Chapter One

Taurok of Gar

 

The capitol city of Hellsinc on the planet Perdition: Now

 

 

Taurok put the last stone on his brother’s cairn and wiped the tears from his cheeks. What came next? Someone needed to say the words that would open the Veil and send Eliar on to the afterlife. Taurok stared at the pile of rubble, his mind blank. He had been to hundreds of burials since the start of this war. Why could he not remember the words?

Distant shots rang out, faint and far away. He scanned the ruins for movement. You are ten kinds fool to linger, he thought. With the Rebel patrols combing the rubble at the edge of the immense molten crater that had once been the center of an urban battlefield only hours before, he was on the verge of being discovered, and the opposing forces were not taking prisoners.

He could hardly blame them. The Royalists had been losing this battle here on Perdition, one of the last planets still loyal to the Royal House. Taurok—posted on the ridge above the city with his artillery battalion—had watched with growing dismay as the Rebels surrounded his generals and took them out one by one. General Far Ranger’s position had been the last. His pennant had still been flying from the tower of Hellsinc City Hall when the world turned to fire and light, and the fist of the gods had descended from the heavens to consume them all.

Taurok was still confused about that. Had it been a Royalist weapon, saved from the days when the Ancellians still ruled all of human space and the high tech industries of the Royal planets were still intact? Or had the Rebels unearthed an ancient piece of technology lost since the Wars of the Twelve Tribes? Or had the Rebel Wizards cooked up some new piece of dark magic in their secret lair? If that was so, it was the hand of fate that had killed them all as retribution for the hubris of Wizards, who aspired to be gods.

The Ancellian King had been the only thing standing in the way of those would-be gods, protecting all of civilization from the folly of fools. As payment, the Rebellion and their Wizards killed the King and all his kin.

Now look where that had got them. Taurok sighed. He stared forlornly at the crater. Only a fool wanted to be a god.

Foolishness was a pale word to describe what they had done to this city on this day. Sheer lunacy. Rebels and Royalists alike had died by the tens-of-thousands inside that ball of light. Surging towards Far Ranger, seeking to destroy the last of the great Royalist generals, the Rebels had found only death. Now, incensed by their losses and unable to understand how their ultimate victory had been snatched out of their grasp at the last minute, the remnants of the Rebel army hunted out the rag-tag bits of the Royalist battalions, taking their petty revenge out on the remaining soldiers of a once vast army.

Taurok’s unit had been given no chance to surrender. Eliar had died taking a mortar to the back while trying to save his gunnery boy. The round had peeled his armored exoskeleton open like a tin can, leaving carnage in its wake. By the time Taurok rolled him over, Eliar’s eyes had already gone glassy in death.

Taurok should have run then. But where would he go? This had been a last stand for the Royalists. Eliar’s blind stare had been an accusation.

You promised, Eliar’s ghost seemed to say.

Yes, yes, he had. He had promised a lot of things. Like glory, honor, victory, justice, retribution, and vengeance. They were just empty words now.

Taurok had used the power of his suit to lift his brother—still in his armor—and carry him nearly a mile to this protected alcove amidst the lawns and ruined buildings of an office complex. Laying the body down gently, he began the task of interring him, stacking slabs of broken concrete and stone on top of him—placing each piece with the care and skill of a Master Mason—locking the stones together to keep the grave robbers at bay.

Taurok put his palm on the last stone.

“Our cause was righteous, little brother,” Taurok whispered. “But the gods are on no one’s side. Hurry. You have far to travel to get to the Hall of Inerod. Greet the Gods of War for me.”

Something whizzed past his ear and exploded into the wall by his head. Taurok cursed and threw himself to the side. “Seal Up,” he barked. His face shield snapped closed and his suit powered up again.

Warning. Battery is at 2%, the suit intoned.

The batteries were powerful but they were not meant to run all-out for days on end. Taurok did not have time to wait for it to recharge. Picking up his rifle, he placed a few shots into places that looked like they might hide a sniper before galloping away. Blood trickled down the side of his face and pooled in the collar of his helmet. Shrapnel from the wall. He had not felt it. He had not felt a lot of things lately.

Something large went screaming by overhead. The wall in front of him turned into a hail of shards that pinged off his suit. Taurok veered away. He needed to find cover before they started using the bigger stuff, the stuff that could actually hurt him even through all his armor.

Taurok zigged, zagged, and then zigged again, putting more walls between himself and his pursuers. Somewhere down an alley between two intact buildings, he stepped on a mine. The ground heaved under his feet and sent him slamming into a wall. Groaning in protest, his armored joints absorbed the energy.

Warning. Battery is critical, the suit said.

“Gods. You nag like my third wife,” Taurok muttered.

Between one step and the next, the armor turned from a weapon into a hundred pounds of dead weight. Taurok cursed and hit the emergency-release button on his chest. The suit opened up along its seams and disgorged him. Taurok fell forward, leaving a hollow shell behind. Now it was good only as a target for those intent on killing him. As a diversion, it was better than nothing. He was in desperate need of any time it might buy him.

Taurok rolled to his feet and raced down the alley, praying that his feet not find any more mines. The sound of an artillery drone made him snap his head around. Time had just run out. Rounds began hitting the ground around him with great booming concussions. Taurok dodged to the right. Without the mask of his suit, he was a beacon of body heat. The robotic mini-ship followed him, its thermal sensors tracking his every move, its logic matrix guessing which way he would dodge with growing accuracy and conveying the coordinates back to a Rebel artillery unit.

Taurok stopped and dropped to one knee, his pulse rifle up and trained on the drone. It was an impossible shot and standing still only made him more of a target. He held his breath and pulled the trigger, cursed, and then took aim again. The second shot caught one of the thopter blades and sent the drone careening out of control. It slammed into a wall in a hail of drone parts and then fell to the ground.

Another round exploded near Taurok. The sound of shrapnel slicing through the air came dangerously close. The gunner’s computers had his position locked in now. The next round would find him. Taurok snarled at the sky and ran. He heard the high-pitched whine of the round just before it hit. With a desperate twist of his body, he threw himself over a low wall, hoping to gain a little bit of cover.

The world turned into light and chaos.

He fell into darkness.

Taurok woke to find himself in some sort of basement, the ceiling open to the leaden gray sky above him. He tried to move and caught his breath as the pain came near to blinding him. Gritting his teeth, he rolled over and somehow managed to get to his knees. That was good enough. He began to crawl towards the darkest corner, hoping to find a spot that would hide him from prying eyes and thermal sensors.

It took forever to cross the room. He had to rest every few feet. The joint in his hip felt funny and the front of his jersey was soaked in blood. Something hot trickled down his left leg.

A deep groan from some hurt creature made Taurok pause. The sound came from the shadows at the end of a long corridor. He was not alone down here.

Taurok crawled to a wall and pulled himself up, gaining his feet at great cost. When the black spots faded from his vision he pulled his long knife from its sheath on his thigh and advanced slowly into the darkness.

Taurok paused. Darkness. Where was his brain? He had a solution for that. He patted the front pocket of his jersey and found the wormlight he always kept there. Pulling it out, he shook it hard to anger the bugs inside the glass, then clipped it to his belt. The blue light revealed a corridor lined with boxes. Someone had used them as target practice and now their guts spilled out onto the floor. Drifts of paper made the footing precarious.

The floor ramped down gradually. There were drag marks in the stone dust that covered everything. Whatever was down here, it was in no better shape than himself. Twenty-five paces down the hall, Taurok stopped. Barely visible in the blue light, a form lay still in a nest of paper.

Taurok stared at it, trying to get his brain to function. It was a broken armor suit, now empty. A small body sat propped against the wall nearby. Taurok glanced down at the suit as he hobbled past it. It looked like it had gone into hell. The outer casing was seared clean of any markings or rank insignia, the faceplate melted and gone milky from intense heat. A powerful concussion had cracked the chest armor like an eggshell. This suit had survived the cataclysm that had created the molten crater above him.

Taurok did not want to see what remained of the being who had been inside that armor but he kept on hobbling, clinging to the wall for support.

The blue light found the body. It was just a boy. Human perhaps, but these days—short of dissecting him—it was hard to tell. Young and beardless, his ebony hair was shorn close to the head to accommodate his armor’s helmet. His eyes were closed but he was still alive. Taurok could hear his breath as it bubbled out of fluid-filled lungs.

Taurok unclipped the wormlight and used it to study the rank insignia on the boy’s gray Royalist jersey. A low ranked officer. He recognized the shoulder patch. Far Ranger’s battalion. The unit patch confused him. It was an eye inside a triangle. A Sorcerer. He had heard from a reliable source that all the Sorcerers were dead, exterminated to the last man by the Rebels.

“Boy? Boy? Where is the general? Did he survive?” Taurok asked, bending down to touch the boy’s shoulder.

The boy opened his eyes. They were milky white—as white as his melted faceplate. Taurok swore softly. The shock-wave of the explosive might have done that. Or the intense heat. But how did he get here, so far from the epicenter of the battle?

Taurok slid down the wall. He needed to rest. The paper offered no resistance, slipping out from under him. He tried to save himself but ended up falling the last few feet. Pain washed through him, turning his vision black. He passed out.

He woke to the flickering of a golden light. Taurok blinked. The worms had gone dormant. The boy was building a tiny witchlight on the end of his fingers but there was a puzzled look on his young face. It was a paltry bit of magic for a trained sorcerer. Any apprentice hedge witch would have scoffed at it, but it was admirable considering the boy—near to death—still managed to draw down the power out of the 'Verse.

“My magic has failed. It is still dark,” the boy whispered.

Taurok touched his wrist. “Your magic is fine. It is your eyes that have failed. Let go, boy. Do not tax yourself,” he said gently. “Tell me. Where is the general?”

The boy released the witchlight. It drifted away to hover over their heads up near the ceiling. The young man frowned, as if trying to remember. Taurok waited, content to sit here and not move while his body warned him about all the things that had been torn apart in the last explosion and subsequent fall. When the boy finally spoke Taurok had to remember the question he had asked.

“I built a shield around them,” the boy said, his voice rough as he struggled to breathe. “I was exhausted. Too many days of battle. I had to draw down the fabric of the world to fuel it. We were holding, there, in its center.” The boy shook his head, trying to understand what his mind could not fathom. “They had some sort of planet buster bomb. It is the only explanation that makes sense. Fool Wizards. They delve too deep into the forbidden technology of the Second People.” The boy coughed wetly and then gasped and stopped breathing for a moment. Taurok could see the effort it took for the boy to suppress the cough and continue breathing shallowly even though he was drowning.

“Why fools? What happened?” Taurok asked, trying to distract the boy from his own failing body.

“My shield was the stuff of the Oneverse. I planted its feet in the Dark Mother and drew down the power of the stars. They thought to un-make my magic but they un-made the fabric of the world instead. I could feel the planet coming apart under my feet as I dissolved my creation. The energy released was only a tiny fraction of what was trying to climb through the Veil.” The boy looked up at Taurok with his milky eyes. “Did I stop it in time?”

Taurok thought of the giant molten crater. It would take a day of hiking to cross it. He patted the boy’s hand. “Yes. Everything is fine.”

The boy caught at that hand and grasped it.

“I am Red Moon. Special Envoy to General Far Ranger’s guard.”

“Taurok Gar, Sergeant, 3rd Artillery Battalion,” Taurok said. “You look too young to be a Special Envoy.” And too young to be a Sorcerer, thought Taurok, though he did not say it out loud.

“The rank was Far Ranger’s way of keeping me close,” Red Moon said. The way the boy said it begged more questions. Taurok filed it away for another time.

“So you are not a Sorcerer?”

The boy frowned and lifted his face. “I smell blood. Are you hurt?”

“The rebels are sweeping the ruins, killing any Royalist they find. Their drones can see through walls.”

“Ancient Ancellian technology, much like our armor suits,” the boy nodded. “They must have salvaged it before they destroyed the Royal factories on Prime.”

“The Rebels think they have killed all the sorcerers and hedge witches. They will not be pleased if they find out you still live,” Taurok said.

“All the sorcerers are dead,” Red Moon said. “When I die, the last of the magic will have passed from the world.” There was a deadness in the boy’s voice. Taurok recognized that sound. The boy had seen the death of someone he loved. Taurok could find no pity in his heart. Everyone had a tragic history these days. How could they not? Five hundred years of almost continuous conflict had taken an enormous toll on those left alive. Taurok would have to remember to ask the boy for his story later, if they had time. Right now, Red Moon was distracted. The boy closed his blind eyes and let his fingers trail up Taurok’s thigh. “The Wizards could not allow anyone with knowledge of the pan-dimensional Oneverse to live for fear they would un-make all their evil,” Red Moon murmured.

Taurok did not understand the boy’s mad mutterings, nor did he fathom the strange heat radiating from the boy’s fingers as they hovered over his hip before moving further up. Those questing fingers found the wounds in his side and pressed deep.

Taurok threw his head back and tried to breath past the pain as he grabbed the boy’s hand and pushed it away. “Leave me be. Let me join my brother in the Hall of Inerod.”

“The Gods of War have their hands full with those who have gone before us. Live. Someone must tell the tale of this bloody day,” Red Moon said. He did not cough again but the bubbling in his chest grew louder.

Taurok watched the boy sadly. The witchlight cast a warm glow on the boy’s pale skin. His lips were turning gray, attesting to the lack of oxygen in his small body.

“There was a Gar,” the boy said dreamily, “who was captain of the Palace Guard the day the Usurper opened the gates and let the king-killers into the family compound. A Zendellian.”

“My great-grandfather,” Taurok said. “You know your history. I am impressed. Not many do anymore. A hundred generations of Gars served in the Royal household. My father was proud of that. He said that great-grandfather held the stairwell up to the nursery long enough for the Queen to take the children up to the helipad. They say his ghost still hangs in that cursed stairway, challenging the human bureaucrats who have taken residence there.”

The boy laughed breathlessly. It was a bitter sound and contained no humor.

“You dare laugh at the story of such an honorable death?” Taurok asked, wanting to be angry, but anger would have taken more energy than he possessed.

“Apologies. I laugh at my grandmothers who keep me imprisoned in this body, in this reality; who will not let me pass through the Veil despite my injuries. I challenged them for the ownership of the Oneverse and thought that I had bested them. But lo, as punishment for my arrogance, they have brought me the one person I would come back from the dead for.”

“Hush boy,” Taurok said, shocked at this sacrilege. Perhaps the gods would forgive him. Death made everyone talk crazy. “If we are to die here then let us do it with grace.”

The boy’s fingers reached out and dug deep into the flesh of Taurok’s arm. “Aach, no. We are going to do something far worse. We are going to defy the gods, the Rebels, and the Oneverse, and live.”

Taurok wanted to ask what that meant but something akin to vertigo swept through him. He passed out again.

It was quiet when next he woke. The sound of the boy’s bubbling breath had ceased. The witchlight still hovered above them, but it was fading. The silence could mean only one thing.

“Ahhh, gods,” Taurok breathed out sadly, turning his head. The form beside him had gone still. He reached for the limp hand resting on his arm, meaning to transfer it to its owner’s lap.

Taurok jerked his fingers away. The hand was as hot as a bake stone left out in the sun all day.

The old warrior sat up and put his hand on Red Moon’s cheek. The boy was on fire. Some strange fever had taken hold of him.

Taurok shifted. He had been sure his pelvis had been broken but movement no longer brought pain. Everything worked. He lifted his jersey. The shrapnel wounds were gone. Not just healed. Completely gone, without a scar. Taurok touched the side of his face. There were no wounds there either. Even the old scar on his chin from a knife wound received months before was gone. The boy was definitely a sorcerer of some sort. Another impossibility. All the magicians were dead. A Wizard, perhaps. But that could not be. All the Wizards worked for the Rebellion.

Something had healed Taurok. There was no denying this fact. He scowled down at the boy. Just like a sorcerer to throw magic about without asking permission first.

“Boy. What have you done?” Taurok asked angrily, shaking the limp body by the shoulder. “I was to go meet my brother.”

The boy opened his eyes.

A strangled sound came out of Taurok’s throat. The eyes. Oh, gods, the eyes. The eyes were molten, like tiny suns burning inside his skull. The heat rolled off them, singeing the very air. When had Red Moon’s lips blushed to crimson? Even as he watched, the blush spread down his chin. Things clicked inside Taurok’s head. The family tales came flooding back. Ten thousand years of family service to the Ancellian Dragon Lords had left their mark on his childhood.

“You are not human. You are Ancellian,” Taurok said. He could not keep the accusation and resentment out of his voice. Now? Now, when it was too late, this Dragon Lord chose to show himself? Was this some sort of cosmic joke? “This is impossible. The Crimson Eyrie is extinct. The Dragon Masters hunted them down and killed them, down to the last one. They even killed the Usurper as a reward for his treachery.”

“They missed one,” Red Moon said. “Maybe we should ask them if they made a mistake.” The boy laughed at some secret joke and then stopped as it turned into a gasp of pain. “Gods, it took too much of me to heal you. Leave me be, Taurok of the Gars.”

“Why? Why did you heal me? I did not ask for your intersession in my life,” Taurok said as he lifted the boy away from the wall and lay him gently down on the deep bed of paper.

“But you saved me. Your great-grandfather did, at any rate. He let my mother escape. I owe you my life.”

Taurok shook his head. “All the bodies have been accounted for. The Queen Mother. The children who escaped with her. Their skulls grace the great hall of the Palace.”

Red Moon cursed from behind closed eyes. “Yet one more log I must add to the bonfires of my vengeance.”

Taurok stared at the crimson lips. Things half-remembered floated to the surface of his mind.

“You are not a Dragon Lord. You are female,” he breathed out in wonder. “Your lips mark you as a queen. How is any of this possible?”

The girl opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling with those awful golden eyes.

“She was brooding, my mother,” Red Moon said softly. “Do you think she knew her fate long before the Usurper came knocking? She was Queen. How could she allow her race to be snuffed out like that? She fled, landing on a gods-forsaken empty planet out on the edge of the Deep Dark, staying just long enough to make the egg, leaving a single guardian before fleeing, leading her pursuers away. I was born already an orphan. I would be there still if the humans had not landed a mining ship nearby.”

“The Crimson Eyrie fell five hundred years ago,” Taurok said, shaking his head as if to clear it of the growing confusion in his mind.

“You are Zendalian. Are they not one of the long-lived races?”

“Yeah, but our five hundred years do not compare to the Ancellian fifteen thousand.”

“I know little of my people but what I have been told. I understand that we can live to be quite old but none of us have ever lived that long. Being nearly immortal is like having a target painted on your back, apparently.”

“The history of your race is long,” Taurok said. “Longer than Zendalian memory. Longer than the human’s written histories. The Rebels have spent these last five hundred years erasing all records of your existence.”

“Yes. I have found that out in my quest to piece together the puzzle of my heritage,” Red Moon said, her lids closing over those molten eyes. “I have learned many things, but most of what I know has been gathered by deduction. The gaps in the historical records are damning evidence of the Rebellion's perfidy.”

“I know something of the Crimson Eyrie,” Taurok said. He looked down at the still face. Red Moon had fallen asleep. Taurok touched the skin on the back of her hand. It was hot but not as hot as it had been. She was healing herself. Taurok lay down beside her, careful not to touch her but close enough to shield her from any who might come down the hall seeking the owner of the armor suit he had left up in the alley.

He watched her face as she slept. Now that he knew who she was, it was easier to see the fine bones of her face as alien and not just exotic.

“I can teach you. I know a thing or two about your people, Lady,” he whispered. “There has been a Gar in service to the Crimson Eyrie for a very long time. It would make my old Da weep with pride knowing that I can carry on that tradition.”

As the fire of her healing completed itself, the crimson stain retreated back to her lips and then faded. Soon she looked human. Well, human enough to pass.

Taurok smiled. He had given up hope but the gods had answered his prayers and given him this gift.

“Eliar,” Taurok said. “Brother. Perhaps the gods do listen. Here before me lies the tool of our vengeance. She will consume those who have transgressed against us. I shall send our enemies before me into the Hall of Inerod so that they might bow down before you. May our journey be long and bloody.”