The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Read online

  The Wings of War: Box Set, Vol. 1

  Bryce O’Connor

  Copyright © 2017 Bryce O’Connor

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without expressed permission from the author.

  ISBN: 0-9988106-1-4

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9988106-1-4

  Map by Bryce O’Connor

  Cover Art by Andreas Zafiratos

  Cover Design by Bryce O’Connor & Andreas Zafiratos

  Ebook Interior Design & Formatting by Bryce O’Connor

  “Wake up,” he growled, gripping the chin of the closest man and shaking him.

  The slaver came to at once, grunting as he tried to yell through the cloth gag in his mouth. The sound was pitifully muffled, and he struggled with the bindings on his wrists and ankles.

  “Shout all you want. No one can hear you through that,” Raz spat, standing up.

  The man stilled and grew silent, eyes wide, taking in Raz’s towering outline against the lantern light from the road.

  “If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead, so stop worrying. I have a message. On the other hand, if it’s not delivered—well, your friends will be happy to explain the consequences to you.”

  He gestured to the other figures laying in the dark past the bound man, who turned to look. His muted scream was oddly satisfying, and Raz smirked humorlessly. The slaver fell over in his haste to scoot away. Blood pooled on the cobbled stone, forming black puddles where each of the rest of the patrol had had their throats slit. Every horrified gaze was wide and staring, some fixed upon the night sky above, some on the walls around them.

  Raz had made sure each and every one knew they were going to die.

  “Are you listening?” he asked.

  The man nodded hurriedly, seeming unable to look away from the bodies of his comrades.

  “Good. Then tell your employers that Raz i’Syul is coming for them next. Tell them the Monster says they’d best start running, and that they’d best start running now.”

  BOOKS BY BRYCE O’CONNOR

  The Wings of War Series

  Child of the Daystar

  The Warring Son

  Winter’s King

  As Iron Falls

  The Wings of War

  Box Set, Vol. 1

  BRYCE O’CONNOR

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Book I: Child of the Daystar

  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

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHATPER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  EPILOGUE

  Book II: The Warring Son

  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

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  EPILOGUE

  Book III: Winter’s King

  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

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK: PROLOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 1

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 2

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 3

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 4

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 5

  SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 6

  NEED MORE?

  Note From the Author

  Book I: Child of the Daystar

  PROLOGUE

  861 v.S.

  “By the Sun’s grace, I grow. By the Moon’s, I sleep. It is in their light that the world is, and it is by their light that I shall live.”

  —“The Twin’s Prayer,” from the libraries of Cyurgi’ Di

  He was at it again.

  The boy’s screams cracked the heavy silence of the desert air. Iron wristlets bound his clawed hands together, rusted edges lined with dried and still-drying blood. Heavy ropes kept his tail and leathery wings lashed tight around his scaled body. Just the same, despite the shackles and his small size, he still managed to hiss and snap at his captors whenever the opportunity presented itself. Like a snake the atherian bared budding fangs at anyone who got too close, the crest of steel-blue skin along the spine of his neck flaring brightly.

  Vashül Tyre rubbed
his temples with thumb and forefinger before rolling gray eyes to the blazing Sun above the caravan. Bedecked in pale cloth thinned by age and sand, he wiped the sweat from his nose and gave a tug on the leather reins of his gelding to keep the animal from wandering off course. They’d been on the move for two weeks already. Two weeks. By now the line was usually broken by hunger and fright, or at least by the endless heat that cast ripples like transparent ribbons across the horizon. The rest of them, the wingless lizard-kind stumbling along with the chains that kept them single file, had long since given up the fight. A few still joined the little one whenever he began his rants, squawking and screeching in unison, but it only took a few quick prods from the drivers’ spears to shut them up.

  There was no such treatment for the boy. Beatings only made the outbursts worse when they came.

  Still… temporary satisfaction had its merits.

  “Rincer!” the slavemaster snapped, tired of the atherian’s endless tantrum. “Shut him up!”

  Rincer Gravin, a burly former bandit with a heavy beard and three fingers missing from his left hand, dropped back to the end of the line where the babe was chained. The atherian watched him with narrowed eyes, hissing at the man as the slaver drew a nine-tailed whip from his belt. Rincer leered from beneath his cowl, grinning until it was possible to see the reddish stain of ragroot in his yellowed teeth.

  “You heard the master, didn’t ‘ya, boy?” he breathed into the child’s face, bending low. “If’n you don’t shut it, I’m gonna have some fun with this here toy of mine.”

  He rustled the nine-tails’ studded straps in front of the atherian’s snout for emphasis. The boy stilled, vertical pupils following the whip’s motions with more caution than mutiny now.

  Rincer chuckled. Turning around, he raised a hand to catch Tyre’s attention.

  “Reckon you just gotta know how to handle the flesh-eaters! I done put ‘im in his pl—ARGHHHHH!”

  It happened so suddenly no one had time to cry out a warning. Taking advantage of the man’s turned back, the atherian pounced, heedless of the shackles that held his hands or the ropes that limited his movement. His teeth, barely a fraction of their adult size, found the back of Rincer’s neck through the thin cowl and dug to the bone. The curved claws of his feet ripped and tore as the pair fell into the sand. As one the slave line faltered, the closest captives stumbling toward the fight, pulled along by the chains.

  The lizard-babe attacked with weeks of pent-up savagery. Rincer screamed, writhing in the hot sand. Talons made short work of cloth and everything beneath. Blood and strips of flesh splattered the desert around them. Bones snapped and fabric ripped. The other slavers swarmed to the scene, Tyre screaming at them from the front of the line, “DON’T TOUCH HIM! HE’S WINGED! HE’S WORTH YOUR WEIGHT AGAIN IN CROWNS!”

  Rincer’s attempts to defend himself were pitiful. Atherian were stronger than men and faster by far. It was only superior planning that allowed Tyre’s small group to do well selling them off to the Seven Cities and the gambling pits of Perce to the south. Even with that advantage it was a rare raid that went without injury.

  Not that casualties, truth be told, were much less common…

  “LEAVE HIM, I SAY!” the slavemaster screamed, swinging a leg over his saddle and leaping off his horse. With a flailing whip he broke through the ring of men that surrounded the pair still writhing on the ground. “Rincer was fool to turn his back on the animals! He deserves no help from the likes of­­—”

  CRACK.

  The atherian’s jaws, still sunk deep around the back of the unfortunate slaver’s neck, twisted suddenly. Rincer’s whole body spasmed, arms and legs convulsing. Then the jerks subsided and he lay still, his head at a strange angle, his broad back flayed open. The air smelled of blood, and rivulets thick and dark dried until the sand around his corpse was dyed black. Only then, when Rincer’s eyes stared sightlessly from his dust-caked face, did the boy let off his attack. Snout slick with gore, he raised his head and bared reddened fangs, the loose blue crest flaring again along the back of his neck. His wings tried to extend, but the bindings held tight, and he screamed in frustration at the slavers that surrounded him. His war cry was shrill, lacking the ferocity of an adult’s, but it nevertheless rang with a defiance that had every one of the men take pause. The line was at a standstill, every eye on the boy.

  “Move in slowly,” Tyre ordered in a gruff hiss, taking a step forward. The blade of his saber scraped against its sheath as he drew it. “I don’t want him harmed. We’ll drag him to the Cities if we have to, but by the Sun he is coming with us.”

  “Ya’ sure that’s smart?” someone quipped from the back of the group. The slavemaster ignored them.

  “Forward. Easy now…”

  The drivers edged closer. The atherian in turn took a step back, off Rincer’s body, hissing and struggling with his chains. Behind him the other captives in the line were spitting as well, bearing fangs at the men that threatened one of their young.

  “Closer… closer…”

  And then, faster than any of them could anticipate, the boy pounced again. He landed on the chest of the closest man, bearing him shrieking to the ground as a wolf might down a deer. Heavy black claws cut furrows once more, and the lizard-kind snapped at the man’s throat, going for the kill.

  There was a panicked howl, the flash of steel, and a blade bit into the infant’s shoulder.

  “NO!” Tyre yelled. The atherian screamed, but too late. Another sword landed, slicing open the boy’s thigh, then another, spraying blood from nicked ribs. Mercifully, the next blow to connect was the butt of an old spear, catching the child in the side of the head. There was a second crack of breaking bone, and he collapsed, falling to the ground like a paper kite on dead wind.

  “NO!” Tyre howled, laying about wildly with his whip again and scattering the men. “I said NOT TO TOUCH HIM. If he’s dead, you’ll pay! You’ll all PAY!”

  The line settled at once, the slavers breathing hard, all eyes on the still form of the lizard-babe. The remaining captives screeched and pined, seeing their hopes of rebellion shatter before them. One of the adults pulled forward, tugging a few of the others with her, trying to pick the infant up with her bound hands.

  “Back!” Tyre roared, cracking the slave across the arms. “Get back! Damn flesh-eaters. Yssey! Check if the wretch is alive.”

  An older man with arms like a blacksmith’s approached prudently, prodding the motionless figure with the tip of his dagger before venturing closer. Carefully he poked the body, then shook it, eventually even braving a couple of solid kicks for good measure.

  “Nothin’,” he concluded finally, stepping away. “Dead as dead.”

  A fluid string of curses leapt from Tyre’s lips, and he whirled on the group.

  “You, you, and you!” he raged, pointing out three haphazard men in his fury. “You three started this! I said you would pay. CHAIN THEM TO THE LINE! Their price should make up for part of losing a winged male.”

  The three men who’d been designated wailed out denials as the others pounced on them, eager to avoid the slavemaster’s growing rage.

  “As for you.” Tyre whirled on the man he did, in fact, know bore the spear that delivered the killing blow. Before the driver could protest, the whip was around his neck. With a tug Tyre dragged him forward, lifting the saber in his other hand.

  Running the man through sternum to spine, he didn’t so much as blink.

  “Let Her have you,” he breathed into the dying slaver’s face.

  Twisting the body away, Tyre let it slide off the blade to collapse upon the sand. When he looked up, the others were all watching him apprehensively. It took a few seconds for the slavemaster to calm himself.

  “What are you all gaping at? Get the scallies back in line! We’ve got a ways yet! Finner, Jek. Collect what you can from the bodies. Yssey, get the animals going! Rylle…!”

  Not ten minutes after the start of the commotion, the line was
on the move again, driven hard, trekking out over the endless desert suddenly three members light. The group hadn’t long faded into the heat before the vultures came, twisted black shapes circling above the dead, wondering if they could yet brave a descent.

  The men would go first. Atherian hide was tougher to rip at by far.

  CHAPTER 1

  “They are beasts who, upon first encounter, have some semblances of the compassion we pride ourselves in as men and women. Do not be led astray. They are savages, barbarians, and if it is easier to kill than barter, they will pounce.”

  —Stevan Ashani, head of the Ashani clan, concerning the atherian

  Agais Arro’s family had had a good year. Trade had favored them throughout the season and—despite the harsh trek across the desert plains of the Cienbal every other month—they’d profited well. New horses were purchased for the wagons whose animals had been past their prime, extra blankets and furs bought for those couples with young. Agais smiled, thanking the Sun above for their good fortune throughout the cool season, and offering up a small prayer that it might continue into the next.

  The Cienbal was not generally considered a favorable place to reside. The desert was a dangerous friend at best, its perils not only limited to the flesh-stripping heat. Water was beyond scarce, river-holes and oases hard to find and unreliable by their nature. Bandits weren’t so uncommon unfortunately, though they tended to bide along the outer rings of the desert, relying on the more bountiful resources of the civilized fringe cities. Still, it did happen that bands would venture into the deeper parts of the sands, braving the elements for the chance of catching the trading clans unaware.