Phoenix Rising

Phoenix Rising

By Rebecca Harwell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Rebecca Harwell

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Phoenix Rising

The Iron Phoenix, the masked vigilante of Storm’s Quarry, has not been seen since the solstice and the tragedy it brought. Haunted by nightmares and striving for control over her powers, Nadya Gabori watches from afar as the city struggles to heal, and Kesali, the woman she loves, works to rebuild their dream of peace.

A new masked figure has arrived in Storm’s Quarry, the Shadow Dragon, one who can conjure blades of light. Nadya feels a powerful connection to her and begins to question if Kesali is the future she wants. When the neighboring Kingdom of Wintercress takes advantage of the city’s weakness, it will take the strength of both young women to defend Storm’s Quarry against invasion and save everyone they hold dear.

Book Two of Storm’s Quarry

Phoenix Rising

© 2017 By Rebecca Harwell. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-914-3

This Electronic book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, NY 12185

First Edition: April 2017

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

Production Design: Susan Ramundo

Cover Design By Jeanine Henning

By the Author

The Iron Phoenix

Phoenix Rising

Acknowledgments

This book would not have come to be without the support of many people: my brilliant editor Ruth; Amanda, my rock star critique partner; Morgan, Karli, and the rest of the amazing writing community from Knox College; my wonderful first reader, Mandy; my ever-supportive parents; and the incredible team at Bold Strokes Books. Thank you.

Dedication

For you, Mom, from your best girl.

Chapter One

Shay cursed the wind.

Her boots sloshed through muddy puddles, disturbing the breeding insects within, and they chased after her in an angry swarm. Swatting the gnats away, she spat and wiped her brow. Night did not bring any coolness to the thick, humid air, and the wind that had journeyed with the caravan through the Silverback Mountain pass, throwing dust into their eyes, now deserted them. Even a slight breeze would have brought some reprieve as they ascended the steep hill. Nothing came, and Shay would’ve waved her fist at the sky if she hadn’t been too tired to lift it.

A week had passed since their caravan set out from the edge of the Kingdom of Wintercress, headed east toward the island city of Storm’s Quarry. After trekking through all manner of terrain from dawn until dusk the past six days, Shay had slowly grown immune to the braying of the mules and the snipes from Cressian soldiers. Though much of the caravan, numbering nearly fifty people, was made up of craftsmen and -women, there were a dozen soldiers assigned from the Wintercress army who were ostensibly in charge. More joined them when they had passed a Cressian stronghold called Eagle’s Reach earlier that day just before the grasslands turned to marsh. The fortress stood not far from Storm’s Quarry, maybe half a day’s walk, according to the whispers among the tired travelers, and Shay had found herself grinning stupidly at the thought of sleeping on something other than a tree root that night. The men from Eagle’s Reach stood tall with a sense of self-importance that rivaled lily-handed nobles, and their stronghold, a dark stone tower rising out of the marshland, stood with the same brashness. No one was allowed to touch their packs and the valuable compound that they carried, and more than one curious craftsman had been pushed away with heavy gauntlets.

For Shay and Jeta, there was no patriotic loyalty to keep their tempers in check. Luckily, her forgemaster was not as quick to anger as Shay, whose own temper often simmered just beneath her skin, igniting with little provocation.

The middle-aged woman walked beside her, uncomplaining of the heat or the hardship despite the thick leather jerkin she wore. Jeta Forgemaster was one of the best iron smiths in the eastern lands, and her skills had been contracted, and not cheaply at that, for the work that awaited them in Storm’s Quarry. Her blades never broke, and her shields never failed under onslaught. Shay was her apprentice of these past ten years, and she still did not know a tenth of what the forgemaster did.

Look ahead, Jeta said in her gruff whisper, nodding toward the crest of the hill.

Shay slowed down as she came to the top. The rim of the valley stretched out several leagues from either side, running along in a near perfect circle around the inland sea. She’d heard once that a star fell here, its impact creating the depression and the precious stones that lay beneath the calm waters. And there in the center, at the end of a narrow bridge spanning the sea’s width, it stood, rising like an ethereal guardian in the moonlight, the lord of its domain.

The island of Storm’s Quarry.

Even from here, nearly a league out, the citystate glowed under the stars, its white marble walls towering above the waters. The rest of the city rose up behind them, five tiers, each layer adding to the city’s height and majesty. Over one hundred thousand souls lived within those thick walls, walls that protected them against floodwaters and outside attacks. Now, even from here, the great gap in the wall shone plain, its ragged edges catching the light of the guard posts stationed along it. Storm’s Quarry glistened like a newborn just come from the birthing waters of a Great Storm; only this time, it had not emerge unscathed.

Soldiers and craftsmen alike let out whoops of joy at the sight of their destination. The city’s Duke had promised good lodgings and better pay to any who answered their call for aid. Wintercress had sponsored several caravans like this one, and the travelers were no doubt looking forward to a warm bowl of soup and a bed.

Shay did not share their enthusiasm. Her heartbeat fell further and further away until she could not feel or hear it, or anything else. The world moved before her like a painting as she stared at the place she had once called home.

Ten years is a long time. Jeta came up beside her. She touched her arm, a rare gesture of affection from the stoic woman. You know you did have not to come. You can still turn back.

She managed a small grin. And who’d look after your old bones? When Jeta’s expression did not even crack, she let the mirth slip from her voice. I’ll be fine. I—I did not think it would affect me like this. But it won’t continue. It’s just an island of stone. Shay kept her voice soft, hoping Jeta wouldn’t hear the trembles in it. She forced herself to keep her eyes open. Closing them would mean seeing the night she was taken out that gate played out over and over again in vivid detail.

She drew a deep breath. The air tasted musty, like doughy bread rested in the sun for too long. I can handle this. No amount of flashbacks or fear would prevent her from standing by the side of her forgemaster, the woman she owed everything. She was not about to abandon Jeta on this job just because she had some past here. And if that past was another reason she had insisted on accompanying her…well, it didn’t matter.

Jeta said nothing. She hitched her pack up on her shoulders, its seams straining from the many tools she carried inside. Those were her best tools, extensions of herself, and Shay knew she’d sooner cut off an arm than let another care for them.

Together, master and apprentice descended the steep edge of valley, to where the seawaters met land, and stepped onto the stone bridge. They brushed passed mules that had to be coaxed one step at a time onto the bridge. Shay felt much the same as the nervous animals, but she tried not to let on.

Jeta knew, of course. We’ll be put up in the third tier, Jeta said, quietly. You will not have to see them.

I know. Normally, Shay would’ve added a line about how she was no longer a child and did not need to be coddled like one. She was there, after all, to look after Jeta. Tonight, however, she felt quite small under the stars and the rough glares of Cressian soldiers.

One shoved his way past, forcing Shay to the edge of the bridge.

Out of the way for His Majesty’s troops, he trumpeted as she clung to the banister.

Seawater sprayed her face, cooling it off, the salt stinging slightly at the edge of her eyes. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your king! she spat. A bit louder than she intended, for a hush settled over this stretch of the caravan. One of the granite smiths who walked next to them put a hand over her mouth. An older man behind her, a glass wright, muttered, Might’ve known it’d be an outworker who’d provoke ’em.

The soldier stopped. His uniform, a white overcoat trimmed in green, had long since been painted brown by the wind, rain, and mud. Only the pistol clipped to his left side and the saber at his right denoted him as belonging to the armies of Wintercress.

Did I hear correctly? he asked without turning around. One hand went to his saber. On this, a caravan of the King’s good grace, did I hear someone slander his name?

Well, I hear Storm’s Quarry has good physicians, Shay said with half a smirk. Heat grew in her chest. Perhaps visiting one to get your ears checked is one of the first things you should do when we arrive.

Careful, Jeta said behind her.

They’ve been pushing us around the entire trip. We owe them no allegiance, and I won’t have them continue this nonsense when we’re in the city’s walls. Shay’s hands were clenched at her sides. In her chest, the burning sensation settled in her heart and grew hotter. It sparked, rubbing against the inside of her skin.

The soldier finally turned. Ahead, the rest of the caravan slowed, people realizing that their section was stopped. Curious gazes fixed themselves upon Shay and the soldier. Behind her, whispers spread.

I could have you arrested for that, Apprentice! Or I could be merciful, if—

She did not wait to hear the if. We are not Wintercress citizens, and we are no longer in your territory. Your rule does not extend everywhere, no matter how many strongholds you throw up. Whatever authority you think you have, you don’t have it over me. She raised an empty hand. Beneath the surface, her finger trembled with heat.

You threaten me with air? He unsheathed his saber. Would you like to see what a real blade is capable of?

The fire in her chest grew in intensity. Her fingers itched. Shay smiled. I know that better than you do.

Enough. Jeta cut in, standing between them. The soldier took half a step back from the towering, heavyset woman. She had a hatchet in her belt, and over the course of the journey he had seen her split logs thicker than him with it. Shay, enough.

Shay lowered her arm. The heat that pounded within her cooled, only slightly.

Jeta turned to the soldier. Think about what you are doing. She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. The iron expression in her eyes, the faded red scar that curled underneath them, the circling black tattoos of the Blood Hawk tribe up her arms—the soldier swallowed and retreated, muttering something about the chain of command.

Shay’s smiled broadened but quickly disappeared when Jeta rounded on her.

Don’t be a fool, Jeta said, face mere handsbreadths from Shay’s. Shay looked down, unable to meet her mentor’s steely gaze. The heat flickered back, nearly gone, save for the warmth that always lived within her.

Sorry, she mumbled.

Jeta started walking with the rest of the caravan. Shay followed her, trying to think of ways to get her in a good mood once more. Perhaps she could offer to stay in and work nights for a week. She hated when she disappointed her mentor, the woman who had taken her in, who taught her everyone she knew. The woman who she was following back to the nightmare of her childhood out of loyalty. Being this close to the city brought out something in her, and Shay had promised Jeta that she could control her emotions. She had promised herself.

For over a decade, this city had haunted her, a past that sank its barbed talons into her soul, refusing to let her move on with her life. No longer, Shay had decided when the opportunity to join the Cressian caravan arose. When she and Jeta fulfilled their contract and left the city, she would be leaving the baggage of her past behind for good.

The caravan’s pace quickened with the end so close. Not even the gnats could keep up with the travelers, so bent on getting into a real bed for the rest of the night. And suddenly, they were at the gate.

Shay looked up. The iron gates rose above them, melting into marble stone. Men ran along the wall top, shouting to one another. Their yells carried a note of glee. How long since a caravan of aid has come? Shay wondered. And how bad is it in there really?

She only had to glance to her left, farther down the great outer wall of Storm’s Quarry, to see the ragged edges of the destruction. A section of the wall had been blown away, leaving nothing but rubble in its wake. She estimated it to be about fifteen paces long. Once, when she was no more than a child, the wall of Storm’s Quarry was the edge of the world to her, an indomitable presence as constant and impossible as the sky. To see that same wall in this state—Shay shook herself, trying to rid her mind of the strangeness.

The stories of how the city’s annual floodwaters had receded on the solstice had spread through the land. The Stormspeaker of the Nomori people had given them a prophecy of the sea’s recession, the end to the misery brought on by the floodwaters of this season’s Great Storm. Her words only became truth when a madman took it upon himself to destroy the wall, flooding the city and the mines with the Kyanite Sea. The Mark of Recession, a sun chiseled into the marble beside the gate, shone in the moonlight. For centuries, it had governed the water levels, its appearance signaling safety and the reopening of the city. What had the price been to see the Mark revealed from beneath the floodwaters this time?

More shouts, and the gates began to creak. As Storm’s Quarry opened to them, a smell which had been masked by the saltiness of the sea air grew, one of death and human waste. Some in the caravan gasped, having never seen the grand staircase that ran up to the fifth tier and the Duke’s palace. On either side, the city sprawled out, stone homes stacked against each other, separated by narrow streets.

Shay made herself put one boot in front of the other. As the Wintercress soldiers met with the Duke’s Guard of Storm’s Quarry, the rest of the caravan was being led to their housing up the endless staircase.

Unable to keep her eyes down, she looked off to the right, to a small courtyard, still steeped in water, where a dead fountain stood. The burning returned. At first soft, then growing in ferocity until only the fragile barrier of her skin kept the inferno at bay. Shay stopped and stared at the entrance to the Nomori tier, where a few gaunt faces looked to the caravan with hope. Hands clenched at her side, she stared until they turned and left.

This was once my home. Soft flames, too small for any observer to see, raced up and down her arms, gathering into the ghost of a sword in each hand. This is where my demons lie.

*

Nadya Gabori hit the ground hard for the fourth time that morning. Grunting, she sat up and retrieved her practice rapier. Its blade looked much the worse for wear, dented and bent once again. She grabbed the blade and straightened it back out, bending the metal so it looked passable.

Again, her father said.

It’s not too late to back out of this, is it? she asked, getting to her feet.

Shadar Gabori levered his own unblemished rapier at her. You asked for the training.

I must’ve hit my head before I did. She took up the forward stance he had taught her, blade ready.

Without warning, her father stepped forward, rapier flashing in the morning sun.

Nadya parried the first strike, meeting his blade before the edge could touch her. She kept her muscles taut and under control. Just the precise amount of strength needed to deflect, nothing more. Half a breath later, Shadar moved again, pivoting on his heels. His rapier broke away and came down at her shoulder.

The cramped building, once a storehouse but now a crumbling structure filled with rubble, did not give her much room to maneuver. Nadya stepped to the side, narrowly missing a water-filled hole in the floor. The hilt of her rapier collided with her father’s blade as she brought it up. Metal hit her skin, stinging slightly. Nadya gathered herself, ready to make her own attack, when Shadar’s blade flashed once more, and suddenly she was holding nothing.

In three steps, he had disarmed her. Nadya gritted her teeth. This fight wasn’t quite a fair bout. He was a master of the rapier with the preternatural fighting ability of the Nomori men, and captain of the Duke’s Guard to boot. Every movement came as naturally to him as breathing. For her, on the other hand, most of her concentration was taken up by controlling herself and her blade.

It was hard to believe she’d once envied Lord Marko, the Duke’s son, for the private lessons he received from her father. Now getting them near-daily herself, it was all Nadya could do not to scream in frustration.

Do you see the mistakes you’re making? Shadar wiped the blade of his rapier on the corner of his tunic, polishing off some invisible smudge.

Nadya sighed and retrieved hers. Besides not using everything that’s available to me? She shook her head. I know, I’m thinking too much. But I have to think. If I don’t… If I don’t, I lose control.

And people have died because of that.

No excuses. We are training so Nadya Gabori will be able to win a fight, not the Iron Phoenix.