Paladins of the Storm Lord

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Send him floating out with Lessan? No, never. Marie’s breachie cronies were a bunch of sycophantic fucks, but murderers? He couldn’t see that. Unless they’d gone as crazy as Dué, or they managed to convince Dué to kill him. Even in all of his fight fantasies, Dillon never imagined going against her.

  Imprison him? What would be the point? He supposed they could try to drive him out of his fucking skull, but he already felt that way half the time, had been feeling that way for a long time, and it was getting worse.

  No, there was a third option. Exile. Goose bumps sprang up over his arms as he moved closer to his window. They could send him down to the planet, watch him wither and age, all of them immortal as long as they had Lazlo.

  Dillon shook his head and told himself not to be so paranoid. They were punishing him; that was all, freezing him out. And if he was getting jumpy, that meant they were winning. It was just more of their bullshit, more games they had to play to keep from being so bored all the time.

  His door chimed, and he stared, wondering if this was it.

  “Dillon?” Lazlo’s voice.

  Dillon had to laugh at himself. “Come on in, Laz.”

  The door slid open. “Do you want to get some coffee?” Lazlo had been sticking to him like glue lately. He’d felt the shift in the winds, too, but he’d never been comfortable anywhere.

  “Have a seat, Laz.”

  Lazlo sat slowly. “What’s going on? You look more irritated than usual.”

  “You know something’s up.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re letting the breachies get to you.”

  “It’s different this time.”

  Lazlo didn’t bother to argue, but he picked at his sleeves, a true tell if there ever was one.

  “Can you tell where they are right now?”

  Lazlo sighed but closed his eyes. “I expect they’re scattered like they usually…” He frowned, head turning.

  Dillon’s heart thumped harder, and he licked his lips. “What?”

  “Well, the breachies are often in groups.”

  “But now they’re all together.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even Christian and Marlowe.”

  Lazlo opened his eyes. “And Dué.”

  Oh shit. “I told you they were plotting something.”

  “With Dué? No, this has to be some kind of coincidence.”

  “We have to know what’s going on in that room.”

  “Why wouldn’t they call me?”

  “Come on, Laz. They know we’re friends.”

  Lazlo frowned so hard Dillon bit back a laugh. “You mean they think I do whatever you say whenever you wave your hand!” Lazlo said.

  No, it took a lot more than hand waving most of the time, but Dillon didn’t mention that. “They just see you as life support.”

  “Bastards.”

  Dillon nodded. “Can you sense anything from them?”

  “I can’t risk scanning the lieutenants or Dué. The others seem agitated. Marie seems gratified. There’s lots of high emotions, lots of adrenaline.”

  “They’re about to act.”

  “Dillon, we don’t know anything!”

  “I do. I know.” But he wasn’t going to let them get away with it. He’d fight. He’d fuck up the satellite if he had to. He’d space them all!

  But, a little voice inside him said, why should he let it come to that? There were other options, far more satisfying ones. Certainty flooded him, greater than he’d ever known. They were plotting to exile him, and he was going to let them, but not like they thought. “If anyone tries to listen to us, can you block them?”

  “Not directly. I mean, I could attack the source of their power, but—”

  “If they try to hear us, even on the sneak, would you know?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. Tell me if they try. Come on.” Dillon strode past, not waiting to see if Lazlo would follow because of course he would.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Botanical habitat.”

  “What for?”

  “They’re going to send me to the planet, Laz. That’s what their little meeting is about. I’ve read mutiny reports. I know what it looks like.” The lift opened, and they hurried inside.

  “You are jumping to conclusions,” Lazlo said.

  Dillon took his shoulders. “All of them meeting together? You know I’m right.”

  Lazlo’s face shifted through expressions, disbelieving to horrified, and finally, his cheeks flushed with anger again. “I won’t let them.”

  Dillon patted his shoulders, touched. “Don’t try to stop them.” The doors opened at the habitat, and Dillon strode out, pounding down the steps. “I’ve just got a few things to take care of first.”

  “I could stand in their way! They wouldn’t do anything to me. I’m too valuable to them.”

  Dillon gathered all the yafanai-maker plants and threw them into the incinerator. “Where are your notes?”

  “In my…” When he trailed away, Dillon looked. Lazlo was staring at his console in horror. “I logged out before I left.”

  Dillon nodded slowly. “Someone’s broken into your files.” Luckily, Lazlo had created his files so they couldn’t be copied. Anyone who wanted to access them would have to use this console. Dillon laid his palm flat on it and pumped electricity over the surface until the console crackled and popped, surface splintering into a spiderweb of cracks.

  Lazlo stared at it, stricken, as if his child had died. Dillon gripped his arm. “I’m sorry, Laz. You won’t need it anymore. Gather up anything else about the yafanai and chuck it. They won’t get your research.”

  Lazlo slammed his hands on the table, his eyes shiny, face bright and angry. God, Dillon didn’t want to see him cry. “You’re just going to let them—”

  Dillon barked a laugh. “Grab any of the drug you’ve already harvested, as well as any seeds, and come on.”

  *

  Lazlo had tears in his eyes, but he tried to fight them down. Dillon hated tears, and Lazlo didn’t want their last few moments together tainted by too much emotion.

  Last moments together? What the hell was happening? Someone had broken into his console; that was a fact. Dillon was convinced everyone was turning on him, and everyone’s secretive behavior the past weeks seemed to back him up. But exile? There had to be another explanation, and if there wasn’t, there had to be some way to stop it.

  Dillon seemed almost happy. His jaw was firm with resolve, eyes glittering with life. He had a mischievous smile on his face. As they hurried from the botanical habitat, Lazlo told himself he would help fight the others, if it came to that. They couldn’t just turn on Dillon and get away with it.

  But with every step, his knees grew weaker and his vision hazy. He wasn’t a fighter, damn it! “Dillon, where are we going?”

  “I’m taking one of the pods and getting the fuck out of here.”

  Lazlo stumbled. “You’re giving them what they want?”

  “No, Laz, I’m taking charge of my own fate before someone decides it for me. They’d hurl me down to the ground with nothing. I’m taking what’s mine and getting ahead of them.” Dillon gave him another fond smile, and Lazlo returned it, but his heart was pounding, and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think.

  They made it to the hangar, and Dillon started fiddling with the controls in one of the pods, a bigger version of the little drop-and-carries he used to send supplies. This one could carry a person, as many as four by the look.

  “Dillon—”

  “Hmm?”

  But what could he say. Good-bye? I’ll miss you? Kiss me, you fool? He felt a gathering of many heartbeats, all converging on the hangar. “They’re coming.”

  “I need a little more time.”

  “Okay.” Lazlo took a deep, shuddering breath and turned toward the doors. He kept telling himself that the others wouldn’t hurt him, and even if they did, he could fix anything.

  Then
why was he shaking so badly?

  They came in as a pack, Marlowe and Christian leading the way with Marie just behind them, and the others huddled close by, all but Dué.

  “Naos,” her voice said in his mind, and he knew she was watching. “Why don’t you ever call me by the right name, Simon Lazlo?”

  Lazlo licked his lips and tried to stare everyone down. “Go…go away.”

  “Come out, Storm Lord,” Marie called.

  Lazlo tightened his jaw as they stared past him. He pulled himself straighter, lining up a row of Dillon’s favorite swears in his head.

  Dillon put a hand on his shoulder and stepped out. “What’s this? The villagers come to roust the evil monster out of the castle?”

  Marie leaned forward, and Lazlo wondered why she hated Dillon so much. When she’d started to hate him like this. A miasma of power hung around her, a greater power than hers. “You’ve dug your own grave,” she said. “We know about those creatures you’ve tampered with.”

  Dillon sighed, and Lazlo felt his power flow. The air tingled with a tinny smell. “So?”

  A slug of power shot from Marlowe, and Dillon staggered. That miasma hung around all of them, and it seemed to make all their tempers sharper.

  Lazlo stepped forward. “Stop this!”

  Dillon rubbed his chest. “I was going to leave peacefully—”

  “You’ll get nothing,” Marie said. “You’ll be lucky if we let you leave with the clothes on your back!”

  “You shouldn’t have changed the planet,” Marlowe and Christian said. “We agreed not to, to let our followers do as they will.”

  “Oh please,” Dillon said. “Tell me you’re not doing the same. I love a good lie.”

  Lazlo felt their emotions peak, and he shouted at them to stop, that something was wrong. They fell silent and slowed, like a vid at half speed. Their mouths kept moving, fingers pointing in accusation, hurling insults back and forth, but he was outside their slowness.

  Dué stepped through the door, winding through the pack at a normal walk, her one eye locked on Lazlo, and her power tingling through his skull. “Why do you stand for this?” her voice said in his mind, her mouth still. “You are so much larger than they.”

  “I can’t just go around hurting people,” he said. “I’m not a…”

  She smiled. “God?”

  “Are you doing this? Making everyone angrier than they should be?”

  “Prophecy makes slaves of us.”

  “It’s not prophecy if you make it happen!”

  She laughed. The sound and movement of the others came back in a rush, angry voices subsiding as they realized who stood in their midst.

  “What—” Marie took a step back.

  “Go,” Dué said, aloud this time. “I’ll hold them.”

  Lazlo blinked at her. Christian, Marlowe, and the breachies stopped talking, stopped moving, as if someone had hit pause. Only their eyes moved, bulging in disbelief. Power roiled off Dué and scattered around the room.

  Dillon laughed, and the sound had a tinge of evil. He blew her a kiss. “Thank you, you lovely nutter!”

  “Remember to duck,” she said.

  Dillon spun Lazlo around. “Laz.”

  Lazlo couldn’t breathe, was amazed he was still on his feet. What in the world was even happening? “Good-bye? Is this…”

  “I hope you haven’t had lunch yet.” Dillon lurched backward, hauling Lazlo with him. Lazlo stumbled over the lip of the pod. Dillon lifted him, plonked him down in one of the seats, and activated the safety webbing. It slithered over Lazlo’s body, holding him in place.

  Lazlo squawked as Dillon punched the control panel, and the door hissed closed, the pod vibrating as it slid through the airlock. Dillon leapt into his own seat, and the crow of his voice drowned out Lazlo’s protest. The sound of the pod’s engines firing silenced both of them, and they hurtled toward the planet.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After two weeks, Liam’s bruises had almost faded, leaving just a smudge of yellow around his chin. Cordelia eyed it from time to time as they stood in the mess at the back of the keep and watched the recruitment vid along with the day’s batch of children.

  Goddamned waste of power. They barely had enough juice for their sidearms, but the Storm Lord had decreed that the children of Gale would watch this vid when they reached a certain age, so watch it they did.

  It was impressive. Soldiers leapt from Pross Co. carriers, traveling the galaxy and kicking ass. When the vid told them they’d “Meet exciting alien species!” the teacher reminded them that they wouldn’t, unless they counted the drushka.

  Who were impressive on their own. Cordelia shook the thought away. Well, she tried. Nettle had made several memorable appearances in her dreams, usually naked, Cordelia’s brain blurring information she didn’t have. One time, Nettle had been dressed as a baker with a tray of sweet rolls, and Cordelia didn’t even want to wonder what that was about.

  The kids oohed and ahhed as the vid highlighted guns and armament. They cheered as a soldier almost twisted a man’s head off when he came through her door uninvited. Her family stopped her, introducing the man as a guest, and the vid proclaimed that Pross Co. soldiers gained “catlike reflexes.” The vid family looked at the camera with giant grins and put their thumbs up, just as they did after every segment.

  Cordelia snorted a laugh. The kids chattered when the vid was done, probably more excited to watch their first vid than anything, especially after the exhaustive tests the yafanai had put them through the day before.

  Liam elbowed Cordelia in the side. “Nearly twisting that guy’s head off is my favorite part.”

  “All the grinning, though. They look crazy.” She pulled her mouth into an insane smile and gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ve had severe skull trauma!”

  He returned the look. “I carry around a head in a bag!”

  Brown crossed the hall behind them and paused when they grinned crazily at her. “You fuckers are weird.” She watched the kids file out. “I love that vid. It made me the woman I am today.”

  “Now who’s weird?” Cordelia said. “I wanted to be a paladin long before I saw that piece of shit.”

  “That makes two of us,” Liam said. Though his reasons were different from hers.

  Even after Cordelia had passed the yafanai tests for strength of will and mental stability, she’d chosen the gun. She’d been a scrapper at school, and a wandering paladin had broken up one of her fights one day. He’d laid a heavy, armored arm across her shoulders, helmet shining around his face. He’d been proud. Uncle Paul had yelled at her that night, but she’d smiled through it, knowing there was someplace that fighting was welcomed and celebrated.

  A leather hurried over to them. “Lieutenant Ross, a letter for you.” He pushed a thick, reed-made card into her hands.

  “Dismissed,” Cordelia muttered. Fine paper, heavy ink. She knew it was her uncle’s doing before she noted his perfect handwriting.

  “To my dearest niece, Cordelia Sa Ross,” it read. “You are invited to dine this evening with your uncle, who is taking time out of his extremely busy schedule to visit with his only remaining relative. Dinner will be served at dusk. Don’t make me send Reach after you.” It was signed, “Paul Philip Ross, Mayor of Gale (A man of some importance.)”

  “La-di-da!” Brown said. “Damn, Ross! Sometimes I forget you’re royalty.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yeah, Jen,” Liam said, “you should feel humbled that her golden majesty deigns to speak with unwashed lackeys like us.”

  Cordelia held up a fist. “Do you want some of this?”

  “She offered to touch you!” Brown said. They bowed in sync.

  Cordelia read the card again. “Not fair of him to threaten me with a diplomat.”

  “Dusk is in a few hours,” Liam said. “You better get ready.”

  “You’ll have to get your hair done,” Brown said. “Polish your shoes.”

  Liam nodded. “O
ne of your servants will be happy to lick them clean.”

  “Fuck off, the pair of you.” Cordelia stomped up to her room. Luckily, she wasn’t in armor that day, so she only had to find something suitable to wear. She dug through her trunk, picking out loose-fitting mauve trousers and a matching shirt. The shirt had the fewest holes, and the trousers were comfortable, though she’d chased a thief down while wearing them two days ago. She’d meant to sew up the rip at the knee, but there hadn’t been time. Armor might have made a better choice, but Paul would just make her take it off.

  With a sigh, she took the trousers off and tried on her second-best pair, tan to go with the mauve. These had a hole near the crotch, but no one would notice when she was sitting down. She dug an embroidered vest from the bottom of the trunk, not even remembering the last time she’d worn it. It wouldn’t quite stretch over her shoulders. A relic from before armor training, then, when she’d packed on her current muscle.

  “Fuck.” She could go buy something else, but she liked to save her money for more important things, like mead and gifts for the occasional fling, as rare as those were. Nettle wandered through her head again, but there wasn’t time to dwell. If her uncle was going to embarrass her with fancy invitations, she was going to show up at his house far too early. That would set the evening off on the right, annoyed foot.

  She set off for the finer part of Gale, all well-maintained houses and shops of every variety. Rickshaws rumbled through the area night and day, so she kept to the side of the road, trying to arrive at her uncle’s house not coated in dust. She was nervous, though she didn’t know why. She knew all of her uncle’s tactics, all his guilt trips, but she wasn’t looking forward to diatribes about how she should and shouldn’t conduct herself. It felt too much like being a kid again. At this rate, she’d need another fight before Liam’s bruises had even faded.

  She passed near the market and stood clear while several rickshaws clattered by. A few notes of eerie singing made her turn, looking deeper into the alley. Someone was moving, and she heard faint crying, a child’s voice. She tiptoed closer. If someone was hurting a kid, Paul would just have to accept fresh bloodstains on her clothes.