Chapter 9
THE RAIDER, STILL very much alive, settled the helmet over his head, adjusting it so the metal sweep on the right side covered most of his cheek and jaw. That left only the thick, gnarled scars visible on the left side, the distorted and ropy flesh a gruesome sight under the best of conditions, but emphasized by the shape of the helmet. He ran his fingers over the uneven surface, pressing, pushing, thinking of the many who had not survived to carry any scars at all.
He had been luckier than they.
Luckier than he deserved.
The helmet—intentionally kept bright silver instead of painted black as the rest of the armor—was in place, the curve of metal that went to his chin, hiding all but his eye on that side. He knew there was frequent speculation about what the helmet masked, and questioning about how anything could be so much worse than what was still visible that it had to be hidden. He knew there was even some tale that a part of his head was missing, and that was why he needed the helmet to protect the rest.
“It would explain some of the crazy things he does,” he’d heard one man say.
“But since he gets away with them, are they in fact so crazy?”
That had been Brander, in that amused sort of way of his. He could always count on the man to put a twist on things nobody else thought of.
In truth, he could count on the man for anything. He trusted his second in command as he did no other. Brander might appear to most as a light-hearted joker who never took anything, even death, seriously, but they had likely never seen the man face down that death without turning a hair. He had seen it. Several times. In his way, Brander was cooler—and no doubt braver—than he himself. Their already unbreakable bond was leavened with war now, with killing done and blood spilled, both the enemy’s and their own.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the man in question appeared in the doorway. “Ready?”
He turned, saw that Brander was geared up, his well-used blaster at his side, his blade in its sling, ready to his right hand. He himself no longer dwelt on the bitter foolishness of going up against the Coalition with their meager weapons; it was what they had, and so what they used. Besides, they had things the Coalition neither had nor understood: a thorough knowledge of their world, that inborn ability to see through the mist that bedeviled outsiders, and a love for it that the Coalition had for nothing except further conquest.
He checked his own weapons. He would be carrying only his own, slightly newer blaster, liberated from a fallen trail guard some months ago, and his curved Ziem blade, an arm’s length long and honed to an edge that would split one of Brander’s much vaunted—by females, anyway—hairs. He grimaced inwardly. Stolen, battered weapons, ammunition so scarce they had to count every round or discharge, and centuries-old blades against new Coalition blasters, rail guns, air rovers, and if worse came to worse, the fusion cannon.
Sometime next week, that cannon would be moved up to the mines. One day the week after, it would return to overlook Zelos, and the random cycle would repeat time after time, ever reminding them that they were at the Coalition’s mercy. The sight of the huge, heavy weapon looming over the city was a constant weight. Looking at it was the only time he envied the outsiders their limited vision through the mist; they, at least, could not see the bedamned thing half the time.
Barcon Ordam had reportedly once asked the post commander why they didn’t just bring in two cannons, since it wasn’t like the massively armed Coalition didn’t have them. He had answered it wasn’t necessary; there would be no rebellion on Ziem.
They thought them broken. They were not, but this fight was far beyond hopeless and well into insanity. And yet they fought on. And he knew when he left his quarters he would find the others ready. From the moment he had stepped into the gathering room and said simply, “We go tonight,” they would have been preparing, no questions asked, even though it had been days since they’d seen him while he healed.
The weight of that trust, of that unquestioning faith, had never been heavier.
He drew in a breath. Nodded at Brander. The time for pondering was done. It was time to fight again.
“THE RAIDER IS the true son of Torstan Davorin, in spirit.”
“Were he still alive, Torstan would be standing with him.”
“And be ashamed of his blood son.”
Kye turned at that, only then betraying her presence to the two men and the woman who had been huddled about the fire, waiting for the word it was time to move out. Mara Clawson, who had spoken the last words, paled slightly, but to her credit, she held Kye’s gaze without flinching.
“You cannot deny Drake Davorin is not what his father would have wished him to be,” she said.
“I deny nothing,” Kye said, hiding how much the words stung, more so because of the truth of them. “I remind you only that he is a friend of long years to me.”
“He serves and bends to the Coalition, yet you defend him?” one of the men asked.
“I defend my friends,” Kye said, eying him levelly. “Him just as I would you, should the need arise.”
“There was talk,” Mara said, still watching Kye, “that you once were more than friends.”
“We were children. It would have come to nothing anyway.”
“She’s got her sights set elsewhere now,” one of the men, Slake, she thought, said with a leer that was more teasing than cruel.
“Better you than I,” Mara said with a barely suppressed shiver. “I admire, respect, and follow the Raider, but . . .”
Kye knew she meant the scars, understood that few could look past them. She herself was not repelled by them, only distressed at what he had gone through. She could not remember the exact moment they had become inconsequential to her. She just knew that one day they did not matter anymore, that she dwelt more on the roughness in his voice, indicating his vocal chords had likely been injured in the blast that had scarred his face. She liked the sound, as she liked the way he moved with a grace and power that belied the damage done to his body.
And his courage, intelligence, and audaciousness outweighed all else, to her mind.
“All I have to say is, it’s about time we struck again,” Slake muttered.
“He has his reasons,” Kye retorted. “Foremost being he doesn’t want to cause so much trouble that the Coalition feels compelled to call in aid from Legion Command to crush us.”
“It is wise,” Mara agreed. “They could wipe out Zelos with the cannon, or all the people of Ziem with a single pass from a cruiser, if they were provoked enough.”
“But what good does this do?” Slake demanded. “Small raids, tiny victories. It does nothing to drive them out.”
As if we have any hope of that.
“If you would prefer to lie down for them, you can always go to work for Drake in his taproom,” Mara snapped at the whiner.
Again Kye winced inwardly, but she would not defend him this time. She had made her point, and she agreed with the sentiment too much to fight it again. And then the Raider was there, standing in the doorway to his quarters.
“I have gotten word that the trail guards changed this morning,” he said, his half-ruined voice scratchy but clearly audible. A low buzz instantly went up among them. “They will not have had time to learn this ground, and will be at further disadvantage in the dark and mist.”
Smiles were starting to break out around the room. Kye joined them; to those who did know the mountain, there were many ways down to the valley below. And the Raider knew this mountain as few did. Her pulse picked up as she waited, knowing a mission was coming.
Brander, arms crossed, long body at an angle with his shoulder propped against the wall, lifted a brow. “And where, my leader, are we going?”
Only Brander spoke to him this way in front of the others. Only Brander would dare.
The Raider paused long enough that the room went utterly silent. The silver helmet shone in the flickering light. And then, with a slow smile that seemed reckless, a smile marred only slightly by the twisting of his scarred flesh, he answered. “I think it’s time we liberate some transport. Anyone here know how to fly an air rover?”
The roar that went up echoed off the walls and rough ceiling of the great room. Hoots and yells of excitement punctuated the solid wall of sound. She herself was grinning widely. It never failed to amaze her how perfect the Raider’s sense of timing was; every time his fighters got restless, every time the hopelessness of their task began to overwhelm them, he came up with something that put the fire of the fight back into them.
As he put the fire of many things into her.