Moonshine

By Olivia Orndorff

Jude Moor has spent the entirety of the war in the city advising the High Council. One wrong move gets him sentenced to the front lines with a bunch of recruits, a lethal sniper, and a commanding officer with something to prove. With the fights heating up, and the choices getting deadlier, Moor has to decide quickly who to trust, and just what he’ll do to survive. Because everyone has secrets, and with nowhere to hide Moor is going to have to decide just what demons he’s willing to face on the borders of Ravana—and who he’s willing to sacrifice in the dust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Orndorff
• Release date: Oct 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370887576

Olivia Orndorff

After traveling over the US, Europe and Asia, Olivia currently lives in Chicago.One of these winters she'll pack it up, but until then you can find her at rummagingthrough a bookstore, at a bar, or out for a run.

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Moonshine

Olivia Orndorff

Moonshine

Copyright © 2014 by Olivia Orndorff

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

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

Table of Contents

Beginning

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

Excerpt of Ravana Series Book Two

About Olivia Orndorff

ADJUNCT ADVISOR MOOR YOU ARE REASSIGNED TO OUTPOST 10 STOP YOUR ESCORTS WILL PICK YOU UP TOMORROW AT DAWN STOP ANY ATTEMPT TO EVADE THE WILL OF THE HIGH COUNCIL WILL RESULT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION STOP BY ORDER OF THE HIGH COMMANDER MORRIS STOP EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY STOP

CHAPTER ONE

A broken rib didn’t affect Jude Moor’s hearing. And if the rumors made him gasp for air against the bindings on his chest and jerk at the restraints chaining him to the bed, well, excruciating pain excused him. They chained him to that bed for three days and no drugs to numb the pain. The vomiting and fever, one medic assure him, would not be noted in any official file.

As if withdrawal might change matters. As if the hallucinations were a minor concern.

He was already considered damaged goods.

When he submerged, more or less alert, he was given the official telegram. The High Council sent down their order. He was on his way to the front lines for the winter. His bag was packed for him and they frog marched him to the train. The High Commander’s train. Irony burned.

A lot can happen in fourteen days. They hadn’t even given him the courtesy of healing in the infirmary before the orders had come in. Effective immediately, he was reassigned to the front lines. The fuckers. He was sitting on a train staring out the window. His guards hemmed him in the booth of scratchy material. Caged Again.

Two weeks ago Jude Moor had been the Adjunct Adviser to High Commander Morris. Now, he thought grimly, he was dead man walking. His trial, which he had been absent for, had been swift and his demise even swifter as they efficiently ferried him on trains out to the Ravana front lines in the on-going skirmish for trading rights and farmland currently used by the Fleurian Clans. Fleurian, and neighboring Tragen, were fighting against Ravana annexing them to its, considerable, empire of patch-worked Outer Territories and City Blocks.

The Ravana nation was fast using up the supplies hauled into its Inner City by the Outlying Territories. One version made the fight about food, and farmland. With his ribs bruised, Moor felt no need to be as kind. The High Council wanted the Valley. Simple, and brutal, as that; no one argued with the High Council.

Two weeks ago, Jude Moor had been the foremost linguistic expert on the melding of cultures located in the Valley that was a strange hybrid of both Ravana and Tragen and resulted in the odd melding known as the Fleurian Clans. A mix of savages and savants who allied with each other as it was convenient.

As a Ravana scholar he had been conscripted into the war. He no longer expected his designation of scholar, and civilian, to carry any weight.

For now, Moor was permanently attached to Squad 10 at Outpost 10 and Layman Level 7 Bryan Fletcher. The Squad was in charge of holding and defending the foremost Ravana fort and whatever else was passed down the lengthy chain of command. Escorted to his new post, Moor was compliant throughout the train ride out to the frontier.

As an outlier, he was used to the forests and hills around him. He knew this land, had wandered in it, dreamed in it, thought in it, wrestled with various verb tenses, and held conversations with the birds in a mixture languages. In short, the train ride did little to distract him from his coming fate.

Squad 10 was not going to appreciate a scholarly outlier who was now in their charge. Officially, Jude Moor knew, he was a valuable resource; unofficially, his peculiarities had come to the attention of the High Council as a potential embarrassment. High Commander Morris had finally grown tired of pulling Moor’s strings to watch him dance. The form to announce his death had already been written, the Force of Ravana was just waiting on a date. Moor flexed his hands wanting the sweet purple hued escape of Phalax, and shoved the urge away.

Fourteen days on the High Council’s train, the last time he would get such a luxury, and Moor reached the foremost train stop at sunset. The stop was bustling with both City and Outlier slang clashing in his ears. Men, so many men, in uniform: grays for leaders and grunts, blues for medics, browns for mapmakers, the occasional green for sniper, while those dressed in black were all carefully unloading explosives off a train car. His own gray uniform was marked with distinct purple bands on the arms designating his status as a Valuable Resource. The uniform was rumpled from sleeping on the train. Moor had only been provided with one spare in his backpack.

He threw the pack he had been allowed on and was herded between his traveling companions. His escorts, Verbose 1 and 2, led him to a horse and they rode into the night. His muscles ached from the ride, he felt dirty and sore; for the past year he had only been playing at solider.

At dawn they reached the first building they had seen in hours. Squad 10’s base was about as far forward as Ravana dare build and the construction of the outpost showed that in mind. Built into one of the rolling hills, it was a two story brick building with only one entrance. The windows were long, thin, and sparse. Defensible, and dull. A few garden plots, with some produce still in late summer, had been set up around the building. Most supplies, the inevitable dried nutrient bars, would be kept inside.

Some of the forts had escape tunnels. The tunnels had been dug at the expense of over thirty low-level grunts’ lives. Moor couldn’t remember if Squad 10 had the escape routes or not. Since he was assigned to this particular base, he thought on a whole—not.

His escorts rode up to the entrance and one said, Dismount. His syllables harsh and jarring to Moor’s ears. Moor dismounted. The other stayed on his horse and held the reins of Moor’s and the dismounted escort’s horse reins loosely in his left hand. Moor followed behind the stern figure into the building, where he would be handed off to Layman Level 7 Fletcher.

Beyond the heavy wood doors lay a large expanse of rocky walls and uneven floor. It looked like the fort was one brick wall in front of a dug-in cave. Walking into the cavern, Moor saw several men crouched half asleep, others played cards, one or two were eating. They stopped and assessed the newcomers, Moor sneezed.

Looking for Layman Level 7 Fletcher, his guard said.

That’s me, one of the men playing cards said. He rose and ruffled a hand through his hair. We’ll talk in my office.

They followed him down the one hallway across the space. The hallway was dark, narrow, and smelled slightly musty. The floor was uneven and he tripped continually over roots and rocks, while the other men walked quietly as cats. The High Commander was a vindictive son of a bitch not only would Moor die, he’d die out of his element, friendless and alone.

They walked into the first doorway on the left. Layman Fletcher’s office had a high square window leaking in early morning light. The room held a desk; maps were pinned to the wall and lying along the right side of the floor lay more maps depicting parts of the Valley and the regions surrounding it.

A typewriter lay on the desk with papers stacked neatly around it. One of the region’s foremost Commanders had once remarked in an aside to Moor: ‘The war will be won with paper; we shall drown the enemy with the numerous orders and directives necessary to maintain the Force of Ravana.’ Moor had come to understand why the High Council had so many shadows under their eyes.

Too many nights spent typing names of the dead.

His guard saluted. Handing off Adjunct Adviser Moor, attached under your direct command until further notice. Layman Fletcher sketched a salute back with a halfhearted motion and Moor’s guard walked out the door.

They stared at each other on opposite sides of the desk. Moor saw an Inner City man, early thirties, tan, dark haired, clean enough, rumpled gray uniform. Moor knew enough to read the symbols marking the plain gray material that Fletcher was from City Block 12. Not the worst, not the best.

So, Fletcher said. His voice was rough, but humor undercut his consonants. You’re a Valuable Resource.

Moor shrugged, cautious.

Fair enough, you ever been in a firefight?

No, Layman. Knives didn't fall under the definition of a firefight.

Shot a gun?

Yes, Layman. Anyone from an Outlying Territory could shoot a gun.

That’s something, what do you advise on?

Language is my specialty, you could say.

Language?

I speak several, which blends over into cultural studies a bit. Makes me pretty versatile on that level.

Useful than, in translating.

Moor shrugged in response. It didn’t seem the time to mention he had been offered, and taken, a position at the revered Institute of Gorgon in Ravana, unheard of at his age, before the war.

Not so useful out in the frontier. Fletcher’s eyes turned hard as he leaned against his desk. He wanted a straight answer, and Moor figured the Layman's intimidation stance must work on low level grunts. Fletcher had nothing on the High Commander, or the High Council.

Fine, Fletcher said after a long moment. You’re joining a squad, there’s me and then Logan Riley, he’s my second, than we got fifteen low level grunts, a mapmaker, a sniper who has also been deemed a valuable resource, he’s got priority over even you, and now you. Fletcher turned off the lazy-guy act, his eyes hard, and his stance rigid. So why has Squad 10 been turned into a dumping ground? Who did you piss off?

Moor shrugged.

I can make your life suck, lad, talk.

I’ve been reassigned here. Two weeks. The reasons behind it were both nebulous and simple. None of the reasons were any he cared to share with a layman with a chip on his shoulder.

Fletcher muttered a curse under his breath. Fine. Let me show you where you’re going to be bunking, you get some sleep, and then I’ll see what use we can get out of you.

He led Moor further back into the fort until they were in the earth itself, rooms hewn from rock. The room was a decent size with beds bunked two high. Moor knew everyone would sleep here except the Layman and his second, who would each have their own room. This’ll be your bunk. Fletcher hit the one by the door on top. This was our medic's, gods help us, they sent you instead of a real replacement. Get some sleep, Moor, you'll need it.

Moor nodded. Fletcher walked out and Moor climbed up the side of the beds to do as he was ordered.

Pain. Someone wrenching his arm behind his back. Submit, someone said, submit, submit. Pain, his arm jerked higher up his back. Pulling away, failing, and kicking back. Free. Landing on the ground, kicking out connecting with a thump. Punch. Left, right, move, left punch, left again. Kick. Hurting, the pain focused in a hold about the neck. Elbow back, left, right, kick, bite hand, bite and not let go. Too late, blackness creeping in. That word again. That damned word. Submit.

Moor jerked awake, one hand going to the knife secured at the small of his back. He had lifted the blade from an unsuspecting grunt at one of the varied train stops on the way out to the front. He was alone in the sleeping room, and with no windows, he didn’t know how long he’d slept. Not enough, but he didn’t seem to sleep too much anymore. Not for two weeks now.

Checking that his pack was at the end of the bed, he chewed some teeth cleaning powder to dispel the taste in his mouth. Moor slung down from the top bunk to tie into his boots riding out the wave of pain in his ribs. He turned to the doorway to see Fletcher leaning against the entryway.

Just about to wake you. Come on then, grab some lunch, I’ll introduce you to everyone else.

Moor nodded.

For someone who knows so many languages, you don’t talk much, do you lad?

Moor smiled slightly. You’d think I’d be a magpie, I know.

You don’t look like someone who would have much experience with Inner City.

Sorry? Moor asked, confused. His uniform clearly stated he was from Outlier 6.

Accent, matches mine. You don’t look like someone who’d have survived my city.

Habit, he replied.

To match accents? Fletcher asked. He turned to meet Moor fully.

Yeah, annoying I know. It’s just something I do to keep myself aware.

Of what?

How I’m talking, what I’m saying, how you’re talking, Moor paused, though I guess I need a new trick, I hadn’t noticed I’d been doing it.

Fletcher said nothing more as they wove their way back deeper into the rocky cavern for the mess hall with a functional kitchen. Moor wondered where the smoke from the fire went, or even if they lit fires. Maybe they ate the packaged food cold, he shuddered, Moor had only had to do that once and that was enough.

About ten other men ate at tables; a few still scooping out their meal into the standard bowls. Moor waited for Fletcher to get his meal first, used to a strict adherence of rank even when Fletcher had paused to talk to someone else on the way to the food line.

Someone Moor recognized, killer, Moor wondered what Harry was doing here, and then whitened. Looked like the High Commander wasn’t too picky about how soon Moor met his demise.

Following along when Fletcher went through the line, Moor was too troubled to do more than wince at the biscuits thrown onto a thin metal plate and oatmeal slopped into a bowl. Two weeks, two weeks, two weeks. It was the only thing he could think, Moor couldn’t get beyond that phrase in his mind as he silently sat where Fletcher gestured and even as the men responded to their commander introducing him. He had never understood the phrase Death was a jealous lover until this moment. She refused to be denied.

And then Harry sat down across from him, silent, hands steady, the water in his cup didn’t move. Moor copied other peoples’ accents to stay sharp; Harry had to stay honed—ready at every moment.

When you’re a killer, Harry had remarked once to Moor after a long briefing, Everyone’s a target. Everyone is a potential target.

To be killed? Moor had asked.

No, to kill you. Death comes easy. When you’ve caused as many as I have, you learn soon, no one is impregnable.

So you stay sharp?

You’ll do Moor, you’ll do. Harry had faded away to return more silent a few months later.

Now he sat across from Moor eating mechanically, jaw bones grinding the hard biscuits down. Quit staring, Moor, and eat.

You two know each other? Fletcher’s second, Layman Level 8 Logan Riley, asked.

Yes, Harry replied, eating another bite. Riley switched his gaze to Moor inquiringly, but Harry kicked him under the table and Moor bit into his biscuit instead. There was nothing subtle in that kick. Riley waited, but once Harry had finished chewing, the sniper switched the conversation.

Harry asked, How long has Squad 10 been out here?

Seems like forever, a man said to the right of Moor. His clothes designated him as low-level solider in gray with no designated abilities to earn him a name badge—in short a grunt.

More like three months, another man said further down the table.

The man next to Moor laughed. Yeah, and they just now saw fit to give us a mapmaker. How long have we been fiddling around on our own? How long have you been here, York?

A few weeks, the mapmaker said. He sat across from Fletcher’s second, two men down from Harry.