Warlord Conquering (The Great Insurrection Book 3) Read online

  Warlord Conquering

  The Great Insurrection™ Book Three

  David Beers

  Michael Anderle

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2021 LMBPN Publishing

  Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design

  http://jcalebdesign.com / [email protected]

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First edition 2021

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64971-402-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64971-403-9

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Written History of the Great Insurrection

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  The Written History of the Great Insurrection

  Author Notes - David Beers

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Also by David Beers

  Books By Michael Anderle

  Connect with The Authors

  The Warlord Conquering Team

  Thanks to our Beta Readers

  Kelly O’Donnell, John Ashmore, Rachel Beckford

  Thanks to our JIT Readers

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  Angel LaVey

  Diane L. Smith

  John Ashmore

  Kelly O’Donnell

  Jeff Goode

  Dave Hicks

  Editor

  SkyHunter Editing Team

  Dedication

  For my brother, Danny.

  — David

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  to Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  to Live the Life We Are

  Called.

  — Michael

  Part I

  Chapter One

  “Eternal vigilance is the price of success.”

  —Adrian de Livius, father of the Titan Ares

  Ares was born Romulus de Livius. At birth, no one knew his call sign would one day be Ares; he was just a boy born to a prestigious family. It happened every day across the Solar System, but those children didn't have a father as ambitious as Romulus'.

  No one could have known what the boy would grow into. His father had plans for himself and his distinguished family.

  Romulus would remember his first lesson until his final breath, and that was his father's intention. The lessons Romulus learned as a child would shape his life as an adult.

  He was eight years old and already starting to demonstrate the physical prowess that would separate him from his peers. He got top marks in his sparring classes and had been ranked number one in his quadrant for two years. At six years old, this might not mean much, but by eight, the competition was rising.

  Romulus' father, Adrian de Livius, didn't attend all the sparring sessions and rarely visited a practice. He showed up at the ones that mattered, where his boy would be challenged.

  He monitored his son's progress closely, knowing that being the best would take eternal vigilance. When he heard his son was starting to slack off, he didn't immediately run to the child's room. He waited since he wasn't a man of quick temper. He was a hard man, though, and when the lesson was delivered, it would not be forgotten.

  A challenger had risen through the ranks, beating those who should have cut him down early and easily. Adrian didn't ask his son if he’d heard about him but rather watched the newcomer's rise. He racked up win after win, and without telling Romulus, Adrian went to watch this young challenger.

  He lacked Romulus’ physicality, as well as his strength, speed, and grace. However, Adrian immediately saw that what the boy lacked in natural gifts, he made up for in precision and technique—the fundamentals.

  He still didn't go to his son. He let the training sessions continue and read the reports from the trainer.

  The match was finally scheduled, this newcomer versus Romulus de Livius. Adrian was in attendance.

  A match went four rounds of five minutes apiece. Even at eight years old, matches could be brutal. The boys chose which fighting forms to use: hand to hand combat with wooden sticks, whips, and the like.

  In the first round, Romulus was stunned when the boy attacked him with a stick in each hand. Romulus used his single pole, and his speed kept the boy at bay, but the newcomer's technique allowed him to gain inch by inch. The two sticks came down again and again, but each time Romulus tried to strike back, he was blocked.

  The newcomer's shorter stick smacked Romulus across the face.

  The young boy fell to one knee, blood dripping on the ground from his mouth.

  The crowd gasped. No one could remember the last time Romulus had taken a blow, let alone one so devastating.

  Adrian did not gasp or move. From the stands, he watched his son. Slowly the young boy looked up, and there was fear in his eyes—fear of losing and of the pain that would come with it.

  He rose to his feet before the judge's count was finished, then reached up and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his forearm. The fight began again, and this time, Romulus was much more cautious. His usual speed and grace were marked by fear. The newcomer? He continued his relentless forward motion, chopping with his sticks, kicking, retreating when necessary.

  The first round ended, and the newcomer won. The only scorecard required was the bruise swelling up on Romulus’ cheek, the underlying bone most likely broken.

  The second round began, and Romulus came out with a fury of strikes—fists, pole, feet, anything he could use. He hit the new boy many times, but the most damaging attacks were turned away.

  At the end of his rampage, Romulus was winded, and the other boy showed no injuries. Romulus’ opponent started in again—a machine, much slower and less powerful than his opponent, but one who did not stop.

  Romulus was on the defensive, and the blow that dropped him this time was to his knee.

  Adrian didn’t flinch as his boy fell to the ground holding his kneecap. The father understood the knee was fractured. He only wondered if his progeny would rise again.

  Romulus found his way to his feet, though he wobbled on one leg. The round ended.

  The boy didn't look at his father, only stared across the yard at his opponent. The fear was gone. Now there was hate. Disgust.

  The third round sta
rted. There was no flurry from Romulus; rather, he was careful this time, practiced and showing the fundamentals that had made him stand out among his peers. He was damaged, though, and everyone watching knew it.

  A devastating blow midway through the round broke Romulus' collarbone, leaving him with only his left leg and right arm still working.

  The people in the audience looked at Adrian, wondering if he would call the match and save his son from further damage.

  Romulus’ father didn't glance at them, nor did he stand up. He would not stop this, not even if it meant his son died on the field below. The red blood dotting the brown grass did not bother him, nor did the shattered bones. Adrian kept his eyes on his son.

  His son's face bore resignation, the knowledge that he was going to face his first loss, and he most likely would be dealt more pain over the next few minutes. However, Romulus never looked at the audience. He did not shrink from his duty. He hobbled to the middle of the yard and used his skills as best he could. He made the newcomer circle this time, lashing out whenever his opponent tried to close the gap.

  The blow that felled him wasn't fancy, but it was brutal.

  One of the newcomer's smaller sticks smashed against the back of his head, and Romulus collapsed to the ground. The eight-year-old boy was broken, bruised, and unconscious. Adrian got up from the stands and left the arena.

  Adrian didn't let the boy's mother see him in the infirmary. He went alone, denying the trainer access as well. The boy’s collarbone had already been repaired, and preparations were being made for his face. It was a delicate procedure, and to retain his facial structure as he aged, it would most likely need to be repeated.

  Adrian walked into the room, and the droid docs looked at him. Something passed between them, and the three moved out of the room, leaving the father alone with his son.

  Adrian walked over to the room's only window and placed his hands behind his back.

  The boy was in pain. Adrian had made sure the medicine they gave him wasn’t strong enough to dull his wits.

  Minutes passed in silence. Neither said anything. It wasn't the boy's place, and Adrian knew this lesson had to remain with him for the rest of his life.

  His voice broke through the silence. "Why did you lose?"

  "He was..."

  His father interrupted him ruthlessly. "Think before you answer me, boy."

  The child shut his mouth and said nothing for a long time. Adrian didn't bother him or interrupt his thinking. He just stared out the window, waiting.

  "I was lazy."

  At eight years old, it was a very honest and intelligent answer. It was also not stated as a question but a fact.

  Adrian nodded. "That's right. You've been lazy for the past six months. Your trainer came to me and told me, boy. I said to let you do as you chose." He turned, and his eyes fell on the child. There were tears in Romulus' eyes. "Wipe them away. Your eyes and face give away your thoughts every time I look at them. Perhaps an eight-year-old child won't use it to his advantage, but a man? They will eat you alive, skin you as you watch, rip your flesh from your bones, and roast it as you cry."

  The boy said nothing, only wiped his face as his father commanded.

  "Hear me now, and remember my words. Your bloodline is pristine, boy. Perhaps I'm arrogant, but I'd put it against the Ascendant's. You are above the rest of the planet by your birthright." He paused to take a deep breath and calm himself. "Runts like that child today will destroy you if you try to rest on your genetics. They will outwork you. Out-practice you. They will kill you."

  He placed his hands behind his back and took a measure of the boy. Romulus’ eyes were dry, and his face was devoid of emotion.

  Adrian continued, "I watched you get beaten badly this morning. I watched your body be broken, and I showed no emotion. From this day forth, let me never hear that you are not outworking everyone on this planet. Do not let me see a single emotion cross your face. Do you understand, boy?"

  Romulus nodded, and for the first time, Adrian felt proud, although there was no emotion on his face. "Yes, Father."

  Many years later, Ares remembered his father's words. His Whip had been taken from him, and perhaps his honor as well. That was yet to be determined.

  Adrian’s words had guided him for so long, and now he went back to them for their wisdom.

  Show no emotion.

  Outwork everyone.

  All of his men had been Clipped; virtually everyone still alive on the ship who wasn't needed to operate it had been Clipped. Alistair had not Clipped Ares, though, nor Veena or Hel. The three of them sat in different cells, but on the same level, in the brig. They could see each other.

  However, their voices couldn't travel to each other. Hel had tried signing to them. Veena deciphered it for a bit, but Ares had simply laid down in the cell and stared at the ceiling. He knew he wasn't a perfect student of his father's lessons. There was always room for improvement. He had let his emotions slip with that woman before, and he would not do it again.

  His true feelings about her were simple: he'd like to fuck her, then kill her. It was the cruelest thought to ever go through his head, but there it was. Her masterful plans had failed disastrously, and they had been captured by six people. Ares would have laughed if he wasn't so aware of the shame he'd brought his family.

  He didn't understand why Alistair hadn't Clipped him, but he thought it was probably a mind trick. If Alistair gave them a bit of freedom, maybe he thought they would give him the information he needed.

  If he truly believed that, the man was a fool. Modified and massive, he was dumber than a sack of potatoes.

  Ares had learned how to tell time without clocks in the Academy. He knew he'd been here just under twenty-four standard hours. He'd dozed for a bit to keep his mind on point and spent the rest of the time on his back, staring up and remembering his father's words.

  If there was any chance to return honor to his family, he’d have to remember.

  The elevator started moving in the tunnel outside his cell. Ares turned his head to the right but didn't get up. After twenty-four hours, the Commonwealth had heard Alistair’s insane message, and plans were in motion. There was simply no way Alistair could hold this ship. Ares wasn’t worried about him, but about the Myrmidons.

  They were something he couldn't predict.

  He watched the elevator descend and stop in front of him. Alistair stood on the other side of the glass panels. The hellish animal was at his side. Ares didn't stand. The man's hands were bruised and swollen but healing quickly. That was the modification. The anger and fury that had possessed him before were gone.

  Ares had known that man as Odin, but the criminals he ran with now called him Prometheus. By either name, Ares knew him well.

  This one was Alistair Kane. Measured. Smart, but not witty. Not someone who rushed to decisions, but once they were made, he held firmly to them.

  The two personalities were opposites in many ways.

  The elevator panels opened, then the glass panels partly opened, but one of the Subversives had damaged them in their mad rush to free Alistair.

  A short bridge rolled out through the gap, and Alistair squeezed his hulking body through the opening and into the cell. The animal waited on the other side of the bridge, but his eyes never left his master.

  Ares turned his head to the ceiling again. He said nothing and showed no emotion.

  Alistair walked to the ledge in the cell and sat down, then leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. "I need the passcodes, Ares."

  Ares blinked slowly. "This is where I say, ‘What passcodes?’"

  Alistair sighed. They both knew what passcodes. On interstellar missions, each Primus, Fleet or Titan, was given passcodes to the ship that allowed for self-destruction, not just for the ship they were on, but for the entire Fleet if necessary. Veena had them, but so did Ares. In case Veena died and the entire fleet was captured, the Ascendant preferred destruction.

  W
hy Veena hadn’t used them when Alistair took over the ship, Ares didn't know.

  "I don’t have time for games," Alistair said. "I need the codes. I imagine all three of you have them, but I decided I'd come to you first since we have history." He shook his head.

  Ares chuckled with his hands resting on his stomach. That fit with his father's lesson because it wasn't real emotion. Truthfully, he wanted to kill Kane, but he knew trying to do so right now would be futile. "I'm not giving you anything, Alistair. We both know you're in an untenable position, and if you don't kill me, the dreadnoughts coming for this ship will. You have nothing to threaten me with."

  "I'm not here to threaten you. I'm here to offer you your life. If you give me the codes, I'll make sure you live."

  He turned his head to look at Alistair. "Do you think so little of me, that I'd sacrifice my honor for my life? I'm not you, Alistair. My honor is everything. The only reason I haven't tried to commit suicide is I still believe I'm going to kill you."

  "That's what you think, isn't it?" Alistair asked. "That I have no honor?"

  "Look around you, man. You've got two Primuses in a brig on a hijacked dreadnought, and you're trying to get codes to destroy the Commonwealth dreadnoughts coming for you. I'm not sure you ever had any honor. If you hadn't created that monstrosity out of your body, I would have already killed you. You're not the man I thought you were."