Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Alex Lidell

  Danger Bearing Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Credits:

  Edited by Mollie Traver

  Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design

  The Complete Scout

  Tracing Shadows (Scout Book 1) & Unraveling Darkness (Scout Book 2)

  Alex Lidell

  Danger Bearing Press

  Contents

  Also by Alex Lidell

  Tracing Shadows (Scout Book 1)

  1. Kali

  2. Kali

  3. Kali

  4. Kali

  5. Kali

  6. Kali

  7. Kali

  8. Violet

  9. Kali

  10. Kali

  11. Kali

  12. Kali

  13. Violet

  14. Kali

  15. Kali

  16. Kali

  17. Kali

  18. Kali

  19. Violet

  20. Kali

  21. Kali

  22. Violet

  23. Kali

  24. Violet

  25. Kali

  26. Kali

  27. Kali

  28. Violet

  29. Kali

  30. Kali

  31. Kali

  32. Kali

  Unraveling Darkness (Scout Book 2)

  1. Kali

  2. Kali

  3. Violet

  4. Kali

  5. Kali

  6. Kali

  7. Kali

  8. Kali

  9. Kali

  10. Violet

  11. Kali

  12. Kali

  13. Kali

  14. Kali

  15. Violet

  16. Kali

  17. Kali

  18. Kali

  19. Kali

  20. Kali

  21. Kali

  22. Kali

  23. Kali

  24. Kali

  25. Kali

  26. Kali

  27. Violet

  28. Kali

  29. Kali

  30. Kali

  31. Kali

  Epilogue

  Power of Five Preview: Prologue

  Power of Five Preview: Leralynn

  Power of Five Preview: Leralynn

  Also by Alex Lidell

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Lidell

  New Adult Fantasy Romance

  POWER OF FIVE (Reverse Harem Fantasy)

  POWER OF FIVE

  MISTAKE OF MAGIC

  TRIAL OF THREE

  LERA OF LUNOS

  GREAT FALLS ACADEMY (Reverse Harem Fantasy)

  Episode 1: Rules of Stone

  Young Adult Fantasy Novels

  TIDES

  FIRST COMMAND (Prequel Novella)

  AIR AND ASH

  WAR AND WIND

  SEA AND SAND

  SCOUT

  TRACING SHADOWS

  UNRAVELING DARKNESS

  TILDOR

  THE CADET OF TILDOR

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  Tracing Shadows (Scout Book 1)

  1

  Kali

  “Would you like to buy a light crystal, young master?” The girl pressing the magical pebble into my hand smiles coquettishly. She wears the drab red clothing of the Children of the Goddess disciples, and she couldn’t have chosen a worse mark than me if she’d tried.

  Though in truth, her taking me for a boy and a sympathizer of the hateful bigots in the Children’s following is a compliment to my skill. I am a scout. A spy trained to disguise, observe, and report. I’m also under orders not to interfere.

  And that’s where the problem lies.

  My marks this evening, four members of a terror-monger group calling themselves Viva Sylthia, have the look of violence about them. Waving the crystal-peddling girl away, I move around the inn’s common room for a better view. The room is full of the king’s soldiers tonight, and the stench of cheap wine and bodies ripe from long days on the road fills my nose. At least the place is warm, the fire and lanterns all burning bright to ward away the night’s darkness. The heavy wooden tables and benches are plain, but sturdy enough to stand up to rough crowds. With so few inns this far out in the Dansil countryside, one can hardly be choosy about patrons.

  One of the soldiers stumbles into the largest of my marks, spilling the man’s drink all over his shirt. The soldier, apparently oblivious to the mishap, belches and lurches on.

  My mark, a broad-shouldered man with a black mole breaking the line of his mustache, scowls but keeps himself in check. Not even a curse at the drunk idiot. Nothing to bring attention to himself.

  With the soldier well away, Mustache starts for the door, his three companions closing rank behind him. And me, behind them.

  My skin prickles, my heart pulsating against my chest. There is little left in the way of cover outside. Just night and shadows. This is where I should break off, head back to the estate to report what I’ve learned of Viva Sylthia’s plans over the course of the evening. But I’ve learned nothing and am left with only a gut feeling that the night is heading toward a poor end.

  The four men pull on hoods and masks.

  My chest tightens. I’d love to have been wrong, just this once.

  “That’s two dozen horses,” says the youngest of them as the group approaches the barn. His voice breaks slightly. “Two dozen horses and three hostlers.”

  Mustache puts his arm around the youngster. The gesture would be brotherly but for the boy’s nervous twitches. “You backing out? Perhaps you are not ready to receive the flame.”

  The tattoo of a flame over the heart marks Viva Sylthia’s full members. I flatten myself into the barn’s shadow, my breath stilling as I listen.

  “No. I’m just sayin’ the barn ain’t empty,” says the boy.

  “Those three hostlers? They are cowards calling themselves Dansil soldiers, all drunk and snoring in an empty stall.” Mustache’s voice shoots a chill down my back. “Tell me, was your uncle passed out drunk in Sylthia when Everett attacked? When those soldiers did nothing? How many thousands of our people died in the Sylthia massacre? How many more lost their homes? Dansil families have been waiting for over twenty years to return to their land, to the gravesite of their ancestors. You can be their voice. Tonight. Right now.”

  “By burning down a barn?” says the boy.

  “By sending a message. Those are the king’s soldiers drinking at the inn. Drinking instead of fighting to take back Sylthia.”

  Oh, for stars’ sake. In the dozen years that I’ve trained under Lord Gapral, the king’s distant scoutmaster, I’ve heard the same justifications for violence over and over: Send the king a message—no one in Dansil is safe until Sylthia is ours again. Never mind that it’s been two decades since the kingdom of Everett invaded Dansil’s Sylthia territory, the swath of land at the Dansil–Everett border that is rich with living-crystal deposits. Never mind that even if Dansil took Sylthia back, we’ve not the people to work the mines. Or that we’ve hunted down too many of our whisperers to actually make use of the living crystals.

  Mustache releases the boy, who slumps in relief—or fear. “The king is a coward and a fool. He thinks negotiating with Everett will keep him safe. But tonight, you set him straight. Tonight, you make your uncle’s death matter. Make all deaths in Sylthia matter.”

  My hands
tremble at my sides. The bastards will burn the barn and kill the horses and hostlers, and I’ll report back how it happened. My orders are to observe, not engage. Never engage. At best, I’m told it’s because I’m too valuable to risk, that too much effort and coin have been poured into training me. At worst, Lord Gapral simply barks that weighing the value of victims against the cost of exposing his scout network is beyond my station. My shoulder burns in phantom pain where Gapral branded me the last time I dared disobey.

  I’m a scout. I’m supposed to watch the terror mongers’ horror show and write a rutting report.

  “Viva Sylthia,” says Mustache.

  “Viva Sylthia,” the others echo.

  A horse whickers inside the barn and my gut clenches to stone. A living, faithful horse, resting after a day’s work. A boy’s sleepy voice soothes the animal. A child is inside that place.

  Mustache drags a bar toward the barn. The bastards are barricading the doors before setting the blaze. Blood roars through my veins.

  I should leave. Now.

  Instead, I pick up a jagged stone and press myself against the wall. My heart pounds in my ears, sweat forming on my temples despite the chill wind. If Lord Gapral finds out . . . Swallowing, I lean around the corner and skip the stone along the side of the barn closest to Mustache’s men.

  The men startle. Move toward the sound. I sprint in the opposite direction, banging my fist against the barn wall. “Loose horse! Wake up in there! Loose horse!”

  Curses and agitated neighs sound from inside. A moment later, the barn’s back wall vibrates from the impact of kicking hooves. Good enough. Changing direction midstride, I sprint for the tree line.

  “There he is,” a voice calls behind me.

  My legs burn as I press into a faster run. The thud of pursuing boots echoes through my bones, but I’m smaller than the men. Faster. My breaths come in short, rapid bursts. Two dozen yards will see me into the blind blackness of the forest. They have to. One dozen.

  A hand slams the back of my tunic, shoving me to the ground.

  I twist as I fall, landing on my back. The impact takes my breath, but my legs are up and ready to kick. Burying my boots in my attacker’s hips, I lift the man into the air. The momentum of his weight rolls us, and with the next heartbeat I’m the one on top, straddling the man’s chest. I slam my fist down on his jaw and scramble away.

  Another man grabs me from behind, his arms wrapping around my torso.

  I stomp my heel onto his foot and twist free.

  Something slams into my ribs. A fist or a boot. Maybe an elbow.

  I move through the shock, loosening the throwing blades strapped to my forearms. Someone grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. My shoulders scream. I do too. Until a blow to the gut cuts my air.

  “What are you doing here, boy?” Mustache demands.

  “Nothing, sir,” I gasp, my voice catching. “A jest. I’m sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll settle the horses back for you. It was a stupid jest to wake up the hostlers. Lazy, drunken buggers. Just a bit of amusement.” The pressure on my shoulders tightens and I scream again. The Viva Sylthia aren’t buying my lie.

  “Ahoy, there!” the slightly drunk voice of an actual guard bellows through the darkness. A lantern appears near the barn and starts moving toward us. “Identify yourselves to the king’s men!”

  Thank the stars.

  Behind me, Mustache draws a sharp breath. I seize my chance, thin as it is. Slamming my head back, I smash it into Mustache’s nose. There’s a cracking sound and the man’s hold loosens enough for me to break for the woods.

  I dive into the darkness, forcing my limbs to move fast and blind. I see nothing beyond my fingertips but each step between me and Viva Sylthia is a gift. Fifty paces later, my lucky footing ends. I swallow a gasp as I crash to the ground, shins hitting stones. My body aches and I bury my face in the soggy dirt, not daring to make a sound. It’s a struggle to keep from staring into the moving shadows, but people feel when they are being watched. I close my eyes, stay deathly still, and listen.

  I wait an hour before I dare move. My heart hammers against my ribs, pain shooting through me with every breath. I sit up slowly. A stick snaps beneath me, the sound deafening in the still of night. But the forest gives no sign of other intruders. Mustache and his Viva Sylthia cronies are gone.

  Reaching beneath my shirt, I pull out the living crystal hanging around my neck. It is a light crystal; its magic glows. Unlike the trinkets that the Children of the Goddess peddle, which glow aimlessly for a while before dimming, my crystal is tuned to light up only when I touch it. A tool rather than a toy. I wrap my hand around the crystal, a familiar unpleasant tingle spreading through my hand and arm. Within a heartbeat, the crystal comes alight with a reddish glow that gives me a fighting chance of making it home tonight without breaking my neck.

  Though tomorrow, Lord Gapral might do that for me.

  2

  Kali

  To the outside world, Lord Gapral is a cranky hermit who takes in the occasional orphan to live on his far-off, understaffed estate. The grounds are chronically overgrown with weeds and brush; the servants are scarce, unfriendly, and silent; visitors are nonexistent. To those of us who’ve grown up here, the estate is our womb. Not because it’s warm or kind—the estate is neither—but because our identities are safe here. On the estate, I can be Kali, the seventeen-year-old girl that I am. Outside, I’m always someone else.

  Despite the late hour of my return, a scout on sentry duty appears beside me the moment I cross the invisible line marking the estate’s perimeter. I freeze as the knife blade presses into my side, and I allow the sentry to examine my face. His own is hooded and stays that way, though I catch a glimpse of his features, thanks to my light crystal. A boy of fifteen who has been at Gapral’s estate for seven years now. I don’t know his name or his specialty. There is a lonely look in the boy’s eyes, but I know better than to ask after his welfare, nor will he ask after mine. Scouts are Lord Gapral’s commodities, and sharing our identities and personal details with each other is forbidden.

  The boy nods and removes the blade.

  “Leaf?” I ask. My sister is Lord Gapral’s one exception—everyone knows both her name and her specialty. She is a whisperer, a person born with the ability to tune living crystals.

  “Training room.”

  I nod my thanks and the sentry melts back into the shadows. For a few moments, I deliberate the merits of interrupting Leaf, but my burning ribs make the decision for me. Navigating the weeds and plants cultivated to conceal movement, I make my way to a small structure designed to look like a toolshed, where the scouts gifted with some hint of whispering can practice. Having no such gift myself, I’d usually be forbidden from coming near the training room, but with Leaf being my sister, Lord Gapral is willing to look the other way—unless I create problems.

  “No, no, no.” My sister’s exasperated voice escapes the door. “A light crystal can only make light. It can’t heal flesh or heat up or remember a song.”

  “Can I change a light crystal into a healing crystal?” asks a young boy.

  “No.” Leaf’s voice turns stern. “And don’t play with healing crystals; they are dangerous. Now concentrate, please. Why is the light crystal in your hands flickering and dim instead of steady and bright?”

  “It’s out of tune—the magic inside the crystal is scattered. I need to focus the magic to make it glow.”

  Opening the door a crack, I find a small hooded scout sitting on the floor, an egg-sized living crystal in his hand. My sister crouches beside her student, her hand on the novice’s crystal too. I can see the faint wisps of magic swirling inside the crystal, but whisperers like Leaf and the boy can feel and manipulate them.

  “Do it,” says Leaf. “Feel the magic, imagine how it should weave together. Focused. Orderly. Now make it happen. Work inside the crystal. Don’t try to draw the magic out. Coax the outermost strands toward the middle. That’s not the middle!
Yes, now that’s the middle.”

  Inside the crystal, the strands of magic pull together into a tight ball, and the crystal’s glow becomes bright and steady. The young scout jumps up and lets out a whoop before seeing me in the doorway and freezing.

  The room fills with fear. It’s a dangerous time for whisperers, though the child is safe enough here. Lord Gapral isn’t one to give up valuable skills just because some priest cries heresy.

  “It’s all right,” I tell the youngster. “No one is in trouble, but I need the room.”

  The young scout disappears in a rustle of cloak and shoes.

  “Practice,” Leaf calls after the boy. “Next week we’ll weave triggers into the magic. With a trigger, a tuned crystal stays dormant until something specific—like a particular person—touches it. So you can make a light crystal stay dark until Lord Gapral picks it up.”