Paladins of the Storm Lord
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Barbara Ann Wright’s Pyramid Series
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Surrounded by dead crewmates, marooned above an unknown planet, the bridge crew of the Atlas awakens from a crash with extraordinary mental abilities. When their most powerful member jettisons their passengers to the planet below, they have an unprecedented opportunity: they can become gods.
Two hundred years later, Lieutenant Cordelia Ross is a paladin serving the Storm Lord, her city’s patron deity. Her faith is absolute until her people are attacked by a native species, harmless creatures turned devious by an unknown hand. Cordelia tries to solve the mystery of their development before they kill anyone else, but the secrets surrounding them are too deep. As orders from the Storm Lord begin to value obedience over integrity, Cordelia wonders whose side her god is really on.
What Reviewers Say About Barbara Ann Wright’s Pyramid Series
“[A] healthy dose of a very creative, yet believable, world into which the reader will step to find enjoyment and heart-thumping action. It’s a fiendishly delightful tale.”—Lambda Literary
“Barbara Ann Wright is a master when it comes to crafting a solid and entertaining fantasy novel…The world of lesbian literature has a small handful of high-quality fantasy authors, and Barbara Ann Wright is well on her way to joining the likes of Jane Fletcher, Cate Culpepper, and Andi Marquette…Lovers of the fantasy and futuristic genre will likely adore this novel, and adventurous romance fans should find plenty to sink their teeth into.”—The Rainbow Reader
“The Pyramid Waltz has had me smiling for three days…I also haven’t actually read a world that is entirely unfazed by homosexuality or female power before. I think I love it. I’m just delighted this book exists…If you enjoyed The Pyramid Waltz, For Want of a Fiend is the perfect next step…you’d be embarking on a joyous, funny, sweet and madcap ride around very dark things lovingly told, with characters who will stay with you for months after.”—The Lesbrary
“This book will keep you turning the page to find out the answers…Fans of the fantasy genre will really enjoy this installment of the story. We can’t wait for the next book.”—Curve Magazine
Thrall: Beyond Gold and Glory
“[I]ncidents and betrayals run rampant in this world, and Wright’s style successfully kept me on my toes, navigating the shifting alliances…[Thrall] is a story of finding one’s path where you would least expect it. It is full of bloodthirsty battles and witty repartee…which gave it a nice balanced focus…This was the first Barbara Ann Wright novel I’ve read, and I doubt it will be the last. Her dialogue was concise and natural, and she built a fantastical world that I easily imagined from one scene to the next. Lovers of Vikings, monsters and magic won’t be disappointed by this one.”—Curve Magazine
Paladins of the Storm Lord
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Paladins of the Storm Lord
© 2016 By Barbara Ann Wright. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-605-2
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: May 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri (grapicartist2020@hotmail.com)
By the Author
The Pyradisté Adventures
The Pyramid Waltz
For Want of a Fiend
A Kingdom Lost
The Fiend Queen
Thrall: Beyond Gold and Glory
Paladins of the Storm Lord
Acknowledgments
This book was a long time in the making, and so there are lots of people to thank.
Ross encouraged me to write sci-fi. I got as close as I could. :)
My mom encouraged me to write whatever I wanted. This is it.
Robbie and Jennifer listened to me ramble at many a Mardi Gras. This is a long way from that, but better, imo.
Sarah, Joelie, Jana, Sara, Nish, Janet, Nia, and Trakena read my early drafts. Thanks for the love.
Erin, Natsu, Matt, Angela, and Deb read my later drafts. Now I know that not everything has to be a mystery.
And in 2004, a short story with aspects of this world took 1st Runner Up in the Isaac Asimov Award for Undergraduate Excellence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing. Thank you for the confidence.
And thank you, reader. I hope you enjoy reading about these people as much as I enjoy writing them.
To Robbie and Jennifer,
who slogged through many a swamp with me.
PROLOGUE
Everything started and ended with the alarm: all of Dillon’s memories, the whole of time and space. It yowled through his ears and straight into his brain, going from soft, almost gentle shrieking to an ear-splitting whistle, like a steam train from an old vid. He remembered Sunday afternoons, trawling the TVLib with his old man. His father would have been, what, eighty this year? Eighty-five? God, he couldn’t think with the fucking alarm!
But alarms only happened when events went severely sideways. Dillon’s eyes cracked open, gummy with something, and he saw a swath of gray fabric secured under the black spider-leg bands of a safety harness. His chin was on his chest, his upside-down name staring at him from where it was stitched across his uniform. The emergency lights coated him in red, yellow, red, yellow, red.
God, he was going to throw up if that didn’t stop soon, reminding him of one of his first missions as a colonel, commandeering fishing boats on some backwater piece of shit and pounding back nausea meds so he wouldn’t blow chunks down the side of the boat.
No, not a boat. He was on a ship, and something was fucked. The Atlas, colonist babysitting. He’d been on a bri
dge rotation. Dillon forced his head up. With the flashing lights, the twisted shards of metal seemed more like the mouth of a cave than the nerve center of a starship. All the holo displays were out, making his console just another hunk of black plastic. He rubbed his forehead, wincing at the burn of a cut, but the blood was almost tacky. How long had he been out?
“The fuck happened?” he said, faint and slurry.
Someone tottered into view, dressed in the blue jumpsuit of ship personnel. The cute one, pert little bum. Her name was…something. He couldn’t get that far, needed to get up first. She reached for someone who was still slumped over. And she was walking, not floating. That was important. Not floating meant they were spinning, and they weren’t supposed to start spinning until they got where they were going.
“Nichols?” She shook the slumped man’s shoulder, disbelief in her voice. What the hell was her name? He couldn’t think with the—
The alarm died as she fiddled with something. Dillon breathed deep as the flashing lights settled into a dull glow. The woman looked up, small face bathed in amber, eyes wide. Lessan, her jumpsuit read. Right, the navigator. All it took was a little peace and quiet, and things just fell into place. Dillon retracted his safety harness, freeing himself.
“Colonel?” Lessan asked.
“I’m fine.” He took a deep breath, no ribs broken, just a headache the size of a mule.
“Nichols, the pilot.” She looked to him again, and Dillon didn’t know if her disbelief was because of some injury, or if this was her first starship accident, or maybe just her first dead body.
Dillon skirted a pile of twisted metal and bent to look at Nichols’s face, the lower half of which was gone. Dead was right. Double-dead. Triple.
“Is he dead?”
He thought about saying, “Ya think?” but she was so young. What, twenty-eight, thirty on the outside? God save him from kids in space. “Nothing you can do for him now.”
Two more people in ship blue were shuffling around the other side of the bridge, calling out the stations of the dead, including the nightshift captain, the XO.
Lessan wet her lips. “Nichols, the pilot, he’s dead, too.”
The new pair stepped into the light. They had lieutenants’ bars, but he couldn’t remember their names, either. He usually didn’t bother to meet anyone who was just giving him a ride. He took a second look at the woman of the pair, a brunette with Marlowe stitched on her suit. She looked a bit older than Lessan, more serious but still sensual. The other, an unremarkable blond man, was labeled Christian.
“Lessan, find out what happened,” Marlowe said. She and Christian started sorting through debris again.
Lessan stared after them, rubbing her arms, as lost as anyone could be.
“Hop to, navigator!” Dillon barked.
She nearly leapt in the air, staring at him.
“You’re alive. You want to stay that way?”
“Sir!” she yelped.
He pointed in the direction she’d staggered from. “Hustle to that console and do as the lieutenant says!”
“Sir!” She hustled, fumbling with her controls until the displays winked sluggishly back to life. “We hit something.” She bit her lip. “There’s been a hull breach. Some of the Chrysalis pods have ruptured.” Her hands picked up speed. “One fifty scrapped, no life signs. Some were spaced when we hit. Ten have broken open behind the emergency doors. Their occupants are still alive.”
Marlowe bent over another console. “I’m giving them some air.”
“What the hell did we hit?” Christian said. “An asteroid?”
Could have been a fucking fork for all they knew. Skipping space was dangerous enough, but their path should have been clear. It was Pross Co.’s job to clear it so their transports wouldn’t be adrift in space with one hundred and fifty dead colonists.
Dillon spotted a boot sticking out of the debris, and what he could see of the uniform looked green, colony personnel. And the only colony personnel assigned to the bridge were medical staff, just what they needed. He knelt and gave the leg a tug.
“I’m alive! Don’t you dare say I’m not!”
Dillon had to laugh, remembering this guy. Small, dark blond, nervous, weasel face, glasses. Who wore glasses anymore? “Can you get up?”
A sheet of plastic shifted, and Dillon helped him up, but his glasses were God knew where. Blood trickled along his hairline and ran across his temple. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Doctor…” He looked down for the name. “Lazlo?”
“Uh, Simon Lazlo, right. Everyone calls me Lazlo, ever since college, or Dr. Lazlo, but usually Lazlo since—”
Dillon held up a hand, not knowing if the babbling was his usual nerves or a concussion. “Do you remember where the med kit is?”
Lazlo just stared at the bars on his uniform. “You’re a captain?”
“Colonel. Dillon Tracey.” When Lazlo just stared, Dillon slowly said, “I’m Dillon. You’re Lazlo. Where is your med kit?”
He felt his head, stared at his bloody fingers, but the trickle had already stopped. “I don’t think this is deep.” He peered at Dillon. “Your forehead is bloody.”
Dillon rolled his lips under, resisting the urge to bark obscenities. “We’re all a little banged up.”
But the longer Lazlo stared, the better Dillon felt, as if his headache was soothed by concern more than anything. It sounded like something a crystal-carrying weirdo would say.
“Yours must not be that deep, either,” Lazlo said.
“Deeper than you think,” a woman’s voice replied.
Dillon turned but saw no one. The words seemed to echo around his skull.
Lazlo knelt next to a pile of detritus and felt around as if seeking a way in. “That’s the copilot. Ms. Dué? I’m sorry. I can never remember who has what rank. Are you stuck?”
The rubble shifted, and Dué stood gracefully, debris falling from her like rain. She stepped into the amber glow, her left eye fixed on the front of the bridge as if she could see through the hull; her right was nothing but a smear of gore down her cheek and neck. She swayed as if caught in the grip of beautiful music.
“God Almighty,” Lazlo whispered. He scrambled to his feet. “Someone help her!”
Dillon shook his shoulder. “You’re the doctor.”
“I’m a botanist, a biologist. I was only supposed to assist the doctor in emergencies.”
“Looks like an emergency to me!”
The lieutenants came closer, stares fixed on Dué. “The doctor is dead,” they said together.
Lazlo spun to face them. “Then wake another from Chrysalis. I’m a…a…glorified lifeguard!”
“No one wakes until we reach the target,” Dillon said.
“This isn’t your command,” the lieutenants said in sync.
God, he wished they’d stop doing that. Just how long had they been serving together? “The civvies are under my orders.”
They looked at one another as if wondering how far they could push him. He cracked his knuckles.
“Ms. Dué, would you like a bandage?” Lazlo asked, and he sounded two steps away from full-blown hysteria.
Lessan stepped toward them, hands clasped together like a supplicant. “We’re light-years off course. I don’t know how many. We took fifteen skips instead of five, and I don’t know why. And I don’t know how long we’ve been going, or how long we were all unconscious.”
The lieutenants sagged against a chair. “No one’s ever skipped that long.”
Dué swayed. “It called to me.”
With a grimace, Lazlo peered up at her face. “The eye’s been destroyed, but she’s not bleeding anymore. The cavity appears to have sealed.”
Dillon tried to look and saw nothing but ichor. “How can you tell?”
“I have no idea.”
Lessan took another step. “The dayshift captain is still alive inside Chrysalis.”
Dillon gave her a l
ong look. “We shouldn’t wake anyone else until—”
“This mission is screwed!” She raised her arms, dropped them, fingers curled into claws. “We’re lost. We’re hurt. We could be suffering some kind of mental thing from having skipped so long!”
Dillon reached for her. “Calm down!”
“I’ll do it myself.” She shrugged out of his grasp and stalked toward the door.
Dillon grabbed her arm, twisting her around. Kid or not, if she wouldn’t listen, he’d strap her to a chair. She jerked, and he held tighter, thinking she meant to pull away, but she shuddered as if she’d stepped on a live wire, teeth clicking together. Her eyes rolled back to the capillaries, and the scent of burnt meat wafted off of her.
“Colonel, let her go!” the lieutenants called.
Lessan dropped like a stone and twitched, smoke drifting from her open mouth. Dillon stared at his hand, at the deck, but everything else was fine.
The lieutenants backed up, the debris moving out of their way as if pulled by invisible magnets. “Medic,” they said, faces pale.
“She’s already dead,” Lazlo said.
A tingle passed over Dillon’s scalp. In his mind’s eye, he saw a spinning green sphere hanging against unfamiliar stars.
“Home.” Dué’s voice but still in his head.
A dull, grinding sound filled the ship, distant booms and the shriek of metal on metal. “Satellite transformation initiated,” the ship announced, its voice cracking through twisted speakers. “All personnel stand clear of satellite joists.”
“No!” the lieutenants said. “We haven’t reached the target planet!”
Dillon looked to Dué. “Who the hell keyed it in?”
She grinned through the gory mess of her face and didn’t answer.
*
Lazlo knelt in front of Dué and dabbed her face with an alcohol swab. He’d managed to find a med kit in the wreckage, but cleaning her up was all he could do. He supposed the swabs were for sterilization, but when he’d found them, he couldn’t help but compare them to wet wipes, as if the inventors had been prepared for a barbeque emergency.