Praise for The Coalition Rebellion Series
“[Lord of the Storm has] so many sparks that it’s a wonder the book doesn’t set itself on fire while you’re reading it.”
—LikesBooks.com
First two books in the series recognized as
Romantic Times 200 BEST OF ALL TIME!
Lord of the Storm’s Accolades and Honors:
Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award
Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award
Romantic Times Career Achievement Award
National Reader’s Choice Award
RRA Book Award
BTC Bookstore Network Award
Skypirate Accolades and Honors:
Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award
Romantic Times 5-Star review!
Praise and Awards for Justine Dare Davis
Romance Writers of America’s RITA
4-time winner, 7-time finalist
Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards
5-time winner, 19-time nominee
Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards
3-time winner, 6-time nominee
Authored 4 books selected for
“Romantic Times 200 BEST OF ALL TIME.”
Other Justine Davis Books from
Bell Bridge Books
The Coalition Rebellion Novels
Book 1: Lord of the Storm
Book 2: Skypirate
Book 3: Rebel Prince
The Kingbird
(A Coalition Rebellion Short Story)
Also by Justine Davis
Wild Hawk
Heart of the Hawk
Fire Hawk
Raider
The Coalition Rebellion: Book 4
by
Justine Davis
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-743-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-761-8
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright 2017 by Janice Davis Smith writing as Justine Davis
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
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Dedication
This one is for the readers who said the trilogy was not enough. The readers who didn’t want to leave this battle behind. It seems we haven’t. We’ll take the Coalition down yet!
And for the unknown soul who wrote a beautiful soundtrack for a simple, space-based game, and inspired this new adventure. I hope to find you one day and thank you personally.
Chapter 1
THE MAN CALLED the Raider stared down from the mountain lookout at the convoy passing below. The Coalition flags fluttered in the mist. Their symbol was painted on the side of the transport vehicle—the entire galaxy encircled by a grid the Coalition called the connection, but he saw only as a snare. An air rover full of troopers to the front, another to the rear. Armed guards on top, likely more inside.
He knew the big vehicle was empty of cargo now, on the way to the landing zone. But he would have known anyway, by the way the troops acted, loose and a bit sloppy.
But once they had the cargo aboard, that would all change. The Coalition had not overtaken his world by being sloppy when it counted. They’d done it by being fast, efficient, and brutal. In their first attack, they had wiped out half of Zelos with the huge fusion cannon that now loomed over the city. They had followed up by slaughtering a quarter of the entire population of Ziem in the first month. And even on a planet that had had only a million people, that was a hideous number of deaths. Everyone still living in Zelos, or probably on the whole planet, had lost someone.
And the Raider planned to make the Coalition pay for every last grave.
“This is insane, you know.”
He didn’t look at his second in command, but kept his eyes on the oncoming column.
“Utterly,” he agreed.
“We’re outnumbered,” Brander Kalon pointed out.
“Three to one.”
“Those troopers up top have long guns.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t even know what they’re picking up.”
“There,” the Raider said, “I will disagree.”
Brander blinked. “You know what the cargo is?”
The Raider slipped a hand into his pocket, felt the folded parchment of the message he’d received this morning. “I do.”
He could almost feel Brander’s urge to ask how. But the man knew better by now. “Is it worth stealing?” he asked instead.
“Not to us.”
Brander frowned. “If it won’t even do us any good—”
“But it will do them great harm to lose it.”
There was a moment of silence as the convoy trundled on. Then, briskly, Brander said, “I’ll need some logistics.”
The Raider nodded. “Crates. Three of them. Metal. An arm’s-breadth square. And heavier than the cargo itself.”
Brander frowned. “Heavier?”
“Shielding. I strongly suggest we don’t drop any of them.”
He heard Brander’s quick intake of breath. “Fuel cells,” he breathed.
One corner of the Raider’s mouth, the corner beneath the tangle of gnarled scars that twisted the left side of his face, quirked.
“You were never slow, my friend.”
“That will make them very irritable, losing the fuel for their power generators.”
“They might,” the Raider said mildly, “even have to ration usage.”
“Then I say to them, ‘Welcome to what you’ve made of our world.’” Brander’s tone was bitter, and the Raider knew he was thinking of the hardships the people of Ziem had endured since the arrival of the booted, armored brutes of the Coalition.
He turned on his heel and strode down from the lookout, toward the band of fighters who were gathered at the base. They were known as the Sentinels, taking their name from the mountain that towered over the city of Zelos. The peak topped out above the mist that shrouded their world for three-quarters of the year. The name was a bit grand for the ragtag band, but the Raider measured stature not by looks but by courage, skill, and determination. The Sentinels had all of that, plus the stony toughness of their mountain stronghold.
He wanted no others at his back.
The wind caught the edge of his longcoat, swirled it. The mist was thin today, and he could feel the warmth as the occasional beam of light gleamed on his helmet, that bit o
f armor carefully crafted to conceal most of his face except the scars. He knew the image he projected, for he did it intentionally. It was against his nature, but he knew the value of symbols, the power of an icon for people to rally to.
“The mist is thin today,” he warned them, “so you will have to watch carefully for the signal.”
There were nods all around. Each detachment had at least one diviner with them, who was able to see even the slightest trace of glowmist. All Ziemites could see glowmist, the green froth that swirled when mist met heat—slight for a warm-blooded creature, brighter for fire or flare—but it was invisible to those not born here, those without the eyes that had adapted to this world.
The diviners’ glowmist vision was the most finely honed. And learning that Ziemites could see the glowmist but outworlders could not had been the key to their unexpected success—and survival—in the year since the rise of the Raider as a symbol to rally around. The Coalition and their minions had yet to understand why they were never able to sneak up on any Ziemite in close quarters.
Of course, this meant that they tended to blast indiscriminately from a distance, with their long guns and that damnable fusion cannon, but the Raider knew enough of them now to realize they likely would have done that anyway. The Coalition did not believe in finesse, only brute force.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
The cheer was loud. He wondered for an instant if it might be audible below, if perhaps some alert Coalition trooper at the tail end of the convoy had heard the sound and wondered what in hades anyone on Ziem had to cheer about.
You will see soon enough. We may have been foolish and naïve when you arrived, but Ziemites learn quickly.
He raised his left hand, which held the traditional curved Ziem saber, a symbol of their history and their world. In his right was the more practical and efficient blaster, a Coalition weapon they’d liberated on one of those annoyance raids.
The cheer went up again.
“Places,” he ordered.
They scattered, each to their assigned spot on the mountainside, following paths they’d known since childhood, and ready to strike their first real blow. Beyond ready, the Raider knew, and he could feel the eagerness hammering in his own chest as he returned to the lookout.
Until now, they had been limited to those minor strikes, harrying, harassing, occasionally winning a prize of weapons, even more precious ammunition or supplies, but not much more. But in that time they had learned, trained, and a peaceful people used to a quiet life on their misty world had become warriors. And now they would put what they had learned to the test. Deep in his gut, the Raider knew that if they failed this first test, it might well be the end of any rebellion on Ziem.
Whether that would be for good or ill, he didn’t think about. Nor did he think about what he himself would leave behind if he died in this idealistic effort. For all that mattered was that someone had to do something, and he could not live with himself if he did not try. And so he would, and if he died trying, so be it. Better to die free than live cowering in the muck waiting for the Coalition to decide you were of no further use to them.
It seemed forever yet too soon that the convoy, all snap and formation now, again came into view on the pass road. The Raider watched intently as they neared the choke point, that spot where the mountain jutted out and squeezed the road down to a single-lane passage. The first air rover came through, the troopers alert and watchful now, peering in all directions.
Then the transport.
“Now,” he ordered Brander.
His second raised his arm and fired the near silent flare down the mountain. It caught, swirled, and lit up the fog into that glowing green mist Ziemites knew well. The Sentinels, ready and waiting for that signal, charged.
The real war for Ziem had begun.
Chapter 2
Two years later . . .
“WHY DO YOU keep it there?”
Drake Davorin paused in his wiping of the taproom tables and glanced over at the dark-haired woman standing before the bar, not with a drink, but simply staring at the painting on the wall behind it.
Because it is your work, and for that reason alone I love it.
He said, “Once the lights come on, it draws the attention of patrons, who buy more brew while they stare at it.”
Kye Kalon snorted. He wondered if it was at what he’d said, or at her work being used in such a way. He used to be able to read her more easily, but everything had become more difficult lately. Of his own doing; you couldn’t push someone away as he had Kye and not pay a price. But he’d had no choice, not since the death of her father had sent her off to join the Raider. The more time she spent with him here, the bigger the chance she might put the pieces together. So, no matter how it pained him, no matter the baffled pain in her eyes, he couldn’t risk it.
But Eos, he missed her. He ached with missing her.
He shifted his gaze to the painting. She’d done it a year before Iolana Davorin had taken that death-plunge off the sheer face of Halfhead, when her beauty had been intact but her ravaged soul and the remnants of visions had burned in her eyes. Kye had captured it all, her skill even at fifteen amazing. It had been her first attempt at a portrait of such size, yet her hand had been steady and her eye true. A prodigy, his mother had once called her.
She had also warned him never to fall in love with her, for loving a person with a passion, as she had loved his father, was hades beyond hades.
The words had come too late. And now he knew the real truth of them. Because loving Kye had ended up bringing him even more pain.
“She was a beautiful woman,” Drake said, ignoring the ache in his leg as he walked over to stand as closely behind her as he dared. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, even knowing what he was risking. He was better at this pretense now—he’d had more practice at keeping the two facets of his life separate—but Kye was very, very smart. It was why he had to keep her away as much as he could.
That, and that it clawed at him to play the broken, tamed taproom keeper in front of her.
She looked at him. He allowed himself a moment of drinking in those rare, turquoise eyes, so different from his own more usual Ziem blue ones. “You speak of her as if she had no connection to you,” she said.
“In the end, she did not.” He shrugged, tearing his gaze away from those eyes, for fear of what she might see in his. “Her connection was to Ziem and her people. It was a physical thing to her; she felt what they felt, hurt when they hurt. And her heart and soul ever and always belonged to my father. It was why she could not go on without him.”
“So she abandoned you and your sister, and the twins. Yet you keep it here.”
And just that easily, she painted the picture of his tangled feelings. He had loved his mother, but hated what she’d done. But he had also loved, respected, and believed in his father and the cause he had died for, so much so that he understood his mother not wanting to go on after losing the likes of him, one of the greatest men ever born on Ziem. How could she have gone back to a normal life?
Not that her life had ever been normal. He doubted a woman such as his mother, with her oft-proven ability to sense coming events in a way that went beyond prescient into something mystical, had ever had a comfortable life with his pragmatic father. And yet, his father had always believed in her uncanny skill, and acted upon it. Had convinced others of her visions, and between them, they had achieved a standing on Ziem unmatched by any other couple. Hardly a normal life.
There’s no such thing as a normal life here anymore.
He fought down the bitterness. It was difficult, standing this close to the one woman who made him wonder if all the sacrifice was worth it. He wished his mother had told him what was to come. He might then have saved himself from this particular pain. But her foresight was something she never used for her
children, saying she did not wish to influence their futures by foretelling them.
“Perhaps that’s why I keep it there,” he said aloud. “To remind me of the cost of truly loving someone.”
He expected some sharp rejoinder, of the kind she was rarely at a loss for. Nothing came. Instead, a wistful, almost sad expression came over her face.
“Yes,” she said softly. “The cost is high. Perhaps too high.”
She’d never sounded so sad, so grim before. “Kye—”
A hammering of a fist upon the front door cut off his words. And probably just as well, Drake thought as he hurried over, hiding his limp with an effort. He opened the small slider in the door at eye level. He managed not to wince; Jepson Kerrold.
“We are not yet open,” he said, pointing out that the hour was clearly posted about a foot from the man’s prominent nose.
“You shall open for me, Davorage.”
His voice was imperious as he used the old, insulting combination of Davorin and average that he thought so clever. Since he, obviously, was much above average. It mattered not that they had once been in school together, that Drake, in fact, had bested him regularly in schoolwork, and always in athletic pursuits. For Jepson Kerrold was of the East Town Kerrolds, as he had never ceased to remind them all, and as such, he was cut from a finer quality cloth. Just ask him.
And now he worked for the biggest traitor on Ziem, with the pretentious title of Liaison to the State. And was even more convinced he had a right to anything he wanted.
Drake heard a sound behind him, glanced back to see his sister Eirlys entering through the back door, carrying a box. He threw up a warning hand and she stopped in her tracks. Thankfully before she would be visible to Kerrold’s prying eyes through the slot. Now getting rid of the pest wasn’t just a preference, it was essential.
Sometimes he preferred the open evil of Jakel, the administrator’s chief enforcer—and torturer—to Kerrold’s unctuous mask. Except that Jakel also wanted Eirlys, and the brutal man would be much less polished about it, if only because he had loathed Drake since childhood.
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