Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic Read online

  SARAH, Copyright © 2014 by Lee Pletzers

  The Summoned Rise of the Phantom Knights, Copyright © 2014 by Kenny Emmanuel

  Border Patrol, Copyright © 2014 by BR Kingsolver

  The Twelve, Copyright © 2014 by Mia Darien

  Ghosts, Copyright © 2014 by Christi Rigby

  Outside the Walls, Copyright © 2014 by A. L. Butcher & Diana L. Wicker

  My Brother's Keeper, Copyright © 2014 by Raphyel M. Jordan

  With Our Own Blood, Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Nicholls

  The Connection, Copyright © 2014 by Crystal G. Smith

  A Fly on the Wall, Copyright © 2014 by Chantal Boudreau

  Slacker, Copyright © 2014 by Doug Dandridge

  The Light Bless Thee and Keep Thee, Copyright © 2014 by Mason Darien

  Cover Art Copyright © 2014 by Mia Darien

  Cover Stock Images from: http://www.bigstockphoto.com

  Introduction

  SARAH

  by Lee Pletzers

  The Summoned Rise of the Phantom Knights

  by Kenny Emmanuel

  Border Patrol

  by BR Kingsolver

  The Twelve

  by Mia Darien

  Ghosts

  by Christi Rigby

  Outside the Walls

  by A. L. Butcher & Diana L. Wicker

  My Brother's Keeper

  by Raphyel M. Jordan

  With Our Own Blood

  by Jessica Nicholls

  The Connection

  by Crystal G. Smith

  A Fly on the Wall

  by Chantal Boudreau

  Slacker

  by Doug Dandridge

  The Light Bless Thee and Keep Thee

  by Mason Darien

  About Wounded Warrior Project

  When I was eleven years old, there was this book at my local library. It was in the kids section, although it was a "real" book--a three hundred page novel. Looking back, I realize that it wasn't a kids book, but it wasn't too adult either. Anyways. It was Night Mare by Piers Anthony. I knew nothing about Mr. Anthony or the Xanth series, but the cover had a pretty black horse coming out of a bookcase.

  I grew up with horses and have always loved them, so clearly I was drawn. But it was a little heavy for an eleven year old. It took me three tries that year to read it, but on that third try, I was awake until seven in the morning and finished it in one night. I devoured it.

  From there, I read the other Xanth books that the library had. Which, incidentally, were all out of order. I found more at stores. I read and read. After several series by Anthony, I moved on to Anne McCaffrey, then Terry Brooks and Robert Jordan. The Wheel of Time, incidentally, is how I met my husband.

  Thus, epic fantasy became my first love. The above authors I call the "Big Four" of my youth because they are the reason I transitioned from the avid childhood reader to the avid adult reader, and then at fourteen wrote my first (amazingly awful) fantasy "novel." Eventually I branched out into other genres, but this was always my first love and I love it now.

  And I'm not alone.

  While in novels, it has primarily been fantasy for me, science fiction and fantasy have always been inextricably linked. Even some of the fantasy I read from my Big Four had elements of science to them.

  The two conjoined genres also have something else that ties them together, which is the predominating theme of warriors. It seems rare to read one or the other without them, in some form; whether it's the solo fighter forging ahead on quests, someone fighting on their own for something they believe in, a small band of fighters, or militia/war epics. There are warriors of both space and magic.

  Bellator is Latin for warrior, and thus why this anthology is so named.

  But Bellator is not just about getting together a bunch of great indie authors with a bunch of fantastic stories. That is, in fact, just a side benefit! No, this anthology is about fantastical warriors in an effort to raise money for true warriors.

  I grew up in a family where my grandfather, father, step-father, two cousins, and several more distant relations served in the military. One distant cousin got a purple heart on the beaches of Normandy, and my grandfather taught soldiers how to fire rifles out of an airplane in WWII. My cousin has served three tours in the Middle East in the medical field.

  I've been fortunate to not lose any of them to these conflicts, and to not see any of them gravely injured, but a lot of military families are not that lucky. And the Wounded Warrior Project is there to help those families and those soldiers. Their vision is to "foster the most successful, well-adjusted generation of wounded service members in our nation's history." The organization focuses on providing programs for service members and their families, as well as raising the awareness of the public.

  100% of the proceeds of this anthology will be donated to the Wounded Warrior Project (http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/).

  It's an honor to have had so many of my fellow authors join me in this anthology, and I couldn't be prouder of them, and of all the men and women who serve this country. I hope that you'll enjoy these stories of warriors in space, time and magic as much as I have, and thank you for your support.

  Mia Darien, July 2014

  Before:

  Injecting solution now. Pause. Agony. A scream. Mixing solution, blend in progress. Intense pain. Nothing else. It shot along every nerve, bound with every cell. Body temperature rose. Sweat cooled the skin. Blend complete. Every sensation heightened. The cold metal table, the air-conditioned room, the smell of doctors, the aroma of blood. Activating sensors. Pause. Check. Pause. Downloading mission initiative. Pause. Download complete. An old man with clear blue eyes said...

  Now:

  Darren opened his eyes and instantly shut them. The light was blinding. Sweat trickled over his skin and his lips felt cracked and dry. He lay flat on his back with sand as his mattress and with a throat that felt sandpaper dry.

  His thin eyelids were no match for the sun. Still, he remained motionless. Breathing slowly and deeply, taking in the scent of sand, sweat and a familiar copper aroma. Ears straining for any sound, he heard nothing. He had to get up. He had to move.

  Darren took a moment to assess his injuries.

  He seemed fine. His toes wriggled inside his lace-up boots. The right hand fingers dug into the sand.

  The trap had been brilliant.

  Well played, he thought. Well played, indeed.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes just a crack and sunlight poured in, stinging him and adding to the pounding in his head.

  Squinting, he managed to open his eyes wider. At first there was nothing but bright light. As his eyes adjusted, colors came into view. Blurred images morphed and sharpened into solid shapes of dead soldiers.

  Darren rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his knees. He remained still for several minutes, surveying the carnage. It was hard to take it all in. Private Owen Footing lay prone on the sand, a blotch of red sand where his head once was. A flash of memory burned past his eyes. On his knees, in the sand, firing in all directions, panic, fear, the smoldering DPV (Desert Patrol Vehicle), then silence. The unbearable silence. DPV lights reached into the night. The sand shone in the artificial brightness. Cowering behind the vehicle, Darren saw flashes of silver. He heard the screams of comrades.

  Staggering, he got to his feet. His balance was off, but Darren made his way to each soldier laid out in a circle, encasing him in the center. Heads and limbs lay scattered about, most left where they had fallen.

  Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the DPV. Near the rear tire he was a slice of palm and three finge
rs: the pinky, ring finger and middle finger. His weapon was out of ammo. Darren removed the clip and fumbled in his flak jacket for his spare round. A sound behind him. He turned. Raised his left hand. A flash of silver. Pain. A rifle butt to his forehead. Blackness. Pain-free.

  Slowly, Darren turned his head and stared at the remaining finger and thumb. The blood had clotted around the sliced area and sand had stuck to it, helping stem the flow, he assumed.

  His right hand went to his forehead, but he couldn’t feel a bump. There was something about the memory that felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it and it didn’t explain why he wasn’t killed like the rest or why he stood in the center of a circle of the dead. He knew better than to judge the actions of the enemy. That was a great mistake.

  Sarah? Where the hell was Sarah?

  Darren forgot about his fingers and ran the full gauntlet of his fallen brothers and sisters in arms. Mostly he checked uniform name tags. Sarah wasn’t amongst them. A held breath escaped in a rush of relief. She wasn’t dead. That was the most important thing. He had joined the military because of her.

  Sarah Radcliffe: tom boy, high school sweetheart, ex-girlfriend. He had joined two hours earlier. He had planned a surprise and wanted to spring it on her, when she broke up with him. It was her, not him—apparently. She walked out, leaving the combo untouched, before he could tell her he was in the army as well.

  After he finished her combo, he tried calling her but all calls went to voicemail, and continued to do so for the next few days. He figured on recruitment day, they’d meet at the bus and he could tell her then. But that’s when he discovered her secret. It was her, not him, after all.

  He was angry for a split second and then approached Sarah. She introduced Louise Parker and he decided he would be happy for them and tried to get out of joining the army. The recruitment officer would have none of it. He had signed a contract and arrangements were set. He could change his mind after eight weeks of basic training when all recruits could sign a two-year renewable contract and make this their career.

  It turned out he was a damn good soldier with strong leadership skills, and the eight weeks passed quickly. He signed the two year contract and now here he was, five years later, a survivor staring at corpses. People he called friends.

  He stopped at the body of Louise. She’d been a last-minute addition to the convoy. A sword had parted her head down to the base of her neck and the two halves had folded in the opposite direction, taking on the appearance of an open book.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was sad for Sarah. Louise had been a better match than he ever was. Anger built up inside him. He understood war and the wrongness that went hand in hand with it, but slicing a head in such a way was worse than wrong. It was fucking evil and sick.

  His hand started itching where the fingers had been. Taking a deep breath, he calmed down and the itching went away. He had to think. Sarah was gone, kidnapped. If he didn’t get her back soon, pieces of her would be mailed to the army base and all media outlets. The world would know.

  Darren went to the DPV, it had a radio. The urgency of reporting this attack quickly was not lost on him. The enemy could be on their way to base camp this very moment. He threw open the door, unknowingly stepping on his fingers, and swore when he saw the mic lying on the floor and the wire leading into the unit ripped free. The front panel of the unit dangled toward the floor; a thin wire held it in place. He assumed someone had smashed it, most likely, with the butt of a rifle. He climbed inside and searched for a carry unit, but the DPV had been stripped bare of anything useful. If he popped the hood he would discover the oil and gasoline gone, maybe the water too, so he didn’t even bother. Instead, he climbed on top of the DPV and looked in every direction, trying to find a clue to the enemy’s direction.

  Without success.

  He decided to take a chance and headed east. With his right hand, he rubbed his short-cropped hair and stared out into the bright desert. East didn’t feel right. Neither did south or north. North would take him back to base and that was a two-day hike. He looked west and it just felt right. Though all he could see was sand upon more sand. There was no hint to the end, not dots of rocky terrain or trees reaching to the blue sky.

  West was the only choice.

  He jumped off the roof and landed wrong on the sand. His knee twisted and popped. Screaming, he dug his hands into the sand. His screams turned to deep, harsh breaths. He unbuckled his uniform trousers and stared at his knee. It was on the side, completely free of the socket. He had to push it back, and that was going to hurt.

  Giving it a gentle shove, pain rocketed up his thigh and down to his feet. A tingling in his thigh snagged his attention. It turned ice-cold and the hairs stood on end. He started rubbing the skin, trying to warm it up, when he felt his knee move—this time without pain.

  It seemed to slide back into place of its own accord. He felt it slip into the socket with a jolt of mild pain. The warmth slowly returned to his thigh. Thankfully, he buckled up his trousers and gingerly got to his feet and tested the knee. It was sore, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

  A long slog ahead waited for him and he thought it best to start now. The sun high in the sky meant time was against him. He headed west and it wasn’t long before he dropped the light jacket he wore. Sweat coated his body and he had not thought to bring water with him.

  Staring into the distance, he saw nothing but sand. Miles and miles of sand. His energy was drained and his head started pounding. Lack of water affecting him quickly. However, looking to the sky, he noticed the sun was on the other side and dusk would be with him soon.

  Miles and hours had passed and he barely noticed. What thoughts had passed the hours away? He had no idea. Time had blended into one long moment. That was good, but he noticed he had started to drag his feet when a goat ran past him.

  Hallucinations, he thought. Nice.

  The sand turned into harder clay. Bushes, brown and burned, spotted the land, sporadically at first, until a mile later the vegetation was thick and he heard voices. The only weapon in his possession was the Desert Eagle on his hip.

  A mountain rose not far in the distance and it was thick with rocks and trees. The sound of laughing children came dancing in the warm breeze and he noticed a dip in the land several feet from him.

  He stopped at the edge and down below he spotted a small grouping of houses and people milling about. None looked like the enemy, but he couldn’t be sure. A little girl ran around a grouping of trees and bumped into Darren.

  She stared at him in silence. Fear tattooed her features. She found her voice and screamed.

  Holding his hands out, he said, “No. No, little girl. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  The girl ran, her screams continued as she raced down a short track and across the dusty land to a man aiming a rifle at him.

  Darren’s vision suddenly swam. The encounter with the girl had burned what little energy he had and without the liquid of life, he couldn’t go. And he didn’t give a toss if they shot him or not.

  As more rifles aimed up at him, Darren’s eyes closed and he dropped to the ground, collapsing sideways. He was aware of rolling a short distance. He came to a stop against a hard bush. He heard voices shouting. Darkness closed in on him and he was sorry he hadn’t found Sarah.

  It was time to rest. He welcomed the darkness with open arms.

  Before:

  White walls surrounded him. His head throbbed and a burning sensation charcoaled his lower abdominal region.

  Darren remembered the battle. His first firefight went badly for him and half his men. He saw bodies knocked down from AK rounds. The jeep in front hitting a land mine. Eric Stacy’s head bouncing off their windscreen, leaving a red smear in its wake.

  The driver yanked the wheel to the right and they bounced into the soft sand. No one noticed. All five of them were ready for battle. The other three vehicles in the small convoy had stopped. Darren saw them clamber ou
t of the jeeps and take up positions using doors as shields.

  This was a transport convoy to a new base.

  The driver automatically angled the jeep on to the opposite side of the road where large rocks and a scattering of trees provided hiding spots and protection. Behind him, the desert rolled on and on. Dunes upon dunes. But the open space showed zero enemies.

  Silence reigned. The seconds ticked by in a slow and steady manner. His senses picked up all sounds: the jittery nerves of new recruits, the sand scratching the road, the settling rocks in the new hole and the ragged breathing of his men. He smelled the hot, burning sand, tasted the heat in the air, and a hundred yards away, he saw a rifle scope flash in the sun.

  Armed with only his Desert Eagle, he grabbed the Dragunov sniper rifle from the private next to him, who was trying to line up a shot but had no idea where to aim. Darren motioned to the tree he’d seen the flash and took aim.

  His men flanked to the left and right, waiting for the shot before advancing on the road. The driver sat low behind the wheel and gunned the engine.

  Darren lined up the shot. He saw the shooter’s body and the AK47 but nothing more. Tree foliage hid his face.

  He wanted a head shot. Using the scope, he searched the tree for a glimpse of the head. A body shot was available. About to take it, the AK47 angled up. The shooter must have discovered a new target. Darren smiled. He still couldn’t see the head, but he knew where it would be positioned.

  Gotta look through the scope.

  He squeezed the trigger. The Dragunov jumped against his shoulder and a kid, no older than ten, dropped from the tree; a third of his head missing.

  Fuck!

  A familiar battle cry echoed across the sand.

  * * *

  He shook his head, wanting to forget the memory. Surrounded by these white walls, the battle raged on like a movie projected on a screen.

  The enemy came from nowhere and everywhere. Guns blazed. War cries screamed. It was chaos. It was war. This is why he enlisted. Kill or be killed. It was the ultimate extreme sport. Bungee jumping without the bungee. Take your chances.