Aethosphere Chronicles: Storm of Chains by Jeremiah D. Schmidt Read Free Book Online Page A

imperial procedure.”
    This man, known as Cap-i-tain , parted
open his coat to scratch at the early growth of a patchy red beard.
“Understood,” he said before focusing his attention back on the
aristocrat groveling at his boots. “Let’s make this quick then,
shall we, Mr. Larken?” he said freely. “You know why I’m here?”
    But Drish found it impossible to look up or
to answer. Instead he just stared straight ahead in fear, and
that’s when he caught sight of a flash of familiar red through the
part in the man’s fur coat. It gave him pause. More accurately, the
fabric beneath the fur was the color of ox-blood; the shade
unmistakable. The uniform of a Royal Air Navy officer. Drish
had seen its like enough times in his life to be certain. Finally,
the fearful noble worked up the courage to look the man in the
face. There was a familiarity to be found in the features…Drish
knew this man.
    “ Bar Bazzon ,” the noble muttered in
disbelief.
    To which the disguised, ex-naval officer
responder with a slanted smirk, “Well, I wondered if you’d remember
me.”
    It was easy to see how Drish hadn’t at
first. A lot had changed in the past three years, and the man
before him was barely recognizable. But beyond the outfit; the
shag-coat covering his uniform, the tricorne hat hiding the wild
red mane of his hair, and the unkempt beard that masked most of his
face; those hawk-yellow eyes remained the same. Unmistakable.
Though stress, it seemed, had erased the boyish vigor that once
filled them with hope and optimism, and in the flesh surrounding
them lingered stern lines and brooding shadows; marks indicative of
a man experiencing hard-times; and Drish began to suspect that the
outwards changes were a reflection of the internal struggles of a
plagued soul.
    “How could I forget,” stated Drish thickly.
By comparison, Domaire had been an easy name to forget
versus this ghost from his past. No, Bar and Drish’s last encounter
had been too memorable to ever forget. This interloper was at least
partially to blame for Drish’s falling out with Arvis. “You’re the bastard who convinced my father to bankrupt our
family…trying to restore that battle-gutted strata-frigate of
yours?”
    Bar Bazzon’s rueful grin soured to a frown.
“Well, I see you’re just as agreeable as ever,” and while
Drish climbed to his feet, the former captain clomped his way over
to the bay window.
    “Just what the hell are you doing here…?”
asked the noble, “I thought you fled with the remnants of the royal
navy after the Siege of Throne?”
    Bar turned from an afternoon darkened by
clouds. “Did,” he said with a curt nod, “but we’ve since joined up
with the Guild.”
    The Guild… Pirates? You’re telling me you’ve
joined up with that band of lawless cutthroats? You’ve got to be
kidding me! I knew you a man of questionable heritage and honor,
Bar, but that…”
    “Gods…” Bar gasped in exasperations,
“throwing out insults before you’ve even offered me a well-deserved
thanks for coming to your rescue. You definitely haven’t changed
one bit, have you?”
    “Rescue?” snapped Drish, at first confused
by the word, but that old sickness growing in his stomach explained
it all just the same. “Rescue, no…there must be a misunderstanding
here. If it’s my father you’re looking for, Bar, you’ve come to the
wrong place. He isn’t here, he’s back—”
    Captain Bazzon raised a fingerless glove to
stop the aristocrat midsentence, “No, you misunderstand.” He
finished with a dirty finger pointed at Drish.
    “Yeah, Drish, we’re here for you, under your
father’s orders,” finished explaining an unseen woman, and from
between the ranks of the rogues appeared a young woman. She was
dressed just as scandalous as the rest; beneath her dusty
trail-blazer coat, the girl wore a leather corset of all things, a
yellow halter-top, and evergreen slacks striped with white. Over
her shoulder she’d roguishly