Dragon Horse War Read online

  He blamed her. She had filled their son with ridiculous stories of future lives that stripped him of the natural instinct of self-survival. He stared at her and wondered how he could have ever married such a woman. Her beauty had captured him when he was a young man, but her natural leadership and seemingly constant heroic deeds as an emergency responder had overshadowed, emasculated him over the years. After Thomas, he’d only been able to produce daughters with her. To add insult, their only son was enthralled by her fantastic tales of heroic deeds and joined her as an emergency responder rather than follow him into the teaching profession. It had been a wedge in their already crumbling marriage. He rose to his feet.

  “There is no next life,” he shouted. “You are all fools.”

  The sluggish movements of the other grief-stricken stopped, and the steamy stadium became still. Even the rain had ceased and he drew purpose from it, raising his voice so all could hear. “Read the ancient texts and pay heed. This is no coincidence. This is punishment dealt by the one true omnipotent being who has power over all things. This plague of nature that has stolen our children, our mates, our brothers and sisters is the price for departing from the true nature of things. Heed my words. There is no Collective. There are no future lives. You have wrought this upon yourselves with your disbelief, your disobedience.”

  He whirled around at the prick and hiss of an injector pressed against his neck. His limbs were instantly leaden, and he felt hands lower him carefully to the ground.

  “He’s distraught, overcome with grief,” Laine said, her voice sounding far away.

  “You should take him to the clinic.”

  That bastard Furcho always seemed to be around for his worst failings—when he was passed over for promotion and now as he lay helplessly drugged.

  “I can’t leave. I’m needed here,” Laine said.

  “Then I’ll take him before I seek out the town chancellor to offer any university facilities that can be utilized for the displaced and injured.”

  His vision began to dim, and he used the last of his strength to turn his head and focus one final time upon the muddy profile of his dead son. His lips worked around the words, but the drug paralyzed his voice. He would be the modern prophet to this misguided world. He’d lead them back to purity. His son would not have died in vain.

  Chapter One

  Jael crept silently along the edge of the woods. She had heard her thoughts the moment the intruder left her transport and climbed over the gate blocking the four-klick corridor to her quarters. It was unusual for her to hear thoughts from that distance without focusing, but this woman had an amazing projection for someone who wasn’t trying. And she knew it wasn’t deliberate because the visitor was babbling uncertainty—thoughts you would not choose to broadcast.

  So she saved her work, shut down her digital tablet, and slipped out the door. The scout trail that paralleled the drive corridor was lined with brambles for concealment and padded with sand so that her bare feet made no sound even at a dead run. The precaution really wasn’t necessary, but the habits of more than twenty lifetimes were hard to break. The trespasser had gone less than a quarter of the distance to the house by the time Jael had circled around to tail her.

  Anyone who could broadcast that strongly might also be able to probe, so she was careful to raise her mental shields. The effort was almost laughable. The woman appeared to be little more than a lost teen. She was ill dressed for hiking in a white gauzy tunic and linen pants that reached to mid-calf. She carried no bag—meaning no water or food or animal deterrent—and her sandals slapped against the hard-packed dirt of the corridor loud enough to rouse the entire forest. She stopped several times, hands on her hips, to peer forward, then back toward the gate as though she was contemplating whether to continue or return to her transport. Each time she heaved a huge sigh and resumed her trek.

  With only a klick to go, the woman stopped and sat on the thick root of an ancient oak at the edge of the road and slumped against its gnarled trunk. She began to mumble, and Jael crept closer as her grumbling gained volume.

  “Stars above! I know one lifetime doesn’t give me much rank, but you’d think that if I’m important enough for them to send on a mission, they could have at least messaged ahead to let this person know I was coming.” She grimaced and slapped at a mosquito that was feasting on her neck and pulled the collar of her tunic up to wipe the sweat from her face. “I’m going to look a mess by the time I reach his house, if I ever do.” She stood and looked up and down the path again. “There’s no telling how far this road goes. They said he owns the entire mountain. I could still be walking this time tomorrow.”

  Jael felt, for the first time, tendrils of a mental probe. She relaxed. Ah, an empath. They were much easier to block than a telepath. She was tempted, as an amusing distraction, to leak a fierce image past her shields. She was still contemplating this when she saw her quarry stiffen.

  “Who’s there?” The woman jumped to her feet.

  Curious. Could she feel Jael’s shields? Had she said one lifetime? It was rare enough to meet an empath who could project, but this fledgling had the skills of a much older, more experienced soul. Still, she didn’t worry about detection. Her perfect stillness and the earthy colors of her clothing concealed her sufficiently from the naked eye. Besides, this lifetime of peace afforded little opportunity for a warrior to practice her skills, and she was enjoying the stalk. She wasn’t ready to reveal herself.

  The woman turned slowly in a circle and scanned the forest. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and lifted her chin. “I know you’re there. I mean you no harm.”

  A warm, welcoming thrall washed over Jael. This empath was good. Very good. Skilled enough to entice almost any soul from hiding. But Jael wasn’t just anybody.

  After a few heartbeats of silence and no response, the woman cocked her head. “I guess you’re shy then. No matter. Follow along if you must.”

  Jael smiled to herself. Whether the woman’s bravado was bravery or stupidity, she liked her spunk and full, melodic voice. A singer, perhaps? She frowned. Dung. She hoped it wasn’t that person who had been d-messaging her about putting music to her book of poetry that had released last year. She should have stuck with her usual intrigue novels.

  She waited until the woman moved farther up the corridor before she slipped among the trees to shadow her.

  *

  Alyssa felt a bit stupid talking to the trees, but she was certain—well, almost certain—that she felt someone, something close by. Maybe it was an animal rather than a person. Were there bears or wolves in these mountains? Maybe a cougar? She’d never tried her skills on a predator, but she had calmed a nervous or injured animal on more than one occasion in her role as a healer. She didn’t like using her empathic gift to manipulate, but it was a tool of peace she was coming to accept.

  She swatted at another mosquito dining on her neck. Fireballs and ice cream! She wished she could project something that would keep the nasty bloodsuckers off her.

  So, anyway, if it was a beast, what was the worst that could happen? Death? Was it wrong that the idea filled her with anticipation? Wouldn’t it be amazing to have past lives, millenniums of wisdom to call upon? She snorted. First she’d have to experience some wisdom to make this life worth recalling. Then she sighed. Perhaps she’d find a soul mate to bond with so completely that they’d immediately recognize each other in their next new life, and every life after. She threw her hands up in an impatient gesture.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not going to find a soul mate when you don’t even date.” The sound of her own voice was a bit of comfort in the absolute quiet of the forest, so she continued her muttering. “But who has time for dating. It’s Alyssa do this, Alyssa do that. Alyssa, can you fetch a poultice? Alyssa, can you calm these children? Alyssa, can you sweep the temple? You’d think I was still an acolyte.”

  She swatted at still another mosquito, then frowned at the blood on her hand. “Nasty.” She
stopped and stared longingly back the way she’d come, but she couldn’t see much. The trail switched back and forth to lessen the incline of the mountain’s elevation. She shook her head and continued forward. “Finally, I’m assigned my first real mission as a full Advocate, and it turns out to be as messenger girl to some recluse of a writer. J. El. Why doesn’t anybody know what the J stands for, anyway? He’s probably some bald, grumpy old man who can’t stop living in his past lives. I mean, what kind of person spends their time writing historic fiction about war and espionage? It just doesn’t seem healthy to glorify such a horrific time in history. And why do I have to deliver this message in person? Surely this J. El has access to d-messaging. I mean, who isn’t tied into digital these days?”

  Souls above, how much farther? These new sandals were proving to be a poor choice. But, then, she hadn’t anticipated that she’d have to hike a million klicks just to find this J. El person. She stopped and pulled at the leather strap circling her left heel to reveal raw skin where a blister was draining. The burning of her right heel was a sure sign she’d find the same on that foot, too. She straightened and peered ahead. There! A beacon piercing the gloom. Relief washed through her and she slipped off the sandals. The dirt was cool against her feet and she broke into a jog. She was so intent on reaching her destination, any destination, that she was jarred when the forest released her into blinding sunlight and a riot of color.

  The mountaintop was gently sloped and nearly covered in wildflowers of every variety. Alyssa was relieved to also see a large log cabin at the meadow’s edge opposite her. She glanced at the sun. Her walk from the entry gate had taken longer than she realized. It was well past midday and she hoped that, after she relayed her message, this J. El person would take her back to her transport. She wasn’t keen on spending the night as the guest of a stranger—a male stranger—no matter who he was.

  In spite of her need for expediency, she couldn’t resist stopping several times to sniff or touch a particularly pretty or unusual bloom. How could someone who lived among such beauty write the horrific novels of battle and physical violence penned by J. El?

  She climbed the stone steps to the high, wide porch and knocked on the elaborately carved door. She waited the appropriate length of time for someone to respond, then raised her hand to knock harder. She hesitated, studying the carvings on the door. They were winged horses. She looked closer. No. They were some sort of dragons. She was a fan of classic fantasy novels and had spent much of her preteen years determined to write such a novel herself. Then the full strength of her empathic abilities began to manifest at the onset of puberty, and she was called to serve The Collective. But she hadn’t forgotten the dragons. Or maybe she had. These figures weren’t exactly what she had pictured. She almost laughed at herself. Dragons weren’t real. Obviously, the artisan who carved this door had just imagined them differently. She traced the figures with her fingertips, and the wood felt as though it warmed under her touch. An unusual sensation filled her, like a whisper too faint to distinguish. She jerked her hand back and shook herself. Her brain must be fuzzy with fatigue.

  She knocked again and waited. Still no response. She tried to peer through one of the huge plate-glass windows that flanked the door, but she could only see her image reflected back at her. She knocked again, this time pounding with the heel of her hand. “Hello? Mr. El?” Her shout was met with silence and she let out a long breath. What should she do if this guy wasn’t home? She took a deep breath and bellowed. “Hello? J. El?” She turned at the sound of a piercing cry. A hawk, apparently disturbed by her noise, leapt from his perch at the edge of the woods, and she watched him soar away.

  *

  Jael paused at the edge of the woods, watching the trespasser ignore the vehicle path that skirted the meadow to wade through the knee-high wildflowers in a direct path to her quarters. Her stealth wasn’t necessary. She probably could have been riding an elephant and the woman wouldn’t have noticed. If this was the singer-song writer who had been pestering her with persistent d-messages, she intended to scare a lifetime out of her so maybe the woman would finally leave her alone.

  It wasn’t obvious from this side of the meadow, but the terrain behind her quarters was a sheer drop of several hundred feet to a wide ledge. Then the mountain continued down at a much steeper slope than the side her visitor had traversed. Jael skirted along the edge of the woods and slipped over the precipice. Finding nearly invisible hand- and footholds, she free-climbed sideways along the rock face to the rear of her quarters. She hadn’t had this much fun in nearly a lifetime and was reluctant to end it by entering her rear door and going through the house to confront the trespasser banging on her front door. So she crouched low beside the tall stone foundation and crept silently around to the front stairs.

  “Hello? Mr. El?” Loud pounding. “Hello? J. El?”

  Dragon’s teeth. She’d never suspect one small woman could make that much racket. Was she trying to pound the door in? She was loud enough to wake a hibernating bear. It was certainly disturbing enough to make the hawk that was watching the meadow for a field-mouse meal decide to hunt elsewhere. She froze when the woman turned toward her as the predator screamed his irritation and rose into the air.

  *

  Alyssa turned back to the door, resigned to the fact that the bird might be the only inhabitant present. Should she wait on the chance that the property owner would return? What if he was away for days? She couldn’t stay on his porch forever. She hadn’t brought any provisions. Her feet throbbed and weariness seeped into her bones as she contemplated the hike back to her transport. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wood. “Can’t anybody hear me?” she muttered.

  “I suspect anyone two mountains over can hear you.”

  Alyssa screamed and whirled to face the low voice that sounded only inches behind her and was slammed by a wave of aggression so strong and foreign to anything she’d ever experienced that she instinctively threw herself backward to escape the intimidating figure towering into her personal space. Her head rapped sharply against the hard door. Her vision swam and her knees buckled as everything faded to…blue?

  Chapter Two

  The town lay in shambles. The houses, churches, stores—rooftops that had two days ago filled the landscape—were a heap of splintered wood, crumbled bricks, and twisted metal as far as the eye could see. Nothing rose from the devastated landscape except smoke from the fires that burned freely because even the firehouses had been flattened.

  The injured—those readily discovered—already had been transported to nearby towns that had escaped the band of tornadoes that had mowed a path of horrific destruction across the heartland of the Third Continent. Still, stunned survivors wandered through the rubble while others frantically dug through the debris, calling the names of missing loved ones or beloved family pets.

  The suffering wouldn’t stop here. Beyond the town’s borders, miles and miles of fields planted with corn and wheat were flooded, the crops torn from the ground. There’d be no harvest in one of the world’s greatest bread-belts. People worldwide would have less to eat.

  Cyrus climbed onto the low wall, one of the few left standing, in front of the elementary school. Authorities had corralled a large group of parents there while a crane carefully lifted away several heavy beams impeding their search for the children who were in class when the tornadoes hit. He raised his voice to carry over the whine of the crane’s motor.

  “Earthquakes on our western coast and in the First Continent have claimed thousands of lives. Typhoons across the tropics have drowned entire island populations. Drought has killed more than half of the Second Continent’s wildlife and made their human population dependent on the rest of us for food.” He swept his arm in the direction of the sodden fields that surrounded the wreckage of the town. “And now we won’t have enough food to share because our own children will soon go hungry, too.”

  Much of the crowd turned toward him, easily distr
acted from the slow process of determining which beam to lift first and how to best secure it to the crane.

  “Authorities tell us these are freak weather disasters, accidental to a convergence of galactic events and our legacy of environmental abuse.” He made eye contact with several. “I believed that, too, until the Appalachian mudslides claimed my son, and in my grief, I refused to accept his death as happenstance. I began to search for real answers.” He paced the length of the wall. “Do you know what I found? There are reasons for these disasters. We can do something to right our world again.”

  He had their full attention now. “All of the ancient religions knew what we refuse to recognize. There is only one true power, one creator, one omnipotent being. And he is angry.”

  The crowd shifted uneasily, and a few people turned away shaking their heads.

  “I am a professor of ancient culture. I know what I speak about.” He paced the length of the wall. “This isn’t the first time The One has evoked nature to purge the world of those who would deny his existence. The great flood and the plagues of Egypt were similarly recorded in the histories of nearly every one of the great religions.” He tapped his finger against his temple. “Think. What does this tell you? These were real events of history. Deny it if you want, but ancient texts record prosperity following each period of natural disaster—but only after the people acknowledged there is only one true power, the maker of the purebloods at the beginning of time.”

  “Nutcase,” one man said, turning back to watch as the crane slowly lifted a huge beam from the wreckage. Many of the others also dismissed Cyrus now that something was actually happening in the recovery effort.