Rebel: Iron League Book 3

By DW Johnson

Rain. Trained by her Djinni father
and battle honed on the streets of
Hollowrock, the woman warrior
settles her affairs with sword and fist.

A favor for an old friend delivers her
to the Iron League. The warrior
has no wish to aid the secret sect.
However, fate has another plan.

Now, with the help of a woman possessed,
Rain must summon skills she never realized
she had to end the suffering of an entire city.
D. W. Johnson’s epic novel of sword and sorcery
is jam-packed with excitement and surprises.
It is a non-stop ride, filled with monsters and magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DW Johnson
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005778392

DW Johnson

DW is an author and an artist. He has been creating paintings and photographs for over 40 years. He lives in Eastern Kansas with his daughter, a large epileptic dog, two cats, and a barnyard of chickens and ducks. Before he began writing Fantasy Fiction DW has worn many hats, from publishing an online photography magazine to running a no-kill animal sanctuary.

Book preview

Rebel

Iron League Book 3

DW JOHNSON

Copyright © 2021 by D. W. Johnson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2021

Dedicated to My Heavenly FatherA very special thank you to my daughter Dawn for the love and joy she has continues to bring to my life. Words cannot express how proud I am of her.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.Other

Titles by DW JOHNSON

Darkwater

The Xenkur Chronicles Book 1

Shadowmage

The Xenkur Chronicles Book 2

Songweaver

Iron League Book 1

Warden

Iron League Book 2

Amborlaine

Chapter 1

Fallfell Fell

The smell of burnt wood and despair assaulted Rain’s nose as she stepped through the portal into the cellar of the Gray Star Tavern. Light in the room was a harsh reminder of how long she had been in the domain of the Dwarves.

The warriors’ expectations of seeing Pagdal and relaxing with a cold mug of ale faded as she met three severed fingers and a pool of dried blood at her boots.

Rain understood the meaning of the fingers and the quiet emptiness above her before her brain registered the danger. The tavern common room, only feet above her head, should have been a ruckus of life.

Rain was raised by a true warrior, her Djinni father, a warrior who many said had no equal. And without question, her father had passed down all his skills and his moniker as an undefeatable warrior.

She eased herself across the cellar toward the stairs, moving from shadow to shadow with no noise above her breathing. She avoided the bright beams of light cast onto the cellar floor. Light that should not be in a cramped cellar.

Sunshine from the upper floors piercing the floorboards, thought Rain, no roof to speak of.

Caifiel passed through the portal behind Rain, saw the warrior tensed at the bottom of the steps, and froze, her brain still fuzzy from the spell she used to get them back to Fallfell.

What’s happening?

Rain held up her hand to quiet Caifiel’s panicked voice.

Taking a step onto the charred and broken stairs, praying they held her weight. Nothing good, Rain whispered.

Sounds of steel against steel had the warrior in no hurry to find out what waited at the top of the stairs.

Caifiel’s adrenaline pounded the fog from her brain. The spell, now free of her mind, she had one thought, Pagdal!

The priestess raced to the stairs and flew up them. Rain grabbed the rear of the girl’s cloak as she passed, but it ripped off in the warrior’s hand.

Rain did not expect the priestess to be so brave or reckless to rush up into the unknown. She shook her head. "The gods gave more brains to sheep. They run away from danger."

Halfway up the stairs, Rain slid Nightbane from its sheath and dropped her pack. Screams from the streets above did not hasten Rain’s climb up the stairwell.

A warrior that rushes into combat is defeated before the battle begins. That was just one of the many sayings her father spouted during her training.

Rain had just finished a nightmarish campaign in the bowels of the Dwarven kingdom, one that nearly ended her life. She found it ill-timed to be thrust into another.

An explosion from above and more screams shook her legs and the stairs. Finally, no longer willing to stand on the rickety boards, she made her way up the staircase.

Rain peeked up through the opening of the stairway. Gray Star Tavern was only a scorched-out shell of its former self. The stained-glass windows were broken beyond repair, hand-carved doors burned out of their frames, plush furniture customers used to ease their pains—gone. Portions of the building still smoked.

Through what used to be one window, Rain watched chaos moving across the streets of Fallfell.

People were running between burning buildings, followed by riders in black. Those who could not run fast enough were trampled or stabbed in the back trying to escape, the horror of death frozen on their faces.

The scream of a child gave an urge to the warrior’s legs. Thrusting her out into the chaos. Three riders, laden with studded leather, corralled a small group of women and children across the street.

Rain raced across the road, stopping midway to scream, You! Orc stain! 

Two of the men spun their horses. Then, without hesitation, the riders pressed their mounts forward at a run, racing to the warrior woman.

Rain planted her feet. Turning her body towards the riders, she rubbed her left boot deeper into the dirt road. Gripping one of her katanas with two hands, the woman’s muscles tensed. Seen from a distance, she looked like an iron statue. Unmoving and solemn, Rain had been here so many times before.

A slight grin easing into one corner of the warrior’s lips. And so it begins.

The riders, weapons drawn, each blade still dripping with the blood of innocents, spread their horses’ gaits to arrive at the warrior in succession.

Rain stood still. No labored breath. No shaking hands. Standing fearlessly as the animals and the death that sat upon them raced to her.

Then, before the lead horse ran her down, she spun. Looking more like dancing than combat, she let the katana known as Nightbane loose from her grip, sending the blade as an arrow at the man riding to her. The brigand attempted to block the sword, shock on his face as he realized the woman he had planned on crushing had no intention of being run down.

Instead, Rain held her hands at shoulder height, crouching as if to jump.

Nightbane sunk so deep into his bandit’s chest, one-third of the sword came out the back of his armor. The blood drained from his face as he fell off backward, his horse still at full gallop towards Rain.

The other man pulled his horse to a hard stop when he witnessed his friend fall dead.

Rain waited for the riderless horse to reach her, caught the beast mid-stride, letting the mount’s momentum pull her into the saddle.

Spinning the animal with expert hands, she took off at the other bandit.

The woman warrior rode hard at her foe, no weapon in either hand. The man was so shaken he made no move to escape.

A few hoof strides from her enemy, Rain stretched out her left palm. Father!

The sword that was Nightbane appeared in her grip. Without time to raise sword or shield, the bandit took the blade broadside, cleaving him in two.

Rain raced the horse forward, headed straight at the last bandit, still busy corralling the women. She had no intention of stopping. When the horse would slow, Rain slapped its neck.

Only feet from the bandit, Rain’s horse finally found the will to ignore the warrior’s urge, stopping with all four hooves skidding in the dirt.

Rain let her body go limp. Thrust forward by the horse’s braking, she flew head over heels. When she was entirely in flight, upside down, she tensed, all her muscles curling into a tight ball.

She slammed into the bandit like a cannon blast, knocking him free and plowing them both into the wall nearby.

Rain’s impact, softened by the man’s body, left no mark on her form. She stood without a scratch or bruise.

The bandit, taking the full force of the warrior at breakneck speed, was squashed against the stone wall like a bug under someone’s heel.

Thank you. One woman grasped the warrior’s wrist. You have saved us.

Rain was barely breathing hard. What is happening here? What happened to this town?

Fallfell has fallen. Evil races through it.

How long ago?

Two moons.

I’ve been gone that long, thought Rain. The warrior’s head started pounding. It was not adrenaline but the realization that she had been underground in the Dwarven mountain for most of the season.

That is not possible, Thought Rain. The fires would have died long before now.

Rain patted the woman’s hand. This has been happening for two moons?

No. The woman still clutched Rain’s arm. This is the newest plague. They ransacked the city two moons past, and now every monster from the river to the Great Forest rains down on us.

Take the children, find a place to hide—

The cry of a familiar voice caught Rain mid-sentence. She sprinted back towards what remained of the Gray Star. The same familiar scream changed her course, running deeper into the village.

Rain passed bodies of all kinds, lying dead in the street. There was no time to help the dying while evil still roamed the streets.

She rounded the corner of a building, one of the few structures untouched. On the steps lay a body, its pristine white robes stained with blood.

Caifiel. Rain knelt over the wounded priestess. The cleric’s eyes stared at a sky they could not see.

Rain’s head fell. She had known the woman briefly, but the warrior felt a great sadness. What a waste. So young…

Rain lay the body gently back on the ground, covering Caifiel’s eyes with her own blood-stained palm. May you pass through the darkness.

Another scream, this time from inside the building.

***

Lady Cratha sat behind a large stack of papers, safe but not content in her secret hiding hole. She contemplated the number four of all things.

No matter how hard I work. How tireless members of the league slog, I can never get the task list below four.

It was an odd idea to have, but these days Cratha had been having many such thoughts. The Lady of the League looked over the small parchment in front of her, scribed in her hand. It was a list of sorts — first the number one, followed by the words, nothing from the floating city. Two, Red Mountain is quiet. Three, war in the Straights of Aganon.

Cratha scribbled next to number three, pirates.

She then wrote, Four… Obadella?

The woman librarian turned savior of the people, turned woman hunted, and on the run, leaned back in her chair. She rolled the chunk of Turomite in her hand, then held it up to the light.

I guess this makes five on the list.

Heavy boots attached to an even more serious man worked their way down to Cratha’s secret parlor.

Luli?

My apologies for disturbing you this late.

No problem. Cratha spread her arms wide to show the secret door. My door is always open.

The usually jovial Luli did not laugh or even crack a smile.

Yes, of course. Bad news. Cratha leaned forward in her chair. The muscles in her back tightened, waiting for yet another tragic disappointment.

Fallfell is… gone.

Cratha took a deep breath. It was in a crisis when she ran from the town, but she always believed the Sisters of the Eternal Light would recover and rebuild.

And the priestesses?

Their church is all that remains. They appear to be resigned.

The Matron Mother?

Luli shrugged. I do not have specifics.

Cratha shook her head. Thank you, Luli. I—

The mountain of a man had already turned and left.

Cratha slumped forward onto the desk, her head landing in her arms, yet she refused to cry. There were no tears that could replace the loss—only gritted teeth and the growing realization that the Iron League was crumbling.

Without raising her head, Cratha asked, You heard that?

A shadow rose from across the room, hidden behind a stack of empty kegs. I did.

See it for yourself. Then get back to me.

The shadow moved to the stairs, dowsing the torch that lit them. Our love affair continues.

Lady Cratha did not look up to watch him leave. It does. 

***

Rain burst through the outer doors. No longer did she wish to be stealthy. The vision of Caifiel’s face laced with screaming from inside the building hurled the warrior into a rage beyond caution.

Inside the hall was chaos. Two priestesses knelt by another while a third fended off three attackers.

Gentlemen!

The three turned to see Rain, no weapon in her hand, arms outstretched as if pleading for the lives of the priestesses. Muscles taut, a warrior’s build, Rain was a formidable vision.

But a woman was no match for three men. Easy prey, they thought.

Rain smiled, not something she often did. Let us pray.

Two of the men rushed towards the warrior, the third staying to handle the priestesses.

Two. Not even worth soiling my blades.

Rather than draw steel, Rain grasped the nearest heavy object, a large iron cast bust of some deity, swinging it up and into the man on her right. She thought she heard No before smashing it into his skull.

The other foe swung short, missing Rain’s stomach. His attack caught nothing but air until it embedded the blade in the side of a pylon. The man desperately tried to pull the sword free.

Bad day for you. Rain brought her knee up hard to the man’s grip, smashing his wrist, forcing it the wrong way. A satisfying crack caught her ears.

The bandit screamed in pain.

Rain wrapped her hand around the handle of Nightbane. It will only get worse.

Maka, help me! the man cried out, but no response came.

Rain glanced over the bandit’s shoulder to see the priestess had handled the third brigand.

Your friend’s dead.

The bandit’s eyes shot back and forth. Rain recognized the look — fear mixed with pain.

Door’s behind me. Use it.

The outlaw was almost at the exit before she finished her sentence.

Rain released her grip on the katana, turning to the priestesses. The warrior moved with a slow, steady pace, her hands held out.

The priestess, hovering over the others, pointed her sword at Rain. I see what you can do without a weapon, warrior. I ask that you go no further.

I am not here for a fight.

If that is so, I thank you for your aid, but I cannot call you ‘friend.

I am here to help.

The woman on the floor was bleeding from her shoulder. One eye bruised, so it could not open. Tima, it’s all right. She is a friend.

Rain dropped her hands. Matron Mother, I assume.

Yes, warrior. Your arrival is well-timed.

The three priestesses eased their guard, tending to the Matron Mother.

Rain knelt by the priestess. The Matron Mother called her "friend, but she could not remember ever meeting a Sister of the Eternal Light, nor any female priestess. Do we know each other?"

No. Not exactly. But we share a common friend.

Common?

Cratha Nalinskat.

Rain remembered the name from her time with Arastor. Yes, the Lady—

The librarian from Fallfell, the Matron Mother shot back.

Rain only nodded.

The priestess stood with the help of her sisters. I am Janal Burningblade, Matron Mother of the Sisters of the Eternal Light. She attempted a half-bow, wincing in pain. It would be an honor if you stayed the night with us.

More screams came from outside.

The townsfolk?

My sisters will see to the rabble. You have already done much. Janal looked over at Rain, her armor and skin soaked in blood. You look as though you could use some rest.

Matron Mother, your wounds. You are in no shape to host—

It’s all right, Tima. I only need prayer.

Rain motioned behind her. I have a friend outside on your doorstep…

Janal nodded. Yes, I know. We will see to her as well.

***

Though it pained Rain to do so, she did as the Matron Mother asked and stayed in the chapel. Her muscles remained tense, listening to the battle outside the church walls. A warrior without war is as useful as a dull blade. Another of father’s sayings.

After the sun had set, the cries of battle outside subsided. The clang of metal and hooves then followed, fading as the bandits that still lived rode out of town.

Headed East.

I’m sorry. What is that you said? The Matron Mother was doing her best to host, but it was apparent she was weak and in considerable pain.

Nothing Milady, Rain finally relaxed. What happened to Fallfell?

Tima can fill you in. I must retire for more prayer.

Of course. Rain bowed, but the Matron Mother waved her off.

Tima showed Rain to a small room. You can sleep here.

The warrior had spent many nights in small rooms — inns, dungeons, even a jail cell or two, but never a cloister.

The cubby was sparse, even by Rain’s standards. A washbasin sat on a small table. Clean priestess robes lay on a bed that was too small for Rain’s needs.

Tima. What happened to the town?

It is not a pleasant story.

Rain motioned to the blood on her armor. I have no issue with vile stories.

Tima laid out the last two moons for Rain. Cratha’s escape along with Obadella and the Matron Mother. The burning of the Gray Star Tavern and the subsequent bands of rovers looting and killing at will.

Rain eased out of her armor, muscles sore and still healing from the tortures under the mountain. It will continue.

Tima looked puzzled. What?

The killing. The burning.

But Fallfell has nothing left to take.

Rain slipped off her chainse. A bruise the size of a man’s torso covered her right side. It matters not. They will come from all corners to steal what has already been looted. They will take and take until nothing remains of Fallfell save dirt and memories.

Tima shook her head, Such evil.

You have no idea, Rain thought. The warrior pulled off her boots, shaking out the dirt and dried blood. Your Matron Mother is a brave woman. That is a rare ingredient these days.

Tima left without comment, closing the small door behind her.

 After washing, she changed into the robes. It was the only clothing she had that was not stained with the blood of others.

I left my pack on the stairs.

As if by divine cue, a woman, young, only a teen, opened the door, setting Rain’s pack on the floor.

I wonder if that was a coincidence.

Rain sat on the floor next to her pack, preferring the hard stone to the down-filled bed. She emptied the contents. The Dwarves of the Ruby Mountain had insisted on packing it for her.

Along with Rain’s items, it contained various parchments with notes of thank you’s and Bless the gods. A few small pieces of jewelry, each Dwarven made and most likely valuable. Rain had no use for the items. She did not wear jewelry.

At the bottom of the pack was a raven’s feather from Arastor and a small leather bag.

Rain opened the pouch, pouring out three rings. One made of obsidian, one of wood, and one of iron.

***

Cratha slid the box across the counter. It’s the only piece I have.

The woman on the other side, cloaked in a red robe and hood so as only to show strands of blonde hair, placed her hand on the box. I am sure it will be enough.

It will bind your magic?

"My