A New Dawn Boxed Set Two: Dawn of Days, Broken Skies, Broken Bones (New Dawn Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Amy Hopkins

  “It stretches and heaves like a lass givin’ birth,” Garrett explained. “But don’t let Bette know I told ye that. She thinks it’s not polite or some shit.”

  Marcus stepped back. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible passage between worlds. Then, he stepped forwards and lazily swung his arm around, slicing through it with his sword.

  The sword slowed and caught, like a stick trying to cut through quicksand. Unseen forces grabbed at the blade, drawing it in.

  Marcus’s heart raced, and he yanked it back. The sword released with a low ‘pop’ that was felt, rather than heard.

  “Watch this,” Carey said. Without taking his eyes off the rift, he dropped into a squat. One hand felt along the ground until he found a rock. He stood, pointed his spear at the crack to aim, then pelted the stone.

  It flew straight at the portal, which slipped and contorted around the rock. Marcus felt his stomach roil as he walked around. Half of the rock had just… vanished. Gone. Viewed from the right angle, the rock was invisible entirely.

  The portal shuddered, then the rock dropped out with a soggy thud.

  Marcus walked over, leaning as far away from the rift as he could, and kicked the stone closer to the watching men. It was coated in a shimmering red goo.

  They watched as the substance evaporated, leaving a simple, unmarked stone on the ground.

  “That was some creepy-ass shit,” Marcus breathed.

  “Aye! Fun, isn’t it?” Garrett chuckled.

  “Fun?” Marcus murmured, wondering what the hell Craigston was hiding if this was how rearick had ‘fun’.

  Garrett sighed. “Yer a bore.” He turned to Carey and Mack. “You lasses can have a wee break. Us men have grown up things to discuss.”

  Mack snorted. “In other words, piss off, boys, we’re comparing stories about our big vaginas.”

  Carey chuckled and lowered his spear. “Don’t slack off. Bette will have our asses if she finds out we left our positions.”

  “Go fuck yerselves,” Garrett said jovially. Once they were alone, he turned to Marcus.

  “What the fuck are we goin’ to do about this wee thing, eh?” He kicked at the rock and it flung upwards, lodging back into the edge of the rift. A few moments later, it fell back out.

  Marcus approached carefully, one hand raised flat towards the opening. He waved it closer, only a hair’s breadth from touching it. “It pushes the rock out, but it’s not repelling my hand. Does it move at all?”

  “Hasn’t since we’ve been here.” Garrett leaned close, squinting through the narrow gap with one eye. “What are ye thinkin’?”

  “Maybe… we could build a wall. Some kind of barrier to stop anything getting through this end.” Marcus watched the rock until it was clean, then picked it up again. “Has anyone stuck a hand in?”

  “Do ye think we’re fuckin’ stupid?” Garrett squeaked. “Stick a hand it that? I’d rather shove me arm up a remnant’s pussy.”

  “Don’t involve me in your weird fantasies,” Marcus replied. “What if we hold the rock in. Will it shove its way out, or stay there?”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know.” Garrett shrugged quizzically. “Why are ye so damn interested?”

  “If one of those giant Skrima come through, we want to know how much force it would have to withstand. Or, if we bring down a mountain on it and some debris falls in, we need to make sure the whole thing doesn't end up unstable if the portal is shoving stuff back out.” Marcus waited for Garrett to work through his explanation

  Garrett watched as Marcus lifted the rock and pressed it against the portal. The edges shimmered and warped, wrapping around the stone and absorbing it in. Marcus held his hand up, just far enough away to avoid touching the rift itself.

  He waited. The rock pressed gently against his hand but stayed mostly inside the rift.

  “See?” Marcus said. “Now we know we can—”

  The rift warped and shifted, spreading and stretching. The rock tumbled out below Marcus’s hand and he jumped back, startled.

  “Shit! I thought I was gonna—” Marcus scrambled back further as a spindly appendage slithered out of the rift. “What the fuck is that!”

  The stick-like limb was spiked and folded down at the top. The rest of the leg soon followed, along with two bulging eye protrusions and a limp, dangling snout.

  The creature—a Skrima, if Marcus understood correctly—tumbled out and landed on the dirt, dazed. It stood on wobbling legs, eye stalks moving independently of one another.

  Marcus shuffled back, drawing his sword.

  “Don’t be scared, lad,” Garrett chuckled. “They’ve never attacked anyone before.”

  One eye stalk turned towards Garrett. Then, the Skrima attacked.

  It jumped, the deeply folded knees launching it in a blur of speed. Garrett screamed, and Marcus yelled for help, hoping Carey and Mack hadn’t gone far.

  He stabbed with his sword, but it glanced off the hard carapace on the creature’s back. Scissor-like front limbs clawed at Garrett’s neck, and a third pair pinned his wrists to the ground.

  “I wasn’t scared, rearick,” Marcus grunted, slicing at a leg. The shell cracked, oozing deep red ichor, but the creature held on. “I was just being cautious.”

  “Cautious me the fuck out of here, then,” Garrett called, voice strangled.

  Another sword-swipe dismembered an eye-stalk, and finally, the creature reacted. It launched for Marcus, but he was ready for the speedy attack. He crossed both arms over his chest, gripping his sword tightly.

  The Skrima tore at his forearms, trying to bury into his chest, but he held tight. The small front legs stabbed at his face, only to be fended off by the sword in its way.

  “The eyes!” Marcus yelled. “Go for the eyes!”

  An axe swung straight for Marcus’s face, and he closed his eyes, hoping Julianne would shed at least a few tears at his funeral—if there was enough of him left to bury.

  A wet thud exploded ichor and fluid all over his face. The spiked limbs stopped their urgent rending of his skin, though barbs still clung to his flesh. Marcus coughed and spat, nostrils filled with gunk.

  He rolled, heaving and vomiting the remains of the busted Skrima’s face onto the dirt.

  “Ha! HA!” Garrett danced, waving his axe around. “I told ‘em! I fuckin’ told ‘em all the little pricks were bad news! I was right!”

  “You told me they wouldn’t attack, you limp-dicked, shit-spewing little prick.” Marcus gagged again and spat, trying to remove the acrid taste from his mouth.

  “I’m not the one heavin’ his guts up on the dirt,” Garrett said sagely. He rested the head of his axe on the ground and folded his arms, leaning on it.

  “Fair point,” Marcus gasped. “Next time, I’ll make sure it’s you.”

  Garrett snorted, then helped Marcus to his feet. The rearick spun around. “Picked yer skirts up off the floor, yet, boys?” he bellowed.

  Marcus looked over his shoulder and saw Mack and Carey standing, jaws slack. “How long have they been there?” Marcus asked.

  “Long enough to have saved ye a face full o’ alien squirt,” Garrett snapped.

  “Aliens? You know something we don’t?” Mack said immediately.

  “I know enough to know yer as useful as a couple of tits on a bull, ye wee shite.” Garrett tossed his axe at Mack. “Clean me blade, and make sure ye get all the guts off. And make sure ye scrub Marcus’s yak off the handle!” he yelled after Mack as he walked away, gingerly holding the ichor-soaked axe between two fingers.

  “Sorry, boss,” Carey said. “We were just so shocked… they’ve never attacked before.”

  “And how many do ye personally know, ye gobshite?” Garrett asked.

  Carey blushed. “We’ve seen one of those before. It didn’t hurt anyone!”

  “It didn’t have time!” Garrett yelled. “That remnant was on its ass like a boil before the stupid thing had time to move!”

  Carey thought
about that for a moment, then nodded. “You want me to send a runner to Tahn?”

  “Ye’d best,” Garrett said. “Who’ve we got?”

  “Durrey, sir.”

  “Send ‘im here before ‘e goes.” Garrett flicked a bit of cracked shell off his pant leg. “Ye need a bath, lad,” he said to Marcus.

  Marcus swiped at him in response but followed Mack back to the watchtower. Behind the makeshift building, he scrubbed the worst of the muck off in a horse trough filled with clean water.

  Mack saw him gingerly lift his ruined shirt between two fingers.

  “You’ll want to burn that,” Mack cheerily pointed out. “That shit stinks now, but give it a day and you’ll think you’ve been fucking a month-dead remnant.”

  Marcus balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it at Mack. “Thanks for volunteering to clean it for me, buddy.”

  He ducked away before Mack could return the favor.

  Across the clearing, Garrett was talking to Durrey in a hushed voice. “Direct to the Master, ye hear? Not a word past yer lips until yer in a room with her, and Bette if ye can find her.”

  “Yessir!” Durrey flashed a quick smile and snapped a salute before taking off, bare heels kicking up dust as he sprinted towards Tahn.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to be sending kids running all the way back there alone?” Marcus asked. The question had bugged him since Clarke had arrived bearing her message the day before.

  “I’ve seen ‘em run past a damn pack, and leave ‘em wonderin’ who kicked up the dust,” Garrett said. “And it’s better than havin’ ‘em skulkin’ ‘round in the trees, hopin’ for a look. At least if they’re bein’ useful, we know where they are.”

  “I suppose,” Marcus said. “Still. Seems dangerous.”

  Garrett nodded, chewing on his moustache. “I don’t like it any more than yerself, lad. But we need fast legs, and the horses won’t stay more’n a few minutes.”

  “Speaking of terrified beasts,” Marcus said. “Where’s the local remnant brigade? I came out thinking they were lurking in the forest, just waiting to pounce on the next Skrima that tumbled through your big vagina.”

  Garrett shrugged. “They sometimes come, sometimes not. If they’re around, though, they rip the wee red bastards to shreds, with no regard for their own selves.”

  “That’s pretty typical for a remnant, though.” Marcus pulled his boots back on.

  “Not like this, lad. They’re crazed, out for the total destruction of the beasts. Not for fun or food, or even the hunt. It’s… different.” Garrett rubbed his face, then rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

  “Crazy,” was all Marcus could say.

  Garrett shrugged. “At least the little prick was easy to kill.”

  Marcus nodded. “One was. I don’t like to think about what we’d do facing an army of them.”

  Garrett spat. “Now yer just askin’ for trouble!”

  Marcus laughed. “You wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Garrett raised his fist to bump against Marcus’s. “Aye, lad. Ye’ve got that right!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bette knocked on the door, nerves making her effort weak. She cleared her throat, straightened, and knocked again. This time, the sound was strong and clear.

  “Come in, Bette.” Julianne’s voice was muffled through the thick door.

  Bah, so much for a good impression, Bette thought. The mystic would have sensed her there… and noticed her fluttering anxiety. Still, Julianne had let her knock the second time. Bette could still make a good impression on Lord George.

  Though she’d spoken to him many times, it was almost always in battle. Or just before it. There had also been a few times when she had been covered in the blood and gore of slain enemies. That was when Bette was in her element.

  This scheduled meeting had been planned days ago, though, and had the feel of something more formal than her casual discussions with her superior.

  Pull yer knickers up, lass, she told herself. Ye always get yerself in a knot when it comes ta talkin’ to the big boss—and ye always come out on top.

  Bette pushed the door open, a nervous grin plastered to her face. She walked over to the table, ignoring Julianne and Bastian. She spared the platter on the table loaded with fruit, bread, and ham an admiring glance.

  Bette gave Francis a polite duck of the head and dropped an awkward curtsy to Lord George.

  “Good mornin’, me lord.”

  Pleased that she’d pulled off the complicated maneuver, she dropped into the nearest seat. Curtsies were ridiculous at the best of times, but she was wearing her best pants. Last time she’d worn them, they’d been loose, but in her time as captain, the muscle she’d built made them tight across her backside.

  “Good to see you, Captain Bette,” George said with a kind smile. “No need for formality, though. I’ve always enjoyed your honest approach.”

  Relaxing a little, Bette reached over the table and grabbed a handful of plums from the bowl. “What’ve I missed?”

  “Not much,” Francis admitted. “We’re at a loss. You were filled in about the source of our new friends?”

  “Aliens from another world?” Bette snorted. “Aye. I don’t see what it matters, though. They’re pests, and the portal is a security issue. Both need to be dealt with.”

  “Pests?” Julianne asked. “They’re not that bad.” To prove her point, she sat Ardie on the table, patting his back until he unfurled and stretched out on his belly.

  “You have one tamed?” George asked, face lighting up. “Oh, do say I can give him a pat!”

  Julianne nodded, and Bette watched the old man reach out to gingerly touch the alien creature. Like a child with a kitten, he grinned and picked it up, cuddling it to his chest.

  Bette shook her head, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that touched her lips. “Oh, fine. They’re a wee bit cute.”

  Francis didn’t look appeased. “The varks seem benign, but what about your vision, Julianne?”

  Sobering, Julianne nodded.

  “Ye’ll have to explain that one to me,” Bette piped up. “Giant demons? Through that wee hole? Even the tiny beasties like yer pet there have trouble shovin’ their way through the split.”

  Julianne closed her eyes, brow wrinkling as she recalled the snatches of information Hannah had sent. “The rifts can grow and get stronger. Ours was much smaller than the one Hannah showed me.”

  Bette didn’t question how Julianne had compared the two. As far as she was concerned, the mystic’s power was absolute—and the less Bette knew about it, the better.

  Battle magic was one thing. Bette had even come to terms with the need for healing magic. But the events at Tahn had solidified her natural aversion to magic. All other forms of magic could just stay the hell away from her, thank you very much.

  “It’s no’ just the varks or the big spooky demon-lad ye think may come for us,” Bette said. “Somethin’ has the remnants in a dither, and they’re making a goat-cocked nuisance of themselves around town.”

  George let out a loud, undignified snort. “Goat-cocked,” he murmured. “Must keep that one in mind.”

  Julianne hid a smile, but Bette grinned widely. The old Lord had a love of vulgar curses, though she’d never heard him use one himself.

  “Bette’s right,” Francis said. He shrugged. “Seems like no matter what happens, we’re screwed.”

  “How bad is it?” Julianne asked. “I mean, I’ve seen the reports, but that doesn’t tell the whole story, does it?”

  Francis shook his head. “It’s not just sightings. We’ve got people coming across what look like temporary camps, and we’ve had livestock disappear. It’s been a really rough winter.”

  Bette rested her palms on the table. “I’ve been doin’ what I can, and so have me soldiers. Night patrols only go so far, though, and with takin’ away me best fighters to watch that ass crack shittin’ out wee rock creatures, we’re stretched thin.”

&nb
sp; “I did offer to send some of my army,” George said.

  “Aye, ye did.” Bette’s expression darkened, her thick eyebrows lowering into a glower. “But ye either have to send me yer dregs or send decent men and leave those rough-headed shit-munchers in yer city.”

  George sat up at that. “What are you talking about?”

  Bette’s face flushed bright red. “I apologize, me lord. That wasn’t right for me to say, not when there’s no proof of anything what may have happened.”

  “Proof of what?” George asked, bewildered.

  Bette groaned. “Ach. I’m so shite at this diplomacy rubbish!”

  George clicked his tongue. “Well, then diplomacy can go and… lick a…” he racked his brain for a moment. “Can go lick a sandy dog turd!” George grinned and looked around the table, beaming in pride.

  Bette erupted into laughter. “Ye did good, there, me lord. Fair enough, I’ll tell it to ye straight.”

  “Please, do,” Francis said, voice tight. His eyes brimmed with tears as he did his best to hold back giggles.

  “The House of Friendship went and put out a notice, sayin’ those new fighters ye hired are banned. We heard from a trader—he wouldn’t say nothin’, except that it was past time, but he hoped those traveling’ the roads wouldn’t suffer for it.”

  George digested the information slowly. “But why were they banned? And why would the traders feel any repercussions?”

  Bette nodded knowingly. “That’s what he wouldn’t say, me lord. Shut right up, he did, when we tried to ask. And so did anyone else who happened to catch themselves facin’ the same questions.”

  George’s expression closed in, his face smoothing over into something bland, yet somehow very dangerous. “What else?”

  Bette shrugged. “Nothin’ else. That’s just it. Not a damn word since. We knew ye were comin’ here, so we wanted to talk to ye direct—we didn’t expect the bastards to come with ye!”

  “Of course, if no one will come forward it will be very hard to prosecute. We’re not even sure what the charges are,” Francis said. “Unless…” His eyes slid to Julianne.