Shattered Warriors: Shattered Warriors, #1

By KC Flatt

The Qikan...

Their past is a mystery.

Their present: treacherous.

Their future: doomed.

Erza, Warrior-Queen of the Qikan, is the last of the proud Leonidas line. Like her father before her, she strives to reunite her scattered people.

When a Qikan Warrior discovers an ancient relic; Erza races against time, Curses, and Madness to save her race from extinction.

...and the hunky human professor is helping.

Whether he likes it or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KC Flatt
• Release date: Jan 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386398486

KC Flatt

KC Flatt is a housewife and mother in Ohio. Born and raised on a farm in Kansas, she always dreamed of a huge family with a bevy of critters and kids darting underfoot. She's working on that dream, as well as the dream of writing stories that people come back to again and again.

Book preview

Shattered Warriors

Shattered Warriors, Volume 1

KC Flatt

Published by KC Flatt, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

SHATTERED WARRIORS

First edition. January 1, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 KC Flatt.

ISBN: 978-1386398486

Written by KC Flatt.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Shattered Warriors

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- 4

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Glossary

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Further Reading: Fate's Curse

Also By KC Flatt

Pr­­­ologue

1632, Aydon Castle, England

Her eyes snapped open; the pounding of her heart deafening in the cramped, shadowed space. Confusion muddled her brain for an instant—she didn't remember crawling beneath her bed. She slowly rubbed crusty sleep from her eyes with trembling hands. Sweat trickled from her face onto the frigid flagstones. The resounding thump of boots echoed through the stone halls beyond the thick oak door. She stiffened, panic paralyzing her limbs.

Be Vladimir coming to check on me; please be Vladimir! She begged whatever deity would listen.

Her stomach knotted into a hard ball as she drew cold air into her lungs. She knew it wasn't the butler's son.

She'd known Vladimir since the hour of her birth. In the sixteen years since, he had never once made a sound when he moved. Only one other person was allowed near her bedchamber...

Thick fingers grasped the edge of the door and slowly pushed it open; the hinges shrieking in protest. Her breath came in labored puffs, as a cloying, metallic scent wafted to her nostrils, clogging her nose. In the dimness of her room, mirrored flames performed a deadly dance in the shining black of his boots. The tip of a dripping blade lightly scored the floor, sending sparks flashing across the stone. The scarlet drops glittered merrily in the light from his torch; ensnaring her gaze. Her knotted stomach lurched at the macabre sight. She worked to control her lungs, afraid the man might hear her wheezing gasps.

Calm yourself! You'll never survive an attack if you become a hysterical ninny! Vladimir's stern commands from their training sessions barked in her mind, jerking her out of her panicked state.

She slowly drew in a deep breath, ignoring the bitter tang in the air as she forced her terror-stiffened body to silently creep to the foot of the large, four-poster bed. The boots approached the side of the bed, freezing her motions. She waited, and watched as cold sweat pooled along her spine.

She felt the frame above her shudder as the man jerked the heavy furs off the thick mattress. He cursed violently. She didn't dare react to the sound of that familiar voice. He'd kill her despite what they'd once been to each other.

He stomped across the room; his body becoming more visible with distance, and thrust his sword through the door of her wardrobe. The blade creaked to a halt. The man yanked sharply, but the weapon refused to withdraw from the aged oak slab.

Now! While his back is turned!

Her compact, teenaged body skittered out from under the bed, and darted for the door, snagging her sheathed sword off the footboard as she ran. She heard wood splintering and shouting. Large, thudding footsteps sprinted after her. She didn't stop; didn't make the mistake of looking back.

Life depends on action! Her mind screamed.

Reaching the end of the torch-lit hall, she threw out her hand. Catching the banister, she used the momentum to swing herself around the corner and onto the stairs below. She slipped on the wet, crimson steps. Her heart pounded as she tumbled down the last few risers. The heavy tread of boots above her shoved icicles of fear down her spine. She leapt from the floor, racing across the great hall to the castle door. Heaving against the heavy oak bar bolting the portal shut, she felt her biceps strain, but the beam wouldn’t rise.

Nowhere to run, little Erza? His tenor voice taunted her as the footsteps stopped. Resting her forehead on the door, she took a deep, bracing breath of fetid air. She spun, pulling her sword free, and casting the scabbard aside in one smooth motion. Ignoring her heart thundering in her ears, she studied her foe, knowing a single miss-step would cost her life.

He stood over six feet tall. His dull green eyes narrowed at the naked katana in her hand. Erza blinked, surprised at his attire. He wasn't wearing his habitual suit of armor. His leather breeches stretched over enormous thighs. The pale blue tunic she'd sewn him had splashes of crimson marring the fine weave. It had been a pure, solid azure when she'd given it to him. She wondered for a moment whose blood soaked into the sturdy fabric.

Obviously, Rupert, Erza said to the dark-haired conqueror before her.

Erza drove away all memories of fondness. The last five years had left nothing but hatred festering in her heart for the rampant beast dominating the hall.

She registered movement from the corner of her eye, but remained focused on her opponent. Whoever had come to watch her die could just sit there and enjoy the unfolding chaos.

Rupert's face darkened from pale ivory to ruddy beet.

Don't take that tone with me, young lady! I'm your father. I deserve your respect! He roared, his hand tightening on the hilt of his naked sword.

When you're about to turn me into worm fodder? I don't think so. Besides, you haven't been a father to me in a long time. The Warriors are more paternal than you are. They at least care about me, she replied, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone.

Feigning calm, Erza advanced; taking a guarded position in the middle of the room. She flicked away the cold beads of sweat streaming down her brow; she couldn't afford to be blinded.

"They tolerate you on my orders, you impudent little rat!" He screamed, swinging his broadsword toward her head.

Her mind and body automatically tuned in to her lessons as she ducked, and danced gracefully around her father. He was heavier, with more muscle, but he was also old and slow. She had the advantage of youth and speed, if not experience in actual combat.

Rupert fought to kill.

Erza fought to survive.

Years of training in combat with Vladimir kept her mind focused, and her hands steady through the upheaval of battle. Her katana bit and stung his flesh with each jab, further maddening him. Her light-weight sword wouldn't hold out if she blocked his attacks directly, so she darted around him. Slicing skin as she moved, never keeping still. He couldn't kill what he couldn't catch.

Erza slipped on the blood-soaked floor. Her back slammed into the stone, air whooshing from her lungs. A shimmering yellow glinted nearby. Instinctively, she rolled toward it...right under her father's feet; his blade mere inches from chopping her head off.

He tripped over her, landing hard on his face. Before he could rise, she spun onto his back, lifted her blade, and thrust it between his shoulder blades at the angle Vladimir had taught her.

Her sword pierced his heart.

Panting, she settled her head on clenched fists, still gripping the sword hilt. The cool air prickled Erza's fevered skin as her mind spun.

What just happened? She thought, dazed. Did I really just kill the Rex? Have I truly killed the King...my father? Oh, God, how am I going to face my mother...my brother and sisters? What am I going to do?

She staggered away from the corpse, her sword making an ugly sucking sound as she drew it from the body. Thick, muscled arms wrapped around her, and settled her into a sturdy wooden chair. She gazed about the stark room numbly, her heart shrinking as she saw the witnesses of her transgression.

The Warriors of the Qikan stood before her bloodied form. The elite fighting force of her race who answered only to the Rex. These men had taught her to fight, to kill, and to protect the Rex with her life. She hung her head, fighting back the burning tears welling behind her eyes. Her crime was their shame: for she had murdered the Rex in their very home. In her home.

Ye did well, Lass. Ye fought bravely. The rumbling purr brought her head up to stare into Roderick Cano's piercing amber eyes. He was one of her father's oldest and most loyal Warriors.

"I would say thank you, but I know the laws too well. I killed the Rex, so you have to execute me," she replied. Her adrenaline-fueled body trembled as the natural drug left her system.

She rubbed the goose-bumps along her arms, unsure if they were caused by the cold room, or terror. Erza thought, I slew my father to survive... and now I'll have to pay for it with the very life I tried to save.

"The law states that I have to kill ye only if ye murdered the Rex. However, as a member of the Leonidas clan, you were eligible to challenge him for the right to rule. Since you won the challenge, ye ascend the throne as our Regina," Roderick said; his bald, tattooed head devoid of lines. His expressionless face gave away none of his true feelings.

That's the way of it, now, m'Lady. That's the way, Michael Hesketh neighed, slapping a hand on his hip.

Lucius Akylas just nodded, but smiled his reassurance. Erza felt most relieved when she saw Lucius's smile reach his eyes. The silent warrior's eyes were truly the windows to his inner thoughts.

"I never heard the little rat challenge the Rex! She murdered him without qualms!" Marcus Vulpiano, butler to the Rex, called from the nearby kitchen door. His son, Vladimir, hovered behind him.

The law has to be enforced; you must execute the murderess! Marcus cried, stabbing a pudgy finger toward Erza.

His words perforated Erza's heart; a cat's raking claws over tender flesh.

Ignore the mewling idiot, m'Lady. Who's the Council going to believe: the Warriors or a butler from a family outside of the social hierarchy? Michael said, strolling to the high table. He flopped onto a sturdy oak bench, and poured himself a mug of mead.

Lucius just patted her shoulder before heading over to grab his own cup of the honey-beer.

That's settled, then, Roderick said, joining his compatriots. He still gave away no hint of his inner thoughts.

I don't care if you are the four noblest families of our race! If you won't uphold our laws, I will! Marcus cried, yanking an old knife from the nearest table, and charging toward Erza.

"Father, NO!"

Marcus jerked and fell forward before the Warriors could react. A six-inch carving knife pierced his back. Her heart lodged in her throat, Erza looked to the door. Vladimir slowly lowered his quivering right arm.

The law also states that any claimed by the Madness must be killed, Roderick said, his tone even. He sounded unconcerned with the pair of bloody corpses littering the great hall's stone floor.

Long live the last of the Leonidas, Vladimir whispered, bowing to Erza as tears coursed down his pale, wizened face.

The last? What do you mean? Erza asked, her gaze traveling from one burly man to another. None but Roderick would meet her eyes.

The Madness plaguing our race finally broke yer father. He went on a killing spree. Ye were his last victim, and he failed to kill ye. Roderick's voice retained his customary monotone. The man didn't do emotion... no matter what the circumstances.

Tears streaked her face as her dazed mind finally realized what he was saying. Her family was dead. Every last one of them. She vaguely saw Vladimir glide across the room to her side; soundless, as always. He wrapped his ancient arms around her, pulling her into his chest. His scent—cinnamon, clove, and pineapple—drifted to her nose as the hard thump of his heart soothed her tormented soul.

Vladimir? She whispered, her vision tunneling.

Hmmm? He rumbled in his chest.

She vaguely wondered why he'd done it. Why did he kill his only living relative in order to save me?

Never oil the hinges or cover the floors of my home. Ever. She said, pulling him closer, needing the strength in his strong arms.

"As you wish, my Regina," He answered softly, squeezing her tight.

I'm all alone now, Erza thought as cool, welcoming darkness claimed her.

*****

The rustling hiss began to dissipate. She curled up into a tiny ball, and rocked in a dark corner as the Warriors carried their unconscious Regina away. She hadn't been able to do much, but at least Erza was alive. That was all that really mattered to her—Erza's life. So long as their Regina lived so would their people. That's all that mattered...really.

Her eyes burned as tears poured down her cheeks. She wiped her dripping nose on her tunic-sleeve, and buried her damp face in her arms.

They're all gone, she thought as the shadows thickened around her. Everyone’s gone. No one will ever play with me again...nor even talk to me. I'll be stuck here in the darkness forever...all alone. She clutched her worn cloth doll to her chest, her heart constricting. Now she knew how the rags felt when the maids wrung them out after a washing...

Agony.

She closed her eyes, and wished with all her tiny, childish heart that the rustling had never begun.

Chapter One

2016, New Orleans

Lucius Akylas raked a hand through his sandy, brown hair and swallowed the last of his vodka. As the bartender refilled his glass for the fifth time, Lucius checked the clock on his phone, the screen's glow nearly blinding.

Two forty-three.

He mentally cursed as he realized his contact was over an hour late. Why the hell did he get stuck with this assignment? Any of the other Warriors would be better suited to meeting a member of their race; at least they could talk to the person.

He sighed heavily, his eyes roaming the dim, smoky bar room. The cloying scent of hops, cheap cigars, and body sweat invaded his nostrils. A blaze of light flashed along the wall. He jerked his head toward the door, but it was just another set of leather-clad bikers looking to knock the dust off their tongues with cheap whiskey. Why any self respecting man would want to meet in a bar was beyond him.

Lucius went back to his glass of Goose, and pondered his comrades. He knew why the Regina had chosen him—the Eagle—for this task, but he didn't have to like it. Out of all the Warriors, he was the least offensive to outsiders. Not that he was proud of that fact. He'd love to be able to insult...well, anyone! Seriously, sometimes Erza and the others took his condition for granted. She'd never force one of the others to do this job, and for good reason.

Roderick Cano, for instance, was an emotionless robot with no sense of tact or subtlety. He was a master in tactics, certainly, but he lacked any kind of social graces. Well, he had social graces; he just didn't bother to use them—ever. He'd probably ask their contact straight out if he was human or not, then shoot him if the man dared to say 'no.' Wolves didn't have much of a sense of humor, and Roderick had even less of one.

Lucius shook his head, and threw back a large swallow of liquor. A loud bang reverberated through the room, shaking the glasses behind the bartender with a twinkling sound. Another glance at the door showed a blonde waitress, obviously late for work, scrambling toward the pass-through. He returned to contemplating his half-empty glass.

Faolan Hesketh, Michael's heir, was an abrasive man with a huge attitude problem. He was too young and green to properly greet those new to their own race. If the stranger looked at him funny, the boy would most likely kill him. The Colt was a ticking time bomb. Stallions were like that in the wild, though. High-strung, always picking fights, flighty. No, the young Horse wasn't ready for a mission of this caliber. Lucius rubbed at his goatee in frustration. Bloody Horse is still