Combatant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 3)
Page 1
CONTENTS
Oriceran
Dedication
Legal
Oriceran US Map
Oriceran Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Author Notes - AL Knorr
Author Notes - Martha Carr
Publisher Notes - Michael Anderle
Social Links
Series AL Knorr
Series Martha Carr
Books by Michael Anderle
Combatant
The Kacy Chronicles Book 3
By A.L. Knorr and Martha Carr
A part of
The Revelations of Oriceran Universe
Written and Created
by Michael Anderle & Martha Carr
The Oriceran Universe
(and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are
Copyright (c) 2017-2018 by Martha Carr and LMPBN Publishing.
DEDICATION
From A.L. Knorr
For anyone who ever wished they could fly.
From Martha
To everyone who still believes in magic and all the possibilities that holds.
To all the readers who make this entire ride so much fun.
And to all the dreamers just like me who create wonder, big and small, every day.
COMBATANT Team
JIT Beta Readers
Joshua Ahles
John Ashmore
Kimberly Boyer
Kelly O’Donnell
Larry Omans
Paul Westman
Nicola Aquino
Alex Wilson
Tim Bischoff
Sarah Weir
Thomas Ogden
If we missed anyone, please let us know!
COMBATANT (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2017 A.L. Knorr and Martha Carr
Cover Design by Damonza
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact info@kurtherianbooks.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, December 2017
Version 1.03 November 2018
The Oriceran Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2017-2018 by Martha Carr and LMBPN Publishing.
Click to View Full Size Map
Click to View Full Size Map
CHAPTER ONE
The heels of Jordan's boots clicked against the hardwood floor of the foyer. There was a squeak as her toe depressed the loose floorboard. The sound of a crackling fire drew her to the parlor. It was an inviting sound, a comforting sound, given the maelstrom that whipped the leaves of the trees outside and threw pellets of rain against the glass of the windows.
Jordan paused in surprise. A strange dog was curled up on the carpet in front of the fire. A Greyhound, if she wasn't mistaken—a racing breed with long limbs, powerful shoulders, and a long spine. He was curled into a ball with his back to her. White speckles dusted his ginger fur, and the fire threw his shadow long and soft against the carpet. The bones of his spine made a row of low mounds down his back. He was thin, this dog. The hallmark of his breed, she supposed.
The dog sensed Jordan's approach and lifted his head, facing away from her, ears cocked. He got to his feet, slowly, stiffly, and padded in a small circle to face her. His jaw and mouth were dusted with gray; his once bright hazel eyes were milky with cataracts. A scar carved its way down the side of his face, just in front of his right ear. He had the noble face of the Greyhound breed, fine and sleek. As they looked at one another, Jordan gasped.
This Greyhound was her father, Allan.
The fire blew out.
A wisp of smoke drifted from the blackened logs and disappeared up the chimney. Outside, the gale of wind and rain screamed on like a coven of vengeful witches. The shadows of the room turned blue and cold. These were the evil, creeping shadows that lurk where light does not live.
Jordan shivered. "Dad?" She took a hesitant step forward.
The Greyhound crossed the room on stiff hips and a limp. Jordan came to her knees, her heart pounding and her mouth with distress.
"Dad, don't leave me." Jordan's voice trembled, and her eyes pricked with tears. She put her hands on the dog's withers. The Greyhound drew close and lifted a paw, resting it heavily on her knee. He whuffed out a sigh.
The Greyhound's mind whispered to hers: I'm tired, Jordy. So tired.
"Dad, no. Don't give up." A tear tracked its way down Jordan's cheek. "I'm coming for you."
The Greyhound's pink tongue licked the skin of Jordan's chest, just under her left collarbone. She put her forehead against his. He licked her again, his tongue warm and slow.
"Dad, don't leave me."
He licked her again in the same place, just above her heart. But moisture ran from the lick, up into the hollow of Jordan's throat, against gravity. The droplet turned cold and spilled over her neck and into her hair. Jordan noticed only then that the hair at the nape of her neck was damp. She shivered.
"Jordan." The Greyhound spoke in a woman's voice, making her start.
Jordan flew awake like a small bird at the hoot of a Great-Horned Owl. She was panting, her neck wet, her eyes darting from side to side. Where am I?
"You were dreaming, Jordan." The whisper came from a dark shadow bent over her. It was accompanied by the pressure of a warm hand on her shoulder.
The sounds of the gale were real. Rain drove and whipped across the portholes, the creaks and groans of wood shifting and timbers rubbing against one another cleared Jordan's memory. Another cold drop struck her below the collarbone and ran into her hair.
The ship.
She was still on the ship. It had been a dream. Just a dream. She exhaled in relief.
One of her wings jutted out awkwardly to the side. Her feathers trailed in the water that slid across the wooden boards of the cabin floor. The other wing she couldn't feel, it had gone numb beneath h
er.
"Are you okay?" Eohne whispered, sitting in the hammock next to Jordan's. "You were mumbling."
Jordan wiped at her wet neck as another droplet fell from the ceiling and hit her just above her heart. She sat up, and three ratty old blankets fell away from her shoulders. "I dreamed my dad was a dog." Jordan yanked her trapped wing from underneath her body, wincing as the blood rushed back into it and made the whole appendage tingle.
Eohne's shadow was still as the Elf absorbed this. "How curious."
"A racing animal," Jordan explained, wiping her wet neck and chest with one of the blankets. She realized her face was also wet, but this moisture had come from her eyes. She swiped at them and the smell of moldy fabric made her pull back with a moue of disgust. "But the dog was old and stiff. His racing days were over."
"Hmmmm." Eohne made a contemplative sound.
The two women swayed back and forth with the rocking of the ship.
"Where's Toth?" Jordan asked, searching for the Nycht.
"Up on deck."
"In this weather?" Jordan pushed the pile of blankets aside and put her feet on the floor. She felt around in the dark for her boots. The floor was damp, downright splashy in some places. Vertigo swallowed her as the ship lurched and she gave a groan. "Nevermind, I get it."
Jordan pulled on her boots and fumbled around her hammock for the long-sleeved leather jacket Eohne had purchased for her before they'd left Maticaw. Jordan loved it. It was specially made to accommodate her wings, lacing up underneath them so they could be free, yet keeping her back warm. Best of all, it was lined with something fuzzy and soft. Jordan hadn't wanted to ask what kind of animal fur it was, if it was fur. She'd worked hard to reject Eohne's buying her the jacket, but the Elf had insisted. Where they were going, it was going to be cold.
"Do you think we're getting close?"
"We are. The fog is growing thick; that is a good sign, under the circumstances."
"Creepy," Jordan muttered, putting her arms into the jacket's holes. The fabric draped over the tops of Jordan's wings, and she turned so Eohne could lace the back of it closed above and below them. Jordan fastened the metal clasps that ran up the front and instantly felt warmer. She laced up her boots next.
The two women swung in the hammocks as the ship's nose took a dive into a trough, sending their stomachs lurching. Loud voices from the deck of the ship yelled commands in a foreign tongue. Heavy footsteps ran overhead, waves slapped the hull, ropes were yanked and sails hoisted. The whole cacophony blended together in a tense soundtrack.
"Care to move somewhere more solid?" The Elf's voice was strained as she gestured to a wooden shelf at the rear of the hold. It might have been used for storage, but it was currently empty. Eohne grabbed one of the blankets from Jordan's bed and got up.
"Absolutely." Jordan's stomach flopped over as they staggered across the floor. Muscles in her back complained at having slept in a swinging hammock for several hours. She marvelled at how sailors could sleep in such uncomfortable beds for months at a time.
Eohne spread the blanket on the shelf, and the two women sat with their backs to the rear-wall, facing the bow of the lurching ship. The steps leading up to the deck were directly behind them. A couple of empty bottles rolled across the floor as the women settled themselves back and grasped the posts on either side of the shelf to help keep still.
The ship tilted and swayed. Jordan loosed a groan from deep in her gut.
"The Captain said this part of the Rodanian Sea is always rough. It'll pass."
Jordan turned her head away from Eohne and covered her mouth with her fingertips, wondering if she was going to lose her last meal. She breathed deep, and the nausea eased. She sat back, letting her head fall on Eohne's shoulder. The Elf rested her own head on top of Jordan's.
"Tell me again," Jordan croaked. "Please? It'll take my mind off of vomit."
"Tell you…"
"About the rickshaws. I want to be thoroughly informed before we get to Trevilsom."
"The Rakshaaks?"
Jordan grunted in agreement. "I can never remember the name."
"Trevilsom Prison sits on an island surrounded by a dangerous sea," Eohne began, her voice soft. The Elf lifted a long, tapered finger and ran it in a straight line in the air in front of Jordan's face, from the top of her forehead to her sternum. The finger curved to follow the shape of Jordan's bent neck.
"Whoa!" Jordan's head snapped up; her vision had gone foggy. A misty cartoon scene opened before her: a large island, mostly rock, beneath a huge stone building with no windows—save for a few on the upper level. "How are you doing this?"
"We learn it young." There was a smile in Eohne's voice, though Jordan could no longer see the Elf. "I haven't used Charra-Rae storytelling magic for a long time. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could still do it."
"Your skills are intact, let me tell you."
Small seabirds wheeled in and out of the clouds hovering over the scene in front of Jordan. "Everything looks like it’s drawn by hand. It's like a moving painting." Jordan reached a blind hand forward into the scene, but she found nothing solid. Even her own hand was not visible. "Keep going." The lurching of the ship seemed to ease as Jordan's senses were occupied by the story.
"Over eight hundred years ago, the Kingdom of the Rakshaak giants was ruled by a selfish king named Keeriak."
A tall, bony, giant of a man, wearing long robes and a tall spiky crown, appeared on the battlement of the ugly castle. His shape wavered there as though it was made of colored smoke.
"King Keeriak was a supporter of Rhazdon, a treacherous Atlantean who had plans to dominate your Earth. Rhazdon faced all the other species in a battle for supremacy of Oriceran. Thankfully, he lost. The Prophets, including my ancestor, were the key to his defeat. Prophets still exist today to help ensure the treaty is upheld."
"This is the treaty that prevents people from traveling back and forth between universes?" Jordan didn't need to add that the treaty was only marginally successful at discouraging portal-hopping activities.
"That's right, but that's a story for another day. The island king was not only a follower of Rhazdon, he was also obsessed with finding the secret to immortality."
"Who isn't?"
The scene wavered and changed. A cold stone room with a fire of green flames crackled behind the king as he bent over a stack of mouldering books. As Jordan watched, the giant got to his feet, swept a glass off the table with a hand the size of a car tire, and threw the goblet into the flames. A splash of thick red liquid sizzled against the hot stones behind the fire and ran down in streams, smoking as it went.
"Keeriak's obsession took him abroad, to the port city of Maticaw."
Jordan watched the giant disembark from a huge ship, his enormous size making the dock sway and creak under his weight. Fish visible in the water beneath the dock darted away, and Jordan thought she could hear the little creatures squeaking in the background, 'Run for your lives! Swim away!' She chuckled at the cartoonish silliness of the story.
The giant lumbered alone down the streets of Maticaw, while magical creatures darted into shops and dove under benches to escape his baleful gaze and clumsy footsteps.
"How do you know all this?"
The giant stopped lumbering, his expression went from malevolent to vacant.
"My ancestor, a Prophet named Firohne, left a journal," came Eohne's answer. "I've read it front to back several times over. The Elves of Charra-Rae know this history like they know their own faces, because Firohne was given the forests of Charra-Rae as a reward for what he did. He was our pioneer, and as you know, Charra-Rae is our home even today."
"Where were your people before that?"
"We were part of the Light Elves’ kingdom. We still bear some resemblance to them, but we've had eight hundred years to evolve our own magic."
"Okay, sorry to interrupt. Please continue. The king looks bored."
The king's face was relaxed and good-natured, not unl
ike an expression Eohne wore most of the time. As Eohne resumed the tale, the giant re-engaged and snapped back into character. His bushy brows slammed together, and his mouth twisted cruelly.
"Firohne sold King Keeriak an Elvish potion, which, when drunk and allowed to course through the king's veins at the passing of the full moon, would turn the Rakshaak King immortal."
The scene morphed into an indoor meeting between King Keeriak and a very handsome, chestnut-haired male Elf wearing satin robes. The Elf and the giant sat together, heads bent in serious discussion. Firohne's lips moved soundlessly and he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small vial. The greedy king snatched at the vial and threw a sack of coins at Firohne, who caught it with a secret smile.
"What the giant didn't know was that Firohne was part of the movement to stop Rhazdon and his cohorts from taking over Earth. The potion was a lie."
"Your ancestor was a treacherous Elf," Jordan murmured.
The cartoon Firohne made eye contact with Jordan, his face a picture of innocence. He said in Eohne's voice, "All for a good cause, my friend," before dissolving away.
"Keeriak took the potion back home to wait for the full-moon," Eohne continued.
A new scene materialized: Keeriak strode back and forth impatiently in front of that same crackling, green fire. A window in the background displayed a half-moon, and then a three-quarter moon as it waxed in time-lapse. King Keeriak grabbed the vial from the table as the moon popped into full. He tossed the whole thing, glass and all, down his gullet.
"King Keeriak died. Sort of."
Keeriak went stiff and his tongue flopped out of his mouth. His eyes turned into black buttons, and he fell over to the sound of a long, descending whistle. He crashed to the floor with the snapping sound of breaking branches. The king's shape remained still, and the room behind him wavered away and became a huge, dark tomb with large bearded heads of stone jutting from the walls.
"His people buried him and swore vengeance, but little did they know…"
A hole in the ceiling of the tomb where the king lay appeared and widened, showing again the passing of the moon.
"One week later, the Rakshaak King came back to a kind of half-life."