Praetorian Rising

by J. McSpadden

  J. McSpadden

  Copyright © 2019 Jessica McSpadden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in book reviews.

  First Edition July 2019

  ISBN: 978-0-578-53373-5

  Published by J. McSpadden Writes

  www.jmcspaddenwrites.com

  DEDICATION

  I’d like to dedicate this book in two parts. First, to those that helped me get through the self-publishing process reminding me to never give up hope on why I embarked on this adventure.

  Bjorn, thank you for listening to me read every version of this book to you on our long road trips, working through story and character development. You are my idea board, my most honest critique, and the man I love most.

  Laura, thank you for being my first editor and the one to push me to write when I was at a stationary moment in my life.

  Ashley, thank you for always politely killing my darlings while shaping my book to perfection. You kept me laughing through the whole editing process. My forever Editor and self-publishing guru I wouldn’t be here without you.

  Rebecca, thank you for being my most diligent comma hunter and the last eyes on this story before publishing glory.

  Mom and Dad, thank you for supporting me and giving me a lifetime worth of experiences. Every vacation, every get away enabled me those moments to dream every dream.

  Second, I dedicate this book to every author who was sent a rejection letter and made to believe their story wasn’t good enough to be published. This book, this first published piece, is for you my fellow writers. Don’t give up on your dreams, don’t let anyone say you can’t do it. To be a writer is to write, and to be an author is to find your way to a published platform. Fly your own path to your dreams.

  Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My heart shall love,

  My sword protect,

  My courage remain,

  My strength withstand,

  I serve you Ma’Nada.

  With every breath,

  I praise the day,

  We embrace again as equals,

  In the great halls of Cydonia.

  Chapter One

  Lost Memory

  Wind whistled through the dense overgrowth of Dun L'er Forest, a high-pitched whir of warning dogging his every step. The rustling maple and stark pine trees hunched like ghostly sentinels, the foggy fingers of breaking dawn stretching toward him as he ran. They were watching him, the ancient eyes of the forest, their aged and weathered limbs creaking against the pressured air. They would hold his secrets in their entombed silence, but the gods knew what he'd done.

  Panic slipped down Vesyon’s spine, a rivulet of ice pushing his legs to move ever faster. There was no going back now, the deed was done. He had her. They had escaped.

  "We're almost there," he whispered as he readjusted the precious form cradled in his arms. Tucking away the young woman's brilliant tumble of red hair beneath the dense fur of his cloak, he pushed through a bramble bush as he continued south toward Sierra Village. Thankfully, the beasts tracking him had lost his scent miles behind his current location. He no longer heard the crash of paw on his heels. Despite the small reprieve, he kept moving. One could never hide from the High Court for long within the depths of Aspera. The eyes of the crown stretched far and wide.

  As he pressed into the barrier lines of Sierra Village, Vesyon was vividly aware of the dangers that came with anyone seeing the young woman tucked into his arms. Thankfully his destination wasn't far—just beyond the forest's edge—but he could never be too careful.

  Her breath was warm against the crook of his neck, a slow and steady reminder of the depth of her induced sleep. He was grateful for it, wishing she could remain in a peaceful swirl of dreams instead of waking into the harsh reality of her impending future.

  A mysterious and silent creature followed him in quick pursuit, dodging between bush and boulder to keep pace with Vesyon's steady gait through the dense forest terrain. Short tufts of black and brown fur camouflaged the creature's every move, allowing him to accomplish his task of the silent companion with pristine perfection. After so many years together, Vesyon couldn't help but think of his small feline friend, Neeko, as one of his closest confidantes.

  Up ahead, past the battered wooden fence skirting Sierra Village, he saw a dulled lamp light flickering wildly in the grey of early morning. The orange glow of electricity was like a beacon perched on top of a well-weathered cabin. He hurried toward the sagging walls and ancient, slatted roof with eager anticipation.

  An elderly man with a grizzled grey beard stepped out of a low-slung doorway, intrigue and growing curiosity spilling across his creased face. His milky blue eyes and the weight of age contrasted the sharp edges of Vesyon’s youthful appearance.

  "It's been a long time, my dear friend," the man, Peter Schroder, remarked with a mischievous grin. "I'm surprised the guards let you sneak by." His anxious gaze swept over the deserted village grounds, his caterpillar brows furrowing into a single line. The cracked skin of Vesyon's lips stretched wide with affection as Peter caressed the dagger hidden in his waistband like a cherished friend. Being the town butcher had its positives for Peter; no one questioned his love of sharp blades.

  "Too long," Vesyon replied in earnest agreement, readjusting his hold on the sleeping woman as he ducked through the cabin's doorway.

  A flicker of shocked bewilderment crossed Peter's face as he glared at Vesyon’s precious bundle. Would the girl remember the old man? Or dismiss him as a stranger? Vesyon couldn't be sure. His eyes traversed the broad lines of the man's face with grave worry, not wanting to throw his old friend into the storm of chaos she would invoke, yet knowing he had few other options.

  "You weren't followed?" Peter asked although he knew the answer. Vesyon wouldn't be in his home if he’d been tracked. It didn't mean they were safe, only that they had a little time to discuss details. Vesyon shook his head before setting the young sleeping woman down on the fire-warmed hearth and wrapping fur blankets securely around her shoulders.

  The old man's living quarters were nothing more than a single room: kitchen, living room, and bedroom, all scarcely lit by a swinging bulb over the kitchen table and the glowing fire in the corner. Electricity was a luxury in the rundown villages of Aspera, but Sierra Village made do with what it had. Aside from the electric icebox in his butchery, Peter kept his home largely stripped of those technological advancements the wealthier villagers possessed. The old man wasn't one for fancy. He had a simple and functioning home and it was a welcoming stop after Vesyon’s long, brutal journey through the wilderness of Aspera.

  Above their heads, through the latticework, was an attic large enough for Peter’s eight-year-old grandson. Young Lunci’s soft snores drifted down to Vesyon’s sensitive ears pushing a momentary smile across his stern features. Despite Vesyon’s impromptu appearance, the kid slept through the commotion, for which Vesyon was grateful. The deta
ils he was about to unload onto Peter wouldn’t be well-suited for a young boy’s mind.

  "You really shouldn't be here," Peter said, his tone strained yet friendly. Trespassers weren't welcome in the village, and Vesyon knew the consequences of being caught inside the grounds by the wrong person.

  "I had little choice as my message relayed to you," he replied smoothly. Which was almost true, but he wasn't ready to think over the details of his decision. Few were trusted by Vesyon, and Peter was a hardened man through experience, but his wide-open heart offered unending compassion for those without a leg to stand on. Leaving the girl in Peter's hands was the safest choice imaginable.

  Peter's lips parted, his features laced with hesitation. Nodding at the sleeping girl, he asked, "You really think she's ready for this? For what position you’re about to put her in?"

  It was a substantial question. Vesyon wasn't sure of the answer himself. He sat down on a wicker stool, pulling the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders. The heat billowing from the hearth felt good. He closed his eyes for a moment of peace within the comfort of warmth.

  Removing a rusted poker from its hook on the wall, Peter shuffled the coals in the hearth with quick, sharp stabs, stoking the smoldering wood into a soft flame. A smile curled the corners of Vesyon's lips as he observed Peter through the hooded sweep of his sooty lashes. Despite the frailty implied by age-spotted hands and knobby knuckles, the man held his own.

  Approving of his freshly stoked fire, Peter nodded once before grabbing a plate of meat slices from the kitchen table and offering them to Vesyon. Politely declining, Vesyon finally replied, "I have no idea."

  Pulling a worn pipe from his cloak, Vesyon opened a thin canvas bag filled with the dried leaves of his favorite tobacco. He carefully pressed the delicate bits into the pipe’s mouth and stared into the dancing flame in the hearth with a sense of momentary calm that he knew wouldn't last. The second he walked out the door, the chaos would consume him again. It was only a few minute’s reprieve—a moment to catch his breath—he told himself even as his legs twitched to be on the move again.

  "LeMarc had her locked in his dungeon for the past seven years," Vesyon said, his voice tinged with a hint of vexation as he pulled a knife and flint stone from his pocket.

  He ignored Peter's stern glare at the disrespectful use of the High King's first name. Vesyon would never think of LeMarc Lowenhaar as a king, let alone the High King of Aspera. The man was a deceitful, power-hungry monster. Vesyon saw no reason to show the man any sort of respect, whether in his presence or not.

  "We honestly can't be certain of anything." Vesyon lit his pipe and puffed three times in quick succession to catch flame on the dried leaves. The sweet tang of tobacco smoke filled Vesyon's lungs, and he sighed in relief at the tingling sensation buzzing through his veins as he exhaled.

  Peter's gaze shifted to the bundle of fur by the hearth and landed on the heavy brown boots poking out the bottom. "She looks so fragile. Is there no other option? No one else?"

  Vesyon studied the girl’s delicate features bronzed by the glow of the fire. Peter was right; despite her age, she looked too young and innocent for battle. She was someone he’d give his life for; Vesyon hated knowing what she was about to endure. "She's all we have. Our rebellion can't wait a second longer—she must be prepared."

  "How long will she be here?" Peter whispered, pulling the fur blankets more securely around the young woman. Bitter fall air seeped through a cracked windowpane, and Peter shivered. Vesyon wondered if it was from the weather or the burden he'd just heaped onto the old man's shoulders. "It's going to take time to assess how destructive her induced amnesia is. From what Langhorn expressed to me, she might not remember anything at all."

  Vesyon's upper lip twitched at Peter's probing words, a subtle tic of the displeasure he tried to hide. Hopefully, Langhorn had succeeded in obliterating everything the girl had endured over the last seven years. If she was lucky, she’d wake up without recalling the smallest detail of her life before that point. It was cruel to rip away someone's identity, but they'd had no choice. If even an inkling of her memories survived, they’d all pay for the horrible atrocities inflicted on her mind, body, and soul while she'd been locked inside LeMarc's torture chamber.

  Peter's eyes studied Vesyon's unshaven face before he lowered his creaky body onto the stool near the fireplace. Bones snapped and popped as he settled into the sagging wicker, reminding Vesyon of the extreme fragility most Asperians developed from lack of proper nutrients over the years. He winced with barely concealed worry, but thankfully Peter didn't notice.

  "Tea?" the older man asked, pushing a heavy blackened pot into the heat.

  Vesyon nodded, knowing he should leave, but not wanting to be rude or end this rare feeling of comfort. He had asked Peter for an incredible favor. He owed the elderly man a moment of company despite his growing urgency to leave. No one knew he was here; he had time to drink a cup of tea—but only one.

  "Do you have an idea of where the High King is?" Peter asked as he handed Vesyon a steaming cup of lavender tea.

  Vesyon blew across the rim of the dingy grey mug, watching tendrils of steam curl into the bitter air and disperse like mysterious ghosts. "I don't have a clue," he replied. "Metus—"

  "The King Regent," Peter corrected sharply.

  "Yes," Vesyon replied, trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Peter hated the High King and the King Regent as much as anyone else involved with the rebellion, but he believed in respecting the titles of those in power, and Vesyon wasn't one to press that button too hard. "He’s still managing the throne and has been since the Praetorian Exile. However, I don't believe for a second that LeMa—the High King—" Vesyon corrected, “is idly sitting by. His absence is worrisome, but more than that, his complete silence over the last seven years proves Langhorn right. The High King is up to something of grand proportions, and I want to ensure I'm ready when he lays out his cards."

  Glancing out the frost-riddled window, Vesyon smiled with genuine affection at Neeko, perched like a sentinel on the windowsill, his mouth full of fresh forest mice. Beyond the cat's silhouette, thick clouds were rolling in over the forest canopy. A storm was coming, and it was time to leave. He still had so much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it.

  Tipping his mug up, Vesyon took a hefty gulp and almost choked as the scorching heat burned its way down his throat to his belly. He grunted in mild discomfort, prompting an arched brow of bemusement from Peter, but Vesyon waved him off and blew more intently on his tea. "I can't thank you enough for this Peter. I have no possible way to repay you for taking care of her."

  Peter shook his head, a tender grin running over his lips. "Consider it a payment repaid to a dear friend—one very much deserved, mind you."

  Vesyon opened his mouth to protest, but Peter raised a withered hand to ward off even the smallest objection. "I have always hated being in debt to favors, especially when it comes to friends. As I see it now, watching over her is a small contribution toward what you have given me these past years. If my wife were here, or my daughter," Peter said, tears glistening at the corners of his eye, "they would say the same."

  A zing of guilt struck deep in Vesyon’s chest. Peter's beloved family hadn't escaped the slaughter. Behind closed eyes, their hollowed faces appeared, thick red blood streaming from the gashes in their throats, their twin bodies slumped on the ground, lifeless. Vesyon disagreed with Peter. The man was giving far more than Vesyon had ever returned.

  Sipping his only moderately scalding tea, Vesyon’s gaze drifted back to the young woman’s face. "Knowing she’ll be with Neeko and you puts my mind at ease."

  Peter chuckled, his milky eyes twinkling with mirth. "I might bore that poor cat to tears in this village. The most exciting adventure he'll have is chasing down a rat. Are you sure he is actually willing to stay?"

  "Willing is a strong word." Vesyon eyed Neeko perched at the window, his stoic haunches barely twitchi
ng in the bitter rush of wind snaking down the mountain and through the village grounds. He would miss the little fur ball, but it was the only protection he could provide that would remain at Camille's side. In the coming moon cycles, she would need security and companionship. With a slight smirk Vesyon dumped the ashes from his pipe into the dwindling flames of the fire. "He'll stick by her though, and that's what she'll need."

  "Well, as far as Count Jenkin is aware, I have a distant relative staying with me until further notice. He'll meet her as soon as she acclimates to the village. I don't expect a warm welcome," Peter said with a slight frown. Pretending the woman was a distant relative of Peter was the only way to ensure the villagers wouldn't shun or forcibly remove her. Sierra Village wasn't in the practice of being hospitable to strange folk, and despite every excuse Vesyon had fed himself to keep Camille close at hand, this was ultimately the best plan of action. "But they will accept her well enough," Peter assured, assessing Vesyon's pinched expression with obvious concern.

  "She's with you Peter. She's in good hands. Teach her everything you know about hunting, trapping, and tracking. She'll be a bit rusty when she wakes."

  Peter nodded. "Any idea when you'll come back for her?" he asked, taking the half-empty teacup from Vesyon and placing it on the bare kitchen table with a subtle 'clink.' As the flames in the hearth stretched out their last arms in a dance of withering energy, Vesyon packed away his pipe and tobacco pouch before shrugging into his heavy, fur-lined cloak.

  "You have twelve moon cycles. I will come for her then," he said. Their eyes met, and they grasped each other's hand in farewell. Peter's shake was firm, but Vesyon felt the tremble beneath the steel exterior. Vesyon plucked the heavy iron pistol from his belt and placed it on the rickety table beside the door. The smell of gunpowder singed the lining of his nostrils, sharp and bitter, and recognizable to any warrior.

  Peter eyed the weapon warily. "Is that necessary?"