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  Wraiths and Raiders (Rimduum Book 3)

  Copyright © 2023 by Loamseed Press

  Website: www.loamseedpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art © 2023 by www.seventhstarart.com

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7348218-6-4

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7348218-7-1

  To boys, young men, and men who risk being vulnerable and compassionate. You are a powerful force for creating a better world. Onward!

  ALSO BY BEN GREEN

  ORIGINAL RIMDUUM TRILOGY

  Book One: Forged in the Fallout

  Book Two: In Shadows of Silver

  Book Three: Wraiths and Raiders

  STORIES FROM RIMDUUM

  Newsletter Exclusives

  The Girl in Bearcloak Dungeon

  Phantoms in Hardblaze Dungeon

  * * *

  Ink and Incantation Anthology

  The Sentinel of Braidward Library

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Guard Our Acreage

  Aid the Stranded

  Hail Old Foes

  Form New Specters

  Near the Truth

  Choose a Path

  Shift into Gears

  Assemble the Puzzle

  Mark These Stones

  Rage Inward

  Contend With Ghosts

  The Tomb of the Unkept

  Dance Before Danger

  Adjust My Aim

  Change Them Gold

  Heal a Scar

  Sacrifice to Ide

  Echo the Dead

  Stumble on the Roots

  Plead Our Case

  Reap Their Fears

  Cast Other Shadows

  Cut the World

  Gather Together

  Epilogue

  The World of Rimduum

  Thank You

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  RENSIRA

  Rensira Silverlamp stands at the edge of a glowing pit, eyes squeezed shut. The dull light obscures the splatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her lily-patterned dress would be a beacon of sunlight anywhere else, but here it sits on her like a damp cloak.

  She’s not watching as the snaking line of people throw their budges into the unholy, melting churn below, not watching as the aluminum sea bubbles like a primordial soup, not watching Vor, his crown glowing all the more as he controls the people.

  But when a man cries out, she opens her eyes.

  Vor is smiling softly, standing next to her. He’s always smiling. If he’s not, then he’s shouting. And that shift can happen faster than a daychange in Tungsten City. Sira trembles against this worry.

  The man she heard cry out is not old or young. He wears a startled look and a bright red shirt, threads of sharp cobalt swimming along the seams. With two short breaths, he steps back from the pit, clutching a bundle of budgecraft objects to his chest.

  He angles back toward the crowd. "What is this? Why am I—”

  Vor’s smile shifts. “Tas!”

  The tall Dura man behind Sira moves forward closer to the pit. “What?”

  Vor growls. “Don’t do that, Tas. Don’t say what. Are you blocking my control?”

  Tas replies with a single word. “No.”

  At the lower landing, the crowd stirs. The man’s disturbance hasn’t gone unnoticed. Whenever Vor loses control of someone, even for a second, he blames Tas. He wouldn’t blame Kel because, like him, she is too dangerous to upset. He can’t control the Dura. But they follow him—for now.

  “Maybe it’s Ara?” Sira says. But these words are a risk.

  Vor fires a stare at Sira, who trembles. He knows what she’s thinking.

  He doesn’t smile or shout at this, which is even more dangerous. He adjusts the crown on his head. The crowd surges forward, forcing the man and his objects dangerously close to the edge of the pit. Vor will kill him to make a point.

  “Stop!” Sira yells. “Please don’t!”

  “No?” Vor says. “Was it you? Did you give your craftprint to Tas?”

  “You know I wouldn’t,” she says.

  Tas slides closer to Sira. “Vor, enough.”

  “No, I don’t think that is enough, Tas.”

  Vor tightens his control on the next three people in line. The wave of clarity and revelation—the silvercraft from the mithrium crown—crashes into Sira. Even peerless, she feels its pull toward complete obedience. They grab the man in the red shirt, yanking the bundle from his grasp and hoisting him into the air.

  Sira closes her eyes. “Please! No. No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Open your eyes, Sira,” Vor commands.

  She resists for two seconds, but the familiarity of silvercraft calls to her. She opens her eyes. Someone hefts the man’s bag of budges and throws it into the molten metal. It will all melt down in the pit, leaving behind only the aluminum. The group eases its grip on the man.

  “We have his objects,” Tas says, glancing at Sira.

  Vor nods slowly. “Fair. That is fair. There must only be a few more people who can still resist the crown. Who knows, maybe this guy is like you, Sira; maybe he’s peerless of silver. I can let him go...”

  Sira’s shoulders sag. This time, she wouldn’t have to take the guilt for a death. This time, she would sleep tonight.

  There’s a startled intake of breath from the crowd as the three closest people push the man from the landing. His body drops into the heavy liquid aluminum, which squelches like it’s only a layer of mud. Sira turns her head, but Vor turns it back. She closes her eyes. He tries to open them again. With a scream, Sira presses her eyelids together. When they open again, only a sliver of the man’s red shirt flashes below.

  Vor produces a metallic clothespin. Sira’s back straightens, her tears dry, and her breath quickens.

  “You need time to process this,” he says.

  Sira backs away, clinging to Tas’ arm. “I don’t. I’m okay. I understand. Please.”

  “You know it’s too late. You can’t say or do anything. Think about what you did.”

  Vor closes the distance between them, clipping the clothespin to her finger. She doesn’t resist. How many times has he done this? When was the last time he sent her to the tomb to think?

  She budges into darkness, surrounded by clammy stone. The clothespin vanishes. Vor knows what budgecraft does to her. For a moment, she feels all around her body. Is her skin attached? Her hair? She can’t see her freckles but hopes they are still there. Then she retches until she has nothing left. Her arms find their way around her knees, and she draws inward.

  She sobs. “Clayson, why did I leave you?”

  There’s nothing but stone to comfort her.

  GUARD OUR ACREAGE

  For me, starry nights awaken the imagination. The moon must be far past the horizon because the sky is alive, a billion sharp pinpricks stitched into a gossamer blanket. My dad has a name for these brilliant, cloudless nights—star soup. No matter the circumstance, I don’t tire of this part of surface life.

  I park the four-wheeler in the green-dark orchard and turn off the headlights. Slowly, the sound of insects overtakes the hum of the engine. This late in the summer, surrounded by the forest, there’s no breeze to rustle the silky leaves of the pear trees.

  My thoughts kept me awake last night. It’s early, but work helps me focus.

  As my mind uncoils, I unbuckle the hose attached to the water tank on the four-wheeler. It’s been hot and dry in the Blue Ridge Mountains for the past few weeks. The dwarf trees we planted this spring need a good amount of water. It’s a task I’m well acquainted with.

  The events since Ara arrived last autumn seem like they’ve been lined up like dominos. My decisions have trapped all of us on the surface. Sometimes I come out here to hide. In the dead of night, I can pretend it's still my dad and me at the cabin. There’s no Vor. There’s no mithrium. Ruined underground cities powered by massive artificial suns—yeah, that’s not real. None of it. This is real. The stars. The forest. The feel of waxy leaves brushing against my hands.

  Halfway through watering the saplings, someone clears their throat at the tree line. I turn, expecting Jeiahlir, my intuitive and uncommonly beautiful girlfriend. I’m expecting her sharp blue eyes and a conversation about the stupid thing I said to her yesterday. But it's not her.

  In a way, Andalynn, my sister, the queen of Whurrimduum, looks the same as when I first met her in Gamgim. She’s wearing green, though this time is just a cropped t-shirt, not a glimmering gown. Her hair is bound in a loose bun, but the thin strands of malleable silver hair mirror the night. Somehow, this makes her even more regal. She looks at me expectantly for far too long, her chin raised in a question.

  Then a smile breaks on her face, and she steps into starlight. “Clay, Clay, Clay. How did I know where to find you?”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “Liar.” The playful smile on her face is an accusation and forgiveness all at once. How does she do that so flawlessly? She glides over to the four-wheeler and leans against it.

  “It’s four in the morning, Sis. No one should be looking for me.” I go back to watering.

  “Thought you might want to talk about what you said to Jeiah.”

  “She told you?”

/>   Andalynn shrugs. “In more of a question than a verdict. She wanted to understand why you—”

  “Let’s talk about something else. Rugnus is coming back tonight.”

  Andalynn sighs. “I should teach you some subtlety. You’d make a terrible politician. But yes, he’s supposed to come home tonight.”

  The water in the tank runs out as I finish tending the last sapling. “He will be back tonight. It’s Rugnus. He doesn’t know how to fail.”

  Andalynn helps me wind the cord around the tank and abruptly hugs me. Her arms wrap tightly around my shoulders, pinning me in place. Still, I sneak my forearms up and squeeze her back. This hug isn’t meant to console me. Something’s wrong.

  I kiss the top of her head. “It’s gonna be okay. Rugnus is fine. I know it.”

  “I know. That’s not…” I feel her take a deep breath, and she steps away. “It’s Mom. She’s falling back under again. I can feel it. It’s just like before when she’d pace the castlestack late at night. Back then, I had to keep a guard on her.”

  This isn’t something Andalynn talks about, not to anyone. But I’ve noticed Mom changing too, settling into her worries like an old comforter. For the past couple of weeks, Mom’s been wandering the property late at night, wringing her hands.

  I know what it's like to watch a parent fall apart, but I can’t come up with the words to help Andalynn through this. “I thought after we destroyed Yinzar’s dungeon... you know? Like the moment we were all together, before...”

  “Before Vor destroyed everything? Yeah. She had hope in her eyes. And now her father and husband are missing.” Andalynn looks toward the distance as if Rugnus will come wandering out of the grove. “Dad is her strength, even though they’ve been so distant.”

  I swallow hard. “Do you think Dad’s still...”

  “I hope so. In his way, he tried to warn us.” She smirks at this.

  I can’t help my half-grin. “You mean by dropping impossible hints and keeping everything secret?”

  “Okay, so tried is a stretch.”

  We both laugh at this because what else can we do when the whole Loamin world is being held captive by a man with a crown forged of mithrium and silvercraft?

  “He really believes in ending craft,” Andalynn says. “Could you imagine what he thought when he heard your champion name like the rest of us? Wraithking.”

  “Mom’s AMP has been two points away from championship for a long, long time. It’s like he already grieves for her.”

  Slowly, Andalynn nods. “And now you. I guess it makes sense, especially knowing what we know about Dura, Vor, and Ara. They don’t remember their lives as Loamin.”

  Neither of us connects the final piece out loud. When I die, my soul, my life, whatever you want to call it, will generate a dungeon forged out of my consciousness. I make an effort to unfurrow my brow, reaching behind Andalynn to shake a bucket.

  “I brought some scraps for the chickens.”

  Andalynn stretches. “It’s close to dawn. They’ll be out soon.”

  With a nod, I jump back on the four-wheeler and turn the engine over. Andalynn squeezes in behind me, tousling my hair. Something in my chest loosens a bit, and I give a silent thanks for having a sister like her.

  The grove passes by in darkness, the headlights igniting the path with sharp, bright light. Is this how an animal sees the night, all edges and crisp lines, without the hidden shades?

  “Watch out!” Andalynn shouts.

  I skid to a halt. Koglim’s standing in the path in pajama pants, shirtless. There’s a pale scar on his upper arm from the removal of his silver tattoo. His eyes are frantic, his dark skin slick with sweat. In a manic squeak, he says, “Rugnus! Trouble on the road in!” He leaps onto the four-wheeler.

  The front sinks into the dirt. Andalynn and Koglim grasp a long aluminum handle on the side, budging us to the edge of the property. The road is split by energy from the mithrium shield Ara set as our protection. The one she can’t come back for, and we can’t move.

  My dad’s flatbed is hurtling toward the entrance, Rugnus in the driver’s seat. I didn’t teach him to drive that fast. We jump from the four-wheeler. To my right and left, Andalynn and Koglim look fierce. I hear the barking of Nox, Gem, and Stone, Hemdi’s three labs, catching up to us.

  “In or out?” I ask.

  My question is answered when four figures appear on the road. Darksmiths—Vor’s willing henchmen. They harass us whenever we leave the safety of the shield. We’ve had some close calls.

  Koglim screams a battle cry and surges through the protection of the shield. Golden light blossoms over his left fist and encloses him from head to toe. One massive haymaker pounds the closest darksmith into the dirt like a nail into a two-by-four.

  Andalynn isn’t far behind. As she passes through the shield, she yanks the hair tie from her head, smoothing down the threads woven of tincraft. Fingers of barbed ivy whirl out of the forest, entrapping a second darksmith.

  Two more darksmiths appear. I curse. The only craft I have is a spool of lead for healing. I hope I don’t need it today.

  Jeiah budges in front of me. “Here.” She presses a metallic cup forged of iron into my hands. “Time it to my mark.”

  I blink. How is this supposed to help? I’ve only seen Rugnus use this once, and it tore up a half-dozen trees on the edge of the grove. Then I remembered what else it did. From inside the shield, it created a gap—a big one. We had tried it from the outside, but just like everything else, the effect broke against the shield.

  If Rugnus is going to make it through the shield without stopping, I’ll need to make a gap big enough for the flatbed to drive through but timed not to let anyone else through.

  “Do it,” Jeiah says. My words from the day before intrude on my thoughts, but she’s already moved closer to the shield. “Back here in seven!”

  I start the countdown. Six. Five. Andalynn and Koglim break from the fight and sprint toward Jeiah. Four. I scoop gravel into the cup. Three. Two. Jeiah reaches for Andalynn through the shield. One.

  My continued motion launches the gravel from the cup. It becomes a towering cyclone of dirt and wind, shattering against the inside of the shield. Half of the darksmiths dive to the side of the road. As the truck hits the shield, two darksmiths disappear entirely. Rugnus guns it straight into the ironcraft whirlwind.

  The truck slows the moment it crashes into the whirlwind. It’s lifted twenty feet in the air. Their momentum carries them through the shield. I exhale. They made it. The energy field flickers back to life, and the whirlwind dissipates, dropping the truck to the dirt.

  I turn to run, but the truck hits a pocket of protective craft and slows. A soft white energy pulses around its wheels. It’s enough to break the fall but not enough to halt its forward motion. Rugnus slams on the brakes. Only now do I see Hemdi, a thin necklace in his clenched fist. The dogs swarm his legs, barking at the truck as it hurls gravel and skids to a halt between two trees.

  Andalynn and Koglim are sweating, but they both made it back through the shield. Jeiah stands with a grim, satisfied expression, though she watches the remaining darksmiths closely. I have to refocus my attention on the truck because I’m thinking about her lighting eyes, the way they evaluate everything around them with cool efficiency. There have been just as many moments where they’ve been as soft as a summer sky.

  Ide keep me. I really messed things up between us.

  Then two people tumble from the passenger seat of the flatbed. I rush forward to help them, immediately recognizing the father and son. They’d been on their way into Bluebottle last year when Jeiah, Rugnus, and I went searching for a connection between Lagnar Emberfence and the attack on StoneYoke.

  “Wraithking.” The boy whispers, eyes as wide as the truck’s tires.