Raider

by Justine Davis

  “I must know, Grim. Not just for myself, but the very future of Ziem depends on him.”

  He sighed. He’d expected this. “Yes, my lady. If you will allow me a night’s rest, I will return to my search for news, and check for any messages left you by supplicants or those grateful to you.”

  He studied her for a long moment, wondering if he dared.

  “Speak what you will, Grim.”

  “Will you ever return yourself, my lady?”

  “You know why I have stayed away, Grim. I had much to learn, much power to absorb from our mountain. And painful as it was, for Ziem and the ones I love, certain events had to happen without me. I’ve shared that vision with you.”

  “I know. But you have held yourself apart for so long, even from—”

  He stopped when she waved a hand. “No.” But then, for the first time, she added two more, very telling words. “Not yet.”

  Someday, then, he thought. He would have to be content with that.

  Chapter 8

  “THERE HE IS, our favorite tapper!”

  The booming voice rang out in the manner of a man who thought volume and joviality was the way to get people to notice him. The volume was real, and heads turned up and down the street where Drake had been unloading a delivery. But the joviality was patently false, and Drake was certain everyone who had turned to look at Jakel knew it. The big man’s expression didn’t hint at his brutal nature, but the truth was in his strange eyes, small, oddly colored, almost pink, and nearly hidden beneath his heavy brow. And they lit with a depraved gleam whenever he was able to torment someone who didn’t dare defy him.

  You didn’t get to be Barcon Ordam’s enforcer and chief torturer with jolliness.

  And as for Ordam, the less said or thought about the man who had betrayed his world, who had handed Ziem to the Coalition in exchange for ruling it, the better. At least Jakel had ever been honest; he had openly hated Drake since childhood, although the Davorin name had been protection as much as target. But now the man took great pleasure in tormenting him, when Drake had no choice but to take it.

  And the man paid far too much attention to Eirlys.

  Drake settled the final keg into place, taking the moment to school his expression to an equally false joviality, then turned to face Jakel. It was a measure of his own success, he supposed, that the man hadn’t cut him in half with that laser pistol of his for taking that extra moment.

  “Thank you, Agent Jakel,” he said, putting all he could manage of cowed gratitude into his voice. “That cask was your favorite brew, so I didn’t want to lose it.”

  “Good!” Jakel’s booming laugh echoed off the wall of the taproom. “Then you won’t mind opening up early for a thirsty man, will you now.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Drake knew there was no option to say no, despite the fact that he wasn’t due to open for an hour yet. He said nothing about the propensity of indulging in intoxicants before the sun had even lightened the mist. Jakel was hardly the only one who so indulged; this time of year, the mountains and mist held the daylight back until nearly midday, and it was dreary enough to drive many not born to Ziem to the relief of strong drink.

  Their scientists—before the Coalition had destroyed the labs and executed them—had nearly isolated the factor in their makeup that allowed the natives to better tolerate the steady gloom, possibly linking it to the factor that almost universally gave them eyes in varying shades of blue. And eyes that could see through the mist, and could see the glowmist.

  And it was something they were born with. Jakel, whose eyes were an odd, reddish shade, besides being narrow and constantly darting about, did not have it. It was suspected he was at least part Carelian; he had the eyes and claws for it. His parents had arrived from parts unknown, and seemed unwilling to talk about it. They had died decades ago—at his hands, most suspected—and with them any pretense of him being controlled.

  But Drake would no more comment on that than on the early need for drink. Saying such things to this man would likely land him in the torture room, on the stretcher getting every joint ripped apart, if not killed outright here and now.

  Or worse, he’d end up collared, his mind enslaved just as his body would be, subject to the whim of whoever held the controller. The pure evil of that Coalition device never failed to appall him. He suppressed the shiver that went through him at the idea and all it entailed. To him, this more than anything spoke of the unbelievability of the tales of King Darian; surely no one could survive such a thing with their mind intact.

  “If you don’t mind a bit of damp, you are, of course, welcome inside,” he said carefully. “No power yet, so I’ve not been able to turn on what dryers we have.”

  The spectrally thin man, who looked as if he’d been pulled to his abnormal height on his own stretcher, frowned. “Why have you no power?”

  “It is not turned on for us until second moonset.” Drake shrugged as if it had always been thus. As if Zelos hadn’t once been the town that never slept, roiling with light and energy throughout the misty, dark nights of Ziem. Until the Coalition had changed all that, trying to control the population with their own climate. And, for the most part, Drake thought sourly, succeeding.

  “Well,” Jakel boomed out again as he clapped him on the back, “we’ll have to see about that.”

  The blow masked as a friendly gesture was hard enough that he was put off balance. His injured leg strained to hold. He had to hold. Rumors the Raider had been injured were echoing on the mist. If there was anyone on Ziem he had to fool, it was this man. His life would likely depend on it.

  He used the stagger to turn on the heel of his undamaged leg and convert the motion into an apparently eager dive to open the side door to the taproom. As he did, he grinned up at the man like a mindless fool. Drake was a tall man himself, and not used to needing to peer upward. A good reminder, he told himself, of how others might feel around him.

  Jakel bought it. After all, did not people all over town, all over the planet in fact, know of his power and hasten to do his bidding?

  “Your usual, sir? Or would you prefer something else? I have a small supply of a very fine Clarion effervescent that might better your day.”

  “And what,” Jakel asked coolly, “is wrong with my day?”

  Damnation. He’d put a foot wrong there. “Having to sit in my damp taproom, of course. My apologies again, sir.”

  As if a power unit that had made an odd sound had settled back into a steady hum, Jakel chortled. “Yes, yes, bring me that brew.”

  The joviality had returned, and this time, there was a touch of genuineness to it.

  Because he genuinely enjoys watching you bow and cower.

  Drake tried not to visibly clench his jaw, at least, not until he had escaped to the back room where he poured off a glass of the expensive, bubbly drink. He took an extra three seconds to steady himself. He hadn’t been mentally prepared to deal with Jakel this morning. He’d never known why the man seemed to hate him for simply existing, and always had. It seemed more than just because his name was Davorin, more personal, but he’d never done anything to earn it. Not that Jakel needed reasons for his brutality.

  The other Coalition servants that came in at various times were bad enough, but this man grated him like no one else. Except Ordam himself; any time the traitor of Ziem lowered himself to appear here, Drake feared he would throw it all away and slice him down where he stood.

  That would be ever so wise, Davorin. Sacrifice everything for the momentary pleasure of gutting the man who had sold his own world into this slavery.

  The mere thought of that pleasure made him almost wish it would happen.

  Almost.

  He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to calm, making himself remember the truth of what he had to do. Which was go back out there and act lik
e a man who knew where his bread came from, and who was appropriately anxious about the man who could take it from him. Eirlys could likely survive on her own, as long as she stayed away from Jakel; his little sister wasn’t so little anymore, and she had that frightening intelligence to draw upon. But he had the twins to think about. He shuddered at the very idea of what would happen to those two troublemakers were he not around, not to keep them in line, for that was impossible, but to at least get them out of the worst of their scrapes.

  And so he picked up the glass and hurried back to present it with an obsequious flourish before all the bubbles died away.

  That night Drake lay exhausted, yet again unable to sleep, when it began and the whispers drifted down from above.

  “We should do it.”

  “Of course we should. But we must think of the best way.”

  “And how to keep Drake from finding out.”

  “Sometimes I almost believe he has the foresight. Or can read thoughts. How else could he have found out about the cycler?”

  Drake nearly smiled at that. How often had he thought the same thing of his mother, that she not only had the foresight, she could read his thoughts? She almost always had known when he was hatching mischief.

  “Are you still on that?” The volume was increasing in direct ratio to the enthusiasm of the two. “Must you figure out everything? Besides, it was a good thing he did. Old Heksin probably would have killed us for taking it if Drake hadn’t talked him out of it.”

  “Aw, we only wanted to ride it a little. And Heksin’s all bluff.”

  “His scyther didn’t look like a bluff.”

  “Maybe.”

  Whatever they were up to, or going to be up to, it was clearly still just in the planning stage, so Drake let out a sigh and rolled over as the twins fell silent. But it was a weary sigh. It had been a difficult week. On the other hand, a plan of his own had occurred just this evening, as he’d served the three Coalition officers who’d stopped in for a last round before heading back to Legion Command, where they would have to be more circumspect in their partaking than here on remote Ziem.

  “I heard Paledan drew the black rock this time,” one of them had said with a laugh.

  “I’m not sure about that,” the man across from him had said. “Why would they send a hero the likes of him here?”

  “I heard he was wounded, and is still recuperating. But he’ll hate being post commander here,” another had rejoined. “Not a chaser parlor to be had in this back of beyond hades hole.”

  “But he’s bringing a relief troop, so the men’ll be happy. They’ve been guarding the base of that damned mountain for an age now.”

  They ignored Drake, as they always did. He’d been a fixture long enough now to become no more human to them than the table they sat at. Word had quickly spread that they were not treated with disdain here, and eventually visits from several officers had unofficially put the Coalition seal of approval on the place, and by extension him. Worth the slavering, even if it did turn his stomach.

  “Do you really think they got him? The Raider?”

  “I hope so. Legion Command was not happy.”

  “If it’s true, you’d think Governor Sorkost would hang his body in the square.”

  “I heard they cut him to pieces. Maybe there’s nothing left to hang.”

  The laughter that rang out then set his teeth on edge. He fought yet again not to let it show.

  Instead, he refilled their glasses with an obsequious smile. For that was his lot, the path he had chosen.

  A servant of the Coalition.

  Chapter 9

  THE RAIDER, STILL very much alive, settled the helmet over his head, adjusting it so the metal sweep on the right side covered most of his cheek and jaw. That left only the thick, gnarled scars visible on the left side, the distorted and ropy flesh a gruesome sight under the best of conditions, but emphasized by the shape of the helmet. He ran his fingers over the uneven surface, pressing, pushing, thinking of the many who had not survived to carry any scars at all.

  He had been luckier than they.

  Luckier than he deserved.

  The helmet—intentionally kept bright silver instead of painted black as the rest of the armor—was in place, the curve of metal that went to his chin, hiding all but his eye on that side. He knew there was frequent speculation about what the helmet masked, and questioning about how anything could be so much worse than what was still visible that it had to be hidden. He knew there was even some tale that a part of his head was missing, and that was why he needed the helmet to protect the rest.

  “It would explain some of the crazy things he does,” he’d heard one man say.

  “But since he gets away with them, are they in fact so crazy?”

  That had been Brander, in that amused sort of way of his. He could always count on the man to put a twist on things nobody else thought of.

  In truth, he could count on the man for anything. He trusted his second in command as he did no other. Brander might appear to most as a light-hearted joker who never took anything, even death, seriously, but they had likely never seen the man face down that death without turning a hair. He had seen it. Several times. In his way, Brander was cooler—and no doubt braver—than he himself. Their already unbreakable bond was leavened with war now, with killing done and blood spilled, both the enemy’s and their own.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the man in question appeared in the doorway. “Ready?”

  He turned, saw that Brander was geared up, his well-used blaster at his side, his blade in its sling, ready to his right hand. He himself no longer dwelt on the bitter foolishness of going up against the Coalition with their meager weapons; it was what they had, and so what they used. Besides, they had things the Coalition neither had nor understood: a thorough knowledge of their world, that inborn ability to see through the mist that bedeviled outsiders, and a love for it that the Coalition had for nothing except further conquest.

  He checked his own weapons. He would be carrying only his own, slightly newer blaster, liberated from a fallen trail guard some months ago, and his curved Ziem blade, an arm’s length long and honed to an edge that would split one of Brander’s much vaunted—by females, anyway—hairs. He grimaced inwardly. Stolen, battered weapons, ammunition so scarce they had to count every round or discharge, and centuries-old blades against new Coalition blasters, rail guns, air rovers, and if worse came to worse, the fusion cannon.

  Sometime next week, that cannon would be moved up to the mines. One day the week after, it would return to overlook Zelos, and the random cycle would repeat time after time, ever reminding them that they were at the Coalition’s mercy. The sight of the huge, heavy weapon looming over the city was a constant weight. Looking at it was the only time he envied the outsiders their limited vision through the mist; they, at least, could not see the bedamned thing half the time.

  Barcon Ordam had reportedly once asked the post commander why they didn’t just bring in two cannons, since it wasn’t like the massively armed Coalition didn’t have them. He had answered it wasn’t necessary; there would be no rebellion on Ziem.

  They thought them broken. They were not, but this fight was far beyond hopeless and well into insanity. And yet they fought on. And he knew when he left his quarters he would find the others ready. From the moment he had stepped into the gathering room and said simply, “We go tonight,” they would have been preparing, no questions asked, even though it had been days since they’d seen him while he healed.

  The weight of that trust, of that unquestioning faith, had never been heavier.

  He drew in a breath. Nodded at Brander. The time for pondering was done. It was time to fight again.

  “THE RAIDER IS the true son of Torstan Davorin, in spirit.”

  “Were he still alive, Torstan wou
ld be standing with him.”

  “And be ashamed of his blood son.”

  Kye turned at that, only then betraying her presence to the two men and the woman who had been huddled about the fire, waiting for the word it was time to move out. Mara Clawson, who had spoken the last words, paled slightly, but to her credit, she held Kye’s gaze without flinching.

  “You cannot deny Drake Davorin is not what his father would have wished him to be,” she said.

  “I deny nothing,” Kye said, hiding how much the words stung, more so because of the truth of them. “I remind you only that he is a friend of long years to me.”

  “He serves and bends to the Coalition, yet you defend him?” one of the men asked.

  “I defend my friends,” Kye said, eying him levelly. “Him just as I would you, should the need arise.”

  “There was talk,” Mara said, still watching Kye, “that you once were more than friends.”

  “We were children. It would have come to nothing anyway.”

  “She’s got her sights set elsewhere now,” one of the men, Slake, she thought, said with a leer that was more teasing than cruel.

  “Better you than I,” Mara said with a barely suppressed shiver. “I admire, respect, and follow the Raider, but . . .”

  Kye knew she meant the scars, understood that few could look past them. She herself was not repelled by them, only distressed at what he had gone through. She could not remember the exact moment they had become inconsequential to her. She just knew that one day they did not matter anymore, that she dwelt more on the roughness in his voice, indicating his vocal chords had likely been injured in the blast that had scarred his face. She liked the sound, as she liked the way he moved with a grace and power that belied the damage done to his body.

  And his courage, intelligence, and audaciousness outweighed all else, to her mind.

  “All I have to say is, it’s about time we struck again,” Slake muttered.

  “He has his reasons,” Kye retorted. “Foremost being he doesn’t want to cause so much trouble that the Coalition feels compelled to call in aid from Legion Command to crush us.”