by Kate Sander
Pulse
Book One of the Zoya Chronicles
Kate Sander
Kate Sander
Contents
Prologue
Part I
1. Senka
2. Armend
3. Armend
4. Armend
5. Armend
6. Senka
7. Armend
8. Senka
Interlude - James
Part II
9. Senka
10. Senka
11. Armend
12. Senka
13. Titus
14. Jules
15. Armend
16. Armend
17. Senka
18. Senka
19. Armend
Interlude - James
Part III
20. Sol XIX
21. Senka
22. Armend
23. Senka
24. Titus
25. Queen Anita
26. Senka
27. Queen Anita
28. Rosie
29. Armend
30. Senka
31. Jules
32. Senka
33. Senka
Epilogue
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FORCE: BOOK TWO OF THE ZOYA CHRONICLES
Prologue
Part I
1. Senka
CONTINUE READING
Copyright © 2015 Kate Sander
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0994968012
ISBN-10: 0994968012
Created with Vellum
For Aaron, Cara, Mom and Dad.
Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
For Sharon.
Without you this would still be a couple of loose chapters on my hard drive.
.
Prologue
They were stranded. It was the worst family vacation yet and Lizzy didn’t care who knew it. She didn’t even want to be here, she wanted to be with her friends on their trip to Mexico. Instead of the warm waters of the ocean with her friends, it was a heavy blizzard in the middle of nowhere Manitoba. And they weren’t even here for anything fun, just trying to get to her grandparent’s house for a stupid family Christmas thing.
“Dad, when are we getting out of here?” she whined across the table. Refusing to look at him, her head was buried in her phone. They were in a small truck stop diner on Highway 6. Complete with the classic old puke green paint and a sticky beige table that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.
“We told you Lizzy, when the highway opens up.” Mark looked at his daughter. Sixteen, full of the attitude teenage girls are famous for and as smart as a whip. At five foot six, she had long wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and a physical awkwardness that she hadn’t been able to shake off as fast as her friends. This led to a sulky, very insecure teenager. Intelligent and kind (when not in one of her moods), but at the age where brains weren’t valued as high as athleticism. He hoped she would realize her importance and capability soon. Smiling as she tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, he knew she had no idea how much she looked like her mother.
“Well when’s that gonna be?”
“Going to be, Lizzy. Use your words. And we told you, we don’t know. Your mother is just off with the boys checking with some truck drivers to see if they know when the highway would open up,” Mark sighed, his patience waning. Secretly he agreed with his daughter. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere at a dirty truck stop, with his three sons under the age of ten and a sixteen year old daughter. This trip was turning out to be a horrible idea. His horrible idea.
“You know, you could probably check the weather on that phone of yours. Put it to good use.”
An eye roll and a glare gave him his answer. “I’m texting Amber. She doesn’t get why I couldn’t go. You didn’t even have to pay!”
“I know Liz, but your mom and I wanted you home for Christmas. Plus you haven’t seen your older brother in two years, you needed to be home to see him.”
Lizzy knew it, and felt a stab of guilt for bringing it up. She was actually super excited to see James. Five years her senior, they had been best friends until he moved away to go to university. Smiling as she remembered her brother’s laugh, she did her best to keep it to herself. It wouldn’t do to have her father know she thought he was at least half right. She missed James. Even when she was twelve and he was seventeen he included her, and she still hadn’t forgiven him for moving.
“I could’ve seen him later.”
Mark was spared from answering, and the inevitable fight it would lead to, by the approach of the rest of his family. His wife and kids looked tired. Which made sense at 10:30 PM.
“Well,” Susan said, “I just talked to a couple of the semi drivers. They said the snow plows are out so we should be able to get moving.”
Mark smiled at his wife. Tired and hungry, maybe, but always beautiful. At forty she had an athletic build, long brown hair, and bright green eyes that only James had inherited. They had a big family because they enjoyed kids. He looked at his ten, nine and six year old sons. The boys were carbon copies of each other. Slim builds, brown eyes, and untidy brown hair chopped the same way (all the rage right now in junior hockey). They had James young, at only nineteen, but they had managed. Then came Elizabeth a few years later. Then in a blink Kenny, John and last of all Billy. His family was busy, but they were happy.
“Great! Get snacks kids, last bathroom breaks. I expect butts in seats in ten minutes!”
Mark moved to the 2006 red Dodge Caravan with his family. One thing about a big family, he mused, was that it sure changed what kind of car you drove. Making sure everyone was buckled in, he slowly joined the procession of vehicles leaving the diner. The blizzard was a bad one, but nothing that they couldn’t deal with. He was born and raised in Canada, a little snow didn’t stop him. His wife absent mindedly grabbed his hand and, smiling, Mark slowly entered the highway.
Liz could tell her dad was getting anxious. They had left the diner an hour ago and had only driven about eighty kilometers. At this pace, she calculated, they wouldn’t make Winnipeg until 3:00 AM. She was just glad she wasn’t driving. Amusing herself with her phone, she killed time on this endless trip by watching videos, laughing to herself about the data bill she was running up. That would show her parents for making her stay here.
Sitting in her normal spot in the back of the caravan on the driver’s side, Kenny was snoring loudly beside her. In front of her she saw John’s head slouch forward. He was asleep sitting up. She couldn’t see Billy, he was fast asleep beside John.
Beep. A notification popped up on her phone. Unlocking her screen, the text from Amber materialized. With a pang of jealousy and sadness, she saw it was a picture of her friends on the beach. The van jerked slightly as her dad sped up and pulled out to pass a semi. He was definitely getting frustrated.
“Shit,” he said from the front. Followed by a desperate gasp from her mother.
She looked up, just in time to see a snow plow’s headlights feet away from the windshield. She didn’t scream. There was no time. A sharp intake of breath. The van hit the plow head on. In slow motion the windshield exploded inwards. Her body was launched forward. The seatbelt locked and crushed her to a stop. A terrible screeching noise. Something slammed against her head.
Everything went black.
Part I
“Man is a genius when he is dreaming,” – Akira Kurosawa
“There is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to see
k it.” – J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
1
Senka
She was angry.
Although, she thought, she was always angry. Her anger fueled her. It forced her to get up in the morning. Hanging in the air, her feet were folded behind her and she slowly extended her body to the bottom of a pull-up. Forty-one, she thought as she pulled her body up to the bar. Pausing, she looked around at her cell, muscles straining with the hold. Four stone walls, smooth in the corners from past prisoners trying to claw their way out. The cell was ten feet across, ten feet wide, and ten feet tall. A perfect cube. There was a hole in the back right corner for various bodily fluids. A stone bed hewn of rock was raised three feet off the on the left side with no blankets or pillow. A one inch metal bar was hung exactly in the center of the ceiling and was used for binding during torture. The door was steel, expertly inlaid into the stone and perfectly center of the wall. A small hatch in the bottom of the door was used to deliver food once a day. The cell was so well crafted that no light seeped into the room from the hall beyond. Sound, however, was heard clearly. This was to ensure the screams and mutterings of other tortured prisoners could be heard.
Keep the body strong, keep the mind strong, and vengeance will be yours. Forty-two, she thought, performing another pull-up.
The only light was provided by a flickering, blue tinted Pulse light in the center of the room. It trembled on for exactly twelve hours a day, and was turned off for the other twelve. This occurred exactly the same time, for precisely the same length, every day. She figured this out by counting seconds during her first year of incarceration. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. Every day. It was a part of the psychological torture she endured within these walls. They wanted her to know how long she had been here. She looked at the left wall above her bed. Five hundred and ninety-seven marks scratched into the wall.
A long scream sounded in the dungeon. It was the unmistakeable sound of someone for whom the pain of torture was new. They would break, she thought. They always did.
She did another slow, strong, pull ups. Sixty-seven… Sixty-eight… Sixty-nine… Seventy. Sweat formed on her upper brow. The scars on her pale white arms popped red with the extra blood flowing to her muscles. No quit. No giving up. No giving in. She lived every day for the chance at vengeance. One hundred.
She jumped off the bar and kneeled on the floor, wrapping the white ragged robe provided to all prisoners around herself. Closing her eyes, she slowed her breathing. In… Out… In… Out… The pulse beat in her neck. Bah-dum, bah-dum, bah-dum. The words of her master flooded through her, “Know yourself, focus on yourself. You cannot know anything until you know yourself.”
She was anger. She was the blade. She would kill her enemies, with no second thought, no hesitation.
She didn’t know how old she was, having no memory of anything before three years ago. Her best guess was between twenty and twenty-five. She had awakened in the country of Langundo in a forest on top of a grassy hill. Weak, alone, afraid and without memories, she wandered the forest. Her master had taken her in, taught her strength.
Breathe in…. breathe out…. Breathe in…. breathe out.
Every muscle in her body was tight. Five foot six, lean and very muscular, she kept her body strong. A weak body was useless, much like a weak soul. She was not weak. Anger made her strong. Her body was scarred from the torture, but her soul was intact. They had shaved her head when she had gotten there. They thought she would care, they thought it would break her. When it didn’t, they allowed her to grow it out. Her brown wavy hair was helpful to cause her physical pain and was kept at shoulder length. She absent mindedly tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
Her brown eyes flashed as she jumped off her knees and jumped to the bar with a fluid motion. She would kill all of them. The elderly, the weak, children, anyone who got in her way. She started doing pull-ups again, slowly.
One… Two… Three… Four.
If she ever got out of here, she would kill them. She would kill them all.
2
Armend
Armend checked himself in the mirror before leaving his quarters. He liked what he saw. Sixty-two, with peppered grey hair on his head, he kept his face clean shaven face to show off his strong jaw. Enjoying the view, he stared a little longer at his sharp features, strong blue eyes, and a smile that could light up the room.
“You look twenty years younger,” he muttered to his reflection, giving himself a big smile. “That diet and the new exercises are working wonderfully.”
Look good. Feel good. Conquer the world.
Two out of three down this morning. The day was starting off well.
Wrapping his intricate gold and white silk robe around himself, he strode out the door without a word to his sleeping wife.
The view was marvelous. Being on the King’s council had its perks. As the Head of Peace, he had control of the armies of the King of the Sun. They were in Solias, capital city of Langundo. Far across the Eastern sea was Carabesh, but he had never been there. He hadn’t seen the sea in thirty-five years, this view was enough for him.
The marble arches opened in front of him, revealing the Golden City of Solias glinting in the sun. With too many turrets to count, the castle itself was an ode to wealth and prosperity. All was painted gold, the floors made of pristine white marble were polished to a shine, their intricate white and grey patterns telling stories for themselves. Armend took a deep breath of the cool morning air and set off to council.
As a member of the council, Armend lived in the upper levels of Solias, within the castle itself. Surrounding the castle were the various gardens that the Queen kept, as well as the training grounds for the army of Solias, the illustrious Sun Gods: keepers of the peace. Surrounding the training grounds was a twenty-five foot high wall that rose seamlessly from a rushing river. Below the moat was the market. These were the merchants and the traders who set up shop below the castle to sell their goods. The scents and colours of the market provided a variety of exotic experiences. The market slowly faded into the slums. This was where the depraved, the poor and the lazy spent their time. Armend tried to avoid going to the slums, although business sometimes called for it.
Exiting the hall into an open courtyard, he stopped to admire the morning training of a troop of rookie recruits of the Sun Gods. Children of Solias were recruited at ten years old, both male and female. One child from every family must serve in the Sun Gods. As added incentive, the more children who served in the Sun Gods the higher the family rose in political standing. Some families had all their children enter training and bragged about their illustrious offspring at various cabarets and masquerades. Only half of the rookie class survived to wear the armour. Peace was a noble calling, one which required blood and sacrifice.
Today, these young children were training with swords. No practice swords in the Sun Gods, no sir. Armend was training an army, not having play time with friends. These were full weight, sharpened swords. Parries were rarely missed if a cut was suffered as result. He stood and watched the rookie class train. There were forty children practicing drills, with four instructors walking slowly back and forth across the line, correcting form.
Crack.
The sharp sound of a sword hitting the ground caused the other children to falter.
“Continue,” an Instructor barked. The children listened, all looking away from the ten year old girl who’d dropped the weapon. An instructor approached and cuffed her in the head, sending the girl sprawling to the ground. Shakily, she pulled herself to her feet, keeping her eyes level with the instructors and picked up her sword. She would make a fine recruit. Resilience was key in a good soldier, and this one could get back up after she was knocked down. Obviously, the instructor agreed and, with a slight nod of his head, she continued with the drills.
Later in her training, if she survived and was top of her class, she would be given the opportunity to join the Exalted. The
Exalted was Armend’s pet project, one he started with the previous King, King Sol XVII. They were specially trained and the most feared group in all the land. Deadly skill, combined with mastery of Pulse weapons led to a lethal force. The current King Sol, XVIII, had recently tried to have the Exalted disbanded as he believed they were no longer useful. Armend had just moved the location of training and took the unit underground. The King would need them someday, and he would be glad he had them.
He waited and watched a while, when a shadow fell on his shoes. Sebastian, his personal bodyguard. Not all members of council required a bodyguard, but the business of peace was a dangerous one.
“Hello, Sebastian,” he said without turning his head, “How are we this fine summer morning?”
“It’s a little chilly,” came the reply, a coarse and reedy voice, very much the opposite of Armend’s. Armend turned to look at his rogue bodyguard. Pale, with a pointed nose and long shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a bun, Sebastian looked as though he hadn’t seen the sun in years. His dark eyes were black, which matched his habitual dress of black pants and a loose black shirt, covered by a black cloak. Both forearms were wrapped with the specialized black leather compartments that held the Pulse packs for his weapons. Wires ran from the Pulse packs to the palm of his hands, where a black metal plate was located in supple leather gloves. The Pulse would run from the packs in his forearms to the plate in his palms. Knives created by Alchemists and Blacksmiths snapped into these plates, making the blade electrified. It took great skill to master Pulse weapons, and most who tried ended up killing themselves. Sebastian had excelled in rookie class, especially in dagger throwing and stealth. Armend had picked him after his Exalted trials six years ago.
