“WAKE UP,” he growled, gripping the chin of the closest man and shaking him.
The slaver came to at once and grunted 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 (coming soon)
CHILD
OF THE DAYSTAR
BRYCE O’CONNOR
www.lulu.com
Copyright © 2015 Bryce O’Connor.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
ISBN: 978-1-4834-4124-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4834-4126-9 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4834-4125-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918344
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 11/13/2015
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
PART I
842 V.S.
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
PART II
855 V.S.
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
PART III
862 V.S.
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
Note From The Author
[AKA: The Plight Of The Writer]
For my father,
who has only ever let me be
exactly who I wanted to be.
And my mother,
without whose drive and passion
I’d have never found my own.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many to whom I owe everything and more when it comes to Daystar. If I had another 200 pages to fill, I might have a shot at giving them all the honors they deserve, but sadly this is not the case. Instead, I will limit myself to naming those individuals and groups without whom this book would truly have never existed, whether they are aware of their involvement or not.
My first thoughts are immediately of my family. To my sister, Sabine, for reading and giving her feedback, to my mother, Isaure, for her encouragement, and especially my father, Vincent, for his tireless patience and priceless critiquing.
To my friends and classmates who volunteered themselves as guinea pigs: Bryan Blanchette, Greg Yakimec, Tyler Kenton, Dan Moloney, Cassidy Goepel, Jenni Zelner, Cory Olivares, William Sisskind, Ethan Alderman, Heather Eastty, Chelsea France, and so many others. Thank you all.
To my good friends Patrick Anguish, David Haselden, and Debra Knickerbocker, for your golden support in my campaign toward publication.
To Professor Katharyn Howd Machan for helping me develop the only thing more important than imagination to a writer: discipline.
To Bev and Dan McCarron for helping me cinch the final knots, and Gary and Barb Kuscan for being my refuge when I needed a home away from home.
To Kate Thoene, because your friendship alone means more than any world I might be able to create.
To my incredible cover artist, Andreas Zafiratos, for working with me so patiently. See more of his work at www.facebook.com/artofalbinoz
To the numerous musical prodigies that comprise Two Steps From Hell. Thank you for almost single-handedly crafting the melodies and themes that allowed me to bring Raz and his crusade to life.
Similarly, to Todd Lockwood and Raymond Swanland. Thank you for creating art of such power it drives me to craft worlds of words that would do your pieces justice.
To Barnes & Noble for being the haven for so many of us hopeful dreamers. I wrote 99% of the words in this story seated at one of your tables.
To Brian Jacques, immortal in the memories of his readers, for making me realize the power of storytelling. To Elizabeth Hayden for my favorite fantasy novel to date. To Kristen Britain, Jennifer Roberson, Trudi Canavan, Robin Hobb, Terry Brooks, Anne Bishop, and every author who has ever enthralled and enchanted me with their characters and style.
And lastly, to two individuals whom I will never be able to thank enough for their contributions to my writing, imagination, and life:
J.K. Rowling, for lighting the spark of dreams and creativity.
And Brent Weeks, for blowing that spark into a firestorm.
PART I
842 V.S.
PROLOGUE
“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 blo
od. 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 sla
ver’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.
I
“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.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 1