Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  Since most power cells had become depleted after three centuries, energy weapons saw little use in battle nowadays. Lehmor had only seen such a weapon once: a sword that his father had taken from a captured Capitolian general. Immensely proud of his victory, his father had wasted no time using up the power cell impressing friends and foes alike to become leader of the Wind Warriors. By the time a young Lehmor had laid his hands upon it, it was little more than a particularly heavy and unwieldy trophy, hanging on the chief’s wall along with the rest.

  The weapon in his hand, though… This was something different. He could not make out its energy source, but it pulsed as if it were alive, humming softly its hunger for his enemies’ lives.

  “What is this?” he asked her, awed.

  “It’s called a Sheimlek—the Whisper Slayer. It will slay both Whispers and their servants.”

  Her eyes shone with an intensity that made him stumble backwards, almost crashing onto the ground. For a split second, she seemed to glow, light bursting through her skin until she was an eight foot being of such brightness that it hurt his eyes. Blinding light streamed in rainbow ribbons at the edges of her body. He blinked, and stood once again before a frail old woman, stoking a fire.

  Lehmor’s jaw hung as he turned a questioning look at Moirah. She had missed the transformation, her attention fixed on the fiery weapon in her own hands. He wiped sweat from his brow, then blurted out but a single word, nodding towards the foot of the hill where their horses awaited them: “Run!”

  Army barracks, The Capital

  Parad

  Parad sat behind his desk, staring with unseeing eyes at the medals hanging on the wall across the room. Not a moment had passed these past few months that he did not think of his son. They had performed a quiet ceremony in Cyrus’s memory, only their closest family present. His fury had not left him for a moment since, but he had learnt long ago to hide his emotions. An emotional soldier is a dead soldier.

  Cyrus’s fate had only fully hit him when he had realised he did not even have a body to burn, as tradition dictated. Marta, his wife, had been asking about their son; what could he tell her? In the end they had only performed the Sraddha, part of the burial ritual, by offering pinda, small balls made from a local grain that resembled rice. Perhaps in his next incarnation, he would have a chance to exact more revenge on Styx. The thought consoled him. One lifetime wasn’t enough to pay for such a crime. He relished the idea of spending an eternity punishing her. As far as he was concerned, Moksha, liberation from the cycle of death and reincarnation, could wait, so long as reincarnation offered so many wonderful chances for sweet revenge.

  As for Marta, they had always shared an exceptional bond, despite his frequent trips and the hardships of a military career. Whereas he had been the quiet, reserved one, she was the happy, optimistic one in their relationship; his guiding light. Now, however, he could not even bear to be in the same room with her, the pain of their son’s fate forming an invisible wedge between them.

  Every time he peered into her eyes he saw so much pain; pain he felt responsible for, even if she had never accused him in any way. Her eyes, usually lit with joy, were now dead, drowned in a sea of torment. Every glance he stole at her killed a small part of him as well. They had stopped talking, for what was there left to talk about? People do not stop talking when there is too little to discuss, but when there is too much. Now, their entire relationship consisted of awkward, prolonged silences. Despair choked him at the thought they might never be able to overcome this, when they had been through so much together. He missed her desperately, and often wanted to tell her that, but did not know how. Imposing on her grief seemed almost sacrilegious; an offence against their dead son.

  His gaze was drawn by his aide, Lieutenant Tang, sitting behind his desk in the corner. Every now and then, he shot Parad a worried look. The man came from an honourable family, and his ancestor’s statue was among the Twelve—still called that, despite the fact there were now fourteen of them. Parad knew his men respected him, but had been surprised by the intensity of their emotions, their rage almost matching his. Tang had even insisted on being present during the Sraddha. Parad had refused at first, but the young man had been so persistent that Parad had finally relented.

  Tang had informed him in a whispering voice a few days later that he had talked to some senior officers, and they would all support Parad, whatever he decided to do. He had stared at the General for a good minute to make sure his message was not lost, but Parad had simply thanked him, saying nothing more. He did not want to risk more deaths at the hands of the Harpy, and prayed that Tang had been discreet in his conversations. Since then, they had not discussed the matter, but Parad knew he would be able to count on him when the time came.

  Lost in dark thoughts, Parad’s whole body jerked when a Guardian rammed the door open and into the wall. “Her Honour wishes to see you.”

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  Styx

  Her shadowy advisor held her furious gaze with not so much as a hint of worry.

  “Why did you make me execute the boy now, when I need his father the most?”

  “I just gave you a warning,” a whispering voice filled the room.

  She gaped at the creature’s insolence. “A warning?” she hissed. “You did more than that. You gave me an ultimatum. And now Crusoe’s crossed the Aly river. As I knew he would. I should have torn up the Peace of the Eclipse as soon as Augustine was dead.”

  “The people would not have followed you,” the creature reminded her.

  If the creature had shoulders, she felt sure it would have shrugged in indifference. Her face flushed in rage. “Yes, but now it’s happened—at the worst possible moment. And Petria has fallen. After three days of siege.” She slammed her fist on the table. “Three days,” she thundered and pointed a furious finger at the creature. “I hold you responsible. Marl was your choice, not mine. Why is he so important, anyway?”

  “His daughter.”

  She gaped at the thing. “What daughter? Marl’s not even married. What are you talking about?”

  “Someday, his daughter will join us.”

  “Who’s us?” she shot at him.

  The creature said nothing, its crimson eyes sparkling tauntingly.

  “So, someday his daughter will join you,” she said sarcastically. “Meanwhile, those idiots were supposed to be our first line of defence. They should have lasted for months.” She shoved her chair back against the wall and jumped to her feet. She paced the room, hands locked behind her back. “They were supposed to buy us the time to prepare our army. Now, not only have we run out of time, but I can’t rely on our most capable soldier.” She whipped around to face the ghostly apparition. “Thanks to you and your warning.” She spat out the last word.

  Styx could swear the creature rolled its eyes.

  She ground her teeth in fury. “So, what do you suggest? Any other bright ideas?”

  “Parad will win you this war.”

  “Then what?” The words came out as a muffled scream. She swallowed her anger. The last thing she wanted was for rumours to start spreading about how she talked to herself in her office. “Then what?” she repeated in a low voice. “I killed his boy.” Her face twitched at the memory. Why did it make her do that? Was it some kind of test? Did it feed on people’s despair? It made no sense. And now she had lost her most valuable ally. “The man probably spends every second dreaming up his revenge. Winning this war will make him popular. What’s to stop him from having his revenge then?”

  “Talk to him. Let him win the war,” the soft rustle came. “Then, deal with him.”

  The last words sent a chill down her spine. She sank into her chair, crossing her arms.

  A discreet knock sounded on the door. She snapped her head at her advisor, but he had already vanished into the shadows of the room’s far corner. “Enter,” she said, rubbing her temples.

  The door creaked open. A Guardian marched into t
he room, helmet in hand. “Your Honour, General Parad has arrived.”

  It’s show time. “Send him in.”

  Outskirts of Anthea, Western Democracies

  Sol

  Sol pulled her horse’s reins. She had arrived at her destination—an abandoned winery at the outskirts of Anthea. Her gaze darted around the quiet courtyard, empty at this time of night. She prickled her ears, but heard nothing but a bored cicada lulling itself to sleep. Satisfied that no one had followed her, she jumped off the horse and led it to a lone tree. The mare started munching withered vines and shrivelled bushes as she fastened the reins on a gnarled branch.

  She walked to the building’s entrance and pushed the door open, then marched past an empty corridor. As she stepped into a barely lit meeting room, she studied the dozen men and women sitting around a long table. Stony faces glared back at her, with not a sympathetic nod among them. She hid a triumphant smile. She had them on the run, and they knew it.

  “Gentlemen,” she started. “Ladies. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “This is most unusual,” a man in a resplendent crimson suit complained nasally. He waved his hand, revealing the fabric to be silk—likely of the finest quality. Axel Altman, the head of the Bulls, was known for his fondness of beautifully tailored clothes, as well as his extravagant expenses. He was a cousin of Teo Altman after all, something that explained the uncanny likeness. “We should solve our differences in front of the citizens.”

  She scoffed at his pretend indignation. “You’ve been begging me for a meeting for weeks. And I know you’ve already met with your Sea Lions colleagues”—she waved at the men and women sitting on the opposite side of the table—“four times already in this very room.”

  He shot an angry look at her and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair, a scowl etched on his face. “Very well. What do you want from us?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that.” She pulled out a chair at the head of the table and sat down. “The people have already given me command of the army. Within months, I achieved what you couldn’t in five years.”

  “All you did was march against Magna,” an older woman said with a sneer. Dion’s face was so wrinkled that she resembled a raisin. Yet, her sparkling blue eyes revealed a cunning mind fitting her position as head of the Sea Lions.

  “That’s always been the trick,” Sol explained in a patient voice. Only the tapping of her foot betrayed how little patience she really had for such nonsense. “When Magna invaded Salmon Island, they expected us to fight for it. Instead, I captured Magna’s port, leaving Salmon Island alone. We caught them by surprise. Once we had control of the port, it was over for them.”

  “They’ll take it back eventually,” the head of the Bulls said with a snicker, a dark look on his face.

  Sol smiled at him. “No, they won’t. I’ve called you here to give you the news. After two months of wrangling, Magna has accepted a swap: Salmon Island for their own port.”

  Eyes opened wide. Breaths caught.

  “You’re lying,” Axel said, leaning forward and tilting his head, as if to study her better. His sharp gaze bore into her eyes.

  His reaction surprised Sol. A man so readily accusing others of lying is a man who’s used to lying himself. I’ll have to watch against his lies. “Not at all. I’ll announce it officially tomorrow. But I wanted you to hear the news from me.”

  “Why?” Dion demanded.

  Sol held her breath for a moment. Here we go. “Because I’ll need your support for what comes next. With the wars finally over, we need to work together for peace.”

  “You mean, you want to push through your reforms,” Dion said, tilting her head. “Before your tenure ends.”

  “That’s right,” Sol admitted. “My tenure as Prefect was temporary. But, with the war over, I can now sort out the problems that have plagued this city for years.” She spread her arms, as if in supplication. “Will you help me?”

  “Why would we?” Axel asked with a chortle. “You’ve been nothing but a pain. A pretentious upstart. As soon as your tenure is through, so are you.”

  Sol’s cheeks flushed with heat. At least he’s honest now. “You haven’t even heard my proposals.”

  Dion cracked a smile that fit her face like a taut mask. “And we will,” she said in a condescending tone, as if talking to a slow toddler, “as soon as you pick a side.”

  Sol’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Pick a side,” the head of the Bulls said with a growl. “It’d better be us, mind you. With the North closed for business, those Sea Lions fools are in terminal decline. Their ships will rot in the port. But land never loses its power.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Dion said, waving her hand dismissively. “Commerce is as old as mankind. It will never go away.”

  Sol pressed her temples with her fingers. “I don’t think you understand. I want to discuss the necessary reforms for our city, not join either of your parties.”

  “In that case, there’s nothing to discuss,” Dion said.

  Chairs screeched against the floor as the party members rose one after another.

  “Know this,” Axel said, and waved his finger at her like a teacher scolding a naughty student. “We’ll fight you every step of the way. I promise you, by the time your tenure is over, you will be but a footnote in Anthea’s history.” He leaned against the table. “Unless you join us, that is.”

  Sol slammed her hand on the table. “That’s crazy. My reforms will save this city. You’d rather see Anthea destroyed?”

  Axel’s fat lips twitched into a sneer. “Than be saved by you? Of course.”

  One by one, Anthea’s top politicians marched out the door. The last one was Dion, who paused at the threshold for a moment. “I’m sorry, Sol. It’s just politics.”

  “In that case, maybe we should let the people decide,” Sol snapped at her.

  Dion laughed. “The parties represent the people. And they’ll do as we tell them to.” She beamed a smile at Sol. “I hope you reconsider. You have a bright future ahead of you. We’ll be waiting eagerly to hear from you.” With a flourish of her hand, she stepped out of the room.

  Sol filled a glass with water. She wet her parched throat, tapping a furious beat with her fingers against the table. The meeting had been a disaster. She had hoped to play the one against the other. She had never expected them to be so afraid of her that they would team up. There was no doubt in her mind; the two parties could—and would—block all her reforms. And when her tenure was over, they would do everything in their power to discredit her. Destroy her, even. Are they so afraid of me?

  She groaned in frustration. The head of the Sea Lions was right. It was the parties that ruled Anthea. So, who says a city can only have two parties? Her breath caught. What if she placed her hopes with the poorer masses who kept the city running, unrepresented politically by anyone? Sure, she belonged to one of the richest families herself. However, she was determined to ignore the obvious irony and exploit this omission. Something drastic needed to be done, and the day for that had come.

  What hope do you have against the two most powerful parties in Anthea? a sceptical voice in her head asked. Against its most powerful families?

  What other choice do I have? she snapped back.

  The doubtful voice offered no answer.

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  Parad

  Parad snapped to attention as best as he could, his eyes fixed on the red veins running through the marble floor of Styx’s office. Not out of respect, but because he could not bear to look at the monster who had taken his boy away. He clenched his fists, keenly aware of the two Guardians behind him, watching his every move.

  A wave of nausea threatened to have him empty his stomach right at the Harpy’s feet. She’d probably have me executed on the spot for ruining her floor.

  So what? another voice asked in his head. His shoulders almost twitched upward into a shrug. Let her. Death felt
like a welcome friend, long overdue for a visit.

  “General,” Styx said softly, drawing his attention back to the human monster behind the large desk. “General, I apologize.”

  He blinked in confusion. He did not expect to survive the day, not after the Harpy had asked to see him. “Your Honour?” he mumbled.

  “I’m sorry for…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “For what I did. I had no choice.”

  “He was just a boy,” Parad choked out. The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He bit his tongue to stop himself from saying more.

  “I know.” She sounded sincere. Compassionate.

  He lifted his eyes to scan her face, which was hidden in the room’s long shadows. Why is it always so dark in here? He fought the urge to draw the curtains and let some much-needed light into the room, studying his leather boots instead.

  “Then, why?” Again, the words fled his lips unbidden.

  “It was either him or me.”

  He shook his head. She’s mad. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. But trust me. It was the only way.” She pushed her chair back. It groaned against the floor. “But that’s not why I wanted to see you.” She walked around the desk and stood before him, tilting her head up to study his face. “General, the Capital needs you.”

  She placed one hand on his shoulder. His skin crawled under her touch, but somehow he managed not to flinch. “Your Honour?”

  “A week ago, Crusoe crossed the Aly river.”

  He knew, of course. There was little talk of anything else amongst the officers. “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “Your thoughts?”

  “It’s good news.”