The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Read online

  THE WARRING SON

  Book Two of the Wings of War Series

  Bryce O’Connor

  Copyright © 2016 by Bryce O’Connor. All rights reserved.

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

  Edited by Marcus Trower

  Map by Bryce O’Connor

  Cover art by Andreas Zafiratos

  Cover design by Bryce O’Connor and Andreas Zafiratos

  eBook designed by MC Writing

  TILUS WAS NOT EXPECTING THE POUNCE. For a time during his charge he might have been wary of a counterattack, but after a while all fights tend to settle into a rhythm. It is the primary weakness of inexperience, the true cost of youthful ignorance, though, that leads young fighters into embracing the pattern. For Tilus, paths like this would have always been in his favor, his superior strength and skill allowing him to lead the dance until he won.

  When the dance is forcibly changed, though, such men are often left reeling.

  The boy had just brought his blade up for another crossward blow when Raz was suddenly moving at him rather than away from him. To his credit he didn’t hesitate in his strike, bringing it down just as he’d intended, aiming for Raz’s left shoulder. Raz, though, closed the gap between them faster than any steel could fall. He was already beside Tilus by the time the blow would have reached him, and the sword—driven downward with all the hopes of a killing strike—dug into the snow and earth, sticking there. Before the boy had the chance to pull it out, Raz’s foot collided with the back of his weight-bearing leg, bringing him to his knees. He still clung one-handed to the blade, his grasp at an awkward angle with the sword lodged in the ground. Without hesitating, Raz punched down with a mailed fist, crushing the boy’s right shoulder. As Tilus screamed in pain, his hand dropping loosely from the bastard sword’s handle, Raz reached out and pulled the blade free.

  Then, in a single motion, he swung the blade around and dragged its razor edge across Brek Tilus’ throat.

  If one has never seen the force with which arterial blood can spray, it is a terrifying thing. A gush of red, misting in the icy air, erupted across the snowy ground and stained the stone of the angled wall beside them. Tilus didn’t even have time to choke on his own blood. Raz had cut so quick and so deep that he was gone in seconds, allowing for only one bubbling rasp from his severed windpipe before he was still.

  Putting a foot to his back, Raz shoved the boy so that he fell facedown into the slush and mud.

  “Fool,” he said sadly, watching the red creep into the brown and white of the snow.

  BOOKS BY BRYCE O’CONNOR

  THE WINGS OF WAR SERIES

  Child of the Daystar

  The Warring Son

  Winter’s King

  (coming soon)

  Book Two of the

  Wings of War Series

  BRYCE O’CONNOR

  For my Bonne Maman,

  without whom my childhood,

  for which I credit all things,

  would have been truly lacking.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is incredible to me that I once again find myself at that point in which it is time for me to look back and reflect on all the amazing people and personalities that have lent themselves to my arrival at the publishing of The Warring Son. Again, I would need a whole tome to really be able to dedicate the magnitude of the gratitude I owe and feel to so many people around the world, and am saddened that I must limited my desire to give thanks to only a few short paragraphs. If you don’t find yourself within these lines, know that your work is not unnoticed, and that I could never have completed the second work in The Wings of War series without you.

  As always, I must firstly thank my family for all their support and encouragement. My father Vince, for his unending support, my mother Isaure for her enthusiasm (and continuous requests to translate the book for me), and my sister Sabine, for her feedback and encouragement.

  Next to a new face. To Joe Jackson, author of The Eve of Redemption series, for his selfless and incredible work helping me to touch up and detail the final text of this book. Check out his own awesome writing on his site: https://citaria.wordpress.com

  Once again to Professor Katharyn Howd Machan, who I realize as I am writing this is very likely to have my head because I never actually TOLD her she was in the acknowledgements of these books…

  To Dan, for helping me think outside the box when I’m stuck within its walls, and to Bev for her excitement on my behalf.

  To Gary, for teaching me that I can learn to deal with losing, and to Barb, for teaching me that I can learn to deal with Gary.

  Always to Kate, for granting me a friendship that will outlast the Sun, the Moon, and All Her Stars put together.

  Once more to my absolutely amazing cover artist, Andreas Zafiratos, for continuing to craft such incredible renditions of Raz and his world. See more of his work at www.facebook.com/artofalbinoz

  Again to the numerous musical prodigies that comprise Two Steps From Hell. You continue to provide the score that backlights the realms of the North and South and every land under, above, and around them.

  To the countless multitude of authors and writers who have affected and inspired me to be all that I can be as a creator. For crafting worlds with words that that I can pick and poke at, turning over leaves and stones and mountains to find the things for my stories that my own imagination falls short on.

  And finally, for the first time, but far from the last, to you readers. As of this moment, Child of the Daystar has been downloaded tens of thousands of time, with millions of pages read. I cannot express to you, by any means known to man, beast, or god, how much your enthusiasm and appreciation of my work ignites my life. I can only continue to create, continue to push other writers to do the same, and continue to walk Raz down his path, one bloody step at a time. I love you all. Thank you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 2.0

  I have one more body of people I need to give my endless thanks to, as they are a wonderful conglomerate who have—as both individuals and as a group—arguably done more to make The Warring Son the book it is now than I did by writing the damn thing.

  To hopeful writers out there, consider the list of names below an inspiration, as they form my beta readers and review team, HUGELY important parts of my creative process, and of the success of The Wings of War so far. I cannot recommend enough that you find a party of trustworthy minds to help you with the final details and promotion of the book. If you find people with half the enthusiasm, cleverness, and eye for detail that I have in my group, you will be head and shoulders above most others in the saturated waters of the publishing field.

  And so, without further delay and in no specific order, thank you so much to:

  Joann Strutton, who has the courage and love like no one else. Jerri-Lee ‘The Whimsical Wildflower’ Bickley. Emma Ellen Clor. Her Majesty Ashley Klimek. Jacques Smit. Maurice L. Robinson. IlùvatarIrmo. Simon “Mort” Evans (who is definitely on the team!). MS Walsh, Emily-Ann. Ruth C. Jones (ruthiejones.com). Devin Fuoco. David Lubkin. Cat Zablocki. Andrew Gwilliam . Emi-Jo Smith. Ares Wolfe. Logan Rhodes. Yeo Jun Wen. Professor Ethan L. Alderman. Noel Townsend. Levi Costello. Conrad Zero. Nicole Horning. Chris M Struck. Fuchsia Carter. David Haselden. Laura Haselden. W. “TuFF GoNG J” Brown - since Skolas. Jonathan Williamson. Dan McCa
rron. Justin Forche. Adam Siefertson. Bruce L Hevener. Drake Vato. El Mobley. Piers Meynell. Mr. Derek E. Larson, MMus, Med. Peter Hutchinson. Stephanie R Mobley. Ryan D. Adarsh Venkatesh. Patrick “biker dude” Anguish. Amanda Anguish. Nicholas Rocan. Todd Ponto. Larry Payton. Martin Rogers. Dawn Butler. Chris G.

  Than you all, endlessly and eternally, and I hope to see you again and again on every chapter of this while ride…

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  “The mountain men of the Northern Ranges are, like any people, a diverse sort. While most hold their ways and traditions in generally high regard, there are always outliers, extreme opinions on either side of a political spectrum not unlike our own. On one hand, those of an emerging school of thought, one that drifts away from ritual in favor of peace, prosperity, and the development of civil exchange between the tribes and the scattered valley towns below. On the other, though, the battered side of the same coin. Those harder men of the tribes who hold tight to the old ways, refusing to bend even the slightest towards what they deem to be a weakening of their people, a conscious sacrifice of culture and will. It is these men we must fear. It is these men who will bloody every snowy hill of the North before they see the fall of their Stone Gods to the warmer embrace of the Lifegiver and all his mercy.”

  —STUDYING THE LIFEGIVER, BY CARRO AL’DOR

  GÛLRAHT BAOILL stood tall upon the precipice of Crone’s Hook, toeing the edge of the narrow cliff even as the wind buffeted his heavy frame in all directions. Dark blue eyes took in the first light of dawn as the sun crested the snowy caps of the Vietalis Ranges, washing the mountainsides in yellows and golds. The colors were harsh against the gray and black of stone and early-morning shadows, but Gûlraht knew the edge of that contrast would fade as the day grew older. He knew many things, in fact, about these cliffs. As vast as they were, as endless and angry as the mountains seemed to many, to Gûlraht they spoke only of the warmth of home, the strength of honor.

  And the power of ritual, tradition, and death.

  Taking a final moment to absorb the morning glow, Gûlraht reached down for the haft of the double-headed great-ax he’d been resting both palms on. The weapon, a massive thing of dark wood, decorative leather thongs, and honed steel, felt comfortingly heavy in his hand as he turned his back on the morning, making his way down the Hook towards the group waiting for him below. His fur-lined boots, thick leather layered with darkened wolf pelts, kept good footing despite the several inches of snow that hid the treacherous ground from sight. The wind refused to let up as well, kicking flakes of white into Gûlraht’s thick brown hair and beard, already heavy with bone beads and iron rings. It ruffled the tufts of matted fur that comprised the rest of his armor: gauntlets, bracers, and iron-studded breastplate. Only the upper halves of his arms were bare to the elements, as was tradition, the skin there dark and hardened to near leather itself, stretching harshly against the mass of muscle and sinew beneath as Gûlraht picked his way carefully down the ice and uneven earth.

  Reaching flat ground at last, he looked down on the four men standing there in wait, each at least two heads shorter than he.

  “Speak.”

  To his right, Erek Rathst started up at once.

  “The hounds tracked down the last of the Amreht runaways early this morning. They await your judgment in the center of camp, as per your instruction. Once we’ve dealt with them, I expect the rest of the tribe to abandon these tedious mutinies for good.”

  Gûlraht nodded once, then turned to the man to Erek’s right.

  “And of the Kregoan?” he asked. “What news?”

  “More came in the night to join our ranks,” Kareth Grahst, Gûlraht’s cousin, responded as the wind whipped between them all, throwing beaded hair about. “With the fall of the Amreht, and our march on the Goatmen of Gähs, they seem to think it prudent to enter the fold willingly, without bloodshed.”

  “Wise of them.” Gûlraht nodded again, watching the twitching of their shadows against the snow as the sun continued to rise behind them. “Not to mention fortunate. Between the battle and these rebellions, we’ve lost half the numbers the Amreht might have provided us with.”

  “You are cruel with them, my Kayle,” one of the other men, an older figure who stood furthest to Gûlraht’s left, said testily. “This sort of cancer festers under the weight of a boot, but not in the palm of an extended hand. Emhret would never have condoned such—”

  “Do not presume to voice the late Kayle’s opinion in my presence, Rako,” Gûlraht growled, staring down the older man. “You may be my uncle by marriage, but Emhret Grahst was so by blood. It didn’t stop me from taking his head when I saw fit. He grew weak, seduced by the White Witch, and you should know well I do not abide weakness in my people.”

  To his right, Kareth twitched involuntarily.

  Gûlraht frowned. “Do my words trouble you, Cousin?” he asked pointedly, looking down upon the smaller man.

  Kareth shook his head at once.

  “My father bent knee to the towns, to the Witch, and to their soft god,” he spat with every ounce as much venom as was painted across his weathered face. “He claimed necessity due to the freeze, but we are men of the mountains. We face the storms and endure. We do not turn our backs to the wind and cringe our way through the winter.”

  “Well enough said,” the last man, Agor Vareks, agreed with a nod before looking to Rako. “There may be a time for mercy, old friend, but that time is not now. This cancer may have festered beneath the weight of a boot, as you say, but it is that boot which will crush it.”

  He turned back to Gûlraht.

  “The same boot, I dare presume, that will eventually stomp out the larger sickness plaguing these lands of ours.”

  In response, Gûlraht looked over his shoulder, down the cliff edge this time. There, tucked between the mountainside and the evergreen sweeps of the glen below, stood the valley town. Like a scar on the world, its great circular stone wall cut a swath around thousands of buildings and homes, grayish smoke furling from twice as many chimneys as day broke for the city-folk, too. Like the ants they were they crawled from the timber houses, milling about and over each other, a wash of vermin all packed together, feeling safe behind their wall.

  Metcaf, the town was called by its inhabitants. They gave a name to each such place, attempting in vain to distinguish them from one another.

  The mountain men had a single name for all of them in the language of the tribes, but no word of equal vulgarity existed in the Common tongue.

  “We will continue to leave the tamed men to their comforts for the time being,” Gûlraht said, his eyes not leaving the walls of Metcaf. “The treaties Emhret established give them a sense of security. There will be a day we can use that to our advantage.”

  “And when will that day be, exactly?”

  It was Agor who asked. The man was not as aged as Rako, but he was old enough to be forgiven some limited patience.

  Unlike Rako, though, he bore no weak sympathies.

  Gûlraht turned again, but looked beyond his advisors now to the camp behind them. In scattered rows of cloth and pelt tents, twenty thousand tribesmen awaited his command. They spotted the flattened mountaintop to its edge and beyond, claiming whatever patch of snowless earth they’d been able to find. Muddy trenches cut paths at random every which way, churned to muck by booted feet and the hooves of the long-haired oxen the tribes had used as beasts of burden for as long as anyone could recall. With the new day came the rousing of the slumbering beast that was the army, and even as he listened Gûlraht could make out the growing roar of awakening as men and their camp slaves started to stir, shouting to one another and prepping to move.

  A word was all it would take. A single command, and Gûlraht could swarm the cliffs with the army at his back, descending like some great dark bird of prey on Metcaf far below.

  For a moment, the temptation was there.

  But no. Now was not the time.

  “Soon, Agor
,” Gûlraht finally responded. “The townsmen will have their turn, I swear it to you all, but the Goatmen come first. They are seven thousand we could use.”

  Hefting the great-ax in one hand, Gûlraht pushed between the men, making for camp.

  “Take me to the runaways, Uncle,” he commanded Rako over his shoulder. “It’s time this cruel boot of mine crushed your ‘Amreht cancer’ once and for all.”

  861 V.S.

  I

  “There were once no marked borders separating the North and South. For the better part of the near-thousand v.S years, in fact, there lacked any distinct boundaries between the two realms. Instead, a width of fifty or so miles above the sandy plains of the South and just below the thick evergreen groves of the North was recognized as neutral territory, a sort of buffer land. In the years of 734 and 737, however, disputes involving taxation and ownership rights broke out amongst a number of small settlements along this narrow strip. To avoid an inter-border incident, it was agreed that distinct markers would be placed along every major road and trade route, designating the exact spot in which a traveler crossed from one land into the next.”

  —THE DEVELOPMENT OF TRADE OF THE 700’S, BY VL SHRUNE

  RAZ WATCHED the cart pull away, heading south once more, back in the direction they’d come. For a long time he stood at the edge of the woodland road, waiting until the old man and his horse were long gone, disappearing around a bend in the trees.

  Then he turned northward, looking around with shameless awe.

  It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

  Everything was so green. For the last two days of their weeklong journey, Raz had seen hints of things his father had described to him years before. Patches of long, thick grass mixing with the sandy Southern soil. Scattered examples of monolithic trees that dwarfed the palms he remembered from the summer months his family had spent along the banks of the Garin. He’d seen the signs, known that the world was changing around him, shifting into something magnificent. The land was coming alive, reshaping itself into something so far come from the arid dryness of the Cienbal.