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Rebel In the Storm
Di Sarah Croman
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 304 pagine4 ore
- Editore:
- Lulu.com
- Pubblicato:
- Oct 3, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781365437908
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
The factions of the Ebony Throne territories have been embroiled in civil war for over a decade. Now, the end is near. Unfortunately for Darcasta, the rightful heir, that end does not look to resolve in favor of her family. Pushed to the brink of defeat, Darcasta and her allies prepare to take a desperate risk. To their northern border, the Storm Mountains house the greatest military force in the known world. Getting them to use that force, however, poses other dangers. Having endured the destruction wrought by the civil war, Darcasta wants nothing more than the return of prosperity to her homeland. For that, she's willing to take any risk and pay any price. At least, that's what she believed before she met the Storm Lord. His help could save her people, but bargaining with him creates a battlefield all its own.
Informazioni sul libro
Rebel In the Storm
Di Sarah Croman
Lunghezza: 304 pagine4 ore
Descrizione
The factions of the Ebony Throne territories have been embroiled in civil war for over a decade. Now, the end is near. Unfortunately for Darcasta, the rightful heir, that end does not look to resolve in favor of her family. Pushed to the brink of defeat, Darcasta and her allies prepare to take a desperate risk. To their northern border, the Storm Mountains house the greatest military force in the known world. Getting them to use that force, however, poses other dangers. Having endured the destruction wrought by the civil war, Darcasta wants nothing more than the return of prosperity to her homeland. For that, she's willing to take any risk and pay any price. At least, that's what she believed before she met the Storm Lord. His help could save her people, but bargaining with him creates a battlefield all its own.
- Editore:
- Lulu.com
- Pubblicato:
- Oct 3, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781365437908
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Rebel In the Storm
Anteprima del libro
Rebel In the Storm - Sarah Croman
Rebel In the Storm
By Sarah Croman
Copyright 2016 by Sarah Croman
Version 2
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
First Printing: 2016
eBook ISBN 978-1-365-43790-8
Print edition ISBN 978-1-365-43758-8
Part 1: Rebel
Chapter 1
My dearest daughter: The world that I wanted for you is crumbling. You must be strong for what is to come because I will not be there to guide you. Many more lives than mine will be lost through my father’s decisions and his bastard daughter’s ambitions. The burden of repairing this damage should have fallen to me, and I wish I could have spared you its weight. You have your mother’s righteous fire in your heart; you will need that to correct the damage I foresee in our future. Her family will keep you safe in the coming days, for I fear the battle for our people will be a long one. I wish I could have protected you, but I have run out of time to find a cure for my illness. Please heed my words: they are the only defense I can send with you into the future. Be safe, my Darcasta.
With all my love for always, your father, Lucian Primus, Heir to the Ebony Throne of Shajar’Ebon
A cold wind blew down from the stark mountains that shot up sharply at the edges of the rolling plains of her homeland. It whipped loose black strands of hair from the braid trailing down her back, sending wayward strands into her gray eyes as it howled through the moonlit streets of this border town. Darcasta found the sound both terrifying and reassuring. Nestled at the base of the Storm Mountains on the Shajar’Ebon side of the border, this forgotten town had once thrived from the rich trade routes between the Ebony Throne and Brynstorm, the kingdom to the north that encompassed those mountains. Then, almost twenty years ago, her grandfather ordered a trade embargo against Brynstorm, impoverishing this town, among others, and rendering it mostly abandoned. Now, fifteen years, after her father’s death, she still fought the civil war caused by that embargo. Sometimes it felt like it would never end. Because of that war, she now stood on the brink of a course of action she hoped would not destroy everything she’d tried to accomplish.
Darcasta drew her cloak more firmly around herself before she hurried inside of the inn behind her cousin Gavin Tonitrus and the guards of their house. She knew Gavin had hoped to avoid her Primus aunt’s detection with such a small group of soldiers, but she doubted their success. The war to reclaim the Ebony Throne had raged across Shajar’Ebon, but the Primus faction had finally driven the Tonitrus forces into the northwestern territories. Now, the Primus soldiers likely didn’t straggle very far behind them, though they thought they only pursued Gavin. Her only luck, so far, had been in keeping her aunt Arana unaware of her continued existence.
Inside the inn, a warm fire burned in the hearth of the common room and cast shadows from the tables and chairs to fill the emptiness. A few stools sat beside the long bar, but those lacked occupants as well. The innkeeper stood in the silence and cleaned glasses behind the bar, his actions making the only sounds aside from that of the crackling fire. Their entrance caused him to look up briefly. In front of her, Gavin pushed his hood off and nodded to the man, who returned to his task with studied intensity. Darcasta looked longingly at the fire but secreted herself in the shadows. Once Gavin pulled out a chair and sat at a table squarely in the middle of the room, the five men and women they’d brought with them arrayed themselves around him, every one of them tense with expectation.
Eventually, the door to the inn reopened to admit two large men. The hooded figures stepped into the room, dominating it. They dropped their hoods back once the door closed behind them. Short black hair, close-cropped beards, pale skin, broad shoulders, leather armor studded with the best steel produced on the continent: same as any Storm-born warrior. One was older, his hair shot with silver. Neither wore any insignia or indication of rank or identity, at least not that she recognized. Each carried an axe on one hip and a dagger on the other, but she doubted they limited themselves to carrying only their displayed weapons. When the guards stepped forward with the clear intent to remove the men’s weapons, the younger one practically snarled and bristled threateningly until the guards allowed them to pass intact. However, the two warriors did not immediately sit. Instead, the senior man brusquely began the conversation.
Are you Gavin Tonitrus?
The man’s words began as a deep resonance from the chest that took their time before rolling free. Years of isolation had dimmed her memory of the Storm-born accent, but hearing the cadence of it now, contrasted against the voices of her allies, served as a blatant reminder that the rest of the world existed beyond the borders of her people’s war. Perhaps she had forgotten that along with the accent.
Undisturbed by the thoughts riddling Darcasta’s mind, Gavin only nodded and politely gestured to the chairs opposite him. He wasn’t known for his diplomacy, but his intensity didn’t seem to ruffle the other men.
Stiffly, the two warriors sat, and the older one gestured between the two of them. This is Rhys; I’m Wulfric.
Thank you for coming.
After hearing Wulfric’s almost lyrical tones, Gavin’s sharp consonants and hard vowels acquired a jarring quality, but that characterized the accents of members of the northern houses of Shajar’Ebon.
Wulfric settled easily at the table, obviously well accustomed to such negotiations. We don’t appreciate the secrecy you’ve demanded, but we nonetheless chose to honor your father’s reputation from…before and grant this meeting.
We understand,
Gavin responded.
You can’t hope to gain anything by this,
Rhys inserted with none of his counterpart’s apparent patience. The Storm Lord has repeatedly refused to sanction any interactions with your faction.
With either faction,
Wulfric added, the even rumble of his voice taking the sting from his compatriot’s words. Yet, somehow, you claim that these negotiations are sanctioned by the First Family, despite their clandestine nature. Honor forbids us from countenancing treason or espionage against the ruling bloodline. As the Tonitrus family has been actively at war with the First Family for years now, we require proof of the validity of your authority before we agree to discuss anything. If you don’t have that authority, we’ll reiterate our noninvolvement stance and be on our way.
Well, Darcasta thought, her cousin could only provide one form of proof, whether he liked it or not.
Espionage is not my forte either, gentlemen,
Darcasta announced, tossing back her hood and stepping into the circle of light cast by the hearth. The firelight illuminated her aristocratic features and danced across olive skin, turned golden by years in the hot sun of her homeland. Her interruption startled the warriors; both rose to their feet with weapons drawn. Around the room, her people scrambled to unsheathe their weapons and assume defensive stances. Her cousin, sword in hand, positioned himself between her and the warriors. Setting a hand on his shoulder, Darcasta drew Gavin out of her path while her gray eyes remained focused on the two emissaries. Once she had everyone’s attention, she continued with the silky-smooth, almost purring elocution of the southern territories, Treason is another matter.
Gavin gritted his teeth, dropped his head, and stepped to her side. May I present Lady Darcasta Primus-Tonitrus, Daughter of the Ebony Throne.
Darcasta swept back her cloak to reveal the purple sash of the First Family at her waist as a symbol of her rank. The signs of hard use on her leather armor told the story of the difficulties she’d faced in keeping it.
Wulfric lowered his axe and stared intently at her. So, the rumors are true; you are alive.
Yes, but that won’t matter if my aunt discovers me, which she will if we waste time.
Darcasta stepped the rest of the way around Gavin to take his seat. He positioned himself behind her, guarding her. Side by side, their features declared their kinship clearly. Only when Rhys had sheathed his weapon and the two warriors had reclaimed their chairs did her guards resume a less aggressive posture. Taking her own advice, Darcasta came to her point quickly. I need you to speak to the Storm Lord on my behalf.
If you’re looking for his help, I warn you that the Storm Lord will not help you create an escalation of your civil war,
Wulfric advised.
I don’t want to escalate the war; I want to end it. For that, I need official recognition of my legitimate claim to the throne. I request the protection of the Storm Lord.
Your ‘protection’ could embroil us in your war!
Rhys protested.
Your mere presence here could do as much,
Darcasta countered.
And it has,
piped up one of her guards as she peered out a window overlooking the street. A group of mounted soldiers just rode into town. Primus, but not champions, by the looks of them. They seem to be checking the buildings for occupants; we don’t have long before they look here.
The other guards flooded around Darcasta and Gavin. Everyone spilled out of the inn, into the biting winds of the alley, and across to the relative shelter of the stable where the horses waited. The Storm-born warriors, the last to exit the main building, conferred for a moment in the chaos before looking straight at her.
Cross the border.
Wulfric’s suggestion, coolly spoken, stopped all motion from her party. Crossing the border posed dangers all its own.
Darcasta strode back towards Wulfric and Rhys where they stood near the stable door to demand, Are you granting me safe passage?
No.
Darcasta paused, confusion knotting her brow. If I cross the border, I will be subject to the Storm Lord’s judgment.
To whatever that judgment might be. His authority had no limits inside the borders of Brynstorm.
Yes.
The tension spiraled between them, overflowing with implications despite the simplicity of Wulfric’s responses.
My lady, we have to move now!
one of the guards behind her insisted, but she waved her hand to silence him.
If I enter Brynstorm without negotiating safe passage, we may all be killed.
Darcasta’s assessment received none of the denials she wanted to hear.
Might be,
Rhys contributed. But you definitely will be if you stay here.
She decided she could have done without the man’s blunt description of her situation.
Then you, my lady, will ride for the border with them instead,
Gavin stated, interrupting her discussion. Darcasta whipped her head around to look at him. Grabbing her elbow to pull her close, he locked gazes with her, his gray eyes and the commitment in them a mirror for hers. You ride north; negotiate with the Storm Lord. We’ll ride west, towards Tonitrus controlled territory.
They’ll chase you.
In fact, oblivious to her existence, the Primus soldiers would most likely direct all of their forces towards capturing the son of the head of the Tonitrus family.
That’s the idea. They might even catch me, but, hopefully, they won’t be chasing you.
Gavin shoved her towards Brynstorm’s emissaries. With a nod to the already mounted guards, he jumped astride his own horse and gathered them around himself as they headed for the exit. He smiled sadly at her as he paused at the door. Stay safe, little cousin.
Then, he departed in a thunder of hooves and left the echo of the seldom-used endearment ringing in her ears. Refusing to confront the idea that it might be the last time she saw him, Darcasta swept her gaze over the two men waiting for her. They could afford to wait patiently; unlike her, their lives, and the lives of their friends, suffered no risk regardless of her choices.
We’d best head for the border, then.
In silence, the three of them mounted their horses. Darcasta glanced over her shoulder once, but the turns of the town’s streets had already stolen her cousin from her view. Good luck,
she whispered into the wind before kicked her mount into motion.
The sound of their horses’ hoof beats echoed eerily in the near-empty town. The full moon provided the only light, but it was enough to see the small contingent of Primus soldiers coming down an intersecting road. Apparently, more than the one group had come to apprehend Gavin. Unfortunately for her, that meant there were plenty of soldiers to pursue her, and they knew it. They only numbered ten, but the odds didn’t seem in her favor, even with the presence of the two warriors beside her. The warriors of Brynstorm were renowned for their martial prowess, but she rather hoped to avoid a demonstration in the circumstances. Instead, Darcasta spurred her horse to greater speed and began her race towards the border. She’d intended to negotiate safe passage before trespassing, but she’d lost that chance. They left the town behind them quickly and galloped across the open fields; the Primus soldiers steadily reduced the distance between them. She only needed to cross the border into Brynstorm, across the shallow river. Once they cleared the river, she just had to hope that the Primus forces feared attracting the Storm Lord’s attention more than they feared losing her.
Patiently watching her barrel towards his kingdom, the Storm Lord, spyglass in hand, sat atop his horse amidst the trees that lined the main corridor into the Storm Mountains. Billowing rain clouds hovered, as if they, too, waited to remind unwary travelers of how the mountains earned their name. From the vantage point of his squad, Soren could see a relatively small unit adorned in Primus family colors, pursuing his two warriors and a third figure. In the middle of the group, the purple sash of the Ebony Throne’s ruling bloodline glowed like a beacon. Only three people in Shajar’Ebon were entitled to wear that sash, and only one of them actively fought with the supposed rebel force. His scouts had reported her rumored proximity, but Soren hadn’t thought she would actually enter his kingdom. Curious as to her intentions, he waited for her to take the irrevocable step into his domain.
Darcasta urged her horse through the sluggish river that marked the border. She would have kept galloping farther into Brynstorm, but her two Storm-born escorts wheeled their horses around to face the enemy, drawing their weapons as they did so. With an exasperated snarl, Darcasta mimicked their actions, drew her own sword, and waited for the approaching soldiers to cross the river. Though it wouldn’t save the two men beside her, the Primus soldiers still believed in the inviolability of the lives of the First Family; they wouldn’t kill her. Even if they fought on opposite sides of the argument, the soldiers would have held to that tenet despite her aunt’s desire for her blood.
Raising his axe above his head, Rhys released a bloodcurdling war cry towards their enemy in a wordless dare. A tiny smile flickered at the corner of Wulfric’s mouth. In contrast, Darcasta could feel none of their anticipation at the thought of killing other Shajari. Similarly, the faces of the Primus soldiers held nothing but grim determination as they crossed the border into Brynstorm.
Within an instant, the sound of clashing blades split the air at the base of the mountains. Wulfric and Rhys fought to hold their positions flanking her, but Shajari soldiers trained extensively on horseback. The battle quickly became a tangle of bodies and horseflesh. As the melee pushed farther into the trees and up the steep slope behind them, Darcasta thought she glimpsed the flash of a yellow sash from an Ebony Throne champion. That seemed unlikely, since they were the elite of the nation, gathered from all the houses, and they served as bodyguards for the First Family, the Primus family. Champions serving their house instead, like Gavin, would have worn a red sash, but none of the soldiers around her possessed enough skill for any sash. She didn’t have time to analyze that mystery before she noticed movement up farther on the slope, and the implications of that roared through her mind, filling her with dread.
The clouds raced down the foothills in advance of the Storm Lord, as if to herald his imminent arrival, and rain fell in sheets. The skirmish became even more confusing as visibility vanished. She tried to clear her eyes, but the futility quickly became apparent. In the mist and the rain, she watched the small unit of Storm-born warriors flow down the slope towards her with a fluidity she couldn’t help but appreciate. At the apex of their formation, a huge gray horse carried an unexpected complication; the Storm Lord himself, easily identified by the full suit of sky-iron armor he wore, rode towards her. At the sight of the master tactician on the potential battlefield, her trepidation about her own tactics reached a new height, but she could do nothing about that now.
She had never encountered him in the border skirmishes when their war overflowed too close and exceeded his tolerance… or when they raided his kingdom for supplies. Across the border, the cure for a virulent disease that threatened her people grew wild in the mountains, but her grandfather had refused to rescind his xenophobic trade embargo against Brynstorm even though it killed his son and son-in-law. Now, his bastard daughter seemed content to let her own son, a cousin as dear to Darcasta as a brother, die rather than negotiate with the Storm Lord, had he even been willing to do so. To date, the Storm Lord had refused to negotiate with either house during this civil war. She didn’t have time to question why her presence had changed the stance of his two emissaries. Shoving those thoughts aside Darcasta prepared to vent her frustrations on the Primus soldiers for forcing her into this position.
Despite the opinion of Gavin’s father Daryl, the head of the Tonitrus house, she belonged here, where she could react with her gut to the challenges presented to her rather than debate every hypothetical decision with pretty words in the safety of a war council. She didn’t have it in her to treat men and women objectively, to move her soldiers around like chess pieces on a distant map, a weakness her aunt, Arana Primus, did not share. Instead, the exhilaration of the fight pumped through Darcasta’s body with every heartbeat, despite knowing the purple sash of office she wore marked her as a target.
Objective and hypothetical did not rank as her primary descriptors, she mused. Reckless by her aunt’s standards, perhaps, but she preferred to think of it as decisive. Because of the risk she’d taken, her small force might be able to hold out against the Primus soldiers, and she might actually be able to reach safety. The only blight on that assessment currently rode down the mountainside towards her. At first glance, the Primus soldiers outnumbered the Storm-born warriors, but that meant little when their warriors towered over her countrymen and would barrel through them with no more regard for them than tin soldiers.
Even before the additional Brynstorm warriors reached her, a sharp sting in her side caused her to call out in shock. She glanced down, but no arrow or other obvious cause presented itself. An uncomfortable weakness stole through her muscles, causing her hand on the reins to spasm, but she refused to relinquish her hold on her sword. The horse danced beneath her in response and offered no help to her spinning world. She tried to steady herself, but her body felt like lead as she slid from the saddle. The mud softened her fall, but the impact still knocked the breath from her chest.
Soren saw her waver, saw her fall. It looked like she’d taken some injury, but he couldn’t identify the cause at this range. The two warriors who had crossed the border with her had been forced away from her side, and his own contingent of warriors hadn’t reached her yet. Their orders were to keep her alive and well, but they could hardly accomplish that at a distance. Cursing silently, he reacted to the problem by spurring his horse into the thick of soldiers. His prize was going to be trampled under her own country’s soldiers if he didn’t reach her soon in the confusion.
Despite the haziness that threatened her mind and the lethargy taking hold of her body, Darcasta kept her fingers locked around the hilt of her sword and fought to stand though the mud sucked her downwards. In that moment, she saw the Storm Lord again, looming over her like a dark cloud. She couldn’t afford to let him drive her back into the waiting hands of the Primus soldiers. Instinctively, she struck out at him, even though his mounted position gave him the advantage over her. Her blade connected with his axe. Their eyes locked over the entangled weapons. The fighting around them seemed to fade as they contemplated each other. His helmet’s face guard hid all but his dark eyes from her sight, which took on a sinister cast as a gray haze closed in on her. A twist of his wrist, and the hook of his axe caught her sword to pull it from her grasp, an easier task that she felt it should have been. The inferior metal of her blade bent and acquiesced. Oh, what she could have done with enough sky-iron weapons to outfit even a tenth of her soldiers. Not precisely a profound thought to carry into the void of unconsciousness, but it was the last thing to cross her mind before she collapsed.
Dropping his axe on its tether, Soren caught the Daughter of the Ebony Throne as she fell. He pulled her limp body securely into the shelter of his larger form in the saddle, wheeled his horse around, and galloped towards the guardhouse nestled higher in the pass. His warriors remained behind to push the Shajari soldiers back into their own territory. While he had hoped to meet this woman himself, he hadn’t planned on the possibility of her dying while he rode off with her. If she did… He rode faster, spurred on by the knowledge that her death would heighten the current tensions into an irreparable wound between their countries. If she died in his keeping, his kingdom would be drawn into the conflict, and nothing would unify Shajar’Ebon’s warring houses more surely than the death of a First Family member in the hands of the Storm Lord.
Chapter 2
Fuzzy impressions swam up through the black in a disjointed parade. A woman with kind eyes set in a wrinkled face. Odd tasting liquid flowing down her throat. An icy blast of cold before fur encased her. The jolting motion of mounted travel jostling her against an unyielding figure. Firelight flickering through barely lifted eyelids. Voices rumbling nearby. Hands subduing her gently, but firmly, while her body fought with the poison.
In that blackness, a memory spun to the surface to taunt her. She’d been in the Tonitrus house, surrounded by the other cell leaders and soldiers. A map detailing the progress of their battles stared bleakly back at them. One of the men voiced the problem they all faced.
Something’s wrong. The Primus forces shouldn’t have survived this long. We’re not going to be able to beat them this way, not without some clue as to how they’re managing.
However, no suggestions were forthcoming. Darcasta sighed and ran a hand through her hair before speaking.
Then we’ll need a new strategy.
And where do you propose we get this new strategy, Monarch?
The woman who spoke was younger but a decent fighter. Her zeal still required some tempering, as was evident by her strident tone.
Darcasta shook her head against such presumption. Don’t call me that. Whether or not we like it, my aunt holds the title. Whether or not it is legal, she is the Ebony Monarch and Riordan is the Heir. I will not follow in her footsteps and claim a title that is not my own. Until declared otherwise, I am simply a Daughter of the Ebony Throne.
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