Verkiir (Warriors of the Karuvar Book 1) Read online

  Verkiir

  Warriors of the Karuvar

  Alana Serra

  Juno Wells

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

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  Also By Juno Wells

  1

  Verkiir fer Vel’a, First Guardian aboard the Zavellan, let out a breath through his nose. He was used to being a glorified babysitter. As important as the duty of guarding the Pathfinder's youngling was, it was often an uneventful task. Though the boy had witnessed the passing of seventeen orbits, he'd rarely set foot on a planet that was not otherwise completely overtaken by the Karuvar. He'd witnessed no real danger, which Verkiir supposed meant he was doing his job, but some part of him longed for the days when he'd been trained under the great Conqueror Rhavos.

  He'd not seen a hostile planet in at least a hundred orbits, possibly more. The Pathfinder in charge now--Pathfinder Drol'gan--preferred a more peaceful approach. At best Verkiir had seen a few squabbles over resources, but his halberd had not had cause to taste flesh in some time, and some primal part of him yearned for that, just as he often yearned for more carnal desires.

  But he was unable to fulfill either of those desires, as for some reason, Drol'gan found him fit to serve as a bodyguard. It was an honor among the Karuvar, and Verkiir certainly considered it as such, but there were times when it tried his patience and made him long for some other, less honorable line of work.

  "You've seen one, haven't you? What do they look like?"

  Times like now.

  He sat across a small table from Drann, his charge of the past seven orbits. They were in the middle of playing zhidal, a game that required strategy, and Drann was losing terribly because he had the concentration of a drak’val. As Verkiir did not believe in coddling the boy who would one day be the future of the Karuvar, he continued to play to his full competence.

  "You know what they look like," he responded, his eye on the screen below them as he made his move.

  Drann's ears twitched, and Verkiir gave the youngling a look. Ears were one of the most expressive parts of a Karuvar's anatomy, and they could give away one's every secret if allowed to do so. Drann had to grow out of the habits of a kit if he was ever going to be a worthy Pathfinder.

  "Illustrations aren't the same as seeing them in person," he said, managing to curb the hint of a whine in his voice. "You and Father have been around humans before. I haven't, so it's your job to tell me what to expect."

  Verkiir smirked at this manipulation. He was not responsible for teaching Drann to become a Pathfinder, but he was responsible for teaching him to become a productive member of the Karuvar, and that did indeed involve teaching him how to interact with alien species.

  Even humans, as primitive and useless as they were.

  He tried to summon a flattering description; one that would at least cease the endless questions of his charge while not earning the Pathfinder's ire. But frankly, Verkiir was hardly qualified to paint an objective picture of the males and females who called themselves humans. Every time he was forced to interact with one, he found himself seeking a decontamination chamber.

  "They are... small. Fragile. They cannot easily defend themselves, so they rely on machines to do it for them. They are smooth-skinned, and if they ever had tails, they are mere stubs now. No natural armor, no way to survive in extreme temperatures, no--"

  Drann gave him a tepid look. For all the boy was starry-eyed and curious, there was a wry quality about him. One he'd inherited from his father, Verkiir supposed. He would make a good Pathfinder one day, if he was not led astray.

  "Admittedly, I do not have a great deal of firsthand experience with humans," he said, waving this off.

  "Father says we need them, and they need us. I'd think that makes them worthy of our respect," Drann said astutely.

  Verkiir bit back a snarl. No. A poorly-made bargain struck years ago did not earn anyone respect. It was dumb luck alone that gave the humans anything to barter with, and if a Conqueror had been set to the task, this journey would not be necessary. No Karuvar would have to entrust his life to a human.

  "It does make them worthy of our respect," said a familiar voice.

  Verkiir had barely heard the smooth shirk of the door sliding open, permitting Bhal entry into their space. Bhal was an older male; the male who'd trained Drol'gan in his duties long ago, and was now tasked with training Drann. He was the reason Drol'gan became the peaceful Pathfinder he was, and for that, Verkiir harbored some minor resentment.

  "Our relationship with the humans is almost symbiotic," Bhal continued, his tail swishing behind him as he walked. "They need our implants to survive, and we need their resources to build and maintain our own implants."

  Bhal was a born teacher, and he spoke with the air of one who had taught some of the greatest Karuvar in recorded history. He'd earned that distinction, and so Verkiir could mostly smother his contempt. Still, he scowled at the elder male when Bhal moved behind Drann and completed his turn for him, losing Verkiir three of his captured points.

  "Do they have titles?" Drann asked. "Some kind of honorable address?"

  "Some humans have titles, yes," Bhal confirmed as Verkiir struggled to regain his points. "At Waystation Helios, you will likely speak to a human designated as an Ambassador, which is something like a Pathfinder. The other humans will likely have professions, but not titles."

  Verkiir's eyes widened, then narrowed as he glared at Bhal. His lip drew back and he presented a flash of teeth, the scales that lined his crest rippling, hardening like chitin. "The Pathfinder's son will do no such thing."

  "That is not your call to make, First Guardian."

  Drol'gan's authoritative voice seared through him, and Verkiir immediately straightened. He might not agree with the Pathfinder's approach, but he was still the Pathfinder and worthy of the utmost respect. "Apologies, sir."

  Drol'gan joined them, smiling at his son. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, but his gaze was soon intent on Verkiir. The Pathfinder's ears were deathly still, not a single twitch betraying his emotion, and his eyes were dark and unreadable. Verkiir knew Drol'gan had every ability to be charming and congenial, but that was not always how he proceeded.

  "May I speak with you, Verkiir?" he asked.

  Verkiir rose and bowed his head. Despite his best effort to control them, his own ears slanted downward; a clear indication of his shame. "Of course, sir."

  He followed the Pathfinder into the next room, and continued following until they stood on the bridge, one of Verkiir’s favorite places on the Zavellan. In truth, one of his favorite places in the universe. Nothing matched the sheer, endless beauty of space. Nothing. He could scarcely understand why other species chose to build settlements on planets, with such a limited view of the stars.

  Drol'gan stood with his arms folded behind his back and nodded toward the window. "Tell me what you see."

  Verkiir followed the Pathfinder's gaze and found it fixed on a single planet. His jaw tightened as he realized which one it was, though there were few other planet
s in this galaxy that were so very... blue. "Earth," he said, forcing his voice to be neutral.

  "How very astute," Drol'gan said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Do you know what I see?"

  "Something profound, I'm sure," Verkiir muttered.

  Drol'gan's smirk grew into a smile at that. While Verkiir was ever the obedient servant whenever they were in front of other Karuvar, he knew his Pathfinder appreciated a bit of humor.

  "I see opportunity. I consider it a blessing that my implant is failing."

  Verkiir's brows pulled tight and his lips settled into a frown. He spared a glance at the Pathfinder's arm, where his implant was embedded beneath his flesh. The skin there was beginning to lose color, and dark tendrils crept outward from the implant. His own implant itched, but he resisted the urge to scratch at his arm.

  "I've failed in my job as Pathfinder," Drol'gan continued.

  "Sir--"

  "It is a Pathfinder's job to ensure continuation of the Karuvar. Seventeen orbits have passed since a youngling was born to our people. Seventeen."

  He spoke of his own son, the last Karuvar to be born, despite many mated pairs trying for younglings of their own. No one was certain why the females seemed unable to conceive, but it was believed to be some kind of failing with the implant. For eons, Karuvar had survived and adapted, their implant helping them weather impossible odds. Whenever a crisis appeared--and there was always some crisis or another--the Pathfinder took charge and found what they needed to continue on.

  But thus far, Drol'gan had been unable to do that beyond the basic level of keeping the implants functioning.

  "Merely a blink," Verkiir argued, his hands clenching on the railing. "We have time."

  Even as he said it, he was not sure he believed it. There was something inside every Karuvar; something that was as natural and necessary as breathing. In order to survive, Karuvar needed to find a mate. The perfect mate, destined for them alone. A mate whose soul sang to theirs; whose body and mind and heart were a perfect match for their own. And when they found that mate, they felt an unavoidable need to bind with them. For males, this meant planting their seed and watching their mate grow heavy with child. It meant providing for their family, risking life and limb to ensure their safety.

  Something deep inside Verkiir ached at the thought. He was First Guardian. His duty was to his Pathfinder and to the Pathfinder's son. But like every Karuvar, he too longed for a mate he could cherish and protect. For a youngling he could guide and teach.

  "You and I both know we do not have time," Drol'gan said solemnly.

  As much as he did not wish to face it, that was the truth. A Karuvar without a mate was a broken thing; like a being with only half a soul. Verkiir had never witnessed the Sickness overtake one of his kind, but he'd heard enough tales of it from his father. When that emptiness could no longer be contained, a Karuvar allowed it to consume them from the inside out.

  And if they could not find some way to fix this, he would find himself in that very situation, and much sooner than he was willing to admit.

  "I still don't think it's a good idea for Drann to interact with the humans. There's no need for him to be planetside at all," Verkiir insisted.

  "He will be Pathfinder one day, and when he is, the humans will be one of our greatest allies. He needs to form relationships with them now. And that means you," Drol'gan turned to face him, his expression stern, "will need to do the same. I expect nothing less than professionalism, though I dearly hope for more. Is that clear?"

  Verkiir fought back a snarl, but he could not manage to hide the way his ears flattened. He would do his duty. He would protect the Pathfinder’s son. But he would not "form relationships" with the humans.

  He would never do that.

  2

  Megan Cauthran awoke to the sound of an alarm blaring.

  Her heart was pounding out of her chest, her limbs propelled her to bolt upright in bed, and her mind was fighting desperately against itself as she tried to take stock of her surroundings. Alarms were never good in Everton. They were sounded when the city was under attack, signaling the need for help from the militia. They were sounded when there was a flare-up, giving everyone warning so they didn't breathe toxic air. And, in her more personal experience, alarms blared when medical assistance was needed, and quick.

  God. Had she fallen asleep at work again? She couldn't help it. There were so few doctors and nurses, and when she wasn't at the hospital, she was taking care of Ash, which left absolutely no time for sleeping.

  But no. As her vision slowly focused, she realized she wasn't at the hospital. She was at home, actually getting a bit of rest. Or she had been, until that godawful sound. She parsed it out even as she blinked blearily, but the tone she'd heard wasn't one of the ones assigned by the International Alert Agency. It'd been too shrill. And too close.

  She wrinkled her nose as the smell of an MRE--bacon and eggs, maybe--hit her, and her brain finally caught up with the fact that she wasn't alone.

  Ash was standing over her, the bag of "food" in one hand, a small... something in the other. It was round, with numbers etched into the face like a clock and a button on the top. Most of the paint was scraped off, and the elements had started to warp what Meg assumed was metal of some kind. Ash looked damned pleased with herself, that smug Cauthran grin spreading across her face, so she could only assume the sound had come from that monstrosity.

  "What the hell was that?" she asked, her voice scratchy from lack of sleep.

  Ash's grin widened. "It's some sort of timer. You just turn this knob, and when it counts down all the way..."

  Meg watched--and listened, unfortunately--as the timer ticked down. After five ticks, it blared again and she winced. Okay. It was definitely too early for that much noise.

  "I found it in the Pit," she said, turning the timer over in her hands.

  If the noise hadn't done enough to wake her, that definitely did. Her gaze narrowed at her sister, who didn't even have the grace to look mildly ashamed. "Ashley, we talked about this."

  Meg pushed herself up, ignoring the ache in her muscles. Her mattress--if it could be called that--was hard and probably in need of a cleaning, but it was still better than what a lot of people in Everton got. Stumbling over to a worn dresser, Meg pulled some clothes out of a drawer and sniffed them. Yep. These were clean. Good to know.

  "You said I couldn't go there on school days. Today's not a school day," Ash said around a mouthful of reconstituted mush.

  Meg froze, a chill snaking its way up her spine. When she turned to look at her sister, Ash actually did look reasonably contrite. Good. Megan might not set the most firm boundaries, but there were some things that were beyond just an eyeroll and a shrug.

  "You went while I was sleeping? Are you kidding me?" Her voice shook, and she wasn't sure if it was from fear or anger.

  The place Ash and the rest of the locals called the Pit was actually part of a larger... chasm, was the best way Meg could describe it. A large city had existed outside of the boundaries of Everton, well before Meg was born. Apparently, it had been bombed into oblivion, and the crater left behind made everything that wasn't destroyed just fall into a deep hole. It was mostly old, rusted metal, overgrown with vegetation. It had formed a weird sort of cave that was chilling to behold.

  To everyone except Ash, anyway. Her little sister had a penchant for exploring old human ruins. Meg only tolerated the Pit because it was mostly solid ground, and not nearly as large as the full chasm. There was danger still, but it was visible from up above, and it gave Ash an outlet for her explorations; one that Meg could safely monitor and intervene in when necessary.

  Unless her sister went there unsupervised.

  "I'm sixteen! And I can take care of myself," Ash said with a little scowl before she shoveled more food into her mouth.

  "Giving Grayson Haliwell a black eye doesn't count as taking care of yourself," Meg muttered.

  Her sister shrugged. "He des
erved it."

  She didn't doubt that, and if she'd been able to play the role of big sister, Meg might have agreed. She might have even let herself appreciate Ash’s particular brand of crazy. But she hadn't been a big sister for years now. Not since their parents died.

  "Okay, seriously. I haven't been psycho bitch sister, have I?" Ash shook her head. Grudgingly. "So you need to follow the few rules I do have, because they're important. I don't mind you being there when I'm with you, but those ruins are too dangerous for you to go alone."

  Ash let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Oh. This was waiting for you when I got back."

  Her sister fished a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it over. Meg's heart started to race for an entirely different reason, her fear forgotten and replaced by a deep sense of both anticipation and dread. This was it. This was the letter that could decide the future she and Ash would have. The letter that would tell her where she was supposed to be stationed next.

  A part of her hoped the Medical Society would see all the work she'd put in slumming it at the hospital, staying there day and night, covering a range of patients that was greater than anything she'd ever trained for. She hoped they'd see that, and have her moved to a bigger facility in a bigger city. There'd be more people there. More protection. She'd make more money and have more reasonable hours. Plus, it would get her the hell away from Waystation Helios and the Karuvar.

  Meg slowly unfolded the letter, feeling her sister move behind her to peer over her shoulder. She hesitated, scanning only the first line over and over, too anxious to move to the actual assignment. What if they were sent across the country? What would happen to this place? To the memories her mom and dad had built? Ash, being who she was, gave her the shove she needed by just reading it aloud.

  "Megan Cauthran, Medical specialist, Ident. number 03407." Okay. Did Ash really have to read all the details Meg already knew about herself? She shot her sister a glare, but it went unnoticed. "This letter hereby informs the recipient that their request for transfer has been processed. You will find your new assignment at..." Ash paused, her tone growing more excited as she continued, "Waystation Helios, holy shit! Report at 0900 for details--"