Blink of the Sun Read online

  Blink of the Sun

  Book 1 of The Lunar Triumvirate

  Ross Kingston

  First published in 2022 Ross Kingston

  Copyright © 2022 Ross Kingston All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.

  A record of this book is held at the National Library of Australia.

  ISBN 978-0-6481126-4-8

  Project editor: Claire Bradshaw

  Proofreader: Claire Bradshaw

  Cover Design: Miblart

  Map Design: Cordelia Yoder

  Formatter: Ross Kingston

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my dog, Andy.

  For being the reason I always came home, even during the hardest of times.

  Because you wouldn't understand if I didn't.

  Thank you for letting me walk with you.

  Ignorance is a dead currency.

  Map of Kovoulek

  Contents

  The Call to Servitude

  1. Salvatore

  2. Undone

  3. Alistair

  4. Solitude

  5. The City of Cities

  6. The Seventh City

  7. The Run

  8. The Sixth City

  9. The Debutante of the Sixth City

  10. Debt’s Call

  11. The Job

  12. The Docks

  13. Micel

  14. Artificer

  15. Metals

  16. A Plan

  17. Home

  18. Return

  19. Reflection on Desecration

  20. Return

  21. The Embers

  22. Nightmares

  23. Next

  24. Smoke Steel

  25. Crossroads

  26. The Assailant

  27. Pilgrimage

  28. The Moon-Touched Mountains

  29. The Fifth City

  30. Summit

  31. Beginnings

  32. Academics

  33. Tomatoes and Lava

  34. Questions and Theories

  35. Erores

  36. Respite

  37. Danger…

  38. … And Fire

  39. Pumpkin Soup

  40. Ascension

  41. Moonlit Descent

  42. Desecration

  43. The Fury of Battle

  44. Not Quite Allies

  45. Normalcy

  46. Rage

  47. Reflection

  48. Retreat

  49. Saint in the Blink of the Sun

  50. Reprieve

  51. Ashes End

  52. Miderochi Bound

  53. Home of Smoke Steel

  54. Prisoners of War

  55. Horror and Surveillance

  56. Conflict of Allies

  57. Dangerous Games

  58. Current Chasers

  59. A Measured Apprehension

  60. Drigea

  61. Hunt For Rain

  62. Master of Survival

  63. Drigea’s Word

  64. Drigea’s Hospitality

  65. Second Guesses

  66. The Ghost In The Back Of The Room

  67. The Weeping Hollow

  68. Cradle of the Lost

  69. A Servant in Waiting

  70. Flip

  71. The Fallout of an Invitation

  72. The Price of Hesitation

  73. Departure

  74. Choices Made

  Brand

  Also By Ross Kingston

  About Author

  The Call to Servitude

  The man sat lightly upon the cushions of the luxurious seat. Just as gently, his small cup and saucer found their place upon the side table. The man flicked a tiny stone into the fireplace, where it glowed angrily before succumbing to a modest blaze. He didn’t want too large a fiery display, for he had limited time.

  He flicked open a large tome, one he’d been reading in the eighteen minutes of peace they afforded him at dusk. His masters bathed together, and the ladies requested privacy every evening.

  So he relaxed. Just as he had been ordered.

  The man’s appearance was immaculate. His porcelain skin reflected the firelight. His shiny black hair was in harmony with its few dozen silver strands, each of which held the blazing reflection, too. His small, deliberate motions did nothing to ruffle his attire: a suit of uniform black. The white cuffs bore no dust or stain, and his gloved hands caressed the cup of tea with the poise of the highest courts.

  He smiled at a joke written within the lines of text, if only because he knew it to be the reaction required of him. The author was known for his comedic flair, even within the direst scenes. It would be most rude not to offer a sign of amusement. Even if the author was not here.

  The man finished his tea, leaving a lone, perfect droplet on the cup’s bottom. He took a single bite of his biscuit and placed it back upon its saucer. To finish one’s meal was a sign of gluttony, and most unbecoming. In these moments, he was forbidden to work. The sullied cup would have to wait a short while.

  His daily respite was concluded.

  Forty-two seconds.

  He rose from the chair, a dark portmanteau appearing in his hand, formed from a cloud of silver-tinged smoke. He gently placed the cup and saucer away, and snapped the bag closed.

  Twenty-nine seconds.

  A few quick strides across the room found him by the fireplace. He pulled a lever to the side. A large metal dome fell over the flames and left the study as dark as his suit.

  Fourteen seconds.

  The dome rose as he reset the lever, a small plume of smoke rising with it: the last breath of the modest blaze.

  Eleven seconds.

  The man strode across the small chamber towards the exit. With a quick flourish, two large towels flew from the portmanteau and hung from his outstretched arm. They bore the emblem of the house – thorned vines the colours of fire and ice, with the shadows of night and day.

  Two seconds.

  Exiting the chamber and emerging into a long corridor, he took two and a half strides and waited expectantly at a large door of polished timber. Its handle twisted as he completed his pivot to attention and extended his towel-laden arm towards the two ladies within. They didn’t emerge from the steam cloud that preceded them, remaining as two silhouettes in the mist. They did not reach for the towels, as they had in the past, instead matching the silent gaze of their servant.

  “The time has come,” they spoke in unison, one the melody, and the second the harmony. “It has beckoned you; it is time you go.”

  The servant bowed, banishing the towels back within the portmanteau with the same flourishing motion. Wearing a radiant smile that would catch anyone’s eye, he conveyed everything required without a single word.

  Standing up straight, ready to enact his masters’ will, he vanished in a plume of dark silver-lined smoke.

  Atop a large rock formation overlooking a valley, the servant watched on as a force charged. Then another, and another.

  They showed little organisation; rather, it was as if they’d all been ordered to rush one another. He could discern only a few details from such a distance and even fewer in the dead of night. The three moons were waning in the sky, making the fray below him a battle of shadows. He lowered his portmanteau to the ground beside him, allowing his hands to rest together behind his back. There, he watched on as the unknown forces collided.

  He could sense the adrenaline of the combatants, and the heated emotions rising to the fore. The people making up these companies were not trained in
military might or strategy. No, these were the people who took the dirty jobs. The people who wrestled with under-the-table pay days and inevitable betrayal. The desperate men and women who did what they had to, in hopes of one day being in the right place at the right time.

  The sound of those with nothing to lose was an acquired taste. The music of combat was often sharp and bitter. Yet it was a sound of necessity. For who could relish the gentle symphony of peace without the harsh prelude of strife?

  Somewhere within the cacophony of battle was his new master. They would meet soon.

  The man offered a small smile at the thought, as one thing was for certain.

  The pleasure would be all his.

  Salvatore

  The giant of a man grunted and swore as he slammed his blade through the stomach of his enemy. He pulled at the weapon, releasing it in disgust as he trudged forward through the mud. In the light of a fallen torch, he saw one of his own stumble and fall. He grabbed the smaller man’s shoulder and pulled him upright. The man groaned, as if he’d rather be trampled.

  The larger man didn’t bother checking on his comrade’s welfare further. There was no time. He picked up the dying torch and brandished it at the shadows. They seemed to hesitate, though not at the pitiful light of the torch; more at the sight of the man who was holding it. He let fly a roar akin to that of a vicious beast, and then charged.

  He didn’t feel fear, not truly. It was this brazen approach that allowed him to smash his fist into a shadow’s throat and relieve him of his axe. In the glancing firelight he saw the paling face of his victim, before he walked over him to the rest of the enemy ranks.

  The mud slowed the man, though not as much as it slowed those around him. Pushing seven feet in height had its advantages as he swung his new weapon. But the axe felt awkward, and despite being able to wield it with one hand, he knew it was a lumberjack’s tool. His assumptions about his enemies were looking more and more likely: they weren’t soldiers. These were working-class people who had lost their livelihoods.

  “Yer gunna learn why I’m the best damned merc around!” he shouted, punctuating the declaration by spitting in a man’s face before slamming the shaft of the axe into it.

  Blood sprayed from the enemy’s broken nose, blending into the large man’s wild mane of crimson hair. The adrenaline of battle raced through his veins. Smashing the blunt side of the weapon into another mercenary’s gut, he abandoned them both as he roared and ran headlong into the centre of the fray.

  “Push these mongrels down!” Shadows moved to intercept him and received brutal strikes from the ruined torch. “Get down, yer mutts!”

  He pulled free a massive flask and filled his mouth with volatile liquid. It burned and seared his lips and tongue, but that didn’t stop him reaching for the small stones in his pocket. Like angry marbles, they glowed as they were ground into the splintered wood of the torch. A modest flame sparked from the powdered stone, and the man smiled at the enemies rushing him.

  He exhaled, blowing the liquid through the flame and at the fools running towards him. An surging gout of fire incinerated the front few waves, and the rest of them fled. In the impressive display, he caught sight of a substantial structure in the distance.

  His company’s target.

  “Aye, we found it, boys!”

  He spat at the ground, watching the shadows flee before coming back together. Someone amongst them was yelling orders, and he could hear the cries of affirmation. The towering man heard his own men trudging up behind him, and he growled an order to hold. Ripping at the old shirt under his ill-fitting leather armour, he produced a long rag. He tied a rough knot and crammed it into the great flask, before lighting the ragged fuse.

  He took a single step forward and lobbed the explosive through the air.

  “Yer made the wrong choice, yer stupid f—”

  BOOM.

  Screams and cheers filled the air in equal measure. His company pushed forward, suddenly able to see their enemies in their new fiery garments. The giant trudged forward at a casual pace, watching the burning men fall and the mud extinguish the flames. It wasn’t long before silence fell upon the dark night, and he let himself look up at the waning moons with a grim smile.

  The first part of their mission was over.

  “Alright, get yer shit together, boys!” he called. “Time ter go find what we came for.”

  They marched on the ruined building, and he led the way. It always felt strange to lead outside of fighting. During combat, there was no time to feel awkward; you simply did your job or died.

  He wasn’t even in charge, not really. They had all been hired, tossed a pouch of shrapnel each and promised another when they returned with the prize. Apparently, they hadn’t been the only motley crew zealous investors had hired. It wasn’t surprising. Mercenaries often ran into other companies on the bigger jobs, ironically more so on the missions that called for discretion.

  The great man stepped over the burnt and wounded corpses of his enemies, wondering if he’d worked with any of them before. It wasn’t unlikely – more an unpleasant possibility. Hiring mercenaries had its advantages, however. They could mobilise far quicker than any military presence, and he was no different. The moment the pouch of shrapnel was in his hands, he’d been out the door and on his way to the valley.

  He ducked under a desolate stone archway and found himself in a courtyard of mud, dead rose vines and bones. He stomped towards the shadow of a large set of doors at the opposite end of the garden, unbothered by the crush of bone and flower beneath his heavy boots. The men murmured behind him. He recognised the tone.

  Hesitance – the kind that had them wondering if the money was worth it.

  “If yer gunna head back, do it now,” he called back. “I don’t need cowards at my side.”

  “Salvatore, isn’t it?” a man called from behind. “Look at this place!”

  The man’s plea held a little sway over Salvatore, and he looked up at the sky again, lowering his gaze to the valley’s edges. The logical explanation for the scene before him was that there had been an avalanche. Whether it had been a natural fall, or one orchestrated by the building owner’s enemies, was anyone’s guess. It was also irrelevant.

  “Boys, call me Sal.” Salvatore turned and grinned with a mercenary’s charm. His smile was barely visible in the low light of the wretched torch, but it was there. “Yer all just took out a couple other merc companies, and now yer just gunna leave yer next few months of meals behind?”

  He had left out the fact that he’d done most of the work so far, but Salvatore didn’t see things that way. They had shown up to the job as a team; they remained one until the job was done. Mercenary work almost guaranteed a couple of betrayals throughout a man’s career, but you couldn’t focus on that. Paranoid men don’t work, and if you don’t work, you don’t get paid.

  “Who the ’ell cares about a few crushed skeletons?”

  He emphasised his last point by marching on the great double doors and planting his foot into the lock. The timber splintered with the first kick, and submitted on the second, flying inward to reveal a large foyer. The size of the building they were planning to raid dawned on Salvatore.

  “It’s a goddamn estate, eh?”

  He marched forward, lighting a few braziers on the way along with the pair of torches still intact upon the walls. The light offered was enough, barely, to reveal a large bench designed for people to approach upon entry into the manor. There was a single skeleton left sitting upon the chair, a quill stripped of ornamentation within its bony fingers.

  “Heh – guess we better sign in, boys!” Salvatore laughed.

  They met him with several nervous chuckles, and he knew they were still considering a swift retreat. It surprised him when he suddenly heard them rushing forward. The men grabbed whatever light sources they could, including the two torches from the walls, and disappeared through doors he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Hey, where the ’ell a
re yer goin’?”

  He was alone. He knew the reason for it: he had got them through the other companies, and now they were free to loot the place. It had always been a risk, being the last recruit for a job. The rest had loyalty amongst themselves.

  Salvatore shrugged; it couldn’t be helped. He knew not to follow them, lest they turn violent. Instead, he threw the torch to the ground and grasped the shaft of a brazier. With his alternative light source, he pushed forward. He chuckled again at the skeleton sitting at the table but stopped the moment he saw a pile of bones in front of it. Visitors had been signing in with the greeter.

  “The ’ell happened here?”

  The room was mostly intact. There weren’t any weapons, which added to the mystery and Salvatore’s frustration. He’d forfeited his blade early in the skirmish and had been looking forward to replacing it since. He knelt and felt the bones, which crumbled between his fingers. Deciding whatever had killed them had done a superb job, he carried on to the archway at the back of the foyer.

  None of the deserters had gone that way; they had clearly been too interested in any other loot the estate might still hold. It was a unique chance for Salvatore to find whatever they had hired him to find. He might even negotiate a bonus, being the only man to return with the target. The thought had him pushing forward, through to a long corridor of doors, rusted portraits and dust.

  The labour of trudging through mud had been physically tiring, but the dust was almost worse; it was everywhere, creating small plumes with each of his heavy steps. He looked at a few of the portraits, but quickly stopped his investigation. Each had faded colours and a warped frame, as if anything that made it appealing or recognisable had been forcibly ripped away.

  He ignored the doors entirely, partly because he figured his prize would be in the deepest part of the manor – and partly because of the whispers he heard in the walls. Reason told him it was just the voices of the looters. His instincts told him otherwise. Both demanded he didn’t investigate.