Dragon Storm (Heritage of Power Book 1)

Deep in the stacks of the Pinoth University library, Rysha rubbed her eyes and fought back yawns. Four lanterns framed the table where she worked, shedding yellow light onto the world map spread across it. The sun had set a while ago—hours ago?—but she wasn’t sure what time it was. She only knew she should be getting some sleep since they were reporting to the hangar before dawn.

After the general’s meeting, she’d washed, changed, and hastily packed, then raced off to meet Sardelle here. Sardelle—it seemed so strange to think of General Zirkander’s wife by first name—had spent a couple of hours distilling her notes. She hadn’t done anything witchy—or was that sorceressy?—during the time, and Rysha was grateful for that. Even though she’d heard of the woman before, and hadn’t been as floored by the revelations as that Lieutenant Leftie had been, she didn’t have any personal experience with magic, or those who used it, and it had been hard to fight the urge to circle her heart with two fingers to ward off evil. A superstitious gesture, but one her grandmother used often, as did many from the older generation.

The magic only concerned her a little. Mostly, she felt honored to have been selected for the mission. She hadn’t expected to get to go on exciting missions until after she passed the elite troops tests and completed the training. She’d joined the army longing to make a name for herself and to show the world that Captain Kaika wasn’t an anomaly, that women could become elite soldiers too. Maybe she was going to get her chance to do that much sooner than she’d anticipated.

“I think she’s back here,” a male voice said, and Rysha dragged her wandering thoughts back to her work.

She could continue to piece together clues about the portal’s location while on the voyage to the Pirate Isles—seven gods, she hoped that worked out, that Neaminor hadn’t sold or traded away the sword—but it would be much easier here in the library than in some tiny open-air flier seat with the wind rushing past at eighty miles per hour.

“Ah ha, I see a light,” another man said, and Ravenwood recognized the voice. Captain Trip?

“There are lights at the end of every row,” the other man said dryly. Leftie?

Belatedly, she realized they must be looking for her. Did the leader of their mission, this Major Blazer, need the location of the portal now? If so, Rysha would be hard-pressed to provide it with certainty. But Zirkander hadn’t seemed to expect certainty. Pack for a long trip, he’d said, hinting that they would have to check numerous locales.

Three men strolled into view, peering left and right between the aisles of bookcases. Captain Trip looked right at her and smiled.

He hadn’t been smiling much during that meeting, so it was her first time seeing the gesture. It was warm, and he had an attractive face, though his skin was darker than typical for an Iskandian. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Plenty of people had parents from other countries, and during their various invasions over the centuries, the Cofah had left their blood on Iskandian shores in more ways than one.

Leftie was more classically handsome, dark hair and pale skin, a cleft chin and angular features. Women looked twice at him, Rysha was sure, though he carried himself with the kind of cockiness that tended to rub her the wrong way. She’d expected that from General Zirkander too, simply based on his reputation, but he’d been laid-back and easy-going with a smile that could turn a girl’s knees to mush. Even though he was far from her type, and she was positive she wasn’t his, she’d felt a twinge of disappointment that he was married.

“Found her,” Trip said.

“Are you positive?” Leftie tilted his head from side to side and squinted at Rysha. “She’s not wearing any mud. It’s hard to be sure.”

“Ha ha.” Realizing that both Trip and the third man with them, Captain Duck, outranked her, Rysha came to her feet and saluted.

The men weren’t in uniform, and it wasn’t technically required, but she tried to err on the side of professionalism when it came to the army. She wasn’t in uniform, either, but she was most certainly on duty and working.

“We decided to do some team bonding,” Leftie said, after they returned her salute. “Now that we are one. A team, that is.” He offered her his cocky smile. “You’re invited.”

“An honor, I’m sure, but I’m trying to figure out where we’re going.” Rysha gestured at the map. “I’ve heard pilots like to know that before they take off.”

She wasn’t even sure of the exact coordinates of the Pirate Isles. They were on the world maps, but she’d heard that strange things happened in that section of the ocean, and air and sea ships alike had a hard time finding them.

“I’m usually just happy to be in the air,” Trip said, sticking a hand in his pocket as he surveyed the map.

“Not me,” Leftie said. “I like to get up, do my job, and get back home where the comforts are. Such as women. And beer. Oh, and I’ve got to figure out how to sign up for the local hookball league. I’ve heard the capital team is pretty good. They should be excited to have me.”

“No doubt,” Trip murmured.

Rysha rolled her eyes, glad Leftie was a lieutenant so she wouldn’t have to salute or defer to him. He likely had seniority, but the rest of the team should treat them about the same.

“They have signups at the end of every month,” Captain Duck offered. He had some of Zirkander’s laid-back easygoingness, along with a big nose and big ears that made him more homely than handsome, but she would take homely over cocky any day.

“Lieutenant Ravenwood, will you come with us to…” Leftie looked at Duck.

“The Black Stag,” Duck supplied.

“Apparently, it’s a regular hangout for soldiers,” Leftie said.

“You can bring your work,” Trip added. “It does seem like it would be a good idea for us all to get to know each other before fighting dragons together.”

“Technically, we’re just fighting the portal, aren’t we?” she asked.

“Dragons could be coming out of it when we get there. And they might not appreciate us wanting to destroy it.”

“I haven’t noticed that dragons are appreciative varmints in general,” Duck said. “Even the ones that are our supposed allies are about as thankful as quail running from the hound you just leashed.”

“Dragons are long-lived, nearly impossible to kill, and extremely powerful,” Rysha said. “They’re used to getting what they want. Gratitude and politeness didn’t play much of a role in their societies, even among other dragons.”

“Sardelle is all those things, and she still says thank you if you give her a mango tart.” Duck smiled, and Rysha assumed it was a joke. Even if Sardelle was a genuine sorceress, she wouldn’t have anywhere near the power of a dragon. No human sorceress ever had. At most, a human could have half dragon blood, but nobody alive today was half dragon or anywhere close. Thanks to the thousand-year gap when there’d been no dragons around at all, as Sardelle had said, most people were extremely far removed from their scaled ancestors.

“She’s not really three hundred years old, is she?” Trip asked Duck.

“Nah, she’s in her late thirties. She was in some kind of mage stasis chamber, I think she called it, where she didn’t age or anything for all that time, and then she accidentally got dug out by some miners and woken up.” Duck spread a hand. “It’s a long story about how she and the general met, but you can ask ’em about it if you want. They’re not shy about sharing. Only, uh, don’t ask for all the details. There are a lot of… libidinous bits. For old people, they’re randier than rabbits in a briar thicket.”

“Old people? How old are you, Duck?” Rysha asked.

“Twenty-eight.”

“And you think someone in her late thirties is old?”

“Well, Sardelle seems real mature for her age, I guess. And Zirkander, he’s into his forties, I think. Though he is pretty young for a general. Now General Ort, he was an old humorless stick. You two are real lucky to be here under Zirkander’s command.” Duck waved at Trip and Leftie. “He doesn’t get mad unless you really, really screw up, and he’s not afraid to stand up to anyone on your behalf. He’ll even get in a row with the king if he has to. Wish he was leading this mission. Not that there’s anything wrong with Major Blazer—I’ve been on missions with far worse commanders—but it’s sad that Zirkander doesn’t head up Wolf Squadron anymore. I used to fly with him, you know. He hates being behind a desk instead of in a cockpit, and he fought against that promotion. But overall, it’s good that one of our own is running the battalion.”

Rysha was starting to wonder if there was a pilot alive that didn’t have a crush on Zirkander.

She rolled up her map, blew out the lanterns, and picked up her pack, sensing that the men would stand around and talk all night if she didn’t agree to go with them. Perhaps they would wander off once they reached the Black Stag, and she could work. Though at this point, she had looked over all her notes and Sardelle’s notes at least three times and didn’t think she could narrow her guesses down to fewer than five.

• • • • •

The Stag was far too noisy for work, but Rysha cleared herself a table in the back and rolled out her map anyway. The table wobbled alarmingly and had gum and other indeterminable substances stuck underneath it. She found a coaster and placed it under one of the legs, trying to even it out. It wobbled more. She sighed.

Duck and Leftie went straight out into the crowd to mingle, both zeroing in on a group of women. Rysha wondered just how much “getting to know each other” and bonding as a team would happen tonight. They looked like they would rather get to know strange women in a horizontal capacity.

Better strange women than her, she supposed, since she couldn’t imagine herself spending horizontal time with either man. Not that they’d given her contemplative looks. She wore trousers and a sweater, the clothing not much more revealing than army fatigues, and her spectacles… Well, she’d cleaned the mud off them. And removed the strap. She knew she wasn’t unattractive, but she also didn’t get ogled on a regular basis. Or an irregular one, either. But she’d been picked first for sports teams all through school, thanks to her height and a knack for causing competitors from other teams to underestimate her. She might look like a librarian, but she could hurl a hookball from one end of the field to the other without it bouncing.

Trip stood with his hands in his pockets near her table, his back to a post, alternating between looking uncomfortable and watching two fiddlers try to out-fiddle each other on the stage. Rysha caught him glancing over at her and the map a few times, but sensed that he didn’t want to bother her if she was working. She had a feeling this evening out hadn’t been his idea.

She wondered why the men hadn’t invited Captain Kaika. Maybe because she was older than they were—no doubt considered “old people” by Duck’s standards. Though she was a captain, she ought to have been a major or even a colonel, given how long she’d been in the service. Maybe she, like Zirkander, had fought against promotions to ensure she could keep doing fieldwork. Rysha had a hard time believing she was anything except a dedicated and reliable soldier. It was hard to imagine her getting into trouble and suffering demerits and demotions. From everything she’d read about the captain, she was reliable and good at her job.

“Evening, pretty thing,” a bearded man with a pipe drawled, ambling toward Rysha’s table, wobbling as he approached. He carried a mug of beer, the liquid sloshing around even after he stopped. He glanced at the map. “You bring homework to a bar?”

“Something like that,” Rysha murmured.

His gaze shifted to her chest. Maybe someone liked her sweater, after all. Not that she wanted some drunk man’s interest.

“You must be a student, eh? I like students. Pretty. Shy.”

Ugh, he sounded like he liked preying on students.

“I’m not that shy.” Rysha stood up, a little pleased that she had an inch or two on him.

Not that men were always intimidated by tall women, but she figured she could defend herself against unwelcome advances from her feet better than from the chair. He had a gut and would have slow reflexes from the drink. He was no Sergeant Branigan, Cofah infiltrator.

“No?” Unfortunately, he looked intrigued rather than intimidated. He sipped from his mug and looked her up and down, gaze lingering on her breasts, the sweater curving noticeably around them. “I don’t mind aggressive women, either. You can take the top if you like.”

It took her a moment to realize that he meant in bed. She wasn’t a virgin, but she also wasn’t used to strangers jumping right to sexual suggestions. Who had suggested this pit of a pub, anyway?

“I’m not interested,” Rysha said.

“No? You were quick to stand up and look excited.” He set his mug down, leaving a beer ring on her map. “Why don’t we try a dance, see if we’ve got any rhythm together?”

“No.”

“Come on. Just a quick dance.” He was already close, but he stepped closer, reaching for her waist—or maybe her ass.

She caught his wrist, squeezing hard enough to, she hoped, deter him. “Go away.”

Indignation, or maybe anger, flared in his eyes. “Don’t care much for women telling me what to do.”

“Get over it.” Rysha released his wrist and stepped back, but he came after her, reaching for her again, that anger still in his eyes, as if he meant to teach her a lesson.

Tired of subtlety, she caught his wrist again, and this time yanked it as she brought her heel down on his foot. He yelped, and she kicked his leg out from under him, grunting as his weight toppled toward her. But she had the strength and leverage to deal with it. She spun him, jerking his arm up behind his back, and thrust him toward a roughly hewn wooden post. His face smashed into it, and she hoped a legion of splinters rammed up his nose.

He struggled, trying to bring his strength to bear, but she had his arm twisted in such a way that she could make it hurt if he fought her. After three attempts at trying to escape her lock, he slumped in defeat.

“You going to leave me alone now?” she asked, yelling in his ear to be heard over the music. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to their little squabble.

“Yeah,” the man grumbled.

She released him and stepped back, fists ready to come up if she needed to defend herself again. He sneered at her, straightened his shirt, walked to the table to get his beer, then strode away.

Rysha looked for her teammates, wondering if any of them had noticed the exchange. Leftie had his lips locked to some woman’s, but Duck, who’d ended up chatting with a couple of short-haired men who were probably soldiers, was watching her. He gave a thumb-to-fingers circle when their eyes met and lifted his mug toward her, as if he’d assumed she could handle herself all along. She admitted that pleased her more than if one of them had come running over to rescue her.

“…sure look like a Cofah,” came some growled words from the next post over, a lull in the music allowing Rysha to hear them.

“Yeah, he does. Shifty. Like a spy,” a second man said.

Rysha started, realizing they were talking about Trip. Two big, muscular men had him backed up to the post. They were short-haired and in uniform, and she recognized one from her infantry battalion, though she didn’t know his name.

“I’m a soldier,” Trip said, a hint of indignation in his voice. “The same as you. Lieuten—Captain—Trip.”

“Oh, ho, an officer, is it?” One of them shoved Trip in the shoulder. “Most officers know their ranks. Unless they’re Cofah spies.”

“Just got promoted. Would you care to share your ranks with me?” Trip didn’t appear that worried, but he also didn’t look like he could walk away without being blocked. And abused.

As far as Rysha knew, the flier units didn’t put a lot of emphasis on physical fitness and hand-to-hand combat skills, beyond ensuring their troops could do the minimums to pass the army tests. The brawny infantry boys would probably pummel Trip into the floor if the situation devolved into a fight.

Rysha strolled toward the group, hoping she could end things simply by identifying him. Given that they only had seven or eight hours before they had to report for duty, they didn’t need any incidents involving the fort infirmary.

“Sure he wants to know our ranks,” one of the men said. “For his spy report.”

“Evening, Captain,” Rysha said strolling up and slipping past one man so she could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Trip. “What do you think of the capital so far?”

Trip gave her a relieved look. “The bars aren’t as friendly as I’d been told.”

“Just wait until your reputation spreads. I hear General Zirkander hasn’t bought his own beers for a long time.” She hadn’t heard that, but suspected it was true.

“Who are you?” one of the men asked.

The other one, the one she recognized from her battalion, appeared less suspicious. He probably didn’t know her name any more than she knew his, but he must have seen her around in the last few months.

“Lieutenant Ravenwood.” She faced him, standing at her full height.

These men had a few inches on her, but she figured her name would carry whatever weight her height didn’t. She’d never cared to rely on being from the nobility, but with one of her uncles on the King’s council, most people who were even vaguely aware of politics had heard of it.

She wasn’t sure if her name or her rank made more of a difference, but the men did take a step back.

One jerked a thumb at Trip. “You’re with this…”

“Captain,” Rysha offered. “And yes.”

“You’re sure he’s not a spy, LT?”

“He’s a brave pilot who’s risked his life often to protect Iskandia,” she said coolly, tired of the stupidity stampeding around this bar like scared cattle trapped in a corral.

“Oh, all right. If you know him then…” The men lifted their hands and backed into the crowd.

“Thanks,” Trip said, though he wore an aggrieved expression as they walked to her table together. Nobody liked to have to be saved by someone else, so she understood that. She was sure it was even harder for men when women came to their rescue. “I, uh, didn’t realize you’d heard of me. Before today, I mean.”

“I hadn’t.” Rysha slid into her seat and waved for him to take the one opposite.

“Oh.” Disappointment flashed in his eyes, making her wish she’d lied. “That part about me protecting Iskandia made it sound like it,” he added.

“Isn’t that what all pilots do?”

“I suppose so. But I’ve been shot at more than most pilots who’ve been in as long as me. Or longer.” His face screwed up as he seemed to reconsider whether that was something he should brag about or not.

She stifled a giggle since he might not appreciate it. “Because you’ve protected Iskandia more often than most or because you’re more reckless than most?”

“Uhm, that second thing. I actually thought I was being brought in to be reprimanded when I was given orders to transfer over here and told I was being promoted.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s my first day as captain. That’s why I keep messing up my rank.”

“You’re young to make captain. How long have you been in?”

“It’s been two years since I graduated from the academy. I… it surprised me, honestly. Not being transferred—everybody knows there’s been more trouble on this side of the country—but the rest. I’m not sure I’m ready to be in charge of anything. It’s not like my last CO sang my praises that often.”

“Zirkander must have seen something in your record,” Rysha said, assuming he signed off on promotions within his battalion. “Honestly, I’m more surprised someone handed you a soulblade.”

“A what?”

“The sword Sardelle gave you. There’s a sentient soul inside, at least according to the legends. When sorcerers died, especially if they knew their deaths were coming and had time to prepare, they sometimes did a ceremony to infuse their essences, their souls, into magical swords. And then sorcerers who were deemed deserving would be given the sword and bond with the soul inside.”

Trip looked a little disturbed as he digested this, making Rysha wonder why Sardelle hadn’t explained more to him. Maybe the soulblade would explain things to him.

“If you’d brought it along, it probably could have kicked those two brutes’ asses,” Rysha said.

Looking even more sheepish, he said, “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to walk around the city with it. Like if that’s even legal.”

“It’s fine to carry weapons in the capital, especially if you’re a soldier. And you should be taking the sword everywhere you go to bond with it.”

“Bond? It’s Sardelle’s to be bonded with, right? It’s just on loan to me for the mission.”

“Even so, you should treat it with reverence and respect. It’s no small thing to be allowed to use a soulblade. There aren’t all that many left in the world.”

“Huh, all right.”

Rysha looked down at her map, deciding to change the subject since he appeared uncomfortable with it all. Besides, who was she to lecture him? She knew about magical swords, but thus far, all her experience was academic.

At least he didn’t seem as alarmed by everything as Leftie had been during the meeting. Judging by Trip’s accent, he was from the eastern provinces—they both were—and superstitions ran rampant over there. A lack of education, too. Though they both would have needed university degrees to join the service as officers.

“What did you study in school, Trip?” Rysha asked.

“Mechanical engineering.”

“Oh?” She looked back up at him. “You must enjoy math, then.”

“I mostly enjoy building and fixing things. I wanted to learn enough about machines to fix my own flier if I was shot down.”

“The odds being greater for that than for other pilots, since you find yourself getting shot at so much?”

“Heh, I guess so.”

She folded her hands on the wobbly table, thinking he might explain more about the degree and his interests, but he looked down at the map, like he wasn’t certain what to say next.

“Can mechanical engineers fix tables?” Rysha asked, leaning on an elbow to produce a wobble.

“Yes. Though I could build you a new table too. My grandfather is a woodworker, and I used to help him around the shop.”

“I believe you would find that the Black Stag lacks tools and raw materials.”

“Perhaps so.”

“Also, I probably don’t need a new table for one night of studying.” She gestured to the map.

Did he look a touch disappointed?

“One moment.” Trip disappeared under the table.

Rysha thought about collecting him some coasters, but her attempt to employ them as supports hadn’t amounted to much.

After a few seconds, Trip returned to his seat and extended a hand toward the table in invitation. She leaned an elbow on one side, expecting it would continue to wobble, but it now sat firmly and evenly on the floor.

“Huh.” She peered under it, but it was too dark to see what he’d done. “An engineering miracle.”

“Yes, you’ve just witnessed all four years of my college education distilled into one moment of genius.”

She giggled, then clasped a hand over her mouth. Her aunt had often told her that it wasn’t proper for noble ladies to giggle. They were supposed to titter delicately if necessary, or better yet, simply smile serenely. Rysha didn’t always follow her aunt’s advice on ladylike protocol, but sometimes when she laughed too hard, she snorted. She suspected neither noble ladies nor military officers were supposed to do that.

She looked back down to study the map, but not wanting to exclude her guest, asked, “What kind of tables do you usually make?”

“I always made furniture with useful built-in features. My grandfather told me simple and elegant was best, but I never believed him. My last table had cup holders, racks for overhead lanterns, a bookcase on one end, and a crank so you could raise and lower the whole thing.”

“Sounds lovely. Did you know the earliest tables were believed to be made here in Iskandia? By the coastal tribes that brought us the Statues of Evermore? It was close to ten thousand years ago. Those tables, however, were little more than stone platforms used for keeping objects off the floor.”

“No cranks or bookcases, huh?”

“We were a simple people back then.”

He had his elbows up on the table, chin propped on his hands, watching her study the map. “Were you able to use Sardelle’s notes to find the location of the portal?”

“Not one location, no, but with her notes, I’ve narrowed it down to five possible spots and three likely spots. Subarctic Zharr, the southern polar cap, and the ice floes of Il-gothnor. Sardelle had more places selected, but these are areas where dragon artifacts have been found in the past by intrepid explorers on expeditions. Also, looking at known dragon sightings—and there have been a lot of them—they started in the southern hemisphere and trickled northward. Now, they’re appearing all over, but…” She tapped the polar cap with her pencil. “There are some islands sheathed in ice down here, and the ice sheets themselves are so thick in places that—”

“That’s it,” Trip said, resting his finger next to her pencil.

The certainty in his voice surprised her.

“I mean, based on what you said, it makes a lot of sense,” he amended.

She squinted at him.

He twitched a shoulder. “And I have a hunch. When you said that stuff, it clicked inside my mind, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.”

Even though she’d just met him, she had a feeling his hunches were usually right. She’d caught Sardelle giving him a few significant looks when she’d been talking about dragon blood and sorcerers. He might believe he was a simple, table-making pilot, but Rysha wagered there was a reason Sardelle had chosen him to carry her sword. Or the sword had chosen him.

Rysha wasn’t sure how she felt about that. If those two men who’d randomly selected him to harass were any indication, Trip probably didn’t make friends easily, which made her want to befriend him, but she shuddered at the idea of standing next to someone who could read her mind.

But Trip probably couldn’t do that. If he had mind powers, he could have convinced those two soldiers to wander off without bothering him. Besides, if he did have a little dragon blood, it could come in handy on the mission. Maybe his hunch would pay off.

“I’ll tell Major Blazer that I suggest we start looking at the polar cap,” Rysha said.

Trip nodded. “After we visit Neaminor.” His eyes gleamed.

“Excited at the prospect?”

“Pirates have been harassing our coastlines since—”

A wailing started up outside, the city-wide alert siren that announced an imminent attack.

“Invaders!” someone yelled.

“Pinoth is under attack!”

All the men with short hair—the soldiers in the pub—charged for the door.

Trip’s eyes grew round. “Dragons are coming.”