The Complete Madion War Trilogy Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Map

  The Island

  Preamble

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  The Chasm

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  The Union

  Part I

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Part II

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  The Prince and the Heiress

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Also By

  Biography

  The Madion War Trilogy

  S. Usher Evans

  Line Editing by Danielle Fine

  Madion War Trilogy logo designed by [email protected]

  Phoenix and Lion Icons courtesy of VectorPortal.com

  Copyright © 2017 Sun's Golden Ray Publishing

  ISBN: 9781370890866

  Smashwords edition

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  THE MADION WAR TRILOGY

  The Island

  The Chasm

  The Union

  S. Usher Evans

  Fifty years ago,

  Citing the gross abuse of its people and resources, the Raven people declared their independence from the kingdom of Kylae.

  The Madion War has raged on ever since.

  ONE

  Theo

  "Oi, Kallistrate."

  Zlatan could have been referring to any one of ten of the air force pilots in the crowded locker room. Kallistrate was the Raven word for orphan and in this war-torn country, there were more of us without parents than with. But the disrespectful tone was proof enough that Zlatan was talking to me. After all, I was the only female in the vicinity who outranked him.

  My lieutenants watched us, a sea of dark faces and white eyes wide in nervous excitement. Zlatan was a brute, thickset and entitled, an older addition to our ranks who liked to throw his weight around to the younger pilots. He'd never directly tussled with me before, and I was interested to see how far he would go.

  "I heard you bragging to Lanis about that skirmish last week," Zlatan sneered at me with his round face and eyes crowded a little too close together.

  "You mean my debrief?" I said casually. "As a captain, part of my duties are to report the outcome of a mission to leadership."

  The emphasis of my rank did not go unnoticed. The other pilots snickered as his already dark face grew more so.

  "You think you're pretty good, huh? Surviving a couple dogfights don't make you no better than the rest of us," he snarled.

  I'd never had much of an ego, especially when it came to idiots, so I turned to my locker and began stripping out of my jumpsuit.

  Zlatan had a different idea. He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, his putrid breath in my space. "Captain or not, you don't turn your back on me, bitch."

  In response, I kneed him hard in the groin, and he fell to his knees, his face red with pain. The other pilots let out a cheer—every one of them was hoping Zlatan wouldn't return one day. But he had a nasty habit of faking illness whenever the sirens wailed and called us to defend our country.

  As Zlatan howled and cried, I finished changing out of my jumpsuit and left the crowded locker room before I attracted any more trouble.

  I wasn't in the mood to celebrate a fellow Raven's beating, even one who so tantalizingly deserved it. My captain's training course had made it clear that I was to be a leader, to keep morale high. Ever since declaring our independence from the nation of Kylae some fifty years ago, we'd been under constant attack as the bastards kept trying to bring us back into the fold. The forward operating base at Vinolas was the first line of defense against Kylae's aerial attacks on the northern coast of our island nation, but we were woefully understaffed and undertrained. I had a squadron of twenty pilots, most of whom were teenagers, conscripted at the age of twelve and barely trained before showing up to fly for me.

  However, only nineteen had returned from this morning's mission, I noted with a grimace. I tried not to think about who I hadn't seen in the locker room.

  After the morning's surveillance and the skirmish with Zlatan, I was eager to find quiet. I hadn't really known any other home but metal bunkbeds and gruel, so the large dormitory was welcoming to me. I'd long ago learned how to create a privacy bubble for myself, even in the presence of two hundred other pilots jammed in there.

  But before I could climb into bed, there was commotion at the end of the giant hall where we slept. A group of still-uniformed young girls huddled around a bed, crying and wailing. I didn't know them, but I knew the sound. They'd known the pilot who hadn't returned. Although we hadn't encountered any enemies, our equipment was old and failed regularly when not maintained. Those who didn't learn how to change oil or check for problems didn't make it very long.

  My sanctuary was calling, but my humanity was louder. With a deep breath, I approached the miserable circle and forced a grim smile onto my face. When they noticed me, one of them had the state of mind to stand, but I waved her off with a small shake of my head.

  "What was her name?" I should've been used to these conversations, but I couldn't keep the crack of emotion out of my voice.

  "Marij." The girls couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen, and this seemed to be their first loss of a friend. I wished I could tell them it would be their last.

  I struggled to push out the words that I'd been trained to say since I'd been promoted. "Marij died in the cause of Raven independence. There is no greater honor."

  The sentiment fell flat on the girls, but one of them half-smiled at me. "Thank you, 'neechai."

  I bristled at the Raven word for "sister"—it wasn't so much a translation, but a sentiment. The old Raven language had long since faded away into the common t
ongue, but we'd retained some words that just didn't translate. Oneechai meant more than just a blood sister; it was a familiar woman who tended to others, who felt like a warm embrace. Someone who was always there. It wasn't a term Ravens threw around lightly.

  Although I never corrected them, I hated it when my subordinates used it to describe me. I could never protect them as well as an oneechai should, not when I lost two or three of my pilots every week. And yet, every week, more kids showed up, looking to me to save them from almost certain death as they got into their planes and headed off to battle.

  And to save my own heart, I'd stopped learning their stories, stopped learning their names—I even stopped looking at their faces. It didn't matter though; the pain was the same.

  With a grim smile and a pat on the shoulder, I turned to leave the girls, and I couldn't help but wonder which one would be mourned next.

  Galian

  "We will send the second wave in the Birgdorn formation, attacking their right flank. The first wave will then target the armory at Vinolas F.O.B."

  I blinked as my father's general droned on about his great military strategy. I was sure it was well thought-out and considered, but I just didn't care. My uniform was itchy and uncomfortable, and the monotone voice was putting me to sleep. But I resisted the strong urge to sigh, as my father's beady eyes were trained on me. Especially now, based on how he'd opened this meeting of his most senior military leadership.

  "You will take part in this battle, son," he'd said.

  My father rarely called me son in front of his generals. My mother said it was to avoid calling attention to our relationship, but I doubted there was a person alive in Kylae who didn't know my face. I was the third son of King Grieg and Queen Korina. My older brother, Rhys, was well on his way to taking the throne whenever His Highness died (because retirement was not an option), and my second older brother, Digory, had already given his life in service to our country.

  Which was why I was now sitting in this room full of generals, being instructed on how to execute a surprise attack on Rave.

  We always called it a "surprise," but I doubted that Rave would have been able to do much even if we sent them a courtesy message of, "Hey, we're coming to bomb you tomorrow."

  Rave was our colony, the site of a fifty-year rebellion that we were still fighting to quash. They'd built a sham government during that time, elected a few dozen corrupt officials and conscripted millions of their citizens to fight in the senseless war. I personally thought my father should've just let them go off and be their own country, as his rule wasn't much better, but I didn't dare voice that opinion. The Kylaen war machine was our biggest industry, putting hundreds of thousands of our citizens to work every year, and the backbone of our thriving economy.

  My place, up until last year, had been in our prestigious hospital. I'd just begun my residency after spending four grueling years as a medical student. I'd been in the middle of assisting in my first surgery when I learned that my older brother, Digory, had been shot down in the ocean.

  We'd had a huge funeral procession for him, flags at half-staff for weeks, big speeches about the importance of our cause and Kylaen pride and blah, blah, blah. It wasn't two days after we'd gotten the news, that my father began to not-so-subtly hint that it was time for me to trade in my stethoscope for a pilot's helmet. Which was how I'd ended up a captain or something ridiculously unearned, in my father's military. I'd finally mastered the art of getting the plane in the air, and getting it back on the ground, and now they were sending me into battle.

  I probably should've been paying attention to what the general was saying as little Kylaen planes buzzed across the screen, showing different attack formations, but I just couldn't. Ever since I had started flying, every single instructor had said the same thing:

  Act normal.

  Stay out of trouble.

  Fly away if they find out it's you.

  I wondered if they'd said the same thing to Digory, but knowing my late brother, he'd probably told them to go to hell. Which was how he'd ended up a floating corpse in the Madion Sea. Idiot.

  It may sound like I didn't grieve my brother. I did, but he'd been a real asshole and I didn't miss the way he'd terrorized me.

  My ears perked up when chairs scraped on the ground, and people rose to their feet. Elijah Kader, the head of my personal bodyguard contingent, was already tapping his foot impatiently when I walked out of the conference room.

  "Sire, are you ready to leave?" He even managed to say it without the usual acidic tone. Ever since he'd shown up to drive me one day instead of my usual palace guards, he had made it clear that protecting the spare prince was somewhat of a demotion for him.

  "Yeah, I'm ready." Dread swam in the bottom of my stomach at the thought of bombing and killing innocent civilians—even if they were Ravens.

  "Sarge, there's a group of 'em waiting outside already." Dave Martin was a two-striper a couple years younger than me. He was one of the only guys who didn't seem to hate being assigned to watch over a prince.

  "Did you tell anyone you were coming here?" Kader growled at me.

  I glared at him. "Because I love being hounded by those assholes. No."

  Kader muttered colorful curses under his breath and cracked open the door to the hangar where my official car was parked. There was a crowd of people, most of whom had cameras hanging around their necks.

  The Kylaen tabloids. Perfect.

  Since nobody in Kylae was interested in a fifty-year war anymore, the media delighted in telling stories about the royal family. I had almost outgrown my reputation as a carefree party boy by the time I'd finished medical school, but now my new title was "Dashing Pilot," and the media were back in their incessant stalking of me. There was a media blackout on my actual missions—for my safety, of course—but they loved catching a photo of me in uniform. At least it was better than the stories about my partying and womanizing, which were woefully overblown.

  I steeled myself and put on the most stoic face I could muster as I nodded to Kader. The moment the door opened, the flashes began, as did the questions.

  "Prince Galian!"

  "Sire, over here!"

  "Sire, is it true you're dating Olivia Collins?"

  I sniffed at that last one; I had no idea who that girl was, and I sure as hell wasn't dating her. But the tabloids did love to concoct stories when I didn't have any to tell.

  Kader pushed a photographer aside to open my door and I slid in, thankful for the tinted windows and the privacy of my car.

  "To the castle?" Kader asked, sounding as if he would have rather told me to go somewhere else.

  "Actually," I said, looking at the hangar again where, in a few short hours, I would be taking off to bring death and destruction to Rave, "let's pop by the hospital."

  Kader made a noise, but his military training wouldn't let him disagree with me. He put the car in drive and we left the crowd of photographers behind, although I was sure some of them would follow us. They always did.

  Theo

  Walking into the hangar was like coming home. I'd grown up there, so I knew every nook and cranny of the cavernous room. I paused at a wall adorned with photos and newspaper clippings and pressed two fingers to the Raven symbol in the center in a superstitious show of reverence. It resembled a phoenix (since we considered ourselves reborn from our former colony), with long tail feathers and giant claws that reached out for our future, so they said. I always thought it a pretty decent depiction of the Raven spirit—small, scrappy, and determined.

  Around the Raven symbol, we'd plastered photos of the Kylaen royal family cut out from magazines and newspapers to remind us of who we were fighting against. There was King Greig, balding with black, coifed facial hair. Next to him was his wife Korina, the daughter of one of Kylae's wealthiest families. A beautiful woman with the prized porcelain skin so desired by Kylaen designers. She was nothing but a pushover; a woman who'd stood in front of the Kylaen death camp and sw
ore it wasn't as bad as it was.

  They had three sons, Rhys, Digory, and Galian, whose pictures were lined up next. I took pleasure in seeing the center boy, Digory, a bulky brute of a man who had been killed in action last year. We'd celebrated for three days when the news came over the radio that Kylae had lost one of her precious princes. Rhys was the next in line to be king, and seemed to be of the same mold as his father and grandfather. We saw him standing behind his father at news conferences and ceremonies, saying nothing as his father continued the tirade against Rave.

  And then there was the princeling.

  We had several photos of the third son of Kylae, most of which were cut from Kylaen gossip magazines. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that Kylaen pale skin and smoldering dark eyes, he was every bit the playboy prince. In one photo, he was on the arm of two different girls, and in another, he was vomiting in the streets. For a few years, it seemed a new story would break about his antics almost every week, embarrassing his father and a kingdom in the midst of a bloody war. But we had seen less and less of him—probably thanks to the Kylaen royal family.

  Then suddenly, we'd found out he was taking his brother's place in the Kylaen air forces. Now it was only a matter of time before one of us shot him down and claimed our prize. Personally, I hoped it would be me. Perhaps killing the princeling would accelerate my own promotion and hasten my escape from danger.

  The hangar was empty of pilots and activity after the morning's patrol, but the mechanics were hard at work, trying to service as many planes as possible. If the Raven military was light on pilots, they were absolutely abysmal on ground crew.

  My twin-propeller plane was right where I had left her when I rolled in from my morning air patrol. She was the only friend I had in this whole world, and it was a mutually beneficial relationship. If she didn't fail me, and I didn't fail her, we'd both survive. Six years after my first flight, we were both still kicking. I knew my girl inside and out, knew just how far I could push her before she began to smoke up, knew how to land her and take her off like the back of my hand. Sliding into the cockpit was probably what it was like to be with a man, but since I'd never done that, I could only guess. In any case, it was warm and familiar.