* * *
The storm raged beyond the mouth of the cave. Dara-Kol huddled against the far wall, shivering from the cold as a barrage of lightning and thunder tore the night sky. The rain fell in sheets, so heavy that she could not have seen beyond the length of her arm had it been daylight.
She would have given anything to be able to build even a small fire, but to do so was to invite death. Her two companions, one of them the fierce young spear-carrier, had been killed through similar desperate recklessness in the months that had passed since Kunan-Lohr had tasked her with taking his sword to his daughter. Dara-Kol had known from the outset that it would be a difficult journey, but she could never have imagined the nightmare it had become.
The three had made their way south as Kunan-Lohr had instructed, and they had been welcomed in the southern kingdoms. They were making good progress in traveling west, taking a long roundabout path far from Keel-A’ar before swinging north toward the Desh-Ka temple.
One night, while they rested at an inn in a small village in the south, they were set upon by the very people who had given them shelter. She and her companions had not known that the Dark Queen had sent word to the far corners of T’lar-Gol that any survivors of Keel-A’ar were to be handed over to her, lest those who sheltered them suffer the same fate as their home.
Dara-Kol and the others had known, of course, that Keel-A’ar was gone. She had felt them die, and Kunan-Lohr, as well, through a wave of agony that against her through the song in her blood. The three of them had curled up, unable to move, so blinding had been the pain.
While the trio had claimed they were from another city when asked, Dara-Kol knew that some folk they had encountered had recognized Kunan-Lohr’s sword. Just like the dagger he had given her as proof of his words to Eil’an-Kuhr to pull his warriors out of the queen’s encampment, his sword was unique. It was a Sign of Authority, a signature that was easily recognized by any who had encountered him. She would have covered it up, tried to conceal it, but that would have made it stand out even more, for warriors never hid their weapons.
Good fortune had favored them the night the villagers had tried to take them, and they had escaped with their lives. But they had lost their provisions and all but the three magtheps on which they rode.
That night had been the start of the nightmare. Word had spread that there were fugitives from the queen in the southern lands, and it was a matter of honor for every warrior to find them, and to avoid the queen’s wrath.
Dara-Kol was not sure now how long she had been running. The first of her companions, a female warrior whom she had not known before setting out on Kunan-Lohr’s quest, died within the first month. The young spear-carrier, whom she had come to greatly admire, and would one day have loved, died a few months later as they finally escaped the southern kingdoms and entered the Great Wastelands.
She cringed at the memory. Both of them had thought themselves safe, for very few ventured where the great genoth still reigned and every creature that crawled or flew had its own unique way to kill the unwary.
In the end, he died because of a simple fire they had built to keep warm during the frigid nights. She did not even know who had attacked them. She had been roused from a deep, exhausted sleep by the sounds of fighting. She heard his war cry and a wet thud as his spear found its target, then the sound of swords on metal, of screams. All she could see were shadows dancing at the edge of the fire’s light, the glint of metal blades. He never screamed for her to run, and she knew it was because he hoped they had not yet seen her.
Never before had she felt such deep shame as she had that night when she fled, slipping away quietly, leaving him behind to die.
How alone she felt, as if she were the last of her kind.
In a sense, she realized, that was true. Aside from Kunan-Lohr’s daughter, if she still lived, Dara-Kol was probably the last survivor of Keel-A’ar.
As the rain poured outside, she cradled the sword of her dead master to her breast. It was the only reason for her existence now, and she would not fail in her quest.
She would not fail.
* * *
Deep beneath the brooding fortress of Ka’i-Nur, Syr-Nagath grunted with pain and the effort of bringing forth the child from her womb. Aside from two healers who were acting as midwives, the birthing chamber was empty, although the order’s greatest warriors stood outside, on guard.
Like the rest of Ka’i-Nur, the birthing room was made of stone, although this stone was warm to the touch, its temperature determined by the will of the healers to keep the birthing mother in comfort.
Not that Syr-Nagath was concerned with such things. Comfort had never been a part of her life, and never would be. She thrived on violence, on chaos. And the child she was bringing into the world, she knew, would help her with both.
With a scream, she pushed, sloshing warm water over the lip of the birthing pool. Her talons scored the stone where her hands gripped the edge.
Between her legs, one of the midwives watched intently. “I can see the child’s head.”
Syr-Nagath took in several deep breaths, then pushed again, grunting with the effort. With a scream of release, the enormous pressure and pain in her belly subsided.
The midwife leaned forward, scooping up the child as it emerged into the world. “It is a male-child, my mistress.”
The midwife closed her eyes, holding the child under the water for a moment to let it become accustomed to its new environment. The other midwife leaned over to spread a film of healing gel over the water, and the midwife holding the child raised him up until it enshrouded him.
Syr-Nagath waited, bringing her breath under control as she watched the healing gel disappear into her son’s flesh.
After a few moments, it oozed out the child’s mouth, and the second midwife took it into her arm. She closed her eyes, focusing on the symbiont that was now joined with her. She opened them again and quietly announced, “He is completely normal, my queen.”
The first midwife lifted the child from the water, placing him into Syr-Nagath’s trembling arms as he took his first breath of air and began to cry.
“I name thee Ka’i-Lohr,” his mother, the Dark Queen, whispered. “Welcome, destroyer of worlds.”
BONUS CONTENT
There may (or may not — yet!) be special bonus content that I’ve prepared on the web for this book. Make sure you check, because if there is, you won’t want to miss it!
The bonus content page is at:
http://authormichaelhicks.com/books/in-her-name/from-chaos-born/bonus/
The password to gain access is KeelTathLives7 (case sensitive).
Note that you may have to use a standard web browser to view it (as opposed to a Kindle, Nook, Kobo, etc.), as there may be audio, video, or other multimedia goodies that your reader might not be able to display properly.
Enjoy!
SEASON OF THE HARVEST
What if the genetically engineered crops that we increasingly depend on for food weren’t really created by man? What if they brought a new, terrifying meaning to the old saying that "you are what you eat"?
In the bestselling thriller Season Of The Harvest, FBI Special Agent Jack Dawson investigates the gruesome murder of his best friend and fellow agent who had been pursuing a group of eco-terrorists. The group’s leader, Naomi Perrault, is a beautiful geneticist who Jack believes conspired to kill his friend, and is claiming that a major international conglomerate developing genetically engineered crops is plotting a sinister transformation of our world that will lead humanity to extinction.
As Jack is drawn into a quietly raging war that suddenly explodes onto the front pages of the news, he discovers that her claims may not be so outrageous after all. Together, the two of them must face a horror Jack could never have imagined, with the fate of all life on Earth hanging in the balance…
Interested? Then read on and enjoy the prologue and first chapter of Season Of The Harvest. And always remember: you are what
you eat!
* * *
PROLOGUE
Sheldon Crane ran for his life. Panting from exhaustion and the agony of the deep stab wound in his side, he darted into the deep shadows of an alcove in the underground service tunnel. Holding his pistol in unsteady hands, he peered around the corner, past the condensation-covered pipes, looking back in the direction from which he’d come.
Nothing. All he could hear was the deep hum of the electric service box that filled most of the alcove, punctuated by the drip-drip-drip of water from a small leak in one of the water pipes a few yards down the tunnel. Only a third of the ceiling-mounted fluorescent lights were lit, a cost-saving measure by the university that left long stretches of paralyzing darkness between the islands of greenish-tinged light. He could smell wet concrete and the tang of ozone, along with a faint trace of lubricating oil. And over it all was the scent of blood. In the pools of light stretching back down the tunnel, all the way back to the intersection where he had turned into this part of the underground labyrinth, he could see the glint of blood on the floor, a trail his pursuer could easily follow.
He knew that no one could save him: he had come here tonight precisely because he expected the building to be empty. It had been. Almost. But there was no one to hear his shouts for help, and he had dropped his cell phone during the unexpected confrontation in the lab upstairs.
He was totally on his own.
Satisfied that his pursuer was not right on his heels, he slid deeper into the alcove, into the dark recess between the warm metal of the electric service box and the cold concrete wall. He gently probed the wound in his side, gasping as his fingertips brushed against the blood-wet, swollen flesh just above his left hip. It was a long moment before he was sure he wouldn’t scream from the pain. It wasn’t merely a stab wound. He had been stabbed and cut before. That had been incredibly painful. This, however, was far worse. His insides were on fire, the pain having spread quickly from his belly to upper chest. And the pain was accompanied by paralysis. He had lost control of his abdominal muscles, and the sensation was spreading. There was a sudden gush of warmth down his legs as his bladder suddenly let go, and he groaned in agony as his internal organs began to burn.
Poison, he knew.
He leaned over, fighting against the light-headedness that threatened to bear him mercifully into unconsciousness.
“No,” he panted to himself. “No.” He knew he didn’t have much time left. He had to act.
Wiping the blood from his left hand on his shirt, cleaning it as best he could, he reached under his right arm and withdrew both of the extra magazines he carried for his weapon, a 10mm Glock 22 that was standard issue for FBI special agents. He ejected the empty magazine from the gun, cursing himself as his shaking hands lost their grip and it clattered to the floor.
It won’t matter soon, he thought giddily as he slumped against the wall, sliding down the rough concrete to the floor as his upper thighs succumbed to the spreading paralysis, then began to burn.
Desperately racing against the poison in his system, he withdrew a small plastic bag from a pocket inside his jacket and set it carefully next to him. He patted it with his fingertips several times to reassure himself that he knew exactly where it was in the dark. His fingers felt the shapes of a dozen lumps inside the bag: kernels of corn.
Then he picked up one of the spare magazines and shucked out all the bullets with his thumb into a pocket in his jacket so he wouldn’t lose them. Setting down the now-empty magazine, he picked up the tiny bag and carefully opened the seal, praying he wouldn’t accidentally send the precious lumps flying into the darkness. For the first time that night, Fate favored him, and the bag opened easily.
Picking up the empty magazine from his lap, he tapped a few of the kernels onto the magazine’s follower, the piece of metal that the bottom bullet rested on. He managed to squeeze a bullet into the magazine on top of the corn kernels. Once that was done, he slid the other bullets into place, then clumsily slammed the magazine into the weapon and chambered a round.
He took the bag and its remaining tiny, precious cargo and resealed it. Then he stuffed it into his mouth. The knowledge of the nature of the corn made him want to gag, but he managed to force it down, swallowing the bag. Crane suspected his body would be searched thoroughly, inside and out, for what he had stolen, and his mind shied away from how that search would probably be conducted. His only hope now was that his pursuer would be content to find the bag, and not think to check Crane’s weapon. He prayed that his body and the priceless contents of his gun’s magazine would be found by the right people. It was a terrible long-shot, but he was out of options.
His nose was suddenly assaulted by the smell of Death coming for him, a nauseating mix of pungent ammonia laced with the reek of burning hemp.
Barely able to lift his arms, his torso nearly paralyzed and aflame with agonizing pain, Crane brought up his pistol just as his pursuer whirled around the corner. He fired at the hideous abomination that was revealed in the flashes from the muzzle of his gun, and managed to get off three shots before the weapon was batted from his faltering grip. He screamed in terror as his pursuer closed in, blocking out the light.
The screams didn’t stop for a long time.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Jack Dawson stood in his supervisor’s office and stared out the window, his bright gray eyes watching the rain fall from the brooding summer sky over Washington, D.C. The wind was blowing just hard enough for the rain to strike the glass, leaving behind wet streaks that ran down the panes like tears. The face he saw reflected there was cast in shadow by the overhead fluorescent lights. The square jaw and high cheekbones gave him a predatory look, while his full lips promised a smile, but were drawn downward now into a frown. The deeply tanned skin, framed by lush black hair that was neatly combed back and held with just the right amount of styling gel, looked sickly and pale in the glass, as if it belonged on the face of a ghost. He knew that it was the same face he saw every morning. But it was different now. An important part of his world had been killed, murdered, the night before.
He watched the people on the street a few floors below, hustling through the downpour with their umbrellas fluttering as they poured out of the surrounding buildings, heading home for the evening. Cars clogged Pennsylvania Avenue, with the taxis darting to the curb to pick up fares, causing other drivers to jam on their brakes, the bright red tail lights flickering on and off down the street like a sputtering neon sign. It was Friday, and everyone was eager to get home to their loved ones, or go out to dinner, or head to the local bar. Anywhere that would let them escape the rat race for the weekend.
He didn’t have to see this building’s entrance to know that very few of the people who worked here would be heading home on time tonight. The address was 935 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest. It was the J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI. Other than the teams of special agents who had departed an hour earlier for Lincoln, Nebraska, many of the Bureau’s personnel here at headquarters wouldn’t leave until sometime tomorrow. Some would be sleeping in their offices and cubicles after exhaustion finally overtook them, and wouldn’t go home for more than a few hours over the next several days.
A special agent had been brutally murdered, and with the addition of another name to the list of the FBI’s Service Martyrs, every resource the Bureau could bring to bear was being focused on bringing his killer to justice. Special agents from headquarters and field offices around the country were headed to Nebraska, along with an army of analysts and support staff that was already sifting through electronic data looking for leads.
Everyone had a part in the investigation, it seemed, except for Dawson. In his hand, he held a plain manila folder that included the information that had been forwarded by the Lincoln field office. It was a preliminary report sent in by the Special Agent in Charge (SAC), summarizing the few known facts of the case. In terse prose, the SA
C’s report described the crime scene, the victim, and what had been done by the local authorities before the SAC’s office had been alerted. And there were photos. Lots of photos. If a picture was worth a thousand words, then the ones Dawson held in his shaking hands spoke volumes about the agony suffered by the victim before he died. Because it was clear from the rictus of agony and terror frozen on Sheldon Crane’s face that he had still been alive when–
“I’m sorry, Jack,” came a gruff voice from behind him, interrupting Dawson’s morbid train of thought as Ray Clement, Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigative Division, came in and closed the door. It was his office, and he had ordered Dawson to wait there until he had a chance to speak with him.
Ray Clement was a bear of a man with a personality to match. A star football player from the University of Alabama’s Crimson Tide, Clement had actually turned down a chance to go pro, and had instead joined the FBI as a special agent. That had been his dream since the age of ten, as he had once told Jack, and the proudest moment of his life had been when he’d earned his badge. Jack knew that a lot of people might have thought Clement was crazy. “I loved football,” Clement would say, “and I still do. But I played it because I enjoyed it. I never planned to do it for a living.”
Over the years, Clement had worked his way up through the Bureau. He was savvy enough to survive the internal politics, smart and tough enough to excel in the field, and conformed to the system because he believed in it. He could be a real bastard when someone did something stupid, but otherwise worked tirelessly to support his people so they could do their jobs. He wasn’t a boss that any of his special agents would say they loved, but under his tenure, the Criminal Investigative Division, or CID, had successfully closed more cases than under any other assistant director in the previous fifteen years. People could say what they wanted, but Clement got results.
In Her Name: The First Empress: Book 01 - From Chaos Born Page 26
