Warrior Prime Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY VICTOR GISCHLER

  Suicide Squeeze

  Gun Monkeys

  The Pistol Poets

  Shotgun Opera

  Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

  Vampire a Go-Go

  The Deputy

  Three on a Light

  Stay

  Gestapo Mars

  A FIRE BENEATH THE SKIN TRILOGY

  Ink Mage

  The Tattooed Duchess

  A Painted Goddess

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Victor Gischler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542091466

  ISBN-10: 1542091462

  Cover design by Faceout Studio

  Cover illustrated by Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Ambassador Korick sat with Prince Kha’narahn in one of the box seats and waited for the demonstration to begin. Below them, Fyrians of lesser nobility and rich merchants filled the tiers of bench seating. The small domed arena had filled up fast. Korick had been led to believe witnessing this event was a high privilege, so the men here were likely some of the most important people in the city. Korick tried to remember as many names and faces as he could as the prince pointed them out.

  Servants came with wine, and Korick took all he could get. His understanding was that the display was somewhat gruesome. His background was in diplomacy. He had no military experience, knew nothing of weapons except that they could do horrid things to the human body. Korick had fallen off his horse once while hunting and had sprained his ankle. That was the extent of his experience with pain. The idea of being in a battle with all those thrusting swords and hacking axes . . . well, no thank you.

  He gulped his wine, motioned to the servant for more.

  Korick almost spilled his drink when the horns blew. The sudden fanfare had caught him by surprise.

  The prince leaned toward him and said, “It begins.” He had a light accent, but his Helvan was nearly flawless. “Look. They bring her out now.”

  In spite of his anxiety, Korick leaned forward to see. He was curious, and attending this exact event had been part of his mission after all. When he eventually dispatched the envoy back to the king, he’d be obliged to send along as much information as possible.

  “Here she comes now,” the prince said. “A good specimen, don’t you think?”

  She was escorted onto the floor of the arena by a dozen brutish men, their armor consisting of small, overlapping bronze rectangles. The metal was even sewn into knee-length kilts. Greaves of the same metal and also bracers. Scimitars hung from wide belts, and they held long spears formally in front of them. The men were dusky and dour, the hair on their heads braided in tight rows in the style of most of the Fyrian working class and military men.

  But when the prince had spoken of a good specimen, he hadn’t meant any of the soldiers.

  He’d been talking about the girl.

  She probably wasn’t as tiny as she appeared walking among the hulking warriors, but she was slight and lithe. She was nude, and Korick wondered if that was to show off the tattoo, although he couldn’t see it from this angle. More likely the men just enjoyed seeing her form.

  Korick supposed some men would find her attractive, although she was too lean for his tastes. Too many ribs showing. Hair cut short like a boy’s, perhaps to be out of the way during combat. Nose and cheekbones sharp, eyes dark and mysterious.

  It didn’t matter. Her appearance wasn’t important.

  The prince leaned in again and said, “I’m adding this one to my personal stable. Meddigar said she tested very well.”

  Korick’s ears perked up. Meddigar was another person on his list. The ambassador was obliged to dig up as much information about the man as possible. As the prince’s pet magician, Meddigar had been chiefly responsible for the prince’s recent rise in social and political status. According to Korick’s spies, Meddigar had ventured into the deep desert of Fyria, urged on by rumors and an old map. No one could find out where the man had gone, but when he’d returned, he brought with him the secret of the Prime.

  And the Prime was everything. It was how one made an average person into an ink mage.

  Wizards in Helva had lost the secret decades ago. And the distant sound of saber rattling could be heard in the high chambers of the grand sultan’s palace. It seemed absurd. The world had known peace and prosperity these last twenty years after the failed Perranese invasion of Helva. Nobody wanted more blood and death.

  But the grand sultan heard the call of his ancient ancestors, voices from centuries ago when Fyria was the seat of a vast empire that included Helva to the north and other nations to the south. And he was a strong-willed man, strong enough to bind the half dozen lesser sultans to him. Fyria was united in a way it had not been for nearly four hundred years. Each day, the empire added men to its army.

  And now it could produce ink mages at will? No wonder the king had been concerned. It was a dicey time to be an ambassador.

  The soldiers unlocked the chains on the girl’s wrists and ankles and then withdrew. The only remainder of her bondage was a thin metal collar around her neck. More brilliant than brass but not quite gold.

  A portcullis across the arena rose slowly with the metallic clank of gears and chains. Four men emerged. They seemed of the same type as the earlier soldiers, large and formidable, but they didn’t have the same magnificent armor or weapons. Simple boiled leather, wooden shields, no spears, but each held a curved scimitar. The expressions on their faces ranged from anger to fear. The largest of them, a man with muscles on top of muscles, gripped his sword with a white-knuckled fury as if impatient to get on with it.

  “New ink mages must be publicly blooded of course,” the prince said. “Generally, this is to assure the man purchasing the ink mage that he is not being cheated. In this case, obviously, I would not cheat myself, but it is tradition.” The prince shrugged. “And if you can provide the gentry with a good show, well, it’s not a terrible thing to court their appreciation.”

&nbsp
; The servants brought more wine, and Korick accepted eagerly. There was also a plate of greasy spiced meats that the Fyrians seemed to like so much. Not quite pork, definitely not lamb, some animal Korick had never heard off. The prince grabbed a handful and stuffed it into his fat mouth, licking his fingers and smacking his lips. The juices dripped into his forked beard.

  Korick hid his distaste and drank the wine.

  The girl searched the crowd until she found the prince. She took a half dozen steps toward him and bowed. The prince raised a hand acknowledging her.

  “The girl was given to me to forgive a debt,” the prince said. “The parents, alas, were not blessed with sons. It is a good arrangement that benefits everyone.”

  Korick rather doubted everyone felt they benefited equally.

  “It is more difficult to find the soldiers actually.” The prince gestured to the men in the cheap leather armor, holding the wooden shields. “We use deserters or other offenders, but our army is so well disciplined these days, instances of misbehavior are few. These particular men were part of a garrison in Norrica.”

  Korick mentally pictured a map of the region. Norrica was a small island nation off the coast of Fyria. The grand sultan had claimed it without opposition a decade ago.

  “They raped some local girls,” the prince continued. “Usually company punishment would suffice, but the garrison captain is a stickler. He sent the men along to us. Otherwise we would have had to scrape the dungeons for common criminals. They’re good enough to get the job done but do not put on the best show.”

  Korick had kept his eye on the girl as the prince prattled. After bowing to the prince, she’d turned to bow to the rest of the onlookers. And that’s when Korick had seen it.

  The Prime.

  The tattoo down the girl’s back must still have been fresh because it was a bright red. Korick had been informed it would eventually fade to a steely blue. The lines of the tattoo spread across her shoulders and up her neck to the base of her skull. The lines followed the length of her back to curl down below the tailbone. Along the lines, on either side of her spine, runes had been inked small and precise. Some ancient language perhaps.

  Korick couldn’t claim an intimate knowledge of ink magic, but one thing most everyone knew was that the Prime tattoo was the key. It was the tattoo that allowed the ink mage to go on and get other tattoos, each one granting some marvelous power.

  Or so he’d heard. The stories often stretched credibility. This display would be Korick’s first opportunity to see an ink mage in action.

  Another fanfare of trumpets startled him again. Fyrians loved trumpets.

  The girl snapped into a defensive crouch, hands up, eyes alert. Her expression remained stoic even as the four warriors spread out to come at her in a semicircle. They knew enough to take her seriously, and none seemed eager to be the first to attack.

  The two on the ends charged her full speed. If she’d turned to face one, it would have left her back exposed to the other. So she fought neither. Instead she ran flat out toward the other two.

  The nearest screamed fury and swung his scimitar hard at neck level. She wilted to the ground, the blade passing two inches over her. She rolled into a ball and barreled into the legs of the next warrior, upending him.

  He went down hard, holding on to his sword, but fumbling the shield.

  The girl came out of the roll and snatched up the fallen shield, twisted her body around, and hurled it. She did all this in one fluid motion, like steps to a well-rehearsed dance.

  The round shield flew through the air at one of the charging men so fast, he didn’t have time to react. It hit him square in the mouth with a crack so loud, all the spectators flinched and gasped. The soldier’s head spun around, blood and teeth flying. He went down, crawled along the ground, groaning and pawing at his ruined face.

  The girl stamped a bare foot down hard on the fallen soldier’s wrist, and when his fist popped open, she bent, grabbed his sword, and sprang up again just in time to deflect the blade of the other charging warrior.

  The girl’s hand became a blur, and suddenly the man was stumbling back, blood gushing from his throat. He dropped his sword and shield, hands coming up to staunch the flow. Red seeped between his fingers.

  Korick was afraid to blink lest he miss something. The girl moved with utter confidence, no hesitation. Her face remained blank, only her eyes showing intense concentration.

  She swung the sword down at the one near her feet. Another slit throat, and the man died in an instant.

  The remaining warrior was the biggest, muscles rippling as he gripped the scimitar tightly. He glanced around, clearly afraid, but didn’t see an exit. He squared off with the girl, in no hurry to make the first move. She closed in on him slowly, and he backed up a step at a time.

  “The Prime allows her perfect perception,” the prince said. “Perfect control over her own body. She is a living weapon. It usually does not go this fast. This girl is something special, I think.”

  The soldier realized he would eventually be backed against the wall and lose all initiative. His face hardened, and he rushed forward, screaming and bringing his blade down fast, aiming for the center of her face.

  She sidestepped, grabbing his sword wrist as the blade came down. She twisted his body, yanking the wrist, pulling the big man all the way through the swing, using his momentum to her advantage. She dropped to one knee, and the soldier flipped over her, landing hard on his back.

  He tried to get up, but she slammed both of his ears with her open palms. He screamed again, this time in pain.

  She kicked him over onto his belly, stood on top of him, one of her bare feet on his neck. He struggled to get up, but she wrapped up one of his massive arms in a tight grip, her own arms looking thin and feeble by comparison. She twisted, drawing the arm back at a painful angle. He babbled frantically in Fyrian.

  Korick understood only a smattering of the language, but the man’s tone was clear. He was pleading for her not to break his arm. Begging for his life.

  “Observe,” the prince said. “She is no stronger than any other waif of a girl. There are tattoos that can give an ink mage strength, of course, as strong as an ogre is what I’ve heard. But that is not the case here. All of her power comes from the Prime. She can determine the perfect angle, the amount of leverage needed. The Prime gives her a sublime self-awareness of what her body is capable of.”

  She braced one foot against the soldier’s back, the other still on his neck, and pulled, using all her weight to bend the arm. The two froze for a second, and momentarily, it seemed to Korick as if the girl might not have the strength after all. The crowd held its collective breath.

  The wet, sickening snap of the man’s arm was so sudden and loud, Korick winced, even all the way up in the prince’s box. The soldier screamed, much louder and longer than any of his other screams.

  The crowd erupted in wild applause.

  The girl let go of his arm, and it flopped limply down next to him. He sobbed quietly.

  She stepped away from him, circled around, keeping one eye on him in case he had any fight left. She picked up the man’s scimitar and, with seeming indifference, brought it down on the soldier’s neck.

  More applause from the appreciative spectators.

  “Oh, yes,” the prince said. “I think it likely she will be my new favorite.”

  Korick smiled weakly.

  No wonder the king of Helva had made investigating the ink mages a priority. With seeming ease, a young girl, naked and without weapons, had killed four seasoned warriors. How many of these ink mages did Fyria have? How many could they make? An army of such creatures would be devastating.

  He wondered if the prince had agreed to show him the blooding of the new ink mages for just this purpose. A show of Fyrian strength.

  “Might I excuse myself a moment, Highness?” Korick asked. “I want to refresh myself before the next display.”

  “Of course,” the prince said.
“Hurry back. You don’t want to miss this next one.”

  Korick rose, bowed, and hurriedly found his deputy waiting in one of the anterooms with the other underlings.

  “Mullen,” Korick said, “I don’t want you to wait for me. Go and find the king’s envoy and have him waiting for me at the embassy when I return tonight. I must brief him immediately and book passage for him on the next possible ship.”

  Mullen’s thin moustache twitched. The deputy ambassador was a fussy little man with delusions of grandeur, always overdressing and overly formal. Korick got the impression the deputy was waiting for him to make a mistake so he could take over Korick’s job.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where the envoy is, sir,” Mullen said.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “He left the embassy last night and hasn’t been seen since.”

  Korick blustered. “Well, where did he go? Did he say anything?”

  Mullen cleared his throat. “He said he was off to find a drink.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The splitting headache was offset somewhat by the woman’s soft backside pushing up against him. She snored lightly.

  When Peyne Erlich tried to sit up, little gnomes inside his head hammered away at the backs of his eyeballs. He groaned and fell back onto his pillow. The woman stirred but didn’t wake.

  Peyne paused to consider how he’d come to be here.

  He’d gotten off the ship, and a carriage had been waiting for him. The seaside capital of Fyria was a bustling city, and Peyne had been thankful not to have to find the embassy on his own. Upon arriving, he’d been told the ambassador was away.

  No matter. He was finally off that cramped ship with a new city to explore, and there was no bad time for a goblet of wine. He’d found himself in the expatriate quarter where merchants and dignitaries from other lands congregated. Peyne had found a tavern full of men and women from Helva, and while he did want to explore this strange and exotic city, there’d been some relief to being able to order a drink without having to wrestle with a different language.

  He’d struck up a conversation with a merchant woman who was bringing Klaarian lumber from the evergreen forests in the north to trade for Fyrian spices and silks. Odd that he could remember that but not her name. Peyne had reached the halfway point in his twenties, and the woman was at least a decade older, but her raw sexual aggression had enticed him, and she curved in all the right places, and her room was conveniently just upstairs.