Daughter of War Read online

  GODS AND HEROES: DAUGHTER OF WAR

  Copyright © Brendan Wright 2019

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Brendan is not currently represented by any publishers or literary agents. He can be contacted at: [email protected]

  Connect with Brendan:

  Instagram: @brendanwrightauthor

  Facebook: /brendanwrightauthor

  Website: brendanwrightauthor.com

  Cover art by Rebecacovers via Fiverr

  Map illustrated by Renflowergrapx via Fiverr

  This book is dedicated to my mum Christine and step-dad Gary. Your unending support has allowed me to pursue my dreams with confidence, and I can't express how grateful I am to both of you. Thank you so much.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge once again my brother Damien, who has helped me more than I can say. I also want to thank my mother Christine, and my sister-in-law Emily, for helping out so much with drafts and for just generally enjoying Pandeia. I would also like to thank the Copper Dragon in Greenway, ACT, for being a great place to write and eat, and the owner Isobel for being so supportive of my books. Keep an eye out in the following pages for a shoutout. I'll most likely write this in the acknowledgement section of every single book I ever write, but I also want to thank everyone who buys and reads a copy of this book. A writer is nothing without readers, and the fact that anyone at all wants to read my work is incredible to me. If you read this book, thank you so much for your time.

  Prologue

  Riffolk Hayne stood on the massive platform in Rookfell Square, looking out at the crowds with a small smile. The man next to him at the dais, Bartholomew Pelham, recited Hayne's already long list of achievements into the amplifier. The amplifier itself was, of course, one of those very achievements. At just seventeen years of age, Hayne was the greatest scientific mind Pandeia had ever seen. Today he was being granted the title of Overseer of Scientific Advancement, a hitherto non-existent role within the Ermoori elite.

  When the long list of inventions, formulas and theories attributed to him ceased echoing through the square, the masses roared and clapped. Pelham lifted a heavy, needlessly expensive medallion over Hayne's neck and the cheering grew even louder.

  Pelham stepped back behind the dais and leaned into the amplifier.

  "With this token of Ermoor, on this fifteenth day of the third month of the year 1762, I hereby name Riffolk Hayne as Overseer of Scientific Advancement; may his brilliant mind usher in a new era of prosperity and enlightenment. For the good of all!"

  The crowd launched to their feet as one, and responded in one glorious voice which Riffolk felt reverberate through the solid concrete platform:

  "FOR THE GOOD OF ALL!"

  Riffolk

  Ermoor was a gleaming, beautiful city. Riffolk didn't care for it. It was pure style without function, decoration for its own sake. The only elements of Ermoor that displayed any real function below the shiny, decorative surface were his own inventions. He shuddered to think what this hopeless mass of trinket-loving morons would do without him. He'd built the city into what it was now almost single-handedly. In the almost ten years since he'd been named Overseer, he'd only given Ermoor even more; there were no other scientists who could even remotely compare to him.

  His recent move into military technology was bearing fruit already; he held a contract with Ermoor's Navy as the exclusive inventor, developer and engineer for all future products. That, along with his private project, would cement his legacy and ensure the Hayne family remained the most important name in Ermoor's history. Riffolk had already given Ermoor more technological advancement that it knew what to do with, and he had a lot more planned.

  Riffolk's laboratory was a study in austere utilitarianism. Stark, white walls and floors and shining metal benches with scientific equipment set up to his exact specifications. Everything was in its place, and there was nothing in the building that didn't have a specific use to him. He had designed it with expansion and growth in mind, but in all the years of its existence he'd only upgraded the equipment a handful of times. The lab itself was usually teeming with assistants doing the busywork he didn't have time for.

  Underneath the lab, through a hidden code-locked door, lay another laboratory. No one was allowed in to the second lab, of course, not even his assistants; there were no witnesses to his work. His assistants had seen the blueprints, and had a vague idea of what he was doing, but no one had seen the project in person yet.

  His private project stood before him, suspended by wires, hooks and pulleys and contained within a thick wall of glass. It was massive. Bulging organic matter bled into angled mechanical parts; a true monster. Thinking about the scientific advancement he was so close to achieving sped his heart rate and brought waves of electric bumps over his skin. This will change everything, he thought.

  Mathys

  He stood in front of the body, staring at the dark, dried blood on the cobblestones. Murder wasn't common in Ermoor, although it was beginning to become more so lately; this was the fourth in the last two months. Mathys' job, as Commander of Security, was to find out if it was the same murderer, or just a random unconnected spate of violence.

  The murders were all based in Grimvale and Ravenmire, two of the three poor districts at the south end of the city. The first happened in Grimvale, the last three in Ravenmire. Normally, Mathys would have left the actual field work to his men and simply overseen the case from Dreadhold; but a friend of his lived in Ravenmire, and the victims were all connected to her.

  "Same type of wounds?"

  "Yes sir. Same weapon, as far as we can tell."

  "No witnesses?"

  "No sir, happened in the middle of the night."

  Mathys sighed, shaking his head. There was a time when this sort of thing would have never happened. Ermoor had been almost free of crime for fifteen years; or at least free of serious crimes.

  "If only the Spectre was still around, eh Sir?"

  Mathys smiled and nodded. The Spectre of Ermoor; a mysterious shadow who protected Ermoor from crime and evil. The Twelve Crowns and the military had allowed the Spectre to continue his work purely due to the fact that he couldn't be found or identified. The Spectre had managed to remain a total mystery even to the Twelve; a feat which remained unique to him in all of Ermoor's history.

  "If only," he agreed, "but it looks like we'll have to sort this one out on our own."

  They had a suspect; the owner of a nearby inn that had been losing business. Rival business owners were a perpetual problem in the lower districts, since they tended to stoop to violence and extortion to gain the upper hand. Now they were stooping even lower; to murder. If only the Spectre was still around.

  One of his men wrote down everything in a notepad, two more walked up and down the alley scanning for clues, and the man he spoke to, Officer Bernard, called the last of the squad over to begin cleaning the scene. Luckily, they'd gotten there soon after the murder, and the sun hadn't come up yet; they could clean up and leave before the streets began filling with citizens.

  "Take the body back to the lab, find out as much as you can."

  "Yes sir."

  He knew who it was; that was the worst part. He knew, but couldn't prove it. Clarence Massey, owner of the Gilded Goblet, was officially just a suspect. But Mathys knew he was guilty of the murders; he was a thug. The worst kind of man; the kind who beat whoever disagreed with him, the kind who bribed soldiers and stole from families. Mathys knew it was Massey.

  The criminal investigation lab at Dreadhold was full of the latest technology designed by Riffolk Hayne, and staffe
d by scientists taught by Hayne himself. It allowed them to achieve things like determining the time of death, screening for poisons and other traces of foul play, and even recording a person's blood and fingerprints for identification.

  Mathys wasn't a scientist, but when one of them came to him the next day stating they had proof of Massey's involvement, he believed them. Finally, it was time to act.

  Mathys loved Ermoor at night. As violent and hostile as the poor districts could be, he still loved it. He strolled through the streets, his men close behind, heading straight for the Gilded Goblet. As always happened before combat, his heart was beating erratically, drowning his ears with uneven thumps.

  Massey had a group of men in his employ, men as hard and violent as himself; it was going to get messy. He just hoped there weren't too many patrons at this hour, though judging by the Goblet's patronage lately, it was likely to be empty.

  They reached the corner of the street and Mathys gestured for his men to stop. If they were seen too early the fight would come to them, and they'd be taken off guard. He knew the streets, and most of his men did too, but it would still require careful execution.

  The Gilded Goblet was half a dozen buildings down from where Mathys stood, torchlights flickering from inside the windows. The glow was warm and gentle, utterly unlike the inn from which it came. Looking at his men, Mathys nodded, signalling in several directions. His men knew what to do. Drawing his weapon, and hearing his men do the same, he gave the final signal, and they moved in.

  Clarence

  He sat at his favourite table, the reserved sign nailed to the chipped wood, and puffed at a thick cigar. Smoke curled slowly up through the still air, and a slow sad tune ground out of the piano in the corner. The player was missing a finger, though it was impossible to tell by listening; and though the piano was out of tune, there was an odd comfort in the twanging discord.

  Everyone in the room knew who he was, even those who'd never met him before. His three strong-hands, masquerading as friends, sat with him at the table. They were lazily playing cards, none paying much attention to the game. They were waiting for the show to begin.

  Clarence Massey was a great man. Everyone who knew him agreed. He'd set up the Gilded Goblet himself when he was seventeen, through a mixture of hard work, dangerous jobs, and genius investments. Business boomed; for a while. He was celebrated by his friends and family in Ravenmire, and workers from Ivorstorm began showing up regularly after the factories shut each day.

  The Goblet was the closest inn and tavern to the working district, a fact Clarence had been very aware of when he spent more than his life savings and went into debt to buy the property. Still, he priced his drinks low and his rooms even lower, and customers piled in. For a while.

  When things slowed down, Clarence started using other methods to keep money flowing in. He'd spent far too much to let the Goblet die. His family would never see the blood on his hands, and the customers were oblivious. Ravenmire was not the friendliest of places, everyone who lived there knew that; a few beatings here and there were more or less expected.

  So he struggled on, and the Gilded Goblet struggled on with him. Even if anyone suspected him of robbing his customers blind and watering the drinks down, no one dared say a thing. If they suspected him of assaulting and murdering those who bad-mouthed his inn, they stayed quiet. The message eventually got out, and was learned very quickly, despite not a word having been spoken; don't mess with the Gilded Goblet.

  Although he wasn't a hugely wealthy man at the moment, his endeavours had made him a powerful one. His three 'friends' were ready and willing to hurt whoever they had to, kill if they had to, to protect their employer. He had powerful contacts spread throughout all of Ermoor.

  In short, Clarence Massey was the kind of man no one had the guts to fight. But he happened to know that a small squad of soldiers was going to hit tonight. Other than Clarence and his strong-hands, there were seven people in the room; the bartender, the piano player, and five well trained shooters. Their guns were hidden, and they acted like customers.

  Clarence was ready for whatever wanted to walk through his doors.

  Mathys

  From a rooftop across the street, Mathys watched his men circle around the building, each taking their place next to windows and doors. He watched intently, knowing his men would wait for his command no matter how long he took to give it. He had to be sure of what they were walking into.

  Their armour was dark, matte and as slim as possible. It would be useless on an actual battlefield, but for a stealth approach it was invaluable. He waited, watching, from the rooftop. Clarence Massey sat near the back, but from where Mathys crouched he could see most of the inn's interior, Massey included.

  The Gilded Goblet's owner sat at a table with three friends, playing cards. A man sat at the piano, playing something he couldn't hear, and the barman was sleepily wiping down the same section of the bar. They were surrounded by customers. Dammit, he thought; he'd wanted to avoid as much potential harm to civilians as possible.

  Just before he gave the signal to breach, he stopped, staring at the card game Massey was playing with his friends. It was a game called Twelve Suits, and was a simple but intense game with a reputation for causing arguments and fights among even friends and family. Mathys couldn't see the actual cards being played, but he recognised the layout of the game.

  He'd played the odd game himself, and even he was susceptible to red-faced yelling when he played. He'd once yelled at the Lord Commander himself during a game. But Massey and his friends were simply laying cards down in the spaces where they belonged, displaying oddly blank expressions.

  Eyes wide, he took a closer look at Massey's friends. Each had a hand resting under the table. Shifting his glance to the customers, he noticed their placement, their posture. Gesturing to his men, he gave the signal that let them know it was an ambush. The plan itself hadn't changed, of course; except now they knew there were no actual civilians inside. No reason to hold back.

  Clarence

  Waiting was always horrible. Clarence didn't mind battle, he had no problems getting his hands dirty. But situations like the one he found himself in now were like knife blades dragging over his nerves. He wasn't scared, of course; only women and children got scared. He was simply sick of waiting.

  He knew they were coming tonight. He knew it. They wouldn't wait much longer. The 'customers' may make them second guess their attack, but he doubted it. They wanted him, and the information he'd received from his contact said they had proof of his involvement in the recent murders plaguing the poor districts.

  If that was true, it was all or nothing; they would shoot to kill. For all the useless bureaucracy that bogged down the city, the Ermoori military was famously brutal when it came to removing threats to their city. With proof and justification, they turned to action surprisingly fast. So Clarence had taken precautions. Called in favours. He now had almost as many men in the Goblet as were in one small squad of Ermoori soldiers. He was ready.

  As one of his strong-hands threw another card to the table, he thought he caught a glimpse of something out the window. He stared for a few moments, trying to look past the inky black outside. Damn the torches, he thought. Light blindness was something he should have remembered. He'd been an innkeeper too long now; his soldier instincts were wearing off.

  Still, he felt good about the night. He wasn't scared. A little anxious, maybe, just to get to the fighting, but not scared. The gun he held in his left hand was modified to shoot a single lead shot instead of spraying dozens of ball bearings. More accurate, and far more brutal if it hit.

  His favourite table, at the back of the room, was designed for exactly the kind of fight he was expecting. The surface of it looked like any of the other old chipped wooden tables in the room; but it was plated with thick steel underneath, and there were hinges on the two legs facing the door. There was also a sack of extra ammunition bolted to the underside; he was ready.

/>   Mathys

  He gave the signal, and jumped from the low roof onto the street as gunfire exploded in the Gilded Goblet, shattering the silence and peppering the dark street with flashes of light. Rolling as he landed, Mathys sprinted into the inn right after his men. One of ours, four of theirs, he thought as he rushed for cover; their initial surprise attack had worked perfectly.

  He fired at one of the "customers" as the man took aim at one of Mathys' own. The hired muscle went down instantly. Five of theirs.

  "Get Massey!" he shouted over the gunfire.

  Three of his men moved in immediately, and he felt a vibrant stab of pride even through the chaos of battle. One of Massey's friends went down, and Massey ducked behind the table he'd flipped on its side. Mathys shot at the old wood, and a heavy clang echoed through the room, sparks flying from the table.

  "Worth a shot," he said as another of the "customers" rushed at him with a knife.

  "You messed with the wrong guy, scum!" The thug yelled.

  He may have been a good shot, but he hadn't trained enough with a knife; his swings were rushed, his footwork lazy, and he gripped the knife like he'd never held it before. Mathys took the knife off him before he realised what had happened. A second later, the blade was buried in the man's throat to the hilt.

  He reloaded behind cover, waiting for the lull in fire. Massey's men were individually well trained, but didn't work as a group; they weren't coordinating their attacks to allow each man to reload while the others fired. Amateurs.