Ascendant: Chronicles of the Red Lion Read online

  Rennier recoiled, choking on his reply, the accusatory tone gutting him of his resolve. “I - I don’t understand.”

  “And even now you defy my orders,” Bastille said in an icy but calm tone.

  “I thought maybe if we were to capture one of them, I could gather more intelligence.” Fear laced his every word.

  Bastille’s massive hand shot up and enclosed around Rennier’s throat, lifting him off the ground with relative ease. The waning strength of Rennier’s clawing fingers made for a useless attempt at freeing himself. He struggled under the vice-like hand around his neck, his consciousness rapidly slipping away from him.

  Bastille stepped out, holding the struggling man over the edge of the cliff. His other hand still rested at the small of his back. “You are of considerable value to me, so long as you obey my commands, Major,” Bastille said. “None of which have anything to do with capture, torture, or death of our enemies. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I… my… apologies,” Rennier forced out through painful gurgles.

  “Otherwise, if you want to capture her to torture her for information I already have, she’s down there,” he pointed at the ripples emanating from the barely visible recon scout as she swam to safety. “I’ll even help you down if you wish.” And with that, Bastille let him go.

  Rennier’s upper torso bounced against the edge of the cliff and slid away as gravity pulled at him. He scrambled to keep himself aloft, gasping for air. Nails split and cracked in half as he clawed against the rocks and dirt to keep from falling. His foot found a crevice, and a gasp of relief shot from his lips in a hiss. He pulled himself onto safe ground, heaving in huge gulps of air, and swallowed back the bile and vomit that stirred in his gut rather than deposit it on his general’s boots.

  Bastille towered over him. “Apologies are unnecessary, Major Rennier. Nor do I want your independent thought. Or your sadistic cruelty or your bloodthirsty desire to bring about death. What I want from you, the only thing I want from you, is obedience. Nothing less and nothing more. And the day you cease to fear your own death is the day I will allow you to bring death to anyone you choose without discrimination. Until then, the power to command death is mine and mine alone.”

  Bastille then turned and walked away, leaving Rennier to contemplate the expendable nature of his life, and to nurse his broken, bleeding fingers alongside his broken, bleeding ego.

  Chapter Two

  A blanket of pitch black covered the surrounding hills as if they bore the weight of the sky. Her heart beat hard in her chest. Her body felt numb and heavy, too cumbersome to walk. She dragged herself onto the shore, grateful for her survival of the jump from the cliff and ensuing swim, although her left ankle throbbed with pain and its stiffness threatened to slow her down.

  She was still heaving in huge gulps of air as she leaned against the jagged rocks that lined the shore. The swim across the tributary sucked at all of her strength and she felt too fatigued to even stand. It hurt to take in air, more so than breathing should have.

  She took a moment to check for other damage sustained by the plummet from the cliff besides her ankle and her ribs. The more she moved along, it became more obvious that she would be lucky to have only one bruised rib, and guessed there were at least three, judging by the flares of intense pain between breaths.

  In the far distance, the collective light from hundreds of campfires bloomed a sickly orange against the nightfall. The air still stank like burning oil and tar despite the distance.

  Checking the biodiagnostic positioning unit strapped to her wrist, she cursed to find it shattered and logged with water. Without it, no one would know where she was or what condition she was in. Still days away from the jungle pass at Bongorra that bordered the nation-state, she willed herself to do whatever it took to get back and provide the gathered intelligence of the advancing armies. Her team deserved that much.

  After cresting a tiny hill, signs of a village lay across the land far into the distance. If she was headed in the right direction, that village would be Saroi. Smoke curled up and away in long, chaotic white strands against the star speckled sky. Flattened farm land held the beginnings of vegetables next to an enclosure holding two cows.

  The view of the sleepy hamlet promised her assistance, food, and transportation, if the locals were friendly. However, with the adolescent boy who trailed after her in the surrounding forest, one could hardly tell. She had so far pretended not to see him.

  A river running south would take her to the cluster of islands near the southern coast. That plan meant she would need a boat. And with the stench of fish and manure on the little scout that followed her, she guessed the village ahead would have something that suited her needs.

  The long boat Asirra acquired later that week dug into the sand surrounding the little island formation just off the coast. Its hull leaked water from two spots that she saw and perhaps from several more spots that she could not see. The entire ensemble was only strips of rotting oak’s bark lashed together with rope, and with a flimsy crossbeam for a seat.

  The boat was sturdy enough to skip across the archipelago that led up to the major continent. She threw away the sail earlier — maybe two days ago, right after talking with the six-fingered monk at the monastery in Saroi for the last time before her departure. The thought reminded her she would have to one day return and repay the monk for his patience and his generosity.

  The animal skin sail quickly wilted at contact with saltwater. Its ineffectiveness, not to mention the stench, caused her to toss it aside. She had no intention of returning the little wreck of a boat anyway. She borrowed it from the monk for a total cost of two buns and a bowl of spicy soup. Now that she had the boat, she was more than sure she got cheated. But it got her farther than bruised ribs and a twisted ankle would have.

  The food she didn’t need since most Natai could survive for long periods without it. A Saroian woman who sought to heal her pushed the soup and buns into her hands as she forced her way out of the woman’s hut. She refused to stay another day, no matter how much the woman warned against agitating her injuries further, infections, or death. Desperate to be away, she swapped the food for the floating pile of wood scrap and animal hide.

  Now her stomach churned and gurgled, an angry reminder that it was empty. There were no street vendors about and no kids offering to sell unidentified, and questionable meat on a stick. She left the fishing villages south of Saroi days behind her, now regretting her stubbornness in refusing food.

  Thorny bushes sporting bunches of foul green and purple berries hung low from nearby. The sickening stench gave away their proximity. Azagu berries. Although they littered the bushes in bursts of purple, red, and gray, she only found a handful that weren’t damaged or fermenting and soon gave up sorting the good from the bad. Even the edible ones smelled like a dead fish and taxed her gag reflexes, so there was no actual reason to separate them. Their oily skins and fleshy fruits provided a much-needed boost of energy, however.

  A leaning slab of rock gave relief to the fierce morning sun through the long shadow it cast on the sand. She took a spot in it, leaning her body against the tall, flat stone. It was like marble and cool to the touch. It transferred its chill through her back and into her body. A welcome sensation followed a morning filled with satiated hunger while trying to keep the process of digestion from robbing her of what little strength she had left. But she would soon lose that fight.

  Her eyes threatened to close after a brief time, making every blink a chore. She well knew of the fatigue that sank deep into her bones from the countless days of travel and with very little rest. This, however, was more than just fatigue. Keen senses were more than adequate to alert her to any danger that might have presented itself while she napped, but they soon dulled, giving in to the overwhelming heaviness of complete exhaustion.

  She awoke at the sounds of local wildlife. The heat receded enough for the sky to come alive with movement and activity, but the air hung in swe
ltering heaviness. Sweat soaked her clothing. Red, raised patches throbbed on her arms and the air had her throat feeling sandpaper coated.

  The thought of a refreshing drink of water compelled her to get moving. Dust fell from her clothes and swirled about in the gentle breeze as she edged her body off the stone face. Pain radiated itself from every joint. Something wasn’t right. A quick look around her further confirmed her suspicions.

  The wooden dinghy was where she had left it, beached upon the sand and creaking methodically with each tiny wave that brushed against its underbelly. Footprints sunk into the sand at the edge of the water appeared to have been undisturbed. Her pained, knotted body and the sun rashes on her arms and face told another story. She thought it best to move into the trees for the rest of her trip. The next town was not far, but the trip would take longer with a badly twisted ankle and a set of bruised ribs.

  The afternoon light of the sun twinkled through the forest overhang like golden drops of dew, and the motley shades cast by the trees crossed over her body as if tangled within the sunlight. She limped along an unfamiliar trail off the main road to keep out of sight and continued to push south. Sweat poured from her face and body in hot, sticky drops, yet the wind blew vigorously through the trees and forest.

  An old hovertruck rattled its way up the path, catching her by surprise. Although antigravity lifters was old technology, the hovertruck was a sure sign she neared the capital nation-state. Technology improved the closer one got to the central hub of the nation-state. An ancient hovertruck meant she was closer to home than before, and that signified progress in the right direction. She stepped out into the path of the slow moving hovertruck and held up a hand, the other clutching her stomach.

  The truck rattled to a halt, kicking up small dust devils underneath its chassis. An old man eased himself out of the driver’s seat. He stood with the door open between him and Asirra, a hand resting on the shotgun in the seat next to him.

  “Something I can do for you, friend?” he asked. His eyes scanned the trees in caution. He was no stranger to the collections of bandits that littered the outskirts of civilization, and would not be an unwitting casualty today.

  “Please,” Asirra said in a breathless whisper. “I need to get to the Reach.”

  The old man eyed her suspiciously. “The Reach? You’re a long way from home. What you doing out here all busted up like that?”

  Asirra said nothing, but grabbed at the stab of pain in her chest. Something was definitely wrong.

  The old man stepped closer, squinting at her face. “You’re Natai. And from the looks of things, I’d say a sick one.” He gave her the twice over. “Uh huh. Cracked ribs and a nasty twisted ankle. Lucky it ain’t broke.” His eyes met hers in a cautious gaze. “Just what in the hells have you been into?”

  Asirra struggled to raise her head. “I need help,” she said, her body swaying over the stick she leaned against.

  “You’ve been out of your element too long, far as I can tell. How long without a dose of serum?” he asked with some concern. “You’ve eaten azagu berries too. Normally the bush variety are just harmless and stinky. If you ate the costal berries off the vines, which I gather you did, those are all poisonous.”

  Asirra still said nothing, the green pallor of her skin giving away her previous diet.

  “Your blood’s gone toxic.” The old man pushed himself under her arm and helped her toward the hovertruck. “Gods be damned, woman. You will die out here without that protein. Or die of the watery shits. One of the two. Or maybe both. Let’s hope what little medicine I have isn’t useless.” He helped her to her feet and shoved her into the passenger seat before he pulled away.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” said Asirra. She winced at every sway or hard turn, her head pounding.

  The old man slowed his hovertruck, glancing at her a moment. Apprehension crept across his brow. “You’re with the Bloodguard,” he said.

  Asirra opened her mouth to say something, but the old man cut her off. “Don’t bother denying it. My aethermechanized ocular implant can see that long range biodiagnostic scanalyzer clutching onto your heart. It looks a lot like what the reconnaissance agents assigned to the Crimson Bloodguard used when I… contracted… with them years and years ago. Looks like there have been lots of upgrades since my time, but it’s still more or less the same biodiagnostic scanalyzer underneath all the micro wiring and nanosynth metal. Also looks like yours is not quite functioning.”

  They drove in silence for the rest of the trip. The Reach was still on the horizon, its tall spire nothing more than a blue vertical line positioned over the city.

  Ael, a small farming and coastal community, much like the one she had left near the archipelago, arose on the horizon. Asirra met with a special services messenger to take her report to the Reach, an approach that was infinitely more secure than sending the message and report through the easily, and often hacked hyperchannels and the even less secure digital data highway.

  Soon after their meeting, the messenger ran to the stables with Asirra’s intelligence report on an encrypted datacard and conscripted a khydrid longsteed. The horse-like beasts crossed terrain easily on six legs, and could use aether surrounding them to their advantage. Although he had requested a khydrid that could manipulate water-type aether so he could skip across the water separating islands, but there were none. The journey would take him several days if he rode hard to the next capital checkpoint. He may have the opportunity to commandeer mechanized transport, but the khydrid did not carry with it the anxiety of breaking down. Beyond the next town, the icy frost that covered the northern part of the continent would slow him down, and was notorious for seizing engines in its freezing temperatures. Most khydrids, like the one he had, were able to use the cold to their advantage, turning the aether’s frost into raw power and heat.

  He rode with all the speed he could squeeze from his khydrid. Key stables kept stocked by the national courier service would supply him with fresh khydrid longsteeds. The time it took for him to find the right khydrid for the next leg of the trip was troublesome, but necessary. He mapped the staging points in his head as he broke across valleys and blazed over hillsides, tearing through ever increasing population centers. The Reach was still days away.

  Chapter Three

  “Darkness. In the absence of light, the world becomes a blanket of darkness. Its vibrant hues and soft visual emotions more a part of memory than reality. Black. Turned off. Unplugged. Dysfunctional. I am deprived of sensation, thanks to the loving embrace of the pharma gods, Haldol the Just and Thorazine the Mighty.”

  “Don’t be silly, Amalia,” the doctor in the crisp, white coat said as he sat across from her. “What happened to the intricate, dare I say, normal problems of being a teenager? Peer pressure. Social demands. All the unrealistic teenage expectations. Lamenting your self image. Hating your, and I quote, tall, lanky, and broad-shouldered, yet-to-develop body. Where has that anxiety gone?”

  “You asked me to write about my experiences, Dr. Gadot. That’s what I did,” Amalia said in a tone that hinted at defiance. She shifted atop the hard, lumpy pad beneath her that passed itself off as a mattress, rusted springs groaning under her weight.

  Dr. Gadot sighed and shrugged, running a hand over his gray, balding head. “Go on.”

  “Years ago, I lost my sight and my voice, along with my pride and my dignity. To be more precise, those things were taken away from me. Taken from me by the tyrant kings Hal and Thor, who together ruled the land of Schizophrenia with fists of iron. I challenged them and their armies to a contest in sanity. And they performed with a flawless precision, as they always have and forever will, I imagine. When I rose against them, my determination held the strength and courage of a battalion of Spartan soldiers. Mine was a roaring, angry revolution slowed to nothing more than a dribbling chin and shuffling feet. Thank you, Hal and Thor, for soundly and thoroughly kicking my ass into a stupefied, submissive drool more times than I care
to count.”

  A lengthy sigh pushed its way out of the doctor’s mouth, his eyes hooded in disapproval. “I never prescribed you Haldol or Thorazine, Amalia.”

  “No one could deny my victory but them,” she continued, glaring over the top of her notebook at him. “They destroyed an insignificant mortal. They feared my talents, of which I have none besides finger painting with Mr. Bob, who has to be the corniest art therapist in the world. That and karaoke. They feared my ability to sing the perfect rendition of Ain’t Nothing Going on but the Rent without the use of the karaoke machine prompts. And because of their wildly maddening jealousy, they struck me blind, took away my voice, and sent me to rot in the corners of the Underhell, also known as the Pennsylvania Institute of Psychiatric Sciences, or PISS, as punishment.

  “So they sent you to rot in a place where you already are?” Dr. Gadot raised an eyebrow. “Besides that not making any sense, psychiatric starts with a P, my dear, which makes it PIPS, not PISS,” he said.

  “Of course it does, but that’s how little I care,” Amalia replied. “You’re the head shrink. Doctors don’t get to be crazy.” She waited for a snarky response as Dr. Gadot stared at her. “So here I sit, surrounded by these four white walls. They protect me from nothing. An indigestible hunk of bread pudding I want to talk to out of sheer boredom, but with both of us unable to speak, I can say nothing. The bread pudding is, well, just bread pudding. Residence in the Underhell is without meaning. No one cares.”

  “While I do not doubt your appraisal of the bread pudding, I am curious to wonder what about your parents?” he asked, which produced from her a sardonic smirk. “They must care just a little about you.”

  “I see movement in the corner of my eye. Bits and pieces of life that may or may not be there. Am I crazy? Don’t think so,” she forced out, all but ignoring his comment as she continued to read. “A shadow here. A glowing light there. I can hear my name on the winds. The voice says I am perfect. A vessel. A replacement. I must ignore that voice.”