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  Origins

  Heritage of Power, Book 3

  Lindsay Buroker

  Copyright © 2018 by Lindsay Buroker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Origins

  Heritage of Power, Book 3

  by Lindsay Buroker

  Copyright © 2017 Lindsay Buroker

  1

  Sweat dripped down the sides of Lieutenant Rysha Ravenwood’s face, but she dared not take her hands from the hilt of her sword to wipe it away. Her spectacles fogged in the cool evening air, leaving her opponent a blur.

  A barrage of blows came her way. High, high, low, followed by a swipe from the side. Mud squished under her boots as she danced about, doing her best to anticipate those attacks and block in time. Only quick reflexes and a good sense of balance kept her on her feet, her opponent’s sword clashing off the edge of her own rather than slicing into her.

  Her spectacles fogged further, and frustration welled inside of her. She could barely see, damn it.

  She wouldn’t yield, wasn’t even sure her ferocious opponent would let her yield, but she longed to ask for a three-second break so she could wipe her lenses. This wasn’t fair. But she knew a real enemy—whether airship pirate, Cofah soldier, or dragon—wouldn’t give her a break.

  Rysha felt a modicum of pride that she was doing as well as she was. She hadn’t been able to shift the momentum and take the offensive, but at least she had so far blocked everything the big, muscular man threw at her. Then she leaned her weight into her front foot in an attempt to counter a parry, and a boot that she hadn’t noticed swept in, hooking her behind the knee.

  Before she could compensate, it pulled her leg out from under her. She lurched backward, trying to regain her balance, but her opponent surged in to take advantage. He slashed toward her face with his sword. While she was busy jerking her blade up to defend, he slammed his weight into her chest.

  Rysha fell backward, her shoulders hitting the mud with a squish. She tried to turn the fall into a roll, as she’d been taught, both to save her back and to put distance between her and her foe, but he was too fast. Weight settled on her chest—it was either his knee or a steam carriage—and the edge of his sword came to rest against her cheek.

  She opened her hand and let the chapaharii blade, Dorfindral, fall from her fingers. A sense of disgruntlement emanated from the sword. Had she been battling a sorcerer or dragon instead of a normal man, she knew the blade would have objected even more, maybe taking over her body and guiding her to defend herself more competently. She was tempted to whisper the Old Iskandian words that told the sword to “take over,” just in case it could do something to get the weight off her chest so she could breathe, but that might escalate this encounter from a sparring match to a blood bath. One that would mostly involve her blood, she wagered.

  “You don’t just watch the blade, Lieutenant,” her foe—and instructor—Colonel Therrik growled. “You need to be aware of everything your enemy is doing. The whole body is a threat. And don’t forget to watch what’s going on around you too. Enemies don’t always stand back and attack you one at a time.”

  “I don’t think she can watch much of anything with her spectacles all fogged up and spattered with mud,” came Captain Kaika’s dry observation from the side.

  Therrik finally removed his blade and his knee, grumbling as he stood up. Rysha didn’t catch all the words, but it sounded like, “…can’t believe they let some blind kid into the elite troops.”

  Her cheeks heated from more than the exertion of the sword fight. Technically, she was only in the elite troops training program. The aches and pains afflicting her entire body reminded her that she’d endured a sixteen-mile run with a full pack and all her gear that morning, followed by hand-to-hand combat with the other recruits. This sword work was an after-hours extracurricular activity for her and the other three chapaharii sword wielders, preparation for the inevitable return of hostile dragons to Iskandian skies.

  “Maybe she can get a dragon to fix her eyesight,” Colonel Grady, another elite troops officer who’d been selected to wield one of the blades, observed as Rysha pushed herself to her feet and wiped her spectacles. “I understand the one with the temple is back in town and offering his services as a magical medic. Magical medic, I like that.” He grinned, a boyish grin that seemed odd on a man who’d probably killed hundreds of people during his career. Then he fished a worn journal out of his pocket and pulled a pencil nub out of the spirals. It looked like the notebooks the pilots kept for making flight-related calculations in the air, but his was full of words written in a tiny script. He found an open spot and scribbled in it. “Magical medic. For when you’ve got a headache.” He grinned again. “Not a true rhyme, but I can make it work with the right inflection.”

  Perhaps seeing Rysha’s curious expression, Kaika explained, “Colonel Grady fancies himself a bard.”

  “More of a songwriter,” the colonel explained, ignoring a groan from Therrik. “But I do perform with my brother and his troupe in between missions.”

  “All those language schools the army sent you to, and that’s what you do with your education?” Therrik demanded.

  “’Tis a poor brain that can only figure out one thing to do with a language.” Grady put his notebook away, still grinning. “Who said that? That’s a quote.”

  “Trudusky,” Rysha supplied.

  “Hah, I knew it.”

  “Let’s get back to work,” Therrik said. “No dragon is going to be defeated by someone singing at him.”

  “Are you sure?” Grady asked. “I seem to remember a fairy tale about a maiden winning a dragon’s love by singing to him.”

  “You’re not a maiden.”

  “But I’m a handsome and virile soldier. I might attract a female dragon with my words.” Grady looked at Rysha, as if she might know something about the subject.

  Rysha grimaced. The new female dragon, Shulina Arya, had appeared earlier in the week when she’d been in the middle of running the obstacle course. While soldiers all over the field had shouted in alarm and run for their weapons, the dragon had alighted atop the wall and asked Rysha if she needed assistance going over it. Rysha had refused with a polite, “No, thank you.” A few seconds later, as she clawed her way through the low crawl, Shulina Arya had requested more stories. Finally, after Rysha made it through the course, and the whole fort had been alerted to the dragon’s presence, Shulina Arya had flown down to stand next to her, then asked if she should have appeared in ferret form, so as not to alarm the humans. As if it hadn’t already been too late for that.

  Fortunately, the soldiers had realized she was one of the friendly dragons before doing anything stupid, such as shooting at her, but everyone was now referring to Shulina Arya as Rysha’s dragon. This wasn’t the first time a male soldier had asked her if female dragons shape-shifted and enjoyed spending time with virile men. At least Colonel Grady’s speculation was more subtle, and possibly only a joke.

  “Who told you that you were handsome, sir?” Kaika asked, saving Rysha from having to respond. “You’ve got a nose like a tomahawk, eyes the color of mud, and only half an ear on the left side.”

  “Really, Captain. It’s at least three-quarters of an ear. And I can still use it to hear a woman’s mellifluous tones.”

  “Seven gods, he reminds me of Zirkander,” Therrik grumbled.

  “Ah, General Zirkander!” Grady grinned again. “I wrote a ballad about him and the exploits of Wolf Squadron a couple of years ago.”

  Therrik growled. “I k
new there was a reason we’d never been on any missions together.”

  “Yes, because I get sent out to gather intel. You get sent out to shoot people.”

  “Shoot? I usually use my bare hands.”

  “Charming,” Kaika murmured.

  Grady tapped his chin thoughtfully, pulled out his notebook again, and wrote something else.

  Therrik scowled at him, but only for a second. He pointed at their muddy practice field. “You two women pair up. Run through the eights drill while we’ve still got some daylight left. Minstrel, you and I will—”

  “Company coming,” Kaika said, nodding toward the walkway overlooking the exercise field. “Royal company.”

  King Angulus strode toward the stairway leading down to the field, six guards in dark blue uniforms trailing closely behind him. A familiar officer wearing a leather flight jacket strolled at the king’s side, the light from the gas lamps glinting off the polished gold rank pins on his collar and cap. General Zirkander.

  Startled by the king’s appearance—what was he doing out here?—Rysha sheathed Dorfindral and hurried to wipe as much mud off her uniform as possible. Which yielded less than optimal results.

  The start of summer was only a month away, but it had rained every day this week. As she’d observed while attending school here, the capital shared the predominantly cloud-covered and damp climate of her family’s valley to the south.

  Angulus stopped at the top of the stairs and eyed the field below. Someone had spread wood chips to create a path to the various training stations, but they were as soggy as the surrounding mud.

  Zirkander made a megaphone with his hands and called to them. “Kaika and Ravenwood, report!”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaika called back and ran toward the stairs, her boots squishing in the mud.

  Startled to have been included, Rysha paused a few seconds before taking off.

  “Why are they getting singled out and not us?” Grady asked.

  “Jealous you won’t be able to sing your ballad for Zirkander?” Therrik asked.

  “Oh, he’s already heard it,” Grady said as Rysha sprinted after Kaika. “My brothers and I shared it with him at a tavern one night. He was impressed. Bought us beers.”

  “Probably to shut you up.”

  Rysha didn’t hear the rest. She hurried, trying to catch up with Kaika.

  At six feet, they were both tall women, but Kaika seemed to have longer legs, legs that propelled her along like an antelope bounding across a meadow. Rysha, her sword scabbard banging against her leg and mud flying up to spatter her spectacles, didn’t feel nearly as agile, not at that moment. She had won all manner of sports contests as a girl, but that had rarely involved slogging through mud while wearing combat boots.

  They ran up, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, and saluted both men. Fortunately, genuflections to the king weren’t required from soldiers in uniform.

  Zirkander propped an elbow on the railing as he casually returned the salutes with his free hand. Angulus inclined his head in a nod.

  “That sprint must have been for you, Sire,” Zirkander said. “Women don’t usually run that fast when I call them over.”

  “That’s not what the stories say.” Angulus slanted him a look Rysha couldn’t quite read.

  Zirkander shrugged easily. “You can’t believe everything in those stories.”

  Rysha wondered if the king had heard Grady’s ballad. Or perhaps there were other ballads. The pilots did get a lot of coverage in the newspapers, and even the king was on record as calling the members of Wolf Squadron national heroes. As far as Rysha knew, few of the elite troops received that distinction, even though they trained assiduously—if not obsessively—and went on missions every bit as dangerous as those the pilots went on. She’d been aware of Captain Kaika’s career for years, but only because she’d been fascinated by her—the only woman who’d passed the rigorous physical tests and qualified for the elite troops—and wanted to emulate her.

  “You’re wearing mud,” Angulus told Kaika quietly, meeting her eyes.

  “Yes, it’s terribly fashionable this year. And it’s good for the skin. Helps me keep a healthy glow.”

  “Is that your secret?”

  “One of them. I can’t share them all.” Kaika winked.

  They shared a smile, reminding Rysha that they reputedly had a relationship rather different from the kind most soldiers had with the king.

  Angulus’s face grew more serious as he turned to address Rysha. “Lieutenant Ravenwood, what’s your progress on the chapaharii research?”

  “It’s only been a week since we returned from the Antarctic,” Kaika said before Rysha could open her mouth. “And she went to her grandmother’s funeral for a couple of those days. The rest, she’s been training from before dawn until dusk, including extra training with the swords.”

  “I’ve found references to seven weapons, Sire,” Rysha said. “Three spears, two swords, a shield, and a bow—I’d be quite fascinated to see how a bow works. Does it require special chapaharii arrows or is the bow itself sufficient when using regular arrows? That one is a question mark, so it may not be worth investigating. However, it is believed to be in some ruins in Dakrovia, rather than on Cofah soil, so it might be easier to get to. One spear is also in Dakrovia, in a wealthy plantation owner’s personal collection. It would likely have to be bartered for, and possibly only granted on a loan. There aren’t many known weapons out there that aren’t in personal collections or museums. I believe Prince Varlok ordered all the Cofah museum pieces extracted and put into the hands of his troops. The empire is even more inundated by dragons than we are right now. Oh, I also found evidence that a little over three thousand years ago, there was a high concentration of the swords on Rakgorath. It’s unknown whether any remain, as the criminals running the place might have found them and sold them, but it might be worth sending an expedition.”

  Rysha trailed off because Kaika was staring at her with her mouth dangling open.

  “When did you have time to do research?” Kaika asked.

  “I stayed up late a few nights. I also had some time while I was waiting for my turn on the rifle range yesterday.”

  “I thought you were reading a comic book.”

  “I just told Corporal Oakridge that so he wouldn’t make fun of my academic tendencies,” Rysha said.

  “If that corporal makes fun of you again, you punch him in the nose.”

  “We were told we’re not allowed to hit the other rookies outside of combat practice.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you have permission from a superior officer.”

  Rysha looked up at Zirkander and Angulus, doubting they should be discussing rule-breaking openly in front of authority figures. Not that Zirkander, still leaning against the railing, one boot crossed over the other, was a particularly daunting authority figure. Angulus, on the other hand, always appeared stern and forbidding in photographs, and that sternness also came through when he addressed his subjects for speeches.

  But now, he only shook his head and told Rysha, “You’re lucky she didn’t recommend blowing up this corporal. She has a fondness for explosives.”

  “Yes, Sire. I look forward to learning about demolitions from her once I pass my training and officially become one of the elite troops.” Even though the odds were against her succeeding at that, Rysha refused to say if.

  “Good.” Angulus turned toward Zirkander and opened his mouth, but paused before speaking and frowned at his officer’s relaxed stance.

  Zirkander pushed off the railing and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back in a parade-rest stance. Even so, he couldn’t quite manage the blank-faced, serious-soldier expression most privates mastered after being yelled at a few times. His lips looked like they might crook into a smirk at any second.

  “Has anybody ever told you that you look insolent even when you’re not doing anything, Zirkander?” Angulus asked.

  “On a daily basis, Sire.�
� His lips lost the battle and formed a full smirk.

  Angulus grunted. “Get the non-Cofah locations from Ravenwood. The empire hasn’t been at our throats since their emperor mysteriously disappeared, so let’s not start anything by stealing from them.”

  “Mysteriously.” This time, Kaika smirked.

  “Pick some pilots and form a couple of teams,” Angulus continued to Zirkander. “They’ll take the two-man craft and each fly one of our elite troops. Therrik will choose likely candidates from his people.”

  Zirkander’s smirk disappeared. “He’s not going, is he? He gets airsick, you know.”

  “Many people do when their pilot flies them upside down through Crazy Canyon.” Angulus lifted a hand to forestall whatever retort Zirkander planned to make. “He can pick himself if he wants. I don’t care who goes, so long as they’re reliable people who can take care of themselves in a fight. And find Sardelle or someone to help you ensure none of them have dragon blood.” Angulus issued an exasperated grunt. “I had Colonel Quataldo picked out to wield one of the dragon-slaying swords.” He waved at the blades sheathed at Kaika’s and Rysha’s waists. “Imagine my surprise when the sword zapped him.”

  “Uh, yes, Sire. I could have told you about that. Apparently, his amazing egg-carving skill isn’t purely a result of natural artistic ability.”

  Rysha wrinkled her brow. Egg carving? She’d seen the elite troops colonel around the fort a couple of times but had never spoken to him and had no idea what they were talking about. Nobody else appeared surprised by the comment, so she kept her mouth shut.

  “Make sure you’ve got people along who can actually wield the weapons if you’re able to recover them,” Angulus said.

  “Are we going?” Kaika cocked her head toward Rysha. “Our lieutenant has already had her training interrupted once. While she’s quite qualified to do research, she hasn’t passed the tests yet, so she’s not ready for missions.”