To the seventh, my father-in-law. Thanks for your generosity in supporting Mark IV and my writing by getting me Vellum.
To the eighth, every person who took the time to read the drafts of A Question of Ethics and give me their thoughts, however brutal.
To the ninth, Folgers, for their Columbian blend that kept me caffeinated while writing A Question of Ethics.
To the tenth, Stevie, the gecko that hangs out on my wall and stares at me while I procrastinate.
To the eleventh, Scrivener, that oh so wonderful piece of software that helped me keep my thoughts organised while writing.
To the twelfth, ProWritingAid. A piece of software which showed me I used waaaay too many sticky words (top 100 most common words).
To the thirteenth, 180g and their awesome software, Vellum. It’s due entirely to them that this book looks as pretty as it does.
To the fourteenth, my aircon, for keeping me from sweating quite so much in this Saipan heat.
To the fifteenth, Hans Zimmer, for his incredibly inspiring soundtracks.
To the sixteenth, every band/musician I listened to that kept me going while slogging through plotting, writing, rewriting, and editing. That list includes, but is not limited to, Dream Theater, Nightwish, Andromida, Andy James, Two Steps From Hell, Rupert Gregson-Williams, and Ayreon. Check them out if you want to hear the kind of music that inspires me.
And finally last—but far from least—the seventeenth, you. Yes, you. The wonderful specimen of a human being reading this right now. The reason I wrote this book was to entertain you, so thanks for sticking this tale out, I hope I did just that. See you in the next book!
About the Author
Since Dan Van Werkhoven could pronounce “Lego” he’s been creating worlds and stories. Often times, those stories were about how awesome his Lego minifig was compared to his younger brother’s, but they were nevertheless stories.
As soon as Dan could read, he was absorbing every fantasy book he could get his hands on, with favourites such as Narnia and The Hobbit. By his teen years, he was tackling Frank Herbert, Raymond E. Feist, Peter F. Hamilton, and more. Now he loves nothing more than to sink into a Brandon Sanderson epic and lose himself for weeks.
At 16, Dan took that love of fantastical stories to a whole new level… he entered NaNoWriMo. Over the next few years, he wrote a bunch of novels (all terrible) and short stories (slightly less terrible). Writing fell by the wayside until 2010 when he began work on the Eidolon Universe with Ancel Haegler. Since then, the two have been steadily building a universe filled with fantastical worlds. A Question of Ethics is the second story to be released in the Eidolon Universe.
You can find out more about Dan Van Werkhoven and Ancel Haegler at mark-iv.net. Dan can also be found tweeting about book stuff and random tidbits on twitter @Mark_IV_Media
If you want to keep up to date with Mark IV and its future books and projects, you can sign up to the mailing list at http://mark-iv.net/tabsignup
Author Photo by The Razos
An excerpt from Sentinel Code: The Dragon Striker Chronicles Book One
Prologue
Sergei Koskov lay sprawled on his back, staring up at the indomitable mass of the wingless dragon looming over him. Thick, black armoured plates covered its entire body, and poisonous barbs tipped its long tail. The worst of dragons.
A Nishkuk.
The heavy thump of ballistas should have been echoing through the huge, dimly lit cavern. Instead, only the cries of wounded Sentinels and the growl of the Nishkuk filled the chill air.
Sergei had told the Alchemists to keep the ballistas at the ready—at least until they’d proven their new cannons. But they never listened to him. And now he had to fight a dragon with only a sword.
He rolled over and leapt to his feet as razor-sharp claws slammed into the cavern floor behind him, sending debris pelting harmlessly against his thick, green Sentinel coat.
All around him, Sentinel warriors yelled and bled while the Alchemists hid in fortifications with their useless contraptions.
“Fall back!” Sergei yelled, pointing his thick five-foot-long blade at a makeshift bulwark a hundred yards away.
Five squads of Sentinels fell in around him and they sprinted with him to cover. The speed extract surging through their veins carried them the hundred yards in seconds. With a strength-extract-boosted leap, Sergei cleared the chest-high bulwark and landed gracefully on the far side, soon joined by the rest of the Sentinels.
“Papa!”
Sergei spun. A Sentinel watcher hurried up to him. Above her half-mask, her blue eyes gleamed with excitement. The hood of her Sentinel coat had fallen back, unleashing the mess of blonde curls tied in a rough ponytail.
Just like Vera… Sergei blinked away the image of his dead wife. “Lokteva, I told you to wait in the Alchemist fortifications.”
“They sent me to inform you that the harpoon cannons aren’t working,” Lokteva said.
Sergei’s throat tightened, and he struggled to breathe. “Who the depths do they think they are, commanding Sentinels? And it’s obvious that their cursed cannons aren’t working—”
An otherworldly shriek pierced the air and as one, the Sentinels clamped their hands over their ears and turned to the Nishkuk.
A hundred yards from them, the dragon—deprived of victims—circled, its four eyes scrutinising the huge cavern. It saw Sergei and the tattered remains of his division hiding behind the bulwark. Rage burned in its eyes.
For one brief moment, Sergei wondered if they could force it back through the glowing emerald oval suspended in the air to its left—the gate from which it’d entered this world. He dismissed the thought. The dragon would just return.
Sergei spared a glance at the infinitely more secure Alchemist fortifications behind them as the Nishkuk took a step towards him and his Sentinels. “Lokteva, return to the Alchemists and inform those muckers that if they don’t get those harpoon cannons working in the next minute, it won’t be that Nishkuk they need fear.”
“With pleasure, Guardian!” Lokteva said. She hesitated, then darted forwards and hugged him. “Love you, Papa,” she whispered and stepped back, saluted, and broke into a sprint.
Sergei stood frozen a moment, stunned. Then saw the smirks in the eyes of his Sentinels. “Let’s kill this mucker,” he said.
The ground shook and Sergei turned. The giant Nishkuk thundered towards them.
“Scatter!” Sergei bellowed as the dragon leapt.
It sailed over the bulwark and smashed into the ground behind them.
Sergei scrambled to his feet, and his hearts froze in his chest. The dragon bore down on the lone figure of Lokteva.
Lokteva glanced back. Her foot caught on the rough stone and she fell, arms flung wide.
Sergei launched into a sprint. Adrenaline mixed with speed extract and his body groaned as he forced sinew and bone to move with impossible speed.
In a second, he reached the Nishkuk’s hind leg, and, with a snarl, he plunged his heavy sword between its claws.
The Nishkuk yanked its leg back, dragging Sergei’s sword with it. It lifted its head and shrieked, an awful sound that grated at Sergei’s ears.
Twenty yards away, Lokteva curled into a ball, her hands clamped over her ears.
“Get up!” Sergei yelled, running for her. He glanced up at the Nishkuk. The dragon, still screaming, looked at Lokteva, then at him.
The icy hand of fear itself clutched at Sergei’s gut. The Nishkuk knew.
“No…” Sergei pushed himself harder. He could almost feel the bones in his legs splintering as he pushed, faster than ever before.
Ten yards.
The scream cut off as the Nishkuk—jaws wide—plunged towards Lokteva.
“Run,” Sergei yelled, his voice muffled by his combat half-mask. His heavy boots struggled for purchase on the uneven stone as he drove all his bolstered strength into each step.
Finally, Lokteva moved, scrambling to her feet. She met
Sergei’s gaze, pain and fear clear in her eyes.
“Run, Lokteva!”
Lokteva turned towards the Alchemist fortifications, already leaning into a run.
Two yards.
The Nishkuk’s head descended like a coil train.
One yard.
Sergei reached towards Lokteva. He just needed to knock her clear—
—too late.
Searing pain lanced through his left arm as he slammed into the side of the Nishkuk’s monstrous head. Sergei screamed. Blood and saliva covered his dark green coat as he scrabbled against the gore-slicked armour of the dragon’s jaws, gagging at the stench of rotten meat.
He tried to pull away, but the jaws clamped tighter, pinning his arm. Inside the dragon’s mouth, Sergei swore his gloved fingers brushed something, someone. A hand closed around his wrist. Lokteva was alive in there!
He howled as the Nishkuk lifted its head, hauling him into the air with it. The strength extract that hardened his muscles now held him captive. But by a small mercy that same extract would keep Lokteva alive.
“Keep fighting, Lok!” he yelled, even as her grip on his wrist weakened. Sergei tried to grab her arm, but his fingers refused to respond, his nerves and muscles shredded by the Nishkuk’s serrated teeth.
His twin hearts threatened to explode from his chest as he thrashed against the monster, searching desperately for a way to save his eldest child.
Baleful eyes stared down at him. The Nishkuk knew he’d stabbed it.
Eyes. That was it!
Blinking back tears of pain, Sergei gritted his teeth and reached for the knife sheathed at his side—his last weapon. With a roar, he pulled out the blade and swung.
An almost human look of fear flashed in the Nishkuk’s eyes a moment before Sergei’s long, black blade found its mark and shattered the hard, translucent layer protecting one eye.
The Nishkuk bellowed in pain, blinded in one eye.
Sergei fell.
He crashed into the ground some thirty feet below and lay, dazed.
A beam of white light pierced the darkness. At last, the harpoon cannons were working.
The light reflected off the Nishkuk’s inky black armour as it clawed at its face, unable to remove the tiny knife plaguing it.
Boom!
The dragon staggered as a ten-foot harpoon slammed into its side.
Boom!
A second harpoon flew across the cavern and the Nishkuk screamed again.
Sergei no longer felt his left arm, and the numbness was spreading. Lokteva! Panic surged. Where was she? With the last vestiges of strength, he rolled to his side and scanned the battlefield. There! Lokteva lay nearby, her body broken and twisted.
“Lok…” Sergei whispered, hot tears burning his eyes. He reached out, clawing towards her, dragging his cold, numb body one excruciating inch after another. Rage boiled inside, fuelling him. He’d told the Alchemists to keep the ballistas loaded and ready. Their arrogance had killed—no. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be.
Sentinels surged up the Nishkuk’s side, hacking at the soft skin between its armoured plates. The dragon lashed out, its sixty-foot-long tail clearing a few Sentinels from its back—but not fast enough. A minute later, the ground shuddered as the dragon collapsed.
The Sentinels fell back as the cannons roared, their target at their mercy.
Sergei’s vision blurred. He could barely make out Lokteva, but he knew she was there, lying helpless, injured.
His arm gave out, and he slumped, his hardened leather half-mask smacking into the rough stone surface. This was it. The end of the battle of life. I’ll close my eyes and rest a moment. He wouldn’t be the first warrior to die to a dragon from beyond the gate.
No! Sergei opened his eyes wide and tried to focus. Lokteva still needs me.
“There he is,” a voice yelled above the screams and wails haunting the battleground. Sergei tried to see whom, but couldn’t lift his head.
Hands gripped his shoulder and flipped him over. Markov Defender peered at him, concern plain in his eyes glittering above his half-mask.
“Koskov Guardian, you’re alive!” Markov turned. “Alchemist!”
“Lokteva,” Sergei said, his voice a faint rasp. “Help Lokteva…”
Markov’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s too late.”
“No, it’s not. Get her a healing extract!”
“We can’t, sir. There’s… none left.”
An Alchemist arrived and busied herself on his arm.
“How?” Sergei asked. “There is always a supply. Get Lokteva to Ledavsk, they will have healing extracts.”
“Sir,” Markov said, his voice soft but firm, “her hearts have already stopped beating. I’m sorry, she’s gone.”
Sergei’s adrenaline surged, and he tried to rise. “She’s alive, I know it.”
“Lie still,” the Alchemist said. “You’ll do more damage to your arm.”
Markov crouched beside Sergei and gently pushed him down.
“Get off me,” Sergei said, struggling against Markov.
“Let Julianna save your arm, sir,” Markov said. “I’ll take care of everything else.”
Sergei could see Lokteva, ten years old, running after a poor, six-legged yutzi as it bleated, terrified of the onrushing mass of curls. As fast as it had come, the adrenaline left him and he collapsed.
Julianna stood, pulling Markov aside.
“Wait,” Sergei said. He shook his head, banishing a memory of a young Lokteva and Klara duelling with practice swords while he coached them, Mikhail riding on his shoulders.
Julianna glanced at Sergei, guilty.
“Anything you tell him, you will tell me,” Sergei said.
“I’m sorry,” Julianna said. “There’s nothing I can do. We have to take your arm.”
His arm? But how could he defend Klara and Mikhail without it? Sergei started to laugh. A deep, rolling laugh that shook his entire body, sending pain rippling through every muscle.
“Sedative?” Markov asked Julianna.
“We’re fools,” Sergei said, the truth blindingly clear. “All fools. Fools to the last. Dragons will continue to creep from whatever forsaken world they spawn from and destroy Serovnya. Taking every last son and daughter with them.”
Julianna pulled a needle from her bag and jabbed it into Sergei’s good arm.
“We’ll never stop them,” Sergei said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “We’ll never… end this… war…” The world dimmed around him, and his head lolled to the side. In the shrinking tunnel of light, he saw Lokteva’s body. Motionless.
Dead.
He’d failed her…
Chapter 1
Klara Koskova fought for balance on a narrow steel beam. She tried to ignore the thirty-foot drop to the arena floor—a fall certain to end with at least broken neck. And back. And arms. And legs…
Her family would have little more than a shattered body to present at her funeral. Though probably she’d bear more resemblance to a yutzi turd.
After someone had stepped on it.
Not at all fitting to be displayed to loved ones.
Focus! Klara shook her head and wobbled, sending her hearts skittering in her chest. Idiot. She took a deep breath and focused on things more at her level.
Gaslamps hissed and sizzled around her—she could almost reach out and touch the ceiling from which they hung. Her objective, a small brass platform, lay only feet away. She’d make it. Her fear would not conquer her. Again.
She crept forwards, sweat slicking her cheeks beneath her hardened leather half-mask. Her breath ran hot against her skin, a small burst of warmth quickly stolen by the chill air of the arena. She wore the heavy grey coat of the Warrior Guild. Though, with any luck, that coat would be exchanged for the green of the Sentinels soon.
If she passed this test.
She risked another glance down. Three high-ranking Sentinels, a keeper and two hawk-eye guardians, watched her. Occasionally
one looked down to scribble a note on their clipboard. Their judging gazes bored into Klara as they studied her every move, waiting for her to fail and show fear.
Despite her coat, Klara shuddered. Then her boot touched the marginally more stable platform and she let out a sigh.
No two evaluations were the same. The Sentinels customised the course to force the hopefuls to face their deepest fears. Yutzi muckers, Klara thought as she hurried across the platform to a long row of bars each mounted a foot apart in the ceiling. She rubbed her gloved hands together. The soft leather was damp from sweat. Two paths were available. One set of bars led to the middle of the arena before looping around to a wide platform backing onto the arena’s wall. A long-bladed knife hung in a sheath at the centre of the path. Her weapon of choice.
The second set of bars led straight to the wide platform, on which a tall man stood, his muscles straining against his Sentinel coat. A black band with two silver stars side by side wrapped around his immense right bicep and marked him as a guardian. The hood of his coat cast deep shadows over his face and the brown, predatory half-mask he wore. A wooden staff hung loosely from his right hand.
Her choice was simple: spend less time hanging over a fall to certain death and fight bare-handed, or retrieve a weapon she could wield with confidence.
Klara took hold of the first bar and swung out, her feet hanging in the open air. Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed the bile in her throat. One misplaced swing, and it was a long drop with a sharp stop for her. Even healing extracts would struggle to mend her after a fall like that.
After a moment of hesitation, she chose the second path. She didn’t need to beat the guardian, all she needed to do was hold her own and prove her skill. Indeed, even with the knife, her chances of beating him were slimmer than surviving a night outside Kosgrad without shelter. Who knew how many monsters he’d slain from beyond the gates? Dozens, no doubt, to have earned the rank of guardian.
He watched her, his gaze impassive as she swung towards him, weaponless. Did he judge her for that? Consider her weak for not going after the knife? Or was it a sign of bravery? Bravery, I hope.
The Alchemists' Bane Page 7