Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  Dolfan didn’t answer, just bolted for the stairs and the plaza below, Mof keeping pace beside him. They stopped together below the flags and listened to the roar of approaching engines.

  “It’s a damned invasion!” Mof screamed over the noise. “Shroud! How did they get to us?”

  They ran to the head of the stairway, sliding up beside the security officer who still held the comm to his ear even though his mouth hung open and silent. His eyes stared across the canyon, where a battalion of transports dropped ground troops like deadly rain.

  The lead ships had almost reached the complex, and their engines rattled the plaza tiles, echoed up from the lower levels, and shook the Palace itself. Invasion. Son of a bitch.

  “Where the hell is he going?” Mofitan motioned to the pad below. A shuttle lifted off the pad as they watched, bobbled enough to reveal the pilot clearly before the currents shifted and pushed the vehicle away, straight into the oncoming army with Syradan at the controls.

  “Vashia!” Dolfan screamed and grabbed the startled Security officer by his shoulders. She was supposed to be in the Temple; maybe Syradan left her there. Maybe. Why would the Seer leave? Why in the name of the Shroud would he head directly into the approaching forces alone unless… “Was he alone? Did you see?”

  The man blinked and shook his head. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Dolfan shook him hard until he stammered, “He had the queen, the Kingmaker.”

  Dolfan let go before the last word had faded. Mofitan stood in his way, but he pushed him aside and sprinted down the stairs. He hit the bottom as a shadow darkened the pad. The first ships had arrived, and they had nothing—no defenses that hadn’t already fallen at the far rim. He didn’t look up, only bolted for the bikes waiting in their clamps.

  He snagged the first one and slid it forward. Mofitan tore up to the line and shouted at him. “We have to defend the palace! Dolfan!”

  Dolfan paused for a second and watched the ships come. As the whine of engines howled overhead, he could see the nearest undercarriage spinning, a bright blue circle about to drop a host of trouble on them all. He shook his head and shrugged at Mofitan, shouting over the roar, “With what?”

  Mof stared at him, but Dolfan couldn’t wait. Syradan’s shuttle flew farther away by the second. Whatever the Seer had planned, he hadn’t done what he said. Instead of protecting Vashia, he’d dragged her straight into the heart of a war. Dolfan couldn’t think much beyond getting her back safely.

  He threw a leg over the bike and kicked away from the rails just as the first merc landed on the pad. The chute billowed away to the side, landing in a plume across the stairway. Dolfan slammed the charge to full and the cushion flared, sending the merc staggering to the side as he fired his bike like a missile straight at the rest of the incoming ships.

  A mag gun howled behind him, and he prayed for Mof, for Peryl, and for Pelinol and the others who had to know by now that danger swarmed the skies above. Their officers had weapons, though very few guns that he knew of would be of any use against these invaders.

  Dolfan swerved to dodge a falling merc with a readied rifle. He prayed that the mercenaries’ directive did not include slaughter, that their orders didn’t involve massacring the planet’s ruling body en masse.

  For the moment, he’d settle for not annihilating him. The ships that had already dropped their troops still headed his way. Dolfan hit the accelerator and tried not to think of what might happen in the streets below, streets that now teemed with enemy soldiers. Beyond the merc ships he could see the shuttle. It flew in a direct line through the enemy forces, and not one of the bastards fired on it. Syradan, it seemed, had earned himself a free pass, and Dolfan had more than a few ideas how.

  He rolled the bike sharply to the right, waited for the heavy transport to target him and then dodged back, swerving close to the ship’s hull and sliding down the length of it. Another one held position behind the first and fired before he’d even cleared the cushion. He dropped below the projectile’s path, but skidded off the mag currents and veered toward another ship. At this rate, he’d be jelly before he ever saw Vashia again.

  He glanced at the shuttle. It still shot like a rocket for the far rim, but a shuttle couldn’t outpace the smaller bike, not if he could fly instead of dance. Dolfan dropped even lower. He eyed the passing buildings and watched for the road he needed. Now the troops in the street found him. They fired from all directions at once, and the bike flipped from side to side to avoid them.

  When the factory route appeared, he slammed the throttle forward and gave it everything the current could muster. He steered sharply, turning down between the buildings and directly toward the rock wall. The outer road was longer, but away from the fray. He could hug the wall and go full out down the crevasse. If he avoided any more enemy fire, he should reach the security platform in front of Syradan, should see which way the shuttle went from there.

  After that, his plan faltered. He had no weapon and no mask. If Syradan continued into the Shroud, Dolfan wouldn’t last long unprotected. If the platform had already fallen to the mercenaries, there’d be nowhere else to go. He leaned forward, gunned the bike and tried not to think about the next step.

  Jarn watched his troops swarm across the flat Plaza. He waited while they took the building, didn’t order his pilot to set down until the unit commander appeared below the flags and signaled that things were well in hand. In his hand. Kovath had erred greatly in sending him on ahead. So much for the man’s genius. The governor’s refusal to risk his own hide would give Jarn the advantage as usual.

  It meant he would have some time. He could still try to influence the upstart king, try to sway him to favor Jarn as an ally over Kovath. He might already have arranged the governor’s death, though he’d had to let Syradan and the child slip by. He jaw tightened as the ship lowered toward the pad one tier down from the plaza, tucked snug against the stone face. He’d have time to kill them both later, once the seat of power lay in his grip.

  “Evan,” he spun around to find the mercenary snapping to attention. The man was fast, and as eager to increase his position as Jarn was. “Stick close to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They landed, and the hatch opened on a stone-faced merc commander. Evan flicked a salute in his direction, and the man shouldered his rifle and stepped to the side while they emerged. A line of Jarn’s men flanked the ship and two more stood at the base of the long stone staircase leading to the plaza above, the highest point inside the canyon, and both the symbol and seat—according to the traitor, Syradan—of Shrouded rule.

  “Report.” He stopped beside the commander and tugged the breathing device from his uniform. While the man talked, he wiggled the small tubes into his nostrils.

  “They’re all secured in the throne room,” the mercenary stood at attention, but his eyes flickered between Jarn and Evan, the latter whom he outranked by a mile if his insignia were to be believed. “The men are rounding up staff members, priests, and such, but we have the king and all of the Council members except two.”

  “Except two?” Jarn bit back a wave of irritation. “You’ve lost some, Commander Rieordan?”

  “Two men on bikes followed the traitor. One was shot. He went down over the factories, and the other most likely ran for it.”

  “Most likely does not please me,” Jarn snarled. He didn’t appreciate sloppy work, but he didn’t have time to fuss with the Commander either. “You will radio the ground and see that both of them are found.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then. Lead on.” Jarn waved impatiently and the merc leader hustled to the stairs. They marched up in formation, with Jarn sandwiched between Evan and the Commander. A cluster of armed men marched before and after them. At the plaza, Jarn paused and let his eyes drift from the flags above to the low Temple and back. He thought of Syradan and tasted bile. How he longed to see that one again. If he could just arrange it, it wouldn’t take him long to deal with
the bastard.

  He waltzed into the Palace and spared only a cursory appreciation of the lush interior, the ornate tiles and gilded ornament. Later, when the place was his, he could admire it fully. At the moment, he had a room full of dignitaries to deal with.

  More mercenaries stood guard at either side of the throne room doors and they saluted as their leader led Jarn through the entrance.

  The remainder of the Shrouded government huddled below a dais on the far wall. Jarn had to dodge around a glass dome set in the main aisle, but he could see them clearly enough over it. They clustered in a pathetic circle around a body. Jarn frowned. Kovath’s murdered prince, no doubt. He counted heads and ignored the hostile stares. Only one of them mattered to his purpose.

  He stopped and let them get a good look. Adjusting his gloves, he waited long enough for them to fidget, for Commander Rieordan to clear his throat rudely, before he looked up at the group with a neutral expression. “Which one of you is the king?”

  “I am.” Two voices answered. Two men stood up. Interesting. Helpful, even.

  The younger man would be Haftan. Syradan’s chosen ruler, but would he still follow the man’s advice, now Syradan had fled the scene to save his own neck? Jarn turned directly to him, ignoring the older man, no doubt the rightful king.

  “Your Highness,” he addressed the upstart, forced himself to manage a curt bow, and saw the idiot’s smile spread. “I am here to discuss the future of your throne.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A BIKE LAY twisted and smoking below the security platform. Dolfan dodged it and caught sight of the pilot before careening toward the rocks. At least one of their Security officers had perished in the fight. He pitched his craft up and hugged the wall. Syradan’s shuttle beat him to the platform, even with its bulk against his bike’s speed. He’d had to slow too many times to avoid enemy fire.

  The craft landed, thankfully, though it confirmed his fears that the enemy controlled the pad, that the entire valley had fallen to the invaders. He didn’t have time to wonder. He needed to be on that pad and there was no way he’d be landing safely out in the open. He shot straight up the wall beside the platform and aimed for the rim. The emitters streaked past, and he took a deep breath and plunged into the Shroud.

  He ditched he bike when the rim rolled away beneath him. The core puffed where he landed, but the ground below the dust made a less forgiving cushion. He slammed against rock and exhaled before he could stop himself. He rolled away from the vehicle and scrabbled back toward the canyon lip. The emitters lay a ways below it. He’d have a short climb down, would have to inhale long before he hit clean air. There’d be no help for it. He tucked his breather in as he crawled and prayed the Shroud was in a friendly mood.

  Handholds proved less of a problem. The stone of the core bore pockets where the material had bubbled and frothed before cooling. The hardened, pillow matrix had more rough than smooth surfaces, and he managed to drop quickly back over the rim to find a path he could scale.

  Eventually, he had to breathe. The emitters still formed a dark shadow beyond his reach, but his lungs could wait no longer. He took short shallow breaths, breaths that felt different but didn’t quite burn, and worked his way toward honest, clean air as fast as the wall allowed him.

  Once he passed the line of devices, he stopped, clung to the support scaffolding and checked his position. He let his lungs relax and refill while he scouted the platform below, found the nearest portion of the roof and plotted the quickest route that might land him on it.

  The shuttle still sat on the pad, and he willed it to stay there. He couldn’t have followed it without a mask, not for long, and he would’ve liked to have had a weapon of some kind. But he had no time to think about all that. The man could whisk Vashia away again at any second. If she still lives.

  He pressed his lips together and started for the roof, risking longer reaches and stretching each step to cover as much wall as possible. He heard voices long before he could see anything. The shed’s roof blocked his view, but it also shielded him. He scampered like a lizard the last few feet and dropped onto the surface in a low crouch.

  A second transport sat on the pad. This one had a mercenary logo stenciled on the hull and two stiff-backed mercs stationed on either side of the nose. The shuttle waited beside it with the hatch open, but Dolfan couldn’t see well enough to know whether Vashia was in either vehicle or with the men arguing below the awning. The static he felt told him she was close, but worried him as well. It was too damned faint to offer any kind of reassurance.

  He needed a better view, and that meant getting off the roof. He sidestepped like a crab to the edge farthest from the action. He peered into the space beyond and when he found only rock and scaffolding, he rolled over the edge and dropped to the nearest mesh platform. Access ladders connected these, which allowed for easy maintenance of the structure. Dolfan slipped along the walkways to the edge of the building.

  He crept forward to peek again, had leaned out enough that he was off balance when something grabbed his ankle. He spun back and kicked out against the touch. His grip on the scaffold slipped and he slid down two feet and found a familiar face grinning up at him.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Mofitan’s eyes held more relief than anger. “I was beginning to think they’d shot your ass down.”

  “Up there.” Dolfan pointed to the Shroud. “I didn’t realize you’d come along for the ride.”

  “Right behind you till you dove into the Shroud. No damned sense at all.”

  “I was thinking fast.” He prickled, but Mof had a point. He’d managed to land without detection or toxic exposure. “Where were you?”

  Mofitan pointed directly down. He cracked a smile again and lifted the security rifle he had to have taken from the downed guard. “I tucked in at the bottom. They took out our men.”

  “Yeah, I saw.”

  “Couple of them.” Mof reached around the small of his back and pulled out a mag pistol. He tossed it to Dolfan and nodded. “Say thank you.”

  He snatched it midair. Armed. Armed was definitely better. “Thank you, Mof.”

  “They have two mercs with them,” Mof continued without gloating. “Syradan and the big guy are under the awning. I think Vashia’s still in the shuttle, but they might have switched her while I was down below.”

  “Any cover?” Dolfan eyed the scaffolding. The Canyon fell away faster than the metal supports, leaving a gap between the stone and the piping. “Can we get behind the mercs?”

  “Already on it.” Mof winked and pointed under the platform. “You stay here and keep an eye on them.”

  He ducked below and was gone before Dolfan could argue. He hefted the pistol in his hand and smiled. Armed felt much better. As he pulled back up to his former position, he hoped he’d owe Mofitan a great deal more than a thank you by the end of the day. He’d never expected him as an ally.

  The building sat a foot or so away from the edge of the platform, and Dolfan wiggled up onto the ledge, his back pressing against the shed and his ears straining to hear the enemy’s conversation. If he squeezed forward and peered between a gap in the metal, he could see a sliver of the landing pad, one of the mercs, and possibly the spot where Mofitan would emerge.

  The voices on the pad murmured. The words were quick and sharp, but garbled by distance and the obstacles between his position and theirs. If tone could be any indication, however, he guessed Syradan’s new friends were not exactly pleased with him.

  He considered risking a move. The pad had more than one place to hide—behind the bike rails or into the shed itself, if he could shift positions quickly enough. Except he hadn’t seen exactly where the mercs stood and he couldn’t risk stumbling smack into them.

  Before he could decide, however, shadows stalked across the platform. He noticed Syradan tailing a thickset man with dark hair and too much uniform for his own good. Vashia’s father. Dolfan faced their backs and bolted around the corner, d
iving for the nearest shadow. He hid behind a bike, held his breath, and waited for the shout that meant one of the mercs had spied him.

  “Jarn guaranteed my passage off Shroud,” Syradan’s voice oozed dissatisfaction. “I have more than delivered enough to warrant that much.”

  “You have delivered a great deal, traitor, though into Jarn’s hands, if I’m not mistaken.” The man didn’t look at Syradan. He crossed to the transport and waved one of the mercenaries closer.

  “I saved the child’s life,” Syradan whined. “Jarn would have had me kill her.”

  “True.” Vashia’s father reached a hand to the mercenary’s belt and drew the man’s pistol. He looked it over carefully. “You saved my daughter, Syradan. You also framed her for murder. Tell me, what use is she? What good is a queen daughter to me now? Will a murdering outsider do me any good when the time comes to fend off Jarn’s strategies?”

  Dolfan swallowed and felt his muscles tense. He saw it coming, saw Kovath’s arm lift the pistol casually and aim it at the Seer, but Dolfan still jumped when the blast went off. He still gasped when Syradan’s head exploded. He watched, frozen in place, while Vashia’s father boarded the transport with his mercenaries. What use is she?

  Dolfan lifted his own weapon too late. The hatch slid shut and blocked any chance he had at a shot. The craft whined to full throttle and, through the air between the pad and the undercarriage, he caught a glimpse of Mofitan running up the pad.

  Which craft was Vashia in? His chest tightened. Mofitan had a gauss rifle. At close range it could do enough to crash a vehicle. He bolted from his hiding place and ran into the open.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  The transport shot up, but Mof failed to pull the trigger. He shook his head and waved to the shuttle. “Where is she?”

  Dolfan watched the transport’s underbelly spin faster. He waited until it moved forward, not toward the Palace as he suspected, but directly into the Shroud. It took Vashia’s static with it.