Raider Read online

  The little boy nodded fiercely, holding his tiny pet hedgebeast close to his chest. Luckily the small, prickly creature ate mostly leaves and stems of plants too tough for more tender palates. Pets were a luxury in this conquered world; most people barely had food for themselves, let alone enough to feed animal mouths.

  At least the Davorins usually ate well, she thought as she put her small aid kit back to rights. Thanks to the tips Drake gathered at the taproom, and the hunts he made in any spare hours.

  Both thoughts made her frown. The tips came mostly from Coalition troops, which turned her stomach. And the meat Drake brought home from his odd-hour expeditions up the mountain only reminded her that he, the best hunter in all of Zelos, who knew the planet like no other and could be one of the Raider’s best fighters, was instead a lowly taproom keeper.

  She knew it wasn’t fair. If it wasn’t for Drake and his outsized sense of duty, she and the twins would have ended up homeless and starving, as so many others were. Instead, they had a solid roof, a warm fire against the damp, and enough food to eat. More than many.

  But those who were in such a dire state were often those who refused to buckle, to give in to the Coalition yoke. Those who would never dream of serving them as Drake did.

  Most of those resisters had vanished now, either taken and likely killed by the Coalition patrols, or off to fight with the Raider. Where she wished she could be. Where she guessed even Kye was, now that her father was dead.

  Where she would be the day she reached adult status, whether Drake liked it or not, Eirlys vowed to herself. She had promised him she would wait until then, but in one more year, she was done with this. She would rather risk an early death fighting this plague that had enveloped their cool, misty planet than live for decades under Coalition boots.

  “Eirlys?”

  She turned at the soft query. “Rula,” she acknowledged with a smile, but it faded when she saw the woman’s expression.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s her again.”

  Eirlys steeled her expression. She hadn’t yet told the woman that her precious milker was on her last legs. She knew that in the shattered economy of Zelos, the animal was their main source of income. Her milk they both drank and traded was a large part of their sustenance. But she had no cure for the disease that was invading the animal’s body. She had managed to slow it, but she could not stop it. Someone with more knowledge might have been able to, but the only remaining animal healer in the entire city had been killed by one of the random bombardments the Coalition engaged in periodically, apparently for no other reason than to keep them beaten. Eirlys did her best, but eventually the rampaging cells would kill the beast.

  But not today, she vowed as she trudged after Rula.

  We progressed too far. We left behind the creatures and our knowledge of them, abandoned traditions, and the principles of men like her father. We had the wealth of the mines and the possessions it purchased, we were free to indulge in any whim, honorable or not. We decided we needed no defense but our remoteness, and disbanded what army we had and instead built hologram parlors, and an elaborate council building for grand speeches.

  We thought it would go on forever.

  And then the Coalition had come. They were lulled, deluded, lured . . . and then bombed into meek submission. Beaten, cowed, and rounded up like a herd of milkers. Those who went to their knees and vowed allegiance to their new masters were spared, as long as they did not ever put a foot out of line. Those who resisted were slaughtered outright.

  And resistance to the Coalition, they quickly learned, consisted of anything a Coalition official didn’t like. Rula’s mate had merely tried to intervene with a Coalition soldier who, unfamiliar with milkers, decided that the best tactic to deal with the stubborn beast was to beat it. Both he and the milker had ended up a smoking pile of rubble and flesh, blasted by the soldier’s hand weapon.

  She shook her head, trying to clear it of that vivid, ugly memory. She’d been only seven at the time, but she’d been bare yards away, and it was etched into her mind as if with a laser pistol. And the smell . . . by hades, she would never forget the smell, cooked meat, milker and human combined.

  After a few minutes, she and Rula were clear of the town square. Were clear of the people walking in the head-down, solitary manner that had become usual. For no gatherings were allowed—a gathering being any two or more pausing for even a greeting—for fear rebellion was being plotted. Even she was prey to it, keeping a couple of paces behind the sturdy figure before her, making it clear they were not plotting together, merely headed in the same direction.

  To Eirlys the Coalition crackdown only solidified the possibility that something had made them very nervous. Which in turn made her hope the latest tales were true, that in that distant place across the galaxy, the son of a fighting king and the daughter of a notorious skypirate had proven themselves worthy of their lineage, and once more the Coalition had been beaten.

  Which would mean it was still possible. They were not invincible.

  She tried not to think about the fact that, according to the stories, the fighting king had seen to it that the Triotians and the Arellians had been much better armed and prepared than Ziem had ever been. Tried not to—

  “Is it true?”

  Rula’s whisper brought her out of her reverie, and she realized the woman had slowed until they were close enough for her to hear. She quashed her immediate lurch of fear, hating herself for even feeling it.

  “What?” she asked with a quick glance around; all seemed clear, no Coalition troops in view, no vehicles hovered. In sight, anyway.

  “The Raider. Was he really killed?”

  Eirlys jerked back at the words. “No!”

  It broke from her involuntarily, so horrible was the very idea.

  “Thank Eos,” Rula breathed softly.

  Eirlys didn’t explain, wasn’t sure she could, that her response hadn’t been one of knowledge, but one of fear. She had no way of knowing, in fact had not even heard this latest rumor.

  “What did you hear?”

  “That he and his band blew up the guard overlook, but that he was killed in the process.”

  “And where did you hear this?”

  “From Kerrold.”

  She let out a silent sigh of relief. Jepson Kerrold was living proof of the old warning, mind your source. “And why would you trust the word of Kerrold?”

  The older woman shrugged. “He was boasting about it.” She gave Eirlys a sideways look. “In your own taproom.”

  “It’s not mine,” she answered automatically. “That is my brother’s domain.”

  “Such a shock,” Rula said sympathetically, “to see him serving them, as if they hadn’t murdered your father and been responsible for your mother taking her own life.”

  “My brother’s decisions are his own,” she snapped, stung by the reminder.

  “Forgive me,” Rula said quickly, her tone apologetic. “I know it irks you more than anyone.”

  “Irks,” Eirlys muttered, “is not the word for it.”

  “In truth, he has little choice. He must look out for you, and the twins.” The motherly woman put a hand on her arm. “When you have children, you will understand.”

  “That,” she said flatly, “will never happen.”

  The more she thought about what she’d said to Drake, the more certain she was. This was no world, no universe to bring offspring into. Not while the Coalition ruled. They had already taken anyone young enough to be brainwashed, and newborns were confiscated as if they were some kind of illegal property. Any child born today would be shaped and formed and told what to think by the Coalition, and they would never know anything different.

  And, in the meantime, they look for reasons to kill those of us who remember a l
ife before. Someday, there will be none of us left, and the Coalition way will be the only way anyone knows to live.

  She had wondered aloud one day long ago why they hadn’t just killed everyone. To her surprise, it had been a grim-faced Drake who had explained that the Coalition knew nothing of mining planium, of handling it in its raw, unstable state, and so kept those who did alive, and the others to, in turn, keep the miners alive. Better to enslave the locals to do your bidding than have to commit too many of your own number to do it.

  “We’re not a sought-after posting,” he’d said. “They don’t like the cold and the damp, they can barely function in the mist and their mining equipment not at all, and we’re too far off the main track. No chance to get noticed, or promoted. Even Ossuary is closer to Coalition Command than we are.”

  She’d been surprised at his concise summation. Although nowhere near as surprised as when, shortly after mother’s suicide, Drake seemed to have forgotten everything their father had ever said or thought, everything he had ever taught them, and turned to accepting their new masters with a servility that had stunned everyone in a son of Torstan Davorin.

  He’d taken over the taproom with every evidence of eagerness when old Daff had passed. And, just as quickly, he’d made it clear the Coalition was welcome there. They were wary at first, since no one else in Zelos appreciated their presence, and especially since he was the son of the man who had been their fiercest opposition. But Drake had publicly explained he thought his father wrong-headed, and that he was trying to make up for his foolishness by showing his loyalty. Words that had made Eirlys ill, her stomach churning like the maelstrom of the Racelock, until she’d had to run out for air before she deposited her firstmeal all over the floor.

  It was true they lived better than many, but Eirlys for one thought the price far too high. She still loved her brother, and always would. He’d been a rock for them all in a time of unbelievable grief. And he’d been loving, kind, and generous when it was there to give.

  Yes, she loved him.

  But she didn’t like him very much anymore.

  Chapter 7

  THE MIST SPILLED down the ravines and gullies in a silent, damp flood. Yet the tall man with the odd gait moved up the mountain path with certainty; he was born of Ziem and had the mist vision. Besides, Grimbald Thrace knew exactly where he was going, and every inch of the path that would take him there. Had he not traveled it countless times since they’d taken refuge here?

  He crossed the border, that tree line they called the Edge, beyond which legend had it nothing but myth could live. Barren, empty, it was a landscape nearly as cold as the air around it. Here there was no fresh aroma of green trees, only the faint scent of damp on unforgiving stone. But he was inured to it, and barely shivered as he continued on. Not many dared to go past that point, even those who claimed they were not superstitious, who insisted they did not believe in the folk stories of demonish winged creatures with scales who spit fire, and other murderous beasts harbored by the mountain that rose above all others.

  Not even to meet the woman they called the Spirit would they venture beyond the Edge; only the most desperate even tried. Not even the Coalition had dared the heights of the Sentinel.

  Grim took care with his balance; his leg had healed well but slightly bent, and the difference in it had put a roll into his stride, so he had had to adapt. He still had the leg however, and it pained him little. And for that he would be eternally grateful to the woman who had healed him, and for the magic of the mountain that had so enhanced all her abilities, both healing and visionary.

  He would serve her to the end of his days, and be thankful for the chance.

  He reached the entrance to the cave. Or rather, the spot where he knew the entrance to be; what he saw was a wall of rock as barren and solid as the rest of the edifice of this mountain.

  Still unable, even after all this time, to simply walk into that wall, he closed his eyes and took three quick steps forward. When he opened them again, he was in the cave. The chill had vanished, replaced by the unexpected warmth the mountain itself provided from vents deep inside.

  She had warned him, in the beginning, that the vents that heated this place were signs that the mountain still lived, and that one day it would prove that to all by exploding in a massive blast that could wipe out half of Zelos. But that, she had added with a smile, would not happen until millennia after they had both turned to dust, and so he had decided not to care.

  He rounded the outcropping of rock that jutted out into the cave, masking the deepest interior, and serving also to contain the heat from the vents, keeping it warm enough that he could shed his heavy coat.

  “Sit, Grim, it is ready.”

  He could smell the enticing aroma of food. “You knew I was returning?”

  “Of course.” She said it easily, and with a smile. “Eat, and then you can tell me what you’ve learned.”

  He eased himself down to the seat she had indicated. The Spirit was indeed a healer of miraculous power and wide repute, but she was a woman of many other skills as well, including the weaving and needlework that had produced the cushions filled with feathers left over from the fowl of many meals.

  She was also a woman of great beauty. He knew she did not think so, that she thought the scars and the years had changed that, but he did not. She was still young, by Ziem standards, and she was still the same graceful, lithe creature he’d served since his youth. It did not matter that she was changed, or that in some minds she was but a legend. He knew the woman behind those mist-inspired tales.

  He did not know the truth of what power she had, the source of her visions, or how she healed even those who seemed beyond help. Indeed, he did not know if the latter was anything more than simply the power to inspire others to rise above what they thought were their own limits, but he did know it worked.

  Had it not worked on him?

  “You are supposed to be eating, Grim.”

  Her voice, sounding almost amused, roused him out of the memories.

  “I am sorry, my lady.”

  She gave a sigh of mock exasperation. “I am never going to break you of calling me that, am I?”

  “No,” he said honestly.

  She laughed, and it was a beautiful, musical sound. “Where were you, just now?”

  “Remembering how you tended me, when I was hurt.”

  “A favor you have returned, in much greater measure.”

  He shrugged, not liking to remember that day when he had found her, broken nearly beyond repair. Or the long days after, when he’d fought to bring her back from the brink of death.

  “What I knew of healing I learned from you, so in truth, you healed yourself.”

  She laughed again. “Such an intricate pattern of logic you have, Grim. But you must admit you taught me all I know of fighting. And fine, strengthening therapy it was.”

  He merely nodded, and took a bite of the tasty rockfowl she had prepared. She waited kindly until he had sated most of his hunger before asking, “What news have you from Zelos?”

  “It is much the same. Ordam is himself, as is Kerrold. The governor is still a glutton and cares little for details. Jakel still roves the streets in search of anyone to torment, and he still loathes the Davorins.” He paused for a moment before going on. “The Davorins themselves remain the same, except those twins are becoming notorious. Not always in a bad way, mind you; they recently set fire to Ordam’s cloak. As he was giving a fine speech in the square.”

  She laughed, and it was a delighted sound he heard too seldom from her.

  “He spoke yet again of the Coalition, and how it is for our own good. That they will take care of us; all we must do is swear allegiance and be useful.”

  An expression of utter loathing crossed her face. “And surrender our freedom. Become a prisoner to Coalition
will.”

  “Someone called out from the crowd then. ‘What will you do when they realize you are useless, Ordam?’”

  The laugh returned, and she looked much cheered. “It is good to hear they have not all given in.”

  “I believe,” he said, “it was Eirlys Davorin.”

  She went very still. “She risks much.”

  He nodded. “She is very brave. And, I am afraid, very angry.”

  It was a moment before she nodded at him to continue.

  “There are rumors there will be a new Coalition post commander soon, but there are always rumors.” He took a sip of the ale she also managed to brew, just for him since she never partook, before adding, “And they are all, as ever, in an uproar over the Raider.”

  Her face changed then, going from interested to intent. “So he continues?”

  “To drive them mad? Yes.”

  She smiled then, nodding. “But he is well?”

  He hesitated before saying, “It is reported he was injured some days ago.” She went very still. He thought perhaps she was not even breathing as she awaited his next words. “The Coalition tried to say he had been killed, but I have reliable people saying it is not true.”

  Her voice was taut as she asked, “They have seen him?”

  “No one can admit to that, of course,” he said. “It would cost them dearly. But yes, I believe so.”

  Her delicate brow furrowed deeply. “How badly was he hurt?”

  “That I do not know.”

  “Have there been any raids since?”

  “No.”

  “So it could be that he was injured badly enough to take him out of the battle.”

  “Or not. He has never worked on any kind of regular schedule,” Grimbald pointed out. “Perhaps he is just waiting for the next good opportunity.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, looking troubled. “And I have a message to be delivered that might be just that.”

  But her expression didn’t clear. And he knew what was coming.