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  WINTER’S KING

  Book Three of the Wings of War Series

  Bryce O’Connor

  Copyright © 2017 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 Vince Connors and Isaure de Buro

  Map by Bryce O’Connor

  Cover art by Andreas Zafiratos

  Cover design by Bryce O’Connor and Andreas Zafiratos

  eBook designed by MC Writing

  “BEHIND US!” he yelled, whirling and bringing the gladius up instinctively. He wasn’t fast enough to deal a killing blow, but his reflexes still proved sufficient to save his life as yellowish fangs, intended for the back of his neck, found the steel bracer of his right arm instead. There was nothing he could do about the momentum of the wolf’s leap, though, and the animal’s body slammed into his, hitting him with a hundred-and-fifty-some-odd pounds of unstoppable force. He had only a glimpse of whitish, dirty fur before he was flying off his saddle sideways, hitting the frozen ground with a hard thud that knocked the torch from his left hand and Ahna from his lap.

  The wolf, though, stayed atop him.

  It was a vicious thing, unlike any animal he had ever seen. Even sandcats were quick to strike and retreat, calculating their movements and attacks. The wolf, rather than backing off now that it had vulnerable prey on the ground, never let go of the bracer, wrenching Raz’s arm about so powerfully he felt his elbow strain under the pressure. They rolled once, twice, three times down the hill, and only then did Raz understand what the creature was doing.

  It was keeping him down until the others arrived to help.

  Everything clicked into place, and Raz moved with all the haste and skill of a cornered killer. Dropping the gladius he’d managed to hold onto in his pinned right hand, he sliced at the animal’s neck with claws of his left, intent on freeing himself. Thick, knotted hair foiled the blow, though, and so Raz drew his whole hand back, clenching the gauntlet into a steel fist.

  The punch broke the animal’s neck with a snap.

  It fell limp off his arm with a pitiful yelp of pain, jaw slackening abruptly. Raz didn’t pause, though, whirling around to meet the assault he knew was coming head on. The four wolves on the left seemed to have gone around the hill, likely trying to take the Priests from the flank.

  The three on the right, though, were already on him.

  With a roar that might have shaken the snow from the trees around him, Raz lanced forward. As the first wolf leapt for him with a snarl, going for the throat, Raz snatched it out of the air by the neck with one hand and slammed it to the ground. The other two came from either side of him, and he leapt back and away, abandoning his hope of gutting the pinned one before it could get back on its feet.

  He did, though, manage to draw the war-ax from his belt.

  “COME ON!” he screamed, his wings spreading to their fullest extent, ripping his hood back so his crest flared like a blade over his head as the wolf he’d downed managed to scramble up and join the others. “COME AND GET ME!”

  The beasts obliged.

  BOOKS BY BRYCE O’CONNOR

  THE WINGS OF WAR SERIES

  Child of the Daystar

  The Warring Son

  Winter’s King

  Book Three of the

  Wings of War Series

  BRYCE O’CONNOR

  For my Bonne Maman

  who was so often the keystone

  to a childhood full of wonder.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As ever, I will always thank my family first for all their support. My mother and father, Vince and Isaure, who took it a step further this time around by doing almost all the essential editing of Winter King’s final draft, and my sister Sabine, who is still making me look bad in the smarts department.

  Next again to Joe Jackson, author of The Eve of Redemption series, for his continued (and indispensable) help cleaning up the final submission of the book. Check out his own awesome writings on his site (https://citaria.wordpress.com) or reach out to him directly with business inquiries regarding read-throughs, editing, and developmental feedback at: [email protected].

  As always to Dan, Bev, Gary, and Barb, for taking me in so many times over the years and helping me become a better writer in so many way.

  To Kate, for still and ever putting up with me. You are literally crazy. How do you do it? Like seriously?

  Again to my unbelievable cover artist Andreas Zafiratos, who all agree has surpassed himself this time around. Winter’s King is my favorite cover to date. See more of his work at www.facebook.com/artofalbinoz or contact him with business inquiries directly at [email protected]. Yes, the last name is different. Take it up with him, ha!

  Again to the myriad of authors and writers who continue to inspired me as a creator, whose worlds I borrow and steal from without hesitation or remorse. Thank you all.

  A new one. To the team over at Bungie and Activision for cobbling together the amazing bundle of fun that is Destiny. I have been playing since week 1, and Trials with my friends is still my favorite place to escape to when I need a break from writing and the real world. Can’t wait for D2!!!

  To my alpha and beta readers, as well as my review team! Without you, NONE of the books I have published thus far would be half as good as they ended up:

  Her Majesty Ashley Klimek, Ruth C. Jones (ruthiejones.com), Simon “Mort” Evans (who is definitely on the team!), Emi-Jo Smith, Emi-Jo Smith, Adam Siefertson, TuFF GoNG, Larry Payton, Patrick “biker dude” Anguish, David Lubkin, Fuchsia Aurelius, Todd Ponto, Adarsh Venkatesh, Cat Zablocki, Jerri-Lee ‘Sprinkles’ Bickley, Nicholas Rocan, Master Seamen Walsh, Emily-Ann, Chris G, Ares Wolfe, Bruce L Hevener, Drake Vato, Jonathan Williamson, Professor Ethan L. Alderman, Devin Fuoco, Devin Fuoco, Mr. Derek E. Larson, MMus, Med, Noel Townsend, Harley Strutton queen of literature, Peter “Hutch” Hutchinson, M.B.Schroeder, David Haselden, and Elise Woodfolk.

  If you are interested in joining the beta group and getting early access to the books, reach out to me at: [email protected].

  And, forever and always, to you readers. Ironically there isn’t enough ink in the world to spell out how grateful I am to you. As I get nearer and nearer to being a full-time writer, I can’t help but wonder at this journey you have taken me on. You are the gas in the engine of an interstellar flight, rocketing me into the sky with every page you turn. Thank you all, endlessly and then some.

  PROLOGUE

  “The Stone Gods—it is commonly believed among those of academia—were a theology born of the forces of nature whose brutality mankind, despite all his potential wickedness, can hardly compare to. Mountain lightning storms, blizzards which leave the world only shades of white, avalanches that descend to bury men alive. It seems logical, when considering this, the deities born of such worship could only be as cruel as the events they were meant to emulate…”

  —FROM THE LIBRARIES OF CYURGI’ DI

  EGARD ROST shook in his worn boots as he approached the wide leather tent staked out at the top of the hill before him. It loomed out of the dark at him and his paired escorts, illuminated by braziers set on either side of the entrance and by the glow of a hundred cooking fires ablaze about the camp at his back. Above and beyond it, the trees of the Arocklen Woods towered overhead, glowing a dim blue as the ice and snow piled in the thick branches reflected the sheen of the moon and stars so
mewhere far above them.

  Egard knew he had no real reason to fear the place, just as he had no real reason to fear for his life. He was valuable, and these nightly visitations to Grahst’s tent were a small price to pay for the general’s protection.

  Even so, as the man over his left shoulder shoved him towards the front flaps once they’d crested the hill, Egard couldn’t help but swallow, the chafed skin of his throat rubbing against the heavy loop of thick, patterned steel that encircled his neck.

  He might be valuable, but a slave will always feel fear when within reach of the whip…

  Egard moved haltingly forward, spreading the leathers that kept out the cold air of the Woods, and stepped inside. The general’s tent was nothing overtly impressive. Grahst had packed light, favoring speed over comfort as the vanguard under his command moved quickly east with each passing day. Still, it was spacious, warm and bright, the smoke from the foursome of torches set in each corner dragged up and away through ventilating holes in the peaks of the ceiling. Most of the ground about Egard’s feet was the grass of the forest floor, but to his right a number of pelts had been piled, forming a makeshift bed.

  And there, seated upon it, his sword across his knees and an oil cloth in hand, sat Kareth Grahst.

  The youngest general of the Kayle’s army did not even raise his eyes to his visitor, finishing the meticulous task of caring for his blade. Egard, in turn, said nothing, watching his master warily as the Sigûrth shined the steel, checking his reflection in the sheen of the metal. Grahst was a large man, even by the standards of the mountain tribes, with the thick arms and legs of one born to swing a sword. He had dark blue eyes, much like his cousin’s, but Grahst’s hair was blonde rather than brown. It was braided in the same fashion as all of his clan, beaded and ringed with baubles and trinkets, as Egard had been forced to do with his own hair. A smile played at the general’s lips even as he continued to work his weapon, like he were amused by something.

  Of course he is, Egard thought with a chill. He’s amused by me.

  Kareth Grahst would have been considered a cruel man in the world outside his mountains. He enjoyed exerting control where he could, thrived on rising above and stomping down on the men below. From killing to pillaging to raping to enslavement, the general drew passion from blood and violence, excitement from battle and death. In the world outside his mountains, he would have been an exile, cast out as savage and wicked.

  Amongst his own, though, such qualities only made him strong.

  When Grahst was finally tired of playing his little game of making Egard wait on him, he set aside the sword. His blue eyes came up slowly, settling on his property’s wan brown ones, and immediately Egard felt his heartbeat pick up.

  “Van ys, skav.”

  The general spoke in the rolling, rough mountain tongue, but Egard understood it perfectly. In a different life he had been a man of another place, another god and purpose, and he had spent much time dealing with both the mountain clans and the civil government of Metcaf, the valley town east of Harond.

  When Metcaf had fallen under the boot of the Kayle, though, Egard had only been among the more valuable pieces of loot.

  Come here, slave, Grahst had said.

  And Egard did as commanded.

  He approached, stepping onto the furs, then brought himself down to sit across from the general. Grahst continued to watch him all the while, the maddening smile still hinted at on his face.

  Egard had a feeling the danger was only real when the man smiled in full.

  For a few seconds, the pair looked at each other. Egard knew what was expected of him, but he waited for his master to give him the command. It was his small defiance, the only rebellion he could manage without risking losing a finger, or more.

  “Eyst,” Grahst said eventually, eyes narrowing.

  Begin.

  And so Egard brought up his hands, willing the flames to come.

  The magic poured into his palms and over his fingers like liquid, licking upwards from his skin in tendrils of white fire that danced and spat back and forth. With nothing more than thought he crafted the simple spells, his will causing the flames to shift and grow, then shrink and separate. It formed patterns over his hands and wrists, and he turned them slowly, allowing the fire to move across his knuckles like living ivory spikes.

  All the while, Grahst watched with wide eyes.

  There was no hunger in that gaze, surprisingly. Egard had thought, on the first night he had been summoned to the general’s tent and told to perform his spells, that Grahst was somehow after the power. He had thought the general desired the magics, desired the strength they could bring him.

  Instead, he had only watched, studying the fire like a man studies a battlefield.

  Which is exactly what he’s doing, Egard thought to himself.

  He had considered, more than once, bringing the full force of his magic to bear as he’d sat there, alone with the general. He had considered demonstrating the potency of a stunning spell, then later even wondered if he had it within him to kill the cruel man. He had made plans, formed ideas, crafted escape routes in his mind and told himself he was waiting for the right opportunity.

  In the end, though, Egard had proven himself too much of a coward to go through with any of them. The laws of his old faith had bound him, and his fear of being caught—or worse, trying and failing to strike down Grahst himself—had paralyzed his hopes and dreams of freedom.

  Not to mention that he would be alone in the Woods, among the wolves and bears and winter snows…

  Egard continued to provide his magical game of show for some time, as he’d expected to. Every evening it was the same: arrive, demonstrate the powers of his old god, then work late into the night on Kareth’s mastery of the Common Tongue. This last part was the true purpose of the nightly visits, of course. Ever since he’d found out that the Kayle had been having his slaves teach him the language of the greater world, Grahst had taken the interest on with fervor. He had always emulated his cousin in that fashion, lesser man that he was, though Gûlraht Baoill’s slaves were all young women he had dragged from the burning skeletons of Metcaf and Harond, not a single beaten, defeated man like Egard.

  Eventually, the general had had enough of the magics. He held up a hand, and Egard ceased the show at once, waiting. It was always Grahst who began their conversation, but it often took him some time to find the words and wrap his tongue around their strange pronunciations.

  “Tonight,” he finally got out, “you teach of the faith. Teach many words, as many as can remember.”

  Egard nodded.

  “Do well more, and perhaps a slave I make you not, one day,” Grahst continued.

  And he said it with a smile.

  861 v.S.

  I

  “By the vast majority of those familiar with his legends, Raz i’Syul Arro is a misunderstood soul. To that greater populace, the unstudied masses who repeat the tales of the Monster to each other around the campfire flames, Arro embodies nothing more than righteous violence. He was a being of savage morality, the creature spat forth by whatever gods laid claim to his world to cleanse it of the filth that festered upon their creation. To these people, those enthusiastically retelling of his conquests in raised voices under waving arms, Arro’s path left behind nothing but justly charred earth. To these people, he was a paladin of virtuous fury, untouched by anything but the burning vengeance that drove him through his crusade against the evils of the Common Age.

  It is only those few of us who’ve looked deeper, who have sought out the truths that time has so casually cast aside, that ache with some echo of the sorrow and suffering the Monster of Karth must have carried with him for the better part of his life…”

  —BORN OF THE DAHGÜN BONE, AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  IT DEFIES all reason, the way winter can be so quiet. When the winds die and nothing is left of the storm but still-falling snow, sound seems to vanish altogether from the world. What remains is not
true silence, per se—there is an inexplicable heaviness to the air, a denseness that bears down upon the ears—but it is as close as one can come in all the noise and vigor that is life.

  And it is more than enough to pull an already feverish mind towards madness.

  It was on this cusp that Raz i’Syul Arro was hovering. His whole body was simultaneously wracked with cold and yet burning up from the inside. He’d been on horseback for three days straight, barely pausing to let the animal rest and graze on what little grass could be found along the clearer bases of the trees that lined their northbound road. He himself had no appetite. It had fled from him much like his awareness of time, leaving only an unrelenting thirst he kept sated with the snow that fell thickly upon his hunched shoulders.

  That, and the pulsing sensation of bone-deep agony lancing through his back with every wheezing breath he took.

  It was an unfamiliar sensation for Raz. This was illness, he’d realized, true disease. He’d seen it before, but never experienced it. He’d always caught the summer colds less often than the rest of his cousins growing up, and—even when they did find a way into his chest—his body very often fought the ailments off far quicker than the other Arros.

  Not this time, though. This time, the infection had taken firm hold of his flesh, and appeared to have no intention of letting go.

  When he’d first started to fall ill, Raz had cursed the names of the men who had put him in this predicament. In particular he’d held himself together for a while by wishing every malediction on Quin Tern—the Azbar councilman who’d had him stand against a small army of mercenaries for Tern’s own pleasure—and Sury Atheus—the West Isler who’d driven a blade through his back in the process. But Atheus was dead and Tern not far behind if he wasn’t already, and Raz’s mind had long since slipped away from anger towards thoughts not so firmly anchored in reality.