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  Dragon Storm

  Heritage of Power, Book 1

  Lindsay Buroker

  Copyright © 2017 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.

  Foreword

  A couple of years ago, when I wrote Soulblade, the seventh book in my Dragon Blood series, I wasn’t sure if it was the end, but I’d left everybody in a fairly good place. The Cofah emperor was squirreled away in exile somewhere. There weren’t any angry dragons on the horizon. Cas and Tolemek were moving in to an apartment together. Kaika was helping the king to broaden his horizons. Ridge had his memory back, and he and Sardelle were back together. They even had a fabulous new couch. At least according to the plucky group of officers that arranged for its creation.

  What more was there to write? Then one of my beta readers suggested that Colonel Therrik, an antagonistic ass of a character who was meant to be a red shirt and get killed off in Book 3, should find romance and learn to chill a little. Thus, Shattered Past was written.

  After that, I wandered off to write some science fiction, but after about a year of that, I found myself missing the Dragon Blood world. Podium Publishing had finished producing the audiobooks for those seven core novels, and, on a whim, I decided to listen to one. And then the next. And then the rest of them. Before I got to the end, I realized how much I’d enjoyed spending time with the characters, and I started thinking about jumping back to fantasy and the Dragon Blood world.

  I immediately thought of writing a wedding book, an eighth installment with the core characters. That’s actually in the works right now. But I also thought that I should try something with new heroes, too, since nobody who was unfamiliar with the series would consider jumping in at Book 8. I wanted to be able to create another Book 1 (especially since Balanced on the Blade’s Edge was never intended to lead into a series and doesn’t feel much like a Book 1 of 8, 9, 10, or whatever I end up getting to), another spot where new readers could conceivably jump into this world.

  Whether you’re a new reader or you’ve read all the Dragon Blood books, I hope you’ll enjoy coming into this world for these new adventures. Before you head into the story, please let me thank my beta readers, Cindy Wilkinson, Rue Silver, and Sarah Engelke for giving early feedback, and my editor, Shelley Holloway, for taking her red pen to the manuscript to improve it. I hope you have fun with Heritage of Power!

  1

  Trip reveled in the cool wind rushing past his face. He was tempted to tear off his cap and goggles, and let the salty air wash over all of his senses. Probably not wise, since the one time he’d flown without them, he’d streamed tears enough to thoroughly wash his scarf, and a small bug had spent two days lodged in the corner of his eye.

  He settled for tilting the flight stick and sending his dragon flier into a spin and grinning like a boy. Even after two years as a pilot, the sensation of corkscrewing through the air, clouds and sea alternating positions above his head, never got old.

  “Is there a problem with your flier, Lieutenant?” the dour, humorless, and dyspeptic Colonel Anchor asked.

  In truth, Trip couldn’t be sure about that last adjective, but it seemed as likely an explanation for the first two as any.

  “No, sir.” He straightened his craft to fly sedately next to the other seven fliers in the squadron. “I had an urge.”

  “Repress the next one.” Amazing how Anchor’s dourness came through so clearly over the small communication crystal embedded in the console.

  Someone snickered. Leftie, most likely.

  “This is a serious mission,” the colonel added. “It’s bad enough the pirate king was so brazen as to send his mindless thugs to attack our base at night and steal three of our new fliers…” Anchor issued a series of noises that either signified his extreme disgruntlement or lent evidence to support Trip’s theory of dyspepsia. Perhaps both. “It’s completely unacceptable.”

  “Yes, sir,” Trip said.

  “Fliers spotted ahead, sir,” Hawkeye blurted. “I think they’re ours!”

  “Max speed,” the colonel said. “We’ll teach those thieving pirates.”

  “Are we shooting at our own craft?” someone asked.

  “We’ll surround them and force them to land,” Anchor said. “If it becomes absolutely necessary to shoot, aim for the pilots instead of the fliers.” He growled and added, “If Neaminor is one of the pilots, make it necessary to shoot.”

  Trip did not know if he would recognize Neaminor, the infamous pirate king, if he saw him, but he trusted the colonel would point him out. They’d been enemies for ten years or more.

  “Won’t shooting the pilots cause the fliers to crash, sir?” Leftie asked.

  A valid point. And if the fliers went down out here, over the water, the squadron would be lucky if they were able to retrieve the power crystals before the craft sank.

  “As I said, we’ll attempt to force them to land,” Anchor said.

  Trip had his doubts, but as a lieutenant, he didn’t have the right to question the colonel. Especially as a lieutenant who’d just been reprimanded for urges.

  He looked to his right, to where Leftie flew, the morning sun gleaming off the bronze hull of his craft and his goggles. It was hard to read expressions when they were bundled up against the cold and wind, but he tried to catch Leftie’s eye, to imply he should question the colonel further. He was a lieutenant, too, but his charisma seemed to work almost as well on superior officers as it did on women.

  Leftie merely made the thumb-to-fingers circle indicating readiness or that all was well. “Glad we caught up to them so quickly. We’ll take ’em out and be home by lunch. I’ve got a hookball game tonight and a victory date with a pretty lady.”

  Though Trip had greater concerns, he asked, “How do you know it’ll be a victory date when the game hasn’t even started yet?”

  “Because I’m playing.”

  “Was this pretty lady attracted by your extreme modesty?”

  “By my sparkling blue eyes and infectious laugh, I believe,” Leftie said, and Trip couldn’t help but briefly lament that his black hair and bronze skin made him look more like a Cofah than an Iskandian. Perhaps because the Cofah Empire had been trying to conquer Iskandia for centuries, the resemblance didn’t help him attract women. He’d been told his dark green eyes were striking—by his grandmother, if no one else—but they weren’t common in Iskandia, and didn’t help him fit in. “Also by my glamorous job,” Leftie added, wobbling the double wings on his flier.

  “Glamorous?” someone chimed in. “Yesterday, I had to clean that diplomat’s vomit out of the back of my flier.”

  “That’ll teach you to say you’re good at piloting a two-seater. And to make sure luck is on your side before missions.” Over in his flier, Leftie brought his miniature gold hookball to his lips. He insisted on calling it a lucky charm rather than acknowledging it was a keychain.

  “Not everybody gets excited about kissing balls.”

  “Enough chatter,” Colonel Anchor said, his voice icy as it cut through the banter. “We’re almost within firing range.”

  Reluctantly, Trip kept his concerns about crashed fliers to himself. Maybe the colonel was right, and they could force the pirates to turn toward the coast to land. With luck, those pirates wouldn’t have much experience, at least not the intense training everyone in Cougar Squadron had endured.

  They were close enough now to see the pirates glancing nervously behind them. Trip was surprised by how quickly his squadron had caught up. But as he had the thought,
the pirates sped up.

  As the fliers tore up the coastline, the squadron not quite able to close to firing range, Trip started to suspect a setup. Those three craft had been stolen in the middle of the night. Nobody had expected to catch up with them so quickly, or even to find them. And yet, here they were, barely fifty miles north of Charkolt.

  Trip looked at the coastline, toward the houses perched in the high grasses above the water. The pirate king’s lackeys had been bold of late, taking advantage of the frequent dragon attacks in western Iskandia, attacks that had prompted the air battalion commander, General Zirkander, to call fliers and pilots over from other posts to help. Right now, Cougar Squadron was the only one left stationed on the East Coast. And the pirates knew it.

  Smoke drifted upward from Oredale, a little town a mile inland and up a gorge. More smoke than usual? The terrain hid the buildings from view, but Trip had flown up and down this coast a hundred times and knew the town held a refinery, one with a big chimney that always spat smoke. His intuition, however, tingled. Even though his eyes detected nothing, his sixth sense told him something was wrong.

  “I’m going to check on Oredale real quick,” he said, hoping that if he stated it instead of asking for permission, permission he knew wouldn’t be granted, he would be in less trouble later.

  “You’re what?” Anchor blurted before Trip had done more than turn the nose of his flier.

  “I have a hunch those three are intended to be a distraction. If I’m wrong, it won’t take me long to check. I’ll be back to help with the action.” Trip sped inland, the wind battering at his wings.

  “You’ll be back?” Anchor roared. “You don’t have permission to go. This isn’t the time for you to live up to your name, Lieutenant Sidetrip. Get your ass back into formation now.”

  The anger in the colonel’s voice chilled Trip and almost made him falter. He’d been reprimanded before for taking off on hunches, but he was usually right, damn it. He’d saved people’s lives by disobeying orders, and the sixth sense niggling at the back of his mind assured him that it was worth a reprimand this time too.

  But what if it turned into more than a reprimand? What if he was court-martialed? Or kicked out of the flier battalion? He couldn’t imagine not having access to a flier, to the sky. This was all he’d wanted to do since he’d been a little boy. The sky had called to him like nothing else ever had. If he couldn’t fly, he had no idea what he would do with his life.

  Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Trip took a deep breath and said, “I’ll call if I need backup.”

  “Lieutenant Sidetrip,” Anchor growled. “If you—”

  Leftie interrupted before the colonel could deliver whatever threat was on his lips. “Sir, Trip’s hunches are always right. We’ve got enough men left to handle those thieves.”

  Trip appreciated his friend watching out for him, as he’d done since they’d been at the university together, but he winced at the vocal reminder to everyone that his “hunches” were always right. In a land where magic was feared, and displaying any extraordinary skill could cause one to be accused of it, it wasn’t wise to remind people of one’s eccentricities. Trip had only to remember being eight years old and watching his mother being hanged for “witchery” to understand that fully.

  He’d heard that things had changed somewhat over in the capital, and the rumors said that General Zirkander had married a witch, but Cougar Squadron was a long ways from the capital. Who knew if there was even anything to those rumors?

  Colonel Anchor cursed and growled under his breath. He didn’t sound like he agreed with Leftie’s words.

  Trip looked over his shoulder toward the squadron, the bronze dragon-inspired fliers already growing small as they continued up the coast, and he focused on the back of the colonel’s head. He silently willed the man to agree, or at least to drop the subject and concentrate on capturing those pirates.

  To his surprise, Anchor said, “Fine. You go with him, Leftie. Keep an eye on him and drag him back as soon as you verify that there’s nothing over there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Leftie said, sounding as surprised as Trip.

  “Don’t take forever or go far,” Anchor added. “We’ve only got a fifty-mile range on the comm crystals, and I don’t want you twits too far away to report in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Trip and Leftie said together.

  It always boggled Trip’s mind that nobody seemed to realize that the communication crystals and also the energy crystals that powered the fliers had been made with magic. Somebody, of course, realized it, but he had no idea where the flier factory was or who had been in charge of inventing them in the first place. He did know that fliers were rare in the rest of the world—until recently, the Cofah Empire had only had dirigibles for air travel—which meant the witches that made the crystals were likely here in Iskandia. Not being hanged.

  If only the rest of the country would realize that magic could be useful and not all magic-users were evil.

  Trip headed up the gorge and tried to push the problem to the back of his mind. As always, it resisted. He lived with the fear of being discovered as someone… not quite normal. His grandparents, who’d raised him after his mother had been executed—murdered—had moved often when he’d been a boy, whenever people noticed that weird things sometimes happened when he was around. As he’d grown older, he’d mostly learned to control whatever peculiarities in his blood caused that, and he hadn’t drawn too much attention to himself at Charkolt University or the flier academy. But there had been a couple of times recently…

  “If this side trip makes me late for my game,” Leftie said, arrowing down the gorge to fly right behind him, “I’m not going to introduce you to the pretty lady’s twin sister.”

  “Was there a point at which you were ever intending to do that?” Trip asked, glad for the distraction.

  He eyed the smoke up ahead. Was it thicker than it had been earlier?

  “Of course. The seven gods know you can’t get a woman on your own. Though I’m not sure why. You’re not that homely.”

  “Thanks for the ego-stroking.”

  Trip didn’t explain that his fear of getting close to anyone tied in with his other fears. During his first time having sex with a woman, he’d somehow caused a vase on the bedside table to shatter. After they’d both recovered from the shock, she’d laughed and said he must have been enjoying himself if he’d knocked it off with an arm. But he’d known he hadn’t touched it. Maybe she had too. She had avoided him after that.

  As his flier rounded a bend in the gorge, he sucked in a startled breath, his fingers tightening around the flight stick. Even though he’d expected trouble, he hadn’t expected what lay ahead.

  A black dirigible flew low over Oredale, dropping explosives onto buildings. It was an older Cofah model that had been painted black with a white sword-and-skull emblem on the hull marking it as property of the pirate king.

  Similar to a wooden sailing ship in the air, the dirigible had an open deck and a long oval, gas-filled envelope above. Helium, most likely. The Cofah had stopped using hydrogen after losing numerous vessels to Iskandian fliers armed with incendiary bullets and explosives, and he doubted the pirates would have changed that. Bringing the vessel down wouldn’t be easy.

  But that needed to be done. Several structures had been destroyed, streets turned into giant potholes, and dozens of roofs burned. Though he didn’t try to, Trip sensed the emotions of the hundreds of residents, their fear and anger and helplessness, and he couldn’t help but think that Oredale was similar to the small coastal town that his grandparents lived in.

  A boom echoed up and down the gorge. Trip couldn’t believe the squadron hadn’t heard the explosives out over the coast, but the wind, the pounding of their propellers, and the roar of the ocean drowned out much.

  “Shit,” Leftie said. “Colonel, we’ve got a serious attack happening here in Oredale. Need backup. I repeat, need backup.”

  Trip clenched his tee
th and arrowed toward the dirigible, a finger resting on the trigger for the twin machine guns mounted to the front of his flier. He didn’t see any other enemy aircraft in the sky, but dozens of men stood on the deck of the craft, all with rifles in hand and cutlasses at their waists. Some of those would be sniper rifles, capable of hitting him at a long distance. He kept that in mind, but didn’t let it deter him. That dirigible was going down.

  “Let’s go in from above,” Leftie said. “Keep that big, fluffy balloon between them and us while shooting some holes in it.”

  “Do it,” Trip told him, as he dove down toward the river.

  Leftie’s suggestion was safest for them, but Trip knew from experience that they could put a hundred bullet holes in the huge envelope of a dirigible without causing it to crash. They either had to find a way to blow up the boiler within its engine room or shoot enough important people on the deck and in the wheelhouse that the pirates would flee.

  “I was imagining it as a group thing,” Leftie said dryly as he went high and Trip went low. “Us flying around like mosquitoes, distracting them and keeping them from lobbing more explosives, until the cavalry arrives.”

  Trip didn’t answer. He focused on the men on the deck, the men aiming rifles at him. He tried to pick out a couple of officers before they started firing, something that was challenging since pirates didn’t wear uniforms.

  Once they opened fire, evasive maneuvers took most of his concentration. He swooped left and right and up and down, occasionally corkscrewing to make himself a difficult target. All the while, he advanced on the ship, on the deck. He knew he would have enough clearance to fly between it and the balloon, if he could weave around the support struts attaching the two. He would barely have enough clearance, but he could do it.

  He was upside down as he made his final approach, rifles cracking from ahead of him, but that didn’t matter. He sprayed machine gun fire, his aim barely affected by his flier’s gyrations. He wasn’t great at a lot of things, but this… this was what he’d been born to do, and exhilaration thrummed through his veins as he flew.