by Vi Voxley
Brocke: Alien Warlord’s Conquest
Science Fiction Alien Romance
Vi Voxley
Contents
A Little Taste…
Copyright
1. Brocke
2. Cora
3. Cora
4. Brocke
5. Cora
6. Cora
7. Brocke
8. Cora
9. Cora
10. Brocke
11. Cora
12. Brocke
13. Cora
14. Cora
15. Brocke
16. Brocke
17. Cora
18. Cora
19. Brocke
Epilogue
Also by Vi Voxley
My Alien Warrior Excerpt
About the Author
A Little Taste…
"Hey–" she began, but the words got stuck in her throat.
The man at the door didn't look like someone you pestered with questions. In fact, he very much looked like a guy who asked what he wanted to know and got truthful answers. Preferably deliver with a "sir" at the end.
As he walked in like he owned the room – which was a possibility – Cora found her eyes glued to him.
It was a Corgan warrior, that much was glaringly obvious even to someone whose job it wasn't to know the difference. There were many giveaways. For one, he was so tall he had to slightly bow his head to fit under the frame. His mighty, broad shoulders were so wide that they brushed against the sides. Cora's mind was conjuring up images of the warrior simply knocking the door off the frame if it bothered him, but he didn't seem to have come with violence on his mind.
As hard it might have been to believe, considering his attire. His armor was dark as the night, looking like reinforced leather, even if Cora knew better. The Corgan armors were incredibly light and flexible, even if they looked like scales of an obsidian dragon. On top of that, there were two thin swords sheathed on the warrior's back, the signature weapons of their race.
Yet despite the impressive bulk, the most striking feature of him were the eyes. Impossibly blue, shining like sapphires, staring right into her soul. The warrior's short dark hair were messy, falling over his face, but she could still see the piercing gaze observing her with interest.
All that passed through her mind in a second and bypassed every filter to go straight to her pussy.
The warrior scared her despite the fact she'd done nothing wrong, Cora wasn't going to lie, but he also turned her on and not a little.
She wiggled uncomfortably in her seat, trying to tell her body to behave.
For god's sake, he's not that hot. Okay, he is, but that is not a good enough reason to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. Blink, girl. Just blink. He's a very scary man, stop eye-fucking him.
He seemed to be waiting for something. Cora, for her part, was praying to all the gods and spirits on Gaiya – she'd been told there were many – that he didn't guess the effect her had on her.
"You were saying, lieutenant?" the warrior asked, his voice deep and soft like velvet, making Cora bite her tongue not to purr in response. "I feel like I have to warn you, the last person who hey-ed me found I don't respond well to threats."
The situation would have been terrifying if there wasn't a small smirk playing on his lips. Cora glared. If that guy was her interrogator, he would find that people who usually occupied that position didn't respond that well to being intimidated.
"I wasn't going to threaten you," she said, looking right at his shining blue eyes. "I was going to ask you some pretty easy questions. Why am I here? Why are you here? And what gives you the right to keep me wherever the heck this is?"
Copyright © 2016 Vi Voxley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Brocke: Alien Warlord’s Conquest
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means by anyone but the purchaser for their own personal use. This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of Vi Voxley. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
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Chapter One
Brocke
The planet was called Gaiya.
It was a beautiful world, considered one of the most gorgeous planets in the many realms of the Galactic Union. The shrine marking it as a holy world – in addition to quite a few other unique qualities – stood on the coast of a glittering sky-blue ocean people came to see from near and far.
There was a wild sort of charm even to its dangerous, dark forests. The Corgans never allowed anyone to enter their depths without protection. They said the most dangerous creatures dwelt in the darkness among the trees, but that was not true.
Very few people knew about the prison that housed the truly evil beings nestled deep underneath the woods. The ones with a mindset as black as the constant night around them, hidden under the planet’s surface where daylight never reached.
Gomor was the only prison the Corgans had, and most of them didn’t even know about it. In fact, very few not serving time there did, since it was so easy to hide behind the usual, unthinking mask of savagery of their species. Typically, they dealt with enemies in a very straightforward manner, but some individuals were considered too dangerous to kill.
As the guardian of the complex walked along the silent corridors, his footsteps echoed through the halls. All of the residents of Gomor crawled to the farthest corners when he approached, dreading the moment the light of his shining blue eyes fell on them. In the absolute darkness of their forced home, there was nothing they feared more than the merciless gaze of those eyes.
It was curious, really, seeing fear in the defiant blue eyes of men and women who had always claimed to dread nothing.
Being in Gomor was bad enough because it meant you could never return to your life again, but when the guardian turned to you, it meant your time was up.
That night, two unthinkable things happened.
The first concerned a rookie prisoner called Hanji, who very, very obviously didn’t know how things worked in Gomor. He had no idea what kind of precedent he was setting by talking out loud in a place where speaking was forbidden.
Most of the time, only a few words were uttered in Gomor during any given month, at least until Condor arrived. Yet even the prison’s most stubborn and dangerous captive never lashed out like that.
Hanji’s voice was so quiet it was nothing more than a whisper in the wind. It was also the reason he was in prison in the first place. He loved to talk, he loved the sound of his voice, and his words were poison. The only reason Hanji was still alive was because he did nothing else but talk.
Nadar Brenger, the chieftain of the Corgans and the leader of the realm, had decided that words alone did not warrant death. That it would be an insult to any man’s sword to sully it with blood like his. It was considered a very progressive opinion by Corgan standards. But the things Hanji said had brought a swift end to his freedom, and now there he was.
“Hey,” he called, knowing all the others could hear
him.
Gomor wasn’t that big of a place, really. It was nothing more but the bottom of a huge chasm. All the cells were on three round platforms with the last one right in the middle, suspended in air. Each prisoner sat on a dais no larger than his body if he lay down on his back. When they slept, the prisoners relied entirely on others to keep watch over them and call out a warning if they were about to drop to the ground below.
Often, that warning never came.
The guardian watched as the young Corgan tried to communicate with the others again. It was impossible to see because shadows covered his face where he stood – a lot closer than his newest ward assumed – but there was the slightest of smiles on his face.
“Hey!” Hanji tried once again, fruitlessly.
In a place like Gomor, there was very little change in the routine. The guardian knew Hanji couldn’t be allowed to speak much longer, or the precious order would crumble, but he allowed himself that small luxury. Hanji amused him. Not many things did down in the chasm.
The boy was no more than eighteen, but apparently, the person who had taught him all those long, clever words had neglected to add wisdom to the mix.
Under the guardian’s watchful gaze, Hanji had stayed silent for three days, ever since arriving to Gomor. Observing, frowning, and taking the first tentative steps to test his borders. Now, it seemed his patience had run out.
“Hey!” he tried for the third time.
There was no mistaking it. Hanji’s voice rang out in the perpetual night, and there was no way everyone in Gomor didn’t hear the boy. Including the guardian, which made Hanji’s actions all the more historic simply by the virtue of his naivety.
From his watch post in the dark, the guardian cast a look at the prisoner sitting in the middle of the large space. He didn’t even glance at the boy causing a ruckus.
Some of the older residents of Gomor had learned to see the guardian in the shadows, or at least thought they had. Their captor could see their eyes searching for his tall figure, coming impressively close. The horror in their body language was almost palpable. Hanji was causing them all great distress, but it seemed the boy was unaware of that.
It fell to the oldest of the prisoners to speak up. It seemed to the guardian that Scally didn’t hope for much these days. He knew he would never walk away from the depths of Gaiya, forgotten and abandoned by everyone but his captor and fellow captives. All he wanted was to be at peace for the days he had left.
His cell was right next to Hanji’s.
“Quiet, boy,” the old man hissed. “Have you lost your mind? The Guardian is here.”
That seemed to give Hanji pause, but not for long.
“I don’t see him,” he replied defiantly.
It was more conversation than had taken place in all of Gomor in the last month.
“Idiot,” the cell on the other side of Hanji pitched in. “He is always here.”
Hanji crawled to the front edge of his cell to be heard better. In as much light as there was in the prison, the guardian saw the boy’s eyes filled with quiet anger.
“You guys are pathetic,” he spat. “He has you so scared you would shit yourself if a shadow moved in your cell.”
No one responded. Why argue with the truth?
“I’ve heard of all of you,” Hanji went on, ignoring the muteness of his terrified audience. “You were once leaders, inspirers. You spoke up, you didn’t back down. Look at you now. A bunch of scared old farts who spend their days cowering from a nameless fear.”
“We know his name,” Scally said very quietly. “Both of theirs. One for the day and one for the night.”
Quite a lot of talking from him, the guardian thought.
After Hanji perhaps he should deal with the old man too. It seemed he wasn’t so beaten yet as Hanji thought he was.
“How the fuck would you even know?” Hanji snapped, and now his voice was raised loud enough to make the others wince. “There is no day and night here.”
The others fell silent again. Scally kept looking in the guardian’s direction, never pinning down his true location. The old man had realized he’d crossed the line. The guardian saw him biting his lip as though to render himself mute, but the damage was done. He never forgot, and Scally knew that better than anyone. Even now, he still reached out to wrap his hands around a leg that was no longer there.
Hanji was speaking again.
“And I know which one you mean,” he said. “Brocke. The guardian of your perceived day.”
There was a shuffling as the prisoners tried to make themselves smaller targets in the corners of their cells.
“Even you?” Hanji went on, making himself deaf to their fear. “Even you, Condor? Tell me, why don’t we escape? We could take him. Help me out, I feel like I’m losing my mind. After all, we are not fucking locked up.”
That was true. Gomor had no cells in the traditional sense. All the cells were just small rooms with nothing physical in the way of the prisoners simply walking away.
There was just a line on the ground, pure pearly white.
The prisoner in the middle finally turned his shaved head to Hanji. His deep-set blue eyes were so ruined by his abominable work that instead of a natural shade, they were almost dark purple. If Condor had been allowed to walk free, his impressive height and powerful voice would have done a lot of damage, just like before he was caught.
Out in the world, Condor had been the poster boy of what happened when the priests – Corgan healers and scientists, the creators of the warriors – turned from helping people. In Gomor, he was just a thin, aging man, but his eyes were as lively as ever and his voice had lost none of its strength.
There was nothing around him either, just a distance he couldn’t jump and a drop he couldn’t survive.
“Nothing can help you now, boy,” Condor said, his deep voice carrying easily to every corner of Gomor.
Hanji was practically fuming.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I remember what they told me when I was brought here. Never cross the line. I mean, what the fuck will happen if I do this –”
He had been sitting on the floor, addressing the unresponsive crowd. As soon as Hanji pushed one hand over the pure white line, Brocke moved.
He pulled one of his two thin blades free so quickly that the boy never saw it coming – not him nor the blow that took the trespassing hand off with one clean cut.
Brocke had stepped past his cell so fast Hanji probably didn’t even catch a good look at him. His black, form-fitting armor hid him well in Gomor’s darkness. The strong, flexible plates slid smoothly over each other, giving him agility that a tougher armor wouldn’t have allowed. The Corgans liked their armors like that, enjoyed the freedom they provided. And they were much sturdier than they looked.
The guardian stood in front of Scally’s cell, hearing the way the old man hyperventilated, expecting Brocke to storm into the cell and cut his throat.
He did no such thing. Scally’s time would come, but right then, Brocke waited for Hanji.
The boy had jumped back from the edge of his cell with a terrible scream. Brocke could see him now or at least the bleeding hand he was cradling against his chest. Whimpering, Hanji reached out for his lost limb, unthinking.
It wasn’t the first time Brocke had seen that. It was a curious instinct, to try and reattach something that was gone forever. Scally had tried to recover his leg too and surrendered a few fingers for that mistake.
Hanji, however, was still young, and Brocke wasn’t without mercy.
The blade in his hand came down hard, slapping the boy’s wrist before it crossed the line. As Brocke stepped in front of Hanji’s cell, knowing how he must have looked to the boy, the guardian could see Hanji’s eyes widen in terror. The boy scrambled away from his captor as far as he could go, wordlessly this time.
Brocke took a moment to simply stand there, surrounded by the dim light shining from the bottom of the chasm. The bright, shining blue eyes that mar
ked him as a Corgan warrior stared Hanji down, knowing it was how the boy was going to remember him until the end of his days.
“Everything that crosses this line is mine,” he said, his deep voice making the boy shudder.
Then he kicked the cut-off hand over the platform’s edge and walked away.
“You are very smart,” Brocke said quietly, knowing they all hung on his every word. “Some have tried to peek around the corner before attempting that.”
For once, Hanji had nothing to say. Brocke allowed himself another small smile, but it was wiped from his face when Condor turned to look at him. His white line was on the edge of the platform he was sitting on. Just in case he missed that, the entire ground floor of the prison was white as well.
“Half-breed,” the priest welcomed his guardian, like always.
Ignoring him, Brocke moved on. Condor knew what he was risking, and every once in a while, he had shown that he was ready to pay the price if it meant he could rub his parentage in Brocke’s face.
He should have known how futile it was. Brocke was the son of the Corgan chieftain Nadar Brenger and his Terran bride Mara James. Together, they had brought the Corgans into the folds of the Galactic Union. Brocke’s father was one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy, and his mother was a fierce woman who had forced her will on the Union many times. If Condor thought he should be ashamed of that, he was very wrong.
Having a Corgan father and a Terran mother wasn’t a major issue these days on most of the Corgan worlds, but Condor disagreed. It was the reason he was there. He had called for the brutal extermination of all half-breeds, as he called them. It was Condor’s luck he hadn’t managed to kill anyone before the chieftain had sent Brocke after him.
It added insult to injury that it was Nadar’s “half-breed” son who’d hauled Condor in, and Condor obviously had not forgotten nor forgiven the insolence. Not that Brocke cared.
