The Chronicles of Kin Roland: 3 Book Omnibus - The Complete Series

by Scott Moon

  A young private could get lost in the dream. And that was what it was: a dream, a nightmare, an alternate reality. Nothing was the same during a pitched battle. But Orlan hadn’t been lost. He hadn’t been swept away or driven crazy.

  One hundred percent in the moment, he had seen the flickering movement of ships speeding toward the front line to deliver an air strike. As though part of a training drill, he slipped into a foxhole and sealed his armor into bunker-defense mode. Two seconds later, he screamed at his comrades to do the same.

  A couple of them survived. If they hadn’t been scared little boys and girls, they’d have been paying attention and done what he’d done. If they hadn’t allowed boot camp to turn them into mindless order-obeying drones, they’d have seen the big picture. That was what he told himself every day for years.

  Then he got over it.

  “They must have spotted you, Tass. Haven’t seen them run that kind of search pattern for days,” Orlan said.

  “They see me not.”

  “I didn’t say they see you now. I said they saw you.”

  “It is the same,” Tass said.

  Orlan smiled. He liked Tass. She wasn’t worried that ten Imperial companies were scouring the hills, shooting at shadows, and carpet bombing wooded areas.

  “This area is getting too hot. We need to take shelter.” Orlan watched missiles trail one after another into a valley ahead of them. “Didn’t realize we were that important. You’d think we pissed them off somehow.”

  Tass touched her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. She pointed toward a tumble of boulders. “This way is a place of safety.”

  Orlan followed her under a cliff. She squatted so that her wings draped over her entire body. He sprawled next to her and drank an odd flavored liquid from the Imperial FSPAA tube.

  “We need to talk about the wormhole and the destruction at the ravine.”

  Captain Raien joined them. She seemed harassed, tired — nursing an old injury that hadn’t healed.

  Tass took a deep breath, then concentrated as she spoke. “In every generation of the Ror-Rea, there are three people who can touch the wormhole, one that is known and two that are not. Clavender has power she will not use. High Lords demand. She refuses.”

  Orlan watched her eyes and her hands as she told the tale. She seemed a girl when struggling with human words, although battle-scarred and fearless the rest of the time.

  “Two masters of the Sky Lights should come forward. They do not. They are lost or captured. Or refuse duty. There is only Clavender. She must take us to the Bleeding Grounds.”

  “Bleeding grounds?” Orlan glanced at Raien. She didn’t seem to know what it was.

  “Before the Mazz came, my people fought in one place. You cannot understand it. The place favors its masters. It has always been ours.”

  Orlan thought about that. “What if someone took control of it?”

  Tass drew back, agitation and alarm spreading across her features. “We would take it from them or die.”

  “Where is it?” Orlan wasn’t sure what the Bleeding Grounds had to do with the wormhole being damaged. Tass made little sense.

  Tass, however, seemed confident and bemused as though the truth was obvious. “It is nowhere.”

  “I don’t get it,” Orlan said.

  “Me neither.” Raien hesitated. Excitement and understanding came simultaneously. “A battle in such a location would be final.”

  “Yes. An enemy vanquished on the Bleeding Grounds ceases to exist.”

  “All my vanquished opponents cease to exist.” Orlan popped his knuckles.

  Tass appeared solemn. “Our enemies, when slain on the sacred battlefield, have never existed.”

  Orlan and Raien stared at each other.

  Tass waited for another question.

  “Sounds like a good place to fight, as long as you win,” Raien said.

  Tass said something in her language, then tried to explain. Orlan wasn’t listening. He heard Mazz Imperials moving through the night, a distinctive rhythm to their movements. He could picture how the first rank moved to secure a perimeter around their commander and how the second rank paused, then moved to expand the line. His military mind could read the sounds like a code.

  His stomach tightened.

  The Imperials were true soldiers, maybe not the best warriors, but definitely a well-trained unit.

  “Quiet. Someone is coming.”

  He crawled from the cliff and spied on a trail crossing the path they had been traveling. A dozen troopers moved away, adjusting their defenses and formation each time they paused.

  Paranoia had kept military units safe since the dawn of warfare. Tactics and discipline always defeated valor.

  More soldiers could be heard. Eventually, he spotted one man without armor.

  “Raien,” Orlan said.

  She crawled closer.

  “I see Roland.”

  She nodded. “Follow as close as you can. Tass and I will watch our flanks. Don’t get too far ahead. We can’t risk using radio coms.”

  Orlan wasn’t as cautious as Kin. For the Hero of Man, following close meant stepping on their heels and breathing down their necks, daring them to turn and fight. If Captain Raien knew him better, she would’ve given more precise orders.

  The right flank soldier took a knee, swept the area through the scope of his rifle, then stood to move. Orlan slid down the wooded slope and took over the soldier’s abandoned position.

  Orlan was practically in the Imperial formation.

  Was his situation perilous? Was his decision to take such a risk foolish?

  Absolutely.

  He was the Hero of Man. Fear was for others. Caution didn’t exist in his world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “RAIEN!” Orlan shouted.

  She turned as two Imperials burst from the trees, firing at close range. The enemy soldiers moved with coordinated precision — professional, but unremarkable. Muzzle flash and tracer rounds intensified the developing scene. The punching lances of fire were just pretty lights compared to the deadly ordinance they moved. The attack was so abrupt it ceased to flow in Orlan’s visions, becoming still images of Captain Raien twisting away, taking point blank damage — falling, stumbling, flailing like a first-year cadet under the barrage of supersonic bullets.

  Explosions blinded Orlan. He wasn’t sure he could trust his eyes as afterimages blossomed in his vision. It looked like Raien’s arm had been blasted off.

  Cheap-ass Imperial armor. Orlan rolled to his left several times and came to his feet firing. He could’ve slipped away, dodged into the night while Raien and Tass fought for their lives.

  It’d be a damn good idea, if I had a place to go.

  He plunged through a bush that would have caught an unarmored person like a fly in a Hellsbreach spider web. Bullets ricocheted around him, but his attackers didn’t have a clue where he was.

  Or they were piss-poor shots.

  One lonely bullet grazed his visor. He blinked at the annoying scratch, irritated at what seemed inferior equipment. He thought the Imperials were hot shit with hot shit armor. How did he steal a piece of junk with a cheap face shield?

  Then he realized the round left a mark because it was incendiary. Burning goo dripped across his field of vision. Bushes and trees around him blazed.

  Orlan picked up a rock as he stalked through the inferno. The FSPAA beeped warnings. He spotted a trooper scanning for targets. Stealth ran contrary to his nature, but he took a few moments to reach the trooper’s blind side.

  He threw the rock with primal force.

  The trooper staggered, spun in a circle, and fired at shadows.

  Other troopers swarmed the area.

  Orlan ran into their midst, imitating their movements, blending with their formation, until they detected the ruse and circled him.

  Whatever. Orlan stood straighter. It would’ve been a neat trick to pull off. I could’ve got my beer paid for telling this story.
“Imperials are stupid. One time, I….”

  The squad leader issued a challenge in the Mazz language.

  Orlan attacked, shooting the man in front of him, side kicking another, and spinning the other direction, gun barrel hot with streaking death.

  He took hits as he disengaged, but his enemies also wounded each other as they fired into the tight circle.

  Pain flared in his right leg. His ears rang from multiple helmet impacts.

  This feels like fighting Kin and his cheating Class IV Weapons Master bullshit. I’m dying here.

  Night greeted him as he rushed through the trees searching for Raien, Tass, and Roland.

  He felt as though he’d been attacking and defending for hours, although minutes had passed. The enemy would be on him again soon. If he didn’t find his friends and escape, he’d die.

  Whatever. Troopers like me don’t die.

  Just as the melee seemed a lifetime, the silence gripping him stretched long and dark. He looked up at towering cliffs on all sides. This was a bad place to fight.

  Too many. Too many! Damn it, Orlan. What’d you do?

  He started to move, but shapes on the night ridge caught his attention. Reapers.

  For one paralyzed moment, he stared. Droon sat astride a savage mount, watching. Erie didn’t begin to describe the monsters standing still. The monsters were always in motion. This new discipline was unnatural. It seemed gargoyles lined the high ground.

  When they moved, it was like a wave breaking. Orlan couldn’t see their target. But he heard the roar.

  “Kin-rol-an-da!”

  Close behind him came another voice — a Mazz voice distorted by a helmet speaker.

  “Don’t move, Earth Fleet. You’re beaten.”

  Orlan faced the voice and saw two troopers holding Tass between them. Her wings were broken. Blood covered her face. Her hair, matted and slick, hung limp.

  Orlan clenched his jaw. “Put her down.”

  The Imperial leader laughed. “You heard the Earth Fleet. Drop her.”

  When the armored soldiers released Tass, she fell to her knees, gripping the ground with both hands, hair blocking Orlan’s view of her face. She vomited, pain contorting her body.

  Jet-copters raced overhead, launching rockets. An armored vehicle appeared on a ridge and opened fire on the battle just beyond his vision.

  “Did I not say you are beaten?” The Imperial leader mocked him.

  “Reapers don’t mean shit to me.” Orlan couldn’t stop staring at Tass. Images of Raien’s severed arm replayed over and over in his mind. Pain flared in his leg when it should have been numbed by meds and FSPAA constriction protocols.

  “Take him out of that armor,” the leader said. “Then help Captain Trak recover Roland.”

  A pair of troopers approached Orlan.

  He stared at the leader, watching the others in his peripheral vision. “You picked the wrong Earth Fleet to mess with.”

  The leader spread his hands. “We’ll see.”

  Orlan attacked the advancing killers, aiming for the knees. The first scrambled to his feet, lunging and limping forward. Orlan kicked him again, so hard that pieces broke from armor as the man flew backward.

  The other trooper fired a rifle from a prone position without hesitating to check his injuries, grunting curses.

  Orlan respected his tenacity but didn’t wait for the attack. He charged new targets as they rushed to help fallen comrades. He barely had to aim. Dozens of enemies swarmed with gun barrels punching flame and bullets his direction.

  Enemies fell like drunks in a firing squad.

  Orlan’s helmet, weakened by the incendiary round, failed first. Air pressure whooshed out. Alarms blared. Something pierced his right arm.

  Pain flared in his left thigh. He fell to a knee. His gun ran out of ammunition. Something pierced his face.

  Armored bodies tackled him. For a moment, he thought they intended to take him alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DROON had promised Kin-rol-an-da he would only hunt Clavender, but now he had her. He was free to help his young warriors hunt the man who had been last on Hellsbreach.

  Everything changed when he recovered the kindred secrets in Kin-rol-an-da’s blood. He dreamed of sweeping across the universe on the greatest hunt ever known. Kill the humans, kill the Mazz humans, kill the winged ones.

  Blood and fear. The enemies of Kin-rol-an-da would not have him. A feast of terror.

  Droon’s warriors would learn what Droon had learned — human thoughts, the meaning of past and present, the possibilities of future conflicts. Kin-rol-an-da had the spirit of a Reaper in him. He was stronger than other humans, although he didn’t know it.

  Kin-rol-an-da was for Reapers to hunt, not for the Mazz that were like humans but not like humans.

  “Kill them all and feed on their fear. Take back your prize.”

  His warriors roared and charged down the hill, slaughtering Mazz troopers in the trees, on rocks, and in streams.

  Flying machines attacked. Droon’s kindred scattered. Armored machines launched hell into the valley.

  Droon waited until all his kindred escaped the fires and explosions, then rode Garjiin through a ravine to shelter. He dismounted for the first time in days, climbed a rock spire, and gazed down at Mazz troopers torturing Kin-rol-an-da’s big friend and one of the winged warrior women.

  Droon had seen this man before. No fear in him. Not good to hunt. A creature of violence without bravery or fear. Droon eased into a comfortable squatting position, hanging much of his weight by one hand holding the rock spire. Above him, the moons crept across the sky as strands of the shattered wormhole reached toward space.

  Mazz troopers formed into groups — ready for battle, ready to kill the Reaper kindred and humans and every living thing fleeing before them. They would march soon and take Kin-rol-an-da with them. Droon clicked his throat. Cla-ven-da wouldn’t want the Mazz to take her friend.

  It was good to please her, but impossible. If the Mazz didn’t take him, Reapers would.

  Or the Slomn-maz-re would kill Kin-rol-an-da. Thinking of burning creatures made Droon wail and slap his hands against his face. He hopped up and down until the thoughts vanished.

  Perhaps she would speak if Droon brought him to her. The idea awoke something in his mind. Hope? The sensation was strange and he wasn’t sure he liked it. It seemed he must do something to have hope. He didn’t like uncertainty. He hated the fear lurking on the opposite side of the emotion. It seemed he must rely on another unnerving human concept to create the hope and it nearly caused him to sit down and close his eyes in confusion.

  What was faith? What did it mean?

  The questions tortured him and he pushed them away. He stood and glared at the killing field below.

  Fear rose from the valley like a nightmare. Droon leaned forward. The sensation was different from any fear before.

  He moved down the spire, watching the Mazz leader pull a cord from the side of his armor and wrap it around the giant’s scarred neck.

  The friend of Kin-rol-an-da grunted, choked, and tried to curse.

  Life slowly left him.

  Droon went mad with the unique sensation it caused. He lived to taste terror, but this was so hot Droon became sick. His stomach clenched. Fluid poured from his mouth and nostrils. No man had ever behaved like that. Anguish. Frustration. Rage. Hopeless terror.

  Droon moved nearer. Mazz troopers shot at him. He didn’t care.

  Time slowed, slipped, and stopped.

  Orlan-da died.

  DROON backed away from the Mazz warriors as they closed a trap for him. With little thought, he slid into the shadows and watched them descend on the clearing around the spire. He hissed twice. Garjiin ascended the mountain trail, a terrifying shadow with red eyes and glistening teeth.

  “Garjiin. Garjiin,” Droon grunted, spreading his jaws between words. The animal lowered on his forelegs and waited. Droon mounted, looked one last time in
the direction of Mazz units flooding the area, and rode under a waterfall.

  The cavern wasn’t deep. The flow of water was so weak it barely distorted his vision. A patrol aimed laser sights and moved on when nothing seemed to be inside. Mazz troopers were like Earth Fleet troopers, seeing what they expected to see.

  Can I capture Kin-rol-an-da?

  It was the wrong question.

  Should I seize the worldbreaker? Bring him to Cla-ven-da? Droon didn’t know. Should I tell her of Orlan-da?

  He decided she wouldn’t care about the giant man who killed easily and feared nothing — until the end. Kin-rol-an-da seemed to care. He seemed to sense the death of Orlan-da.

  He cursed and fought. Mazz warriors beat him to the ground. Maybe he was dead. Maybe the Mazz chief had strangled him too.

  An urge took Droon. He slapped his hand on Garjiin’s flank. “Take me back to the cave!”

  Garjiin was a beast from the mountains of Hellsbreach; fierce, fearless, and loyal. The four-legged creatures were not hunted by Droon’s kind. Too fast. Not good sport. They rarely slept and didn’t dream.

  Trees lashed Droon as he rode through the night, desperate to see Cla-ven-da. Had she escaped? Had she died? Had she decided to open the universe to him?

  Two Mazz air ships chased him. Before they could attack, he turned Garjiin down the mountain slope and rushed out of sight. He plunged down the steep incline, legs holding his mount’s torso as it twisted and writhed. At the bottom, his weight crushed into the animal’s back as though they had fallen hard. But Garjiin kept his feet.

  Droon held on.

  Along a riverbed, through a crevasse, into the dense forest he rode. Garjiin jumped broken trees and boulders, turned away from cliffs, and galloped across open areas.

  He crossed the wide, flat valley where Clingers had eaten the mountain man. When daylight stabbed over the horizon, he found the rock fortress where his strongest Reapers held Cla-ven-da.