Tyrant of Jarl (Rift Warrior Book 4), page 13
As preparations continued for our departure, I climbed to a vantage point overlooking the passage. Torchlight was no longer needed, as Jarl’s twin silver-blue moons had risen. In their ghostly light, the scene below resembled something from an ancient battlefield.
These men had seen the Tyrant’s enforcers bleed, captured their weapons, and commandeered their walkers. Most importantly, they’d experienced the thrill of victory. Whatever happened next, that experience couldn’t be undone.
A flicker of movement on the ridge we’d descended caught my attention. Kelda stood up there, silhouetted against the night sky, apparently having followed me despite my instructions to remain hidden. Even at this distance, I could sense her watching—not just me, but the transformation occurring below.
She raised a hand, and I returned her wave.
Turning back toward the improvised rebel camp forming in the canyon, I felt a shift in my own perspective. What had begun as a mission to locate Agent Dahl and assess the Tyrant’s operations had evolved into something with more gravity. This had become about simple folks fighting for their rights. The theoretical problem of an oppressive regime had become the practical reality of people fighting for their freedom.
Tormund approached as I descended from my lookout. “The men are wondering,” he said quietly. “Are you… Earth-sent?”
“Does it matter?” I countered.
He considered this, then slowly shook his head. “I guess not. But you fight like someone trained to kill.”
“That much is true.”
Tormund nodded, accepting the limited explanation. “Whatever brought you to Jarl, I’m grateful you were here tonight.” He gestured to where the homesteaders continued organizing. “They’re calling you Drengr. In the old language, this means you’re a Badass.”
I smiled slightly at the nickname. “I’ve been called much worse than that.”
“Well, Drengr,” Tormund said, clapping a massive hand on my shoulder, “you’ve given these people something they haven’t had in years.”
“Weapons?”
“Hope,” he corrected. “The belief that the Tyrant can be fought. That his power isn’t absolute. But even so—we must retreat from his area. We’re too close to the ship.”
He pointed upward.
“What will it do? Fire down missiles?”
He shook his head. “Unlikely. But it can observe us. It might launch drones—or at the very least, guide more enforcers to attack us.”
I nodded, eyeing the big ship. It hung in the night sky, blotting out a number of stars.
“We’ll gather what we can and head east,” Tormund continued. “To join forces with those who’ve been fighting longer than we have. With these captured weapons and these walkers, we’ll bring valuable resources to their cause.”
As they prepared to move out, I found myself at the center of something I hadn’t imagined when descending from my shelter hours earlier. What had begun as a desperate gamble to free captives had transformed into a rebellion that had been simmering for years.
Chapter 16
We marched for several long days. Eventually, the eastern rebel camp materialized out of the pre-dawn darkness like a mirage, scattered lights appearing first like distant stars before resolving into campfires and lanterns. After a full day’s march through Jarl’s unforgiving terrain, the sight lifted spirits among our bedraggled convoy.
We’d made good time despite the condition of our group. The captured walkers proved invaluable, carrying the wounded and breaking a trail through deeper snow drifts. The homesteaders had shown remarkable resilience, maintaining pace even as fatigue and cold worked against them.
Our approach triggered an immediate response from the rebel camp. Sentries materialized from concealed positions, weapons raised but held with the restraint of discipline rather than fear. At the front of our group, Tormund raised his arms in the universal gesture of peaceful intent.
“We’re seeking sanctuary,” he called out, his voice carrying clearly in the frozen air. “Homesteaders from the western valley. The Tyrant’s enforcers came. We fought back.”
A quiet moment of tension followed as the sentries assessed our unusual procession—thirty-plus homesteaders, captured walkers, and enforcer weapons that clearly hadn’t been in civilian hands until recently.
“Tormund?” A figure emerged from behind the defensive line, lowering the hood of a heavily insulated jacket. “Tormund of the Stone Wall Compound?”
“Svensson?” Tormund replied, recognition evident. “You’re still alive then, huh? You old bastard!”
The man—Svensson—slung his rifle behind him and stepped forward to grasp Tormund’s forearm in greeting. “Barely alive... But what’s all this?” He gestured to our armed group.
“The beginning of something,” Tormund answered. “Something that should have happened years ago.”
After a brief consultation with others who appeared to be in positions of authority, the rebel sentries escorted our group into their camp. The rebel settlement was larger than I’d expected—several dozen structures arranged in concentric circles around a central gathering area. Unlike Northaven’s oppressive atmosphere, the camp hummed with purposeful energy despite the early hour.
The existence of this place surprised me, what with the Tyrant ruling the skies. It was explained to me that this far out, huddled behind a Matterhorn-looking mountain peak, the Tyrant’s cameras and drones were out of range. It was also difficult for the enforcers to patrol so far from the Tyrant’s realm.
Simple distance… that was the key to freedom on Jarl. But without the ship and the colony hub, the level of tech the rebels had was appalling. There was nothing much in the way of modern conveniences. Their basic power generators kept a few heaters and lights going, sure, but not much else. You crapped in a frozen hole, ate what you could kill, and hoped your injuries didn’t turn septic.
The rebels directed us to the central area where food was being prepared over open fires. The newly recruited rebels fell upon the offered meals with the enthusiasm of people who’d marched for hours through arctic conditions.
I remained apart from the main group, observing the camp’s layout and defenses. The rebels had chosen their position well—a natural depression in the terrain that blocked wind while remaining hidden from casual observation. The surrounding ridgeline provided both lookout positions and potential defensive points.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Kelda appeared beside me, her compelling gaze reflecting the campfires. The journey had been hard on her—her injured leg was clearly causing pain with each step—but she’d refused offers to ride on the walkers, insisting others needed the accommodation more.
“More organized than I expected,” I admitted. “Good discipline, solid defensive positioning.”
“They’ve been out here for nearly two years. Plenty of time to learn.” She passed me a steaming mug of Jarl’s brew—which consisted of local herbs brewed into tea. “The rebels started with just seven people who escaped processing. Now there are a few hundred.”
I accepted the drink, the warmth seeping through my gloves to numb fingers. “Not enough to challenge Northaven directly.”
“No,” she agreed. “But maybe with what we’ve brought...” She trailed off, watching as rebel technicians examined the captured walkers with obvious excitement.
The camp leadership convened a meeting shortly after our arrival, gathering in a central structure that served as both command center and communal hall. Space was made for Tormund, Lars, and several other homesteaders who had emerged as leaders during our journey. To my surprise, I was specifically invited to join them.
“The Drengr should be present,” Tormund had insisted when I’d tried to decline. “None of us would be here without him.”
The interior of the command center was far from sophisticated. Maps of the surrounding territory had been meticulously drawn on animal hides stretched across wooden frames. A crude but functional communications array occupied one corner, though it appeared dormant at present.
Svensson, who seemed to hold some position of authority, initiated the discussion. “Let me understand this clearly,” he said, addressing Tormund but glancing repeatedly in my direction. “You’re saying one man—” he nodded toward me, “—initiated an attack on a fully armed enforcer patrol, freed the prisoners, and turned homesteaders into fighters in the space of a few hours?”
“Saw it with my own eyes,” Tormund confirmed. “I was part of it. He came down from the mountain like something out of the old stories. Took out the lead enforcers before the rest knew what was happening.”
The rebel leaders exchanged skeptical glances. A woman with a severe gray-streaked braid spoke up. “And why would he do this? A stranger with no connection to your people?”
The question wasn’t answered immediately, and all eyes turned toward me. I took a sip of the herbal tea and went with my gut when I responded.
“I saw the Tyrant’s men were punishing good people,” I said simply. “Those men needed to be stopped.”
Hushed agreement and affirmation rolled through the crowd.
“Noble,” the woman replied, unconvinced. “But men don’t typically risk their lives against superior forces without personal gain at stake.”
“He was our prisoner the night before,” Lars interjected. “We mistook him for an enforcer agent, caged him in the compound. Yet he came back to help when he could have just kept running.”
This revelation raised eyebrows among the rebel leadership. Svensson leaned forward, his weathered face registering increased interest. “Is this true? You returned to help the same people who imprisoned you?”
“The enforcers were the enemy, not the homesteaders,” I replied. “They made a reasonable assumption based on limited information.”
“The assumption wasn’t just reasonable,” Olaf added from his position near Tormund. “We found enforcer equipment on him. Anyone would have concluded the same.”
Kelda, who had been granted entrance to the meeting despite her youth, stepped forward. “The weapon was taken from enforcers he’d already defeated when they tried to take him prisoner. I tried to tell you this, but no one would listen!”
“The girl speaks truth,” Tormund confirmed. “We know that now. We acted out of fear—attacking what was unfamiliar. This man had every reason to leave us to our fate. Instead, he fought for people who had shown him nothing but suspicion.”
The group nodded, but they still eyed me with doubts. I didn’t care. They’d get over that in time.
The conversation shifted to tactical matters—the weapons and equipment we’d captured, and the information the homesteaders could provide about Northaven’s defenses. They discussed the likely response from the Tyrant once he learned of the ambush.
As the discussion progressed, Svensson spread a detailed map across the central table. It showed not just Northaven and the surrounding homesteads, but the entire colonized region of Jarl—a small portion of the planet’s vast wilderness.
“Our greatest limitation has always been weapons,” Svensson explained. “The Tyrant controls all advanced technology through the ship. What you’ve captured represents our first significant acquisition of modern armaments.”
“Eight railguns, twelve sidearms, various shock weapons,” Lars recited. “Plus, the walkers themselves. Not exactly an arsenal, but...”
“It’s more than we’ve had in two years of resistance,” the gray-braided woman countered. “Enough to arm a strike team, perhaps.”
A homesteader I didn’t recognize spoke up from the back of the gathering. “Strike team for what? We can’t possibly challenge Northaven directly. There are at least sixty enforcers stationed there, plus whatever the Tyrant can deploy from the ship.”
“Not Northaven,” Svensson clarified. “But the supply lines, the outer checkpoints. We can raid—gaining supplies and disrupting the Tyrant’s control of the outlying regions.”
Tormund leaned over the map, his massive finger tracing routes between settlements. “My compound is already lost. The enforcers will have garrisoned it by now, using it as a forward base to control the western approach.”
The discussion continued in this practical vein until new input cut through the tactical planning. A tall, thin man with a perpetual scowl had been observing from the periphery, his expression darkening with each passing minute.
“You’re all missing the larger point,” he declared, stepping into the circle of light. “These open acts of defiance have doomed whatever homesteads remain. The Tyrant will retaliate with overwhelming force. Every independent settlement will suffer for what happened in that canyon.”
He made an excellent point, and everyone became silent as the gathered leaders considered the implications. He wasn’t wrong, and every person present knew it.
“And what would you suggest, Cassius?” Svensson asked, his tone suggesting this wasn’t the first time they’d had such an exchange. “Should we continue hiding in the mountains while the Tyrant strengthens his hold? Do you want to watch more people disappear for processing without lifting a finger?”
“Better than provoking a response that brings the full might of the ship against us,” Cassius retorted. “We’ve survived by being quiet, cautious, strategic. This so-called Drengr,” here, he gestured toward me with obvious disdain, “with his impulsive heroism, will get more people killed than he saves.”
The room soon divided along invisible lines. Some were nodding agreement with Cassius while others bristled at the sheer cowardice and implied criticism of their actions. The tension grew, threatening to fracture the tentative unity of the gathering.
I remained silent, biding my time. I was more of a killer than a diplomat. My mind naturally turned to thoughts of murder as I listened to Cassius and his sneering words.
Surprisingly, it was Kelda who stepped into the widening breach. Maybe she’d noticed my mood and decided to do her best.
“The Tyrant was already targeting the homesteads,” she stated, over the grumblers. “My father’s compound wasn’t the first to be raided, just the latest. Staying hidden, staying cautious—it hasn’t protected anyone.”
“The girl’s right,” Olaf added. “My brother’s homestead was emptied last month. No resistance, no provocation. They simply came, they took everyone and burned everything.”
“The Tyrant fears independence,” Tormund rumbled. “Any community surviving without his ‘protection’ represents defiance to his authority. He will come for us all eventually. We mustn’t let him buy any more time.”
Cassius remained unconvinced. “And now he’ll come with increased determination, increased force. This stranger—” he pointed a bony finger at me, “—has accelerated a confrontation we’re not ready for.”
“When will we be ready?” Lars challenged, the younger man’s face flushed with emotion. “After another year of hiding? When another dozen homesteads are emptied? There’s never a perfect moment to stand against tyranny!”
The debate might have continued indefinitely, but Svensson raised his hand for silence. “Dawn approaches. Many are exhausted from travel and combat. Let’s reconvene after rest and food, with clearer heads.”
The gathering dispersed gradually, conversations continuing in smaller clusters as people filed out of the settlement’s largest hut. I remained behind, studying the maps and committing details to memory. The geography would be crucial for whatever came next—both for the rebels’ resistance efforts, and my own assignment to locate Agent Dahl.
After eating, we all went to find bunks to sleep on. I secured a pile of furs near an ebbing fire. Closing my eyes, I felt them burn in my head.
When I was almost asleep, a light touch grazed my brow. My hand shot up, grasping a delicate wrist.
Kelda yelped quietly in surprise.
“What is it?” I asked, still holding her wrist. I’d known women in the past who might sneak close to a sleeping man and end him more surely than a marksman with a railgun.
She smiled, and she crawled into my fur pile with me.
I let go of her wrist, and I pulled her close. So… that’s how it was between us, now.
Chapter 17
In the morning, Kelda was gone, but her scent still lingered.
Svensson approached me as the room awakened, his weathered face revealing little of his thoughts. He spoke quietly. “Cassius wasn’t entirely wrong last night, you know. Your attack has accelerated the timeline. The Tyrant cannot ignore such a direct challenge. He must demonstrate his authority with a harsh reprisal.”
“Accelerating an inevitable conflict isn’t the same as creating one,” I replied with a stretch and a yawn. Where the hell had Kelda gone? “We’re all living under the shadow of that ship.”
He nodded slowly. “True enough. But rapid change brings its own dangers. These homesteaders haven’t had time to process what they’ve done, what they’ve become. When the adrenaline fades, when the reality of turning rebel sets in...”
“They’ll have to make their own choices,” I acknowledged. “No one can make that decision for them.”
“Your weapon…” Svensson said—indicating the ironwood axe I was securing on my belt. He’d changed the subject with deliberate abruptness. “May I see it?”
I unhooked the weapon from my belt and passed it to him. Svensson examined it with expert eyes, testing the edge with his thumb, assessing the balance with practiced movements.
“Halverson make,” he noted. “Old Erik senior’s work, if I’m not mistaken. His son values this above all possessions.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Svensson returned the axe, his expression thoughtful. “You understand why it’s so prized?”
“Because it’s a family heirloom?” I suggested. “Perhaps there’s some sentimental value?”
“Much more than that.” Svensson tapped the metal head. “This is true Earth steel. Not the local metal alloys we’ve managed to smelt, not salvaged scrap from supply drops. Genuine, high-carbon steel forged by a master before the journey to Jarl. That blade is irreplaceable.”
