of your life if you do not interfere.
I have more to live for than to die for right now. I can right this. I can atone for this.
How? You are a coward. How can this be made right? You cannot bring him back after tonight. You can make this easier for him right now.
What is this madness? Get out of my head!
You are a coward.
Joakwin Kontez was not completely dead; he lay on the ground screeching like a madman in front of the entire village, his flesh burnt and seared. His incredible stench grew tendrils, spreading through the square. He was yelling something, but Baltaszar could not understand the words. It was drowned out by the raucous cheering of the townspeople and the unending downpour.
Baltaszar watched as the fire engulfed the villagers nearest the platform and realized it would be wise to retreat. Villagers began to run amok, darting and dashing like horses terrified of a predator. Baltaszar turned and fled, tears finally streaming from his eyes. He could not fathom how a fire could ignite and rage so violently during such a torrential rain.
As Baltaszar fled, the fire completely conquered the square. He was sure it would eventually burn down the surrounding buildings, and he didn’t care. It could burn the whole damn town for all it mattered, especially Oran Von. The man had conveniently disappeared before the onset of chaos.
His father was dead. Hanged. Then scorched. As an entire town watched and celebrated. Why did we even stay in this cursed town for so long? Why didn’t we just leave when they accused father of these crimes?
