The World Awakening

by Dan Koboldt

  Dedication

  To Audrey, Elliott, and Sam

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1: Snow

  Chapter 2: The Gambler

  Chapter 3: Unchained

  Chapter 4: Bait and Switch

  Chapter 5: The Family Business

  Chapter 6: New Perspective

  Chapter 7: Strange Bedfellows

  Chapter 8: Trojan Horse

  Chapter 9: Friends and Enemies

  Chapter 10: Artificial Retirement

  Chapter 11: Returns

  Chapter 12: Interrogations

  Chapter 13: Unexpected Parties

  Chapter 14: Border Security

  Chapter 15: The Need to Know

  Chapter 16: Turnabout

  Chapter 17: Playing with Fire

  Chapter 18: Natural Fears

  Chapter 19: Delivery

  Chapter 20: Cold Assessment

  Chapter 21: Side Entrance

  Chapter 22: Eavesdropping

  Chapter 23: Dahlia Unmasked

  Chapter 24: Swamp Things

  Chapter 25: Complications

  Chapter 26: Winds of War

  Chapter 27: Shadows

  Chapter 28: Force Multiplier

  Chapter 29: The Coalition

  Chapter 30: In-laws

  Chapter 31: Barred Doors

  Chapter 32: The Brother

  Chapter 33: Departures

  Chapter 34: Dead Man Talking

  Chapter 35: The Link

  Chapter 36: Ghosts of the Past

  Chapter 37: Successions

  Chapter 38: Beginnings and Ends

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Koboldt

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Snow

  “It is foolish to think that our presence in this world has gone unnoticed.”

  —R. Holt, “Recommendations for Gateway Protocols”

  Sergeant Mitch Jackson, designation Charlie-3, made another sweep of the snow blanketed ridges with his binoculars for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing moved up here on the frigid rim of the gateway valley. Nothing except the wind, which managed to chill him even through the synthetic fur cloak and flexsteel armor. He stamped his boots to try and shake off some of the snow. His eyes ached from the brightness. He put the glasses down and checked the progress on the vale below. They’d gotten most of the tents up to accommodate the latest batch of recruits, which would put them at about a hundred and fifty soldiers. The engineers should finish assembling the modular siege equipment within a couple of days. Maybe after that they could start the march south, out of this godforsaken cold.

  Gods-forsaken, he corrected himself. Wouldn’t want to make that slip in front of a native.

  A dark, armor-clad figure appeared on the switchback trail just below him. That would be Corporal Ferata, better known as Charlie-4, coming up to take the next watch.

  Jackson started one last sweep of the rim. He couldn’t wait to get down to the mess for a hot meal. Even if it was rations. He glassed the wide half-moon ridge on his right, and spotted movement. What the hell? A shadow appeared over the ridge top, then another one. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, and looked again. There they were. Two figures in dark brown cloaks. Even as he watched, they ducked down from the ridge and hurried out of view. “Shit.”

  Ferata appeared beside him. “Damn, the wind is cold. See something?”

  “Could have sworn I did. Up there on the crescent ridge.”

  “What was it?”

  “Looked like two people.”

  Ferata glassed the ridge himself for a minute. “You sure? All I see is snow.”

  Maybe he’d imagined it. Seven hours in this freezer could give you hallucinations. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s go check it out.”

  Jackson glanced regretfully at the cheery fires below. “All right. Double-quick.”

  They climbed up another twenty yards on the switchback and then left the trail to push through the snow along the top of the rim. Nothing else appeared on the crescent ridge as they approached. It was almost a relief to climb over it and not find anyone.

  “Guess I was wrong,” Jackson said.

  “Happens to the best of us, old man.” Ferata started to turn back, then cursed.

  “What?”

  Ferata pointed to a wide impression in the otherwise pure snow. Like a couple of people had pressed it down. Two sets of furrows led away from it down into the boulders. Tracks. Damn. The snow was too powdery and deep to tell what they were, but there were definitely two sets.

  “Call it in.”

  Ferata touched his ear. “Charlie-4 to base. Possible bogeys on the southeast ridge.”

  Jackson loosened his sword in its scabbard. “Let’s go.”

  They followed the tracks down around a fallen tree and saw movement ahead. Two figures, moving south at a good clip. They disappeared into a patch of evergreens.

  “See that?” Ferata asked.

  “Yep.”

  They picked it up to a jog. Jackson circled left and signaled Ferata to go right. Definite movement in the trees. We’ve got them. He eased his sword out. Ferata did the same. They crept closer. Twenty yards. Ten. Ferata signaled a three-count and skirted around back, out of view.

  One. Two. Three!

  He raised his sword and charged through the thick evergreen branches. The falling snow half-blinded him, but he sensed his foes just ahead. Heard Ferata crashing in from the other side. He shoved through, brandishing his sword-blade so they could see it. “Nobody move a muscle!”

  He brushed the snow out of his face, and found himself staring into a pair of wide-set yellow eyes.

  Ferata burst out laughing. “I think we got ’em, Mitch!”

  They were goddamn mules. Two of them. The animals stared for a moment, then resumed grazing on the green springs that poked up through the blanket of pine needles.

  Jackson sighed and shook his head. “Could have sworn I saw someone.”

  “Yeah, you know how to spot a threat.” Ferata put a finger to his ear. “Cancel the alert. Just a couple of animals.”

  “You ever seen these before?”

  He tilted his head to survey the mules. “They’re ugly-looking things, aren’t they?”

  Uh-oh. “Careful, they’re—” Jackson started.

  “Ow!” Ferata swore. “The damn thing just kicked me.”

  “—Tioni smart mules,” Jackson finished. He shoved his sword back in the scabbard and held up his hands to the mule. “Our mistake.” He backed away through the evergreens. More snow showered down on him. “Damn it!”

  Ferata tromped around to join him, and they made their way back to the valley rim.

  “Sorry about that,” Jackson said.

  “No worries.” Ferata shrugged. “It’s the most excitement I’ve had all week.”

  Chapter 2

  The Gambler

  “Never gamble more than you can afford to lose.”

  —Art of Illusion, February 2

  Two hours into the game, Quinn Bradley had over-bet the pot and didn’t have the cards to win it. Three of the other players, a man and two women, had dropped out before betting got out of hand. They watched in eager silence as the pile of coins in the middle of the table grew to a small fortune. Smoke from their untouched pipes curled up to join the hazy, acrid cloud that hung beneath the ceiling.

  Quinn fought the urge to cough every time he inhaled. Shallow breaths. He’d have covered his mouth with a cloth, but tha
t was against the rules. If he broke any rule, he forfeited the hand along with every coin he’d brought into this dive.

  “It’s your turn,” his opponent said.

  “I know.” Quinn pretended to study his cards for a moment. “Defer.”

  The clean-shaven young man couldn’t be more than thirty. He wore an embroidered jacket that glittered with silver fastenings. Each one had the shape of a different spider. He grabbed a fistful of coins from his still-considerable pile and threw them in. “Fifteen.”

  By Quinn’s count, seventeen coins had in fact joined the pot, but he felt it best not to quibble over small details. You could tell a lot about a person by how they gambled. Some kept their stack close to their person, and let go of their wagers with reluctant fingers even when they led the betting. His opponent did the opposite, treating his pile of money as if it were merely a symbol of entertainment, not a means to put food on the table. Family money, probably. Never had to earn it, didn’t care about spending it. Quinn saw marks like him in Vegas all the time.

  Trust fund kids are the worst. Especially this one, because he actually played to win.

  He counted out three stacks of five coins each and shoved them forward. “I’ll see another card.”

  The card came, and only took his hand from bad to worse. He smiled, cursing himself for getting so deep into this hand.

  The omnipresent ball of warmth in Quinn’s stomach pulsed enticingly. It would be so easy to tap into his power and swing this game his way. But he didn’t trust himself to do anything that precise when he hadn’t practiced it a hundred times. Besides, it felt like cheating. Probably because it was. No matter how bad he needed to win.

  Which, if he was being honest, was pretty bad. He’d spent his entire stash of lab-created jewels in a dozen Alissian cities from Tion to the Landorian coast. He hated to do it, but some were bound to have tracking chips embedded. And he didn’t want anyone finding him. He tapped the table with his finger. “Defer.”

  His opponent shoved in a glittering stack of coins. “Twenty.”

  “That’s a strong bet,” Quinn said. And also, twenty-two.

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  His opponent’s chaotic betting strategies made his pattern hard to pin down, but when he failed to count how many coins he threw in, that almost certainly meant a bluff. So he didn’t have the cards to win. Unfortunately, neither did Quinn, and he didn’t want to take a chance on holding the high card. Go big or go home. “You know what?” He smiled at the man, and shoved the rest of his stack into the pot with his arm. “I’m all in.”

  The check-raise won him titters of amusement from the watchers around the table and a sour frown from his opponent. Now all he needed was for the other guy to fold. The trouble was, he was an ego player, the kind who never wanted to lose face at the table.

  “You held out on me,” the man said.

  Quinn smiled. “I thought I should be polite.”

  “It is not customary to bet this way.”

  “It is where I’m from.”

  “Where is that?”

  A little place called Las Vegas. For a brief second, he considered blurting it out. “None of your business.”

  His opponent scowled at his cards.

  Check-raising was an aggressive move, to be sure. But Quinn had no way of knowing if it would be enough. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so deep into this hand, but the promise of winning big had tempted him. Jillaine liked to stay in inns. Nice ones, too. All of a sudden she had this rule about separate rooms. Twice the cost, half the romance. Wish I knew what made her so cold.

  Cold. The word gave him an idea.

  He drew upon that little bit of power within him. He did it with exaggerated care, like a thief unshuttering a lantern. He stared his opponent in the eye, unblinking, and imagined the air growing cold around him. Pictured the sudden goose bump-prickling chill on the man’s skin, as if caught in a sudden frigid draft from outside. Maybe that would give him pause. Maybe that would make him think that risking a showdown was a poor idea.

  “What’s it going to be?” Quinn asked. At this point in the game, given the size of the pot, a true odds player would call no matter what. But an ego player would care more about saving face.

  His opponent snarled and threw down his cards. “Concede.”

  This feels too easy. Quinn didn’t move. “Are you sure?”

  The man rubbed his forearms, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Take it.”

  “Very kind of you.” It didn’t hurt to reaffirm the sentiment that the guy had given him a gift. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. Quinn tossed in his cards. Guess we’ll never know.

  He wanted to leave right then, but stuck around for another hour to lose a little bit of the money around the table. His opponents regained some face that way, and hopefully they’d be less likely to wait for him outside with a couple of armed thugs. He had a sword in the rack just inside the door, and various smaller weapons stashed about his person, but he’d just as soon avoid any violent confrontations with a bit of human psychology. So much of it came by instinct: how to approach the marks, milk them dry, and make a clean break. Anyone who made it on the Las Vegas Strip had to be a fast learner.

  Slow learners went broke, or dug their own graves out in the desert.

  When the game ended, Quinn thanked the other players, and made promises of returning the next night that he’d almost certainly be breaking. He pressed some silver into the palms of the attendant, the barkeeper, and the proprietress. The latter was a redhead named Ava, and the tallest woman Quinn had seen in this world. She operated a syndicate of gambling houses in southeast Caralis. If her portion of tonight’s winnings was any indication, she might be the wealthiest woman he’d met in this world as well.

  “You did well tonight, Mr. Thomas,” she said, referring to the alias Quinn had given when he met her. That introduction had been memorable for two reasons: first, the shock of learning that the matriarchal head of the syndicate was so young, and second, the casual way that she’d pointed a crossbow at his groin.

  “Beginner’s luck,” he said. “How much did you say it was?”

  “One in eight, or in your case, twenty-two silvers.”

  “Right.” He counted them out, marveling at the woman’s counting abilities. He’d come with thirty silvers and left the table with two hundred and four. Technically, the house’s cut was slightly less than twenty-two, but he found it best not to argue math with someone who enjoyed pointing weapons at crotches. He counted out twenty-two pieces. Then he added another five. A token of my esteem. “I’d like to come back tomorrow night, if it’s all right.”

  “The buy-in will be thirty-five.”

  He blinked. “I thought it was thirty.”

  She offered a smile as cold as Felaran streamwater. “We’re progressive like that.”

  He bowed his head. “Thirty-five it is.” He’d be long gone by tomorrow night, but if Ava expected him back tomorrow, so much the better.

  “Until then, Mr. Thomas.” She swept the coins into a steel-banded strongbox behind the bar, and nodded to the enormous mute who guarded the door. Only then did he step aside.

  Quinn buckled on his sword-belt, then threw on his cloak and drew the hood. “Pleasure doing business.” He gave the mute a wide berth and slipped out into the night.

  Crown, the capital city of the Caralissian monarchy, made claim to the best nightlife in Southern Alissia. Part of that came from the wealth of a city that traded wine for double its weight in silver. The focal point of nocturnal activity lay in the six-sided plaza in the heart of Crown, where dozens of lighted tents drew revelers of all stripes with noise and merriment. Quinn saw the crowd and felt even more conscious of the weight of silver against his person. He’d taken care to spread the money around to various hidden pockets and purses beneath his coat, but it wouldn’t be hard to find if he was unconscious. Or dead.

  No less than three patrons o
f Ava’s establishment had departed after his big win. Maybe that was coincidence, or maybe they’d given his description to some cudgel-wielding friends. Crown might seem clean and refined on the surface, but the city had a sordid underbelly just like any other.

  He saw it in the countless armed guards outside of high-end shops, and the regular patrols of city watchmen. He heard it in the whispered conversation of hooded figures behind a charcoal-gray tent. Hell, he even smelled it, in the occasional whiff of caustic chemicals that lingered near the windowless tents on the periphery of the night market. Few people emerged from those tents, but they probably were in no condition to go walking about anyway.

  The perceived value of the tents increased as one approached the center of the plaza: from cheap food to luxurious sweetmeats, from rough ale to imported liquor. Not wine, though. Caralissians were picky about how they sold their precious wine. A night market like this, even in Caralis, didn’t pass muster. Besides, most of the people here couldn’t afford it. With all the silver from the night’s take, Quinn might be able to buy a single bottle, but not a very good one. And something told him it would pale in comparison to the vintage Anton had shared at the Enclave.

  There was no order or system to the tents, which were assembled haphazardly each night as darkness fell. The narrow passage wound its way among them like a drunken snake. It doubled back on itself more than once, which is how Quinn first noticed the man following him. The mustache certainly helped—it was a handlebar, thick and dark and glistening with some kind of oil. When Quinn saw it three times in five minutes, it might have been a coincidence. But five times in ten minutes, even after he’d changed directions a few times, made it something more sinister.

  One way to know for sure. He paused at a stall that sold liquor in palm-sized bottles of colored glass, like the airline booze but much fancier. He inspected a few bottles until he found one that would suit, an opaque material the Alissians called mirrorglass. He held it up to catch the right angle of the lamplight, and spotted the mustache right on his six, staring at his back. “Well, shit,” he muttered.