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  Legacy

  A Seventeen Series Novel Book Four

  A D Starrling

  Copyright

  Legacy (A Seventeen Series Novel) Book Four

  Copyright © AD Starrling 2015-2017. All rights reserved. Registered with the UK and US Copyright Services.

  Revised second eBook edition: 2017

  First published as Ashstorm: A Seventeen Series Novel: Book Four in 2015

  www.ADStarrling.com

  The right of AD Starrling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written consent of the author, excepting for brief quotes used in reviews. Your respect of the author’s rights and hard work is appreciated.

  Request to publish extracts from this book should be sent to the author at [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people (living or dead), events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factitiously. All other characters, and all other incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Editors: Invisible Ink Editing (www.invisibleinkediting.com)

  Right Ink On The Wall (www.rightinkonthewall.com)

  Cover: Streetlight Graphics (www.streetlightgraphics.com)

  Dedication

  To my Muse. Thank you for the ongoing inspiration, camaraderie, and occasional graphic threat when I procrastinate. FYI, 4 am is not a great time to drop by. Neither is the shower, you perverted entity.

  Contents

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  The Immortals

  I. Part One: Frozen

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  II. Part Two: Crush

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  III. Part Three: Burn

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Your Free Boxset And Exclusive Extras

  Acknowledgments

  Facts and Fictions

  About the Author

  Also by A D Starrling

  Mission:Black Extract

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  The Immortals

  The Crovirs and the Bastians: two races of immortals that have lived side by side with humans since the beginning of civilization and once ruled an empire that stretched across Europe, Asia, and North Africa. Each possessing the capacity to survive up to sixteen deaths, they have been engaged in a bloody and savage war from the very dawn of their existence. This unholy battle has, for the most part, remained a well-guarded secret from the eyes of ordinary humans, despite the fact that they have been used as pawns in some of the most epic chapters of the immortal conflict. It was not until the late fourteenth century that the two races were forced to forge an uneasy truce, following a deadly plague that wiped out more than half of their numbers and made the majority of survivors infertile.

  Each immortal society is ruled by a hierarchy of councils made up of nobles. The First Council consists of the heads of seven Immortal Sections: the Order of the Hunters, the Counter-Terrorism Group, Human Relations, Commerce, Immortal Legislations and Conventions, Research and Development, and Immortal Culture and History. The Head of the Order of the Hunters is the most powerful member of the First Council. The Second Council, or the Assembly, comprises the regional division directors under each Head of Section, while the Congress of the Council is made up of local authority chiefs.

  Though they have been instrumental to the most significant events in world history, religion, and culture, the Immortals’ existence is known to only a select few humans, among them the political leaders of the most powerful states on Earth and the Secretary General of the United Nations.

  Part One: Frozen

  Prologue

  January 1599. Polar Urals. Western Russia.

  The immortal bit back a curse as his boots sank in a snowdrift. He struggled out of the icy clutches of the land and carried on climbing, his eyes never leaving the dark shape moving between the trees above him. The figure suddenly stopped and turned. A flash bloomed in the gloom of the evergreen forest.

  The immortal heard the crack of the pistol’s discharge a moment before the lead ball thudded into the trunk of a birch, just inches from his head. He dropped to the ground, wood chips raining down around him and the sulfurous smell of burning gunpowder tainting the crisp, cold air. A further bang drowned out the agitated barks of the sled dogs in the outbuilding next to the log cabin at the bottom of the rise. The second shot smacked through the tightly-packed snow next to his hand. He swore and rolled behind a cluster of bushes. He rocked to a stop and peered around the edge of the snow-laden branches as the echo of the blast died down.

  His prey was disappearing into the shadows beneath the canopy.

  The immortal jumped to his feet and gave chase once more, his breath leaving his lips in white plumes. A bitter wind whistled down the flank of the mountain and stung his frost-crusted eyes and exposed skin. Down below, the sled dogs started to howl. The immortal clenched his jaw against the burning pain in his lungs and legs and willed his body forward.

  Dazzling light greeted him at the summit of the rise. He staggered to a halt in calf-deep snow and squinted in the glare. His stomach lurched.

  The forest ended abruptly on the edge of a rising ice field. Beyond it, a glacier rose to the summit of the peak, a white scar spread across miles of jagged, dark rocks. Sunlight reflected off towering cliffs and precipitous valleys, the shimmering brilliance masking the deadliness of the hostile landscape. Some hundred feet ahead, barely visible in the blinding radiance, the man he had been hunting for nearly two centuries scaled the treacherous incline.

  The immortal removed the musket rifle strapped to his backpack, his gaze locked on the running figure. He shouldered the weapon, cocked the hammer, and carefully sighted down the barrel. Blood pounded in his ears as he held his breath and pulled the trigger.

  Flint struck steel. Sparks flared as gunpowder ignited. The lead shot erupted from the muzzle of the gun and flashed through the air, its path straight and true.

  The man he was chasing jerked and cried out. He stumbled down to one knee and clamped a hand to his right flank. He swayed for a moment, pushed himself up, and turned to fire his weapon once more. The shot whistled harmlessly into the treetops. He threw the pistol to the ground and started to climb again.

  Rage darkened the immortal’s vision. He had waded through thousands of miles of godforsaken wilderness before finally tracking down the man who had killed his lover and who posed the greatest threat the immortal societies had ever known. Having lost precious moments dispatching the bodyguards who sto
od watch over the remote hideout in the Urals, he had come within seconds of killing his enemy when the man escaped his grasp once more, rescued by the same uncanny luck that had been his savior for the last two hundred years.

  The immortal shoved the rifle into its straps and headed over the ice.

  Despite the wound, his prey accelerated and angled for a black outcrop rising out of the glacier to the far left.

  Cold air seared the immortal’s throat as he pursued the bleeding figure. He had just reached the crimson trail staining the pristine snow when a distant boom reached his ears. He stopped and looked up.

  Movement on the slope some six thousand feet above him caught his gaze. A wall of whiteness slowly detached itself from the face of the mountain.

  The wounded man froze in his tracks. He stared at the approaching avalanche before moving once more, his legs pumping awkwardly through the snow as he raced for the shelter of the spur of rock.

  The immortal followed, despair sending a fresh burst of energy through his body. No, not now, not when I am this close!

  The deluge rushed inexorably closer, a tidal wave of death dancing gracefully down the incline.

  The immortal staggered after his prey, his resolve unshaken, air leaving his body in harsh gasps. The land rocked violently beneath his feet. He floundered and lost his footing. A thunderous explosion tore the air as he fell to his knees. A large crack appeared in the glacier in front of him.

  The immortal’s eyes widened. A cold blast knocked him sideways and sent him tumbling along the incline. He rolled and slid to a stop on his stomach some twenty feet down the slope. The roar of the approaching maelstrom of snow and ice echoed against the looming peaks and vales. The fissure lengthened. He blinked and saw a jagged line dart inches past his right hand before snaking toward the distant tree line behind him.

  He scrambled backward as a dark crevasse opened in the ice sheet. The ground crumbled beneath him. His stomach dropped. He yanked his sword from the scabbard on his back and stabbed the blade frantically upward.

  It sank into the edge of the ice just as he started to fall. He dangled from the hilt for a shocked moment before slowly looking down at the yawning darkness between his legs. His breath froze in his throat, the fear that gripped him almost paralyzing in its intensity. He gritted his teeth and reached up with his free hand, his flailing fingers searching desperately for purchase. They closed on the lip of the widening chasm.

  The avalanche became a deafening howl that eclipsed the rapid drumbeat of his pulse. He looked over his shoulder.

  His prey had reached the rocky outcrop and was crouched beneath it, his body braced for impact. Their eyes met through a thickening mist of fine snow. The wounded man smiled, his gaze full of dark triumph.

  The immortal closed his eyes. Despair formed a tightening band around his heart as he steeled himself for what was to come.

  The white torrent washed over the crevasse, pounding him with a cold, deadly weight that knocked the air out of his lungs. A rock smashed into his fingers, breaking skin and bone. He choked back a cry and swallowed a mouthful of snow.

  The sword shuddered in his grasp. He let go of the edge of the chasm and clung to the hilt with both hands. Blood made his grip slippery. Another crack reached his ears. He looked up through the gray haze and glimpsed the fracture tearing through the ice holding the blade. It collapsed a second later.

  He fell into the abyss, sword in hand.

  Wind whistled in his ears. White walls rushed past him. The light faded as the deluge followed him into the gulf.

  Soaring cliffs of black rock replaced the walls of ice as he fell through the crevasse into the very bowels of the mountain itself. Then the rock disappeared.

  He had a vague impression of a gaping, empty void before he struck the ground.

  Pain exploded through his consciousness, blocking out sight and sound. He felt his bones shatter. The earth shifted beneath him once more. Icy liquid suddenly flooded his throat. He gasped and choked. As freezing numbness engulfed his body, dulling the agony searing his senses, the immortal blinked and registered the clear waters surrounding him in dull incomprehension.

  Darkness descended from above. The rest of the avalanche crashed down around him.

  His fingers slowly loosened on the hilt of his sword. His final thought before darkness and silence locked him in the icy grave of the underground lake was that no one in the immortal societies knew of the danger that was still to come.

  Chapter One

  June 1969. San Andres Mountains. New Mexico.

  Oh shit, not the face!

  Ethan Storm steeled himself as the soldier’s fist sailed through the air and smashed into his left cheek. He staggered back a step. The heels of his boots struck a rock wall. Chains jingled above him as iron cuffs bit into his wrists. He shook his head, spat out blood, and directed a crooked smile at the man who had hit him.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  An ugly grimace distorted the soldier’s features. He snarled and pulled his arm back once more. His companion stepped in front of him.

  ‘Enough!’ barked the second soldier. ‘Our orders were to capture the guy, not beat the living shit out of him! Besides, you know those scientists will complain if we make him bleed.’

  The first soldier scowled and slowly lowered his hand.

  ‘They probably won’t notice anyway,’ he said with a grunt. ‘I don’t know what the hell our government wants with all these bastards, but I’ve never seen people heal so damn fast. It’s fucking unnatural is what it is!’ He glanced around uneasily, his eyes alighting on the shackled figure on the far side of the cell. ‘That asshole was a mess when they finished with him the other day. Now look at him! I can’t even see a scar where they cut into him!’

  Ethan blinked. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on the soldier’s words; the narcotic they had given him had still not worn off. From what he could gather of their conversation, it seemed there were other immortals locked up in this infernal dungeon with him. He raised his head and squinted at the prisoner on the other side of the room. All he could make out through the drug-induced haze clouding his senses was a man with a long, filthy, matted mane and matching beard.

  The stranger sat on the floor with his head bowed and his back against the wall, arms resting loosely on his knees. His wrists and ankles were locked in stout manacles and fetters. A metal collar bound him to an iron ring in the floor. The stench of human waste filled the room from a hole in the ground.

  Anger surged through Ethan. He was damned if he was going to end up like that guy. He flexed his fingers and focused on the cuffs holding him to the wall. Tendons bulged in his neck while he concentrated on the metal. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His vision flickered.

  Ethan gasped and sagged, the chains tinkling above his head as his legs almost gave way. Alarm flared inside him. Did they know of his ability? Was that the reason they had sedated him?

  The soldier who had struck him looked around dismissively at the jangling noise before crossing the floor to the silent figure on the opposite side of the cell. He stopped a couple of feet from the chained man.

  ‘Hey! What the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  The prisoner remained silent.

  The soldier stiffened. He drew his foot back and kicked the captive man viciously in the leg. ‘I asked you a question, asshole!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Eddie, stop it!’ hissed his companion. The man’s eyes grew round with horror. He took a step forward. ‘Eddie, no!’

  The soldier called Eddie had taken his gun from his hip holster. He leveled it against the mute prisoner’s head and cocked the hammer.

  ‘Maybe I should blow your brains out. See if you survive that, you inhuman piece of shit!’

  The bound man’s hands rose so fast Ethan almost missed the move. He snatched the pistol from the soldier’s grasp, removed the magazine, and dismantled the weapon in a blur of motion. The clatter of the parts hitti
ng the floor was the only sound that broke the frozen silence that followed.

  The soldiers gaped. Ethan bit back a snort. The prisoner’s head rose. Teeth gleamed above his matted beard.

  Eddie lost it. It took a further two guards to drag him, cursing and struggling, from the chamber. By the time they left, the prisoner’s face was a bloodied pulp.

  He had not made a single sound while the enraged soldier punched and kicked him.

  Ethan’s fingers cramped from fisting them in the tight iron cuffs. Frustration gnawed at his insides as he considered the helplessness of their situation.

  ‘Hey, you okay?’ he called out weakly to the still shape on the floor.

  Footsteps echoed somewhere outside the room. The prisoner slowly pushed himself up to his elbows and mumbled something through swollen, cracked lips. A key rattled in the lock.

  ‘What was that?’ said Ethan, his eyes shifting briefly to the cell door.

  ‘I would worry about your own self, boy,’ the prisoner repeated in a raspy voice. His piercing, blue-green gaze locked on Ethan’s face.