As Iron Falls
Page 1
As Iron Falls
Book Four of The Wings of War series
Bryce O’Connor
Copyright © 2018 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: 978-0-9988106-5-2
Edited by Laura Hughes
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
“You have slaves here?” the Dragon asked, his voice a deadly hiss. “Here? Aboard the ship?”
The captain must have sensed the danger, but it seemed as though the atherian’s spell of fear was failing as Omara glanced around, realizing just how many men he had left compared to Arro alone. With another nod, he took a second step forward, and this time the entirety of the crew began to press in around the beast.
“Aye,” he said with another cruel smile, bringing his scimitar and axe up in preparation. “You should have heard them, as we set sail. Whispering amongst themselves and praying to every god of the world. Apparently you’re something of a hero to their kind. Let’s see what happens when we—!”
Shlunk.
The Dragon moved so fast, Ykero thought he had blinked and missed it. There was a moment in which the atherian had been standing before the gangplank, still as stone, listening to the captain speak. Then in a blur, he was suddenly in front of Omara, materializing like some great dark shadow in the smoke before the man. No one saw the spear move. No one saw it arc back, then rip around with all the force of a sharpened battering ram.
All they saw was their captain falling to the deck, his body severed in half, cleaved in two from hip to armpit.
There was a space of two heartbeats in which all was silent. The world itself seemed to still, the sounds of the battle echoing over them as though from far, far away. Every eye was on the body of Omara, his chest, arms, and head convulsing as his legs kicked weakly some three feet away. Terror, unlike anything he had ever felt or thought he could ever feel, washed over Ykero.
“I’m sorry,” Arro said, lowering the spear slowly and bending down over the corpse to tug the sagaris free of Omara’s twitching fingers. “I had intended to challenge the man. I’d hoped to end this without more bloodshed.”
He hefted the axe experimentally as he stood up again, slashing it through the air as he tested its weight. Apparently satisfied, he brought it to his face, studying the narrow steel head with interest.
“You’ve made that impossible.”
And then the Dragon was moving again, a black blur streaked with silver and gold, and all the world was blood.
BOOKS BY BRYCE O’CONNOR
The Wings of War Series
Child of the Daystar
The Warring Son
Winter’s King
As Iron Falls
AS IRON FALLS
BRYCE O’CONNOR
For Laura and David.
To the wonderful life you have led so far,
and to the beautiful one that now extends before you.
On your own, each of you is nothing short of incredible…
…Together, though, you put to shame the magnificence of even the greatest magic.
Acknowledgments
Never will I start an acknowledgements section of my books without thanking my family first for all they have done. My mother and father, Vince and Isaure, who continue to this day to push and support me, and my sister Sabine, whose pations and interests make me feel like a wimp.
To Nick and Alex, who are recent but wonderful additions to my life. At the time of writing this, Nick is up 11 chess games on me… I swear by Laor that as of the next release, I’ll be in the lead.
To Dan and Steph, for all the wonderful influence you have had on my life and writing. STOP RAISING THE BAR OF MY RELATIONSHIP GOALS, DAMMIT!
Once more to my unbelievable cover artist Andreas Zafiratos, who has yet again managed to blow the lid on every expectation. See more of his work at www.facebook.com/artofalbinoz or contact him with business inquiries directly at andreaszafeiratos@gmail.com. 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 influence! To the incredible creators of my recent anime favorites, which are too many to name. Just a few: Is It Wrong to Pick Up Girls In a Dungeon?, Black Clover, Maid Sama!, and especially Toradora! and Sword Art Online,
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:
Adam Siefertson, Adarsh Venkatesh, His Lordship Jervis Funglehold, Amy Lizette Davalos, Ronni Adams, Her Majesty Ashley Klimek, Bruce L Hevener, Cat Zablocki, Chris G, Colby Stanley, Daniel Crain, Daniel A. Shay, David Lubkin, David Nott, Mr. Derek E. Larson, MMus, Med, Devin Fuoco, Drake Vato, Elise Woodfolk, Emi-Jo Smith, Master Seamen Walsh, Emily-Ann, Emma Ellen Clor, Erin "shammy" Lindstrom, Professor Ethan L. Alderman, Fuchsia Aurelius, H. Skipper, Harley Strutton queen of literature, Jacques Smit, Jennifer, Jeremy Freeman, Jerri-Lee 'Sprinkles' Bickley, Joe Jackson, J Henninger, JoJo, Jonathan Williamson, TuFF GoNG, Lening Gonzalez, Mackenzie King, Ares Wolfe, M.B.Schroeder, Matt Gorsuch, Nicholas Rocan, Noel Townsend, Patrick "biker dude" Anguish, Phoebe Wang, Robert J. Mosentoff, Ruth C. Jones (ruthiejones.com), Simon "Mort" Evans (who is definitely on the team!), Stephanie Letzring, Struan Findlay, Theresina Lloyd, Todd Ponto
If you are interested in joining the beta group and getting early access to the books, reach out to me at:
bryce@bryceoconnorbooks.com.
And, lastly to a very special group, my Patron on Patreon! Thank you all especially for the feedback and endless support you have provided over the last 6 months. Our dialogue, and your appreciation of the rough work you have received, has been priceless in keeping me moving forward.
To become a Patron, check out my Patreon page at:
https://www.patreon.com/bryceoconnor
Robert Julian Mosentoff
Neil Davis
Cory C
Daniel Shay
daniel john gerhart
Jackie Eqinox
Devin Fucco
Kelly Larson
Ethan Alderman
Eric Kramer
Altoids
Daniel Bacon.
One last time, thank you all!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
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 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
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
EPILOGUE
SNEAK PEEK: PROLOGUE
SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 1
SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 2
NEED MORE?
Note From the Author
PART I
862 v.S.
PROLOGUE
“There is little to document the rise and fall of the last šef of the Miropan Mahsadën, due in large part to the brevity of his reign. Spanning hardly the breadth of two years, I have had a troublesome time producing credible records of his period presiding over the most vicious and secretive underworld society the South has ever suffered. Outside of what one might traditionally deem ‘credible,’ however, there is plenty to be learned. Compiling rumors and tales, drawing out of everything from the tattered journals of the Mahsadën’s lesser officers to stories passed down as fables through generations, I have managed to come to several conclusions. Foremost among these: this last bastion of darkness ruled by more than the standard fare of respect and fear with which every šef before him had governed the society. Every recounting and myth I can dredge up from that time speaks of something greater within him, some dark power which he used to hold fast the chains of his lessers in a fist wreathed in white flames.”
—As Death Rose from the Ashes, by Kohly Grofh
The man’s hands trembled slightly as he clung to the fragile parchment of the letter, doing his best to clear his mind long enough to take in the words scrawled in hasty lines across the page. He wondered briefly if the paired couriers before him, kneeling to either side below at the base of the raised dais upon which his throne sat, could sense his trepidation. He doubted it. For one, their heads were bowed, half out of respect and half out of fear.
For another, enough deception had been sown into the ranks of the Mahsadën already to ensure the men were like to interpret his shaking as something altogether more wrathful.
“What is it, my love? What news has been brought to you?”
The voice, gentle as silk fluttering in a desert wind, dug into the man’s ear like a nail. He did not jump—as he had done for the first few months the woman had sat in the smaller seat to his right—but he couldn’t help himself from tensing or his fingers from twitching the slightest bit away when a slim hand reached out to settle on his wrist, the figure beside him leaning closer to read the letter as well.
“News from the North,” the man said in a strong voice that had taken a long time to steady—it would never do for his subordinates to find more weakness in him than his crippled form already proved, after all. He handed the letter to the woman as she reached for it, then let his grey eyes settle on the two couriers once again. “You may go.”
The men dipped their heads reverently, then scurried away like rats outrunning a flood. He couldn’t blame them. He’d dismissed them deliberately, knowing the contents of the letter would not please the woman at his elbow.
And her anger was always a terrible thing to behold.
Indeed, even as he thought this, the man felt an unpleasant heat begin to radiate from his right, thickening the already dusk-choked air and chasing away what little coolness the throne room provided. It was early summer, and the cruel gaze of the Sun had begun its ravaging of the South, searing eyes and any flesh that dared expose itself to its hunger. The room, once the receiving hall of a former šef by the name of Imaneal Evony, had been designed to thwart—or at least minimize—this oppressive hotness of the summer days. Thin, spiraling columns held up a high, ribbed ceiling that trapped the rising air and funneled it through hatches in the top of each vaulting. Arched windows made up a majority of the walls on every side, their blue-green silk curtains pulled away now to coax in what little breeze made it through the streets of Miropa and the bustle of the main square outside. The floor was fashioned of white quartz, streaked with greys and blacks, and did not sting the bare soles of the feet as one made their way across it.
And yet, despite these measures taken, the heat continued to rise until the man could feel the sear of it on his cheek, radiating as the woman’s wrath built up with every line read of the letter clutched now in her delicate hands.
“Months,” she finally hissed. “Months I wait for the freeze to end and the paths to clear, and this is all the news I receive?”
“We know where he is,” the man said evenly, not looking at her. “A temple in the mountains, north of the great forest. Secluded like that, he won’t be able to—”
“I don’t give a damn where he is, fool!” The woman cut him off with a snap, altogether abandoning the pretense of the calm lover she’d portrayed in front of the couriers. “I care about where he’s been, what he’s been doing. Your cousin’s story grows with every passing moment, and with it the unrest in my city. Almost a year since he made a fool of you and your šef before fleeing, and more than half that since he made a fool of every man we sent to Azbar. And now this.” There was the crunch of paper, and he could imagine her clutching at the edges of the parchment.
“In single combat, as well,” the man said in a musing tone, careful to hide his underhanded delight. “It’s my understanding this ‘Kayle’ must have been something of a formidable opponent, too…”
It was his little rebellion, his only outlet to shift even the slightest bit out from under the claws of the woman. Being the puppet of her uprising had its uses. In a way, he was untouchable, free of the threat her anger posed to so many of the lesser men within the Mahsadën.
At least for the moment.
“Look at me, Adrion.”
A shiver ran down his spine at the words, and it was a moment before he could obey. Slowly, like a man attempting to delay his fate, Adrion Blaeth turned, his eyes finally meeting the lightning-blue irises of the woman beside him. She was a beautiful creature, as he’d always thought her. Her hair, which he suspected had once been a pure blonde some time ago, had been bleached to near-white after years in the Sun. Her smooth skin, still several shades lighter than the darker complexion of a true Southerner, seemed to glow like gold in the relative shade of the chamber. Even the curious scar, radiating out from her right eye in perpendicular lines to create a perfect X-shape across her face, did little to mar her comeliness, and there had been a time Adrion had felt equal parts pleasure and lust when he looked into those thunderous eyes.
Now, all he felt was nausea and a strange, quavering cold.
“Play your games while you can,” the woman whispered in a deadly murmur, bringing a hand up to stroke his cheek as something like a smile teased her lips. “Enjoy what freedoms you are allowed. But consider, on the day you serve me no purpose, what things I might learn from your corpse when the time arises.”
There was a crackle and a flash, and Adrion barely kept himself from crying out as pain seared up the left side of his face, making him jerk away. When he felt his cheek, of course, there was nothing, no visible mark, and the pain vanished in an instant, winking out without leaving so much as a hint of its passing. Still, his fingers rubbed at the place hers had lingered over, his mind convinced he could feel the tingle of magic still palpable on his skin.
“We know where he is,” Adrion repeated angrily, not looking away from the blue eyes that continued to bore into his. “Whatever else, that carries value. The North is a great realm, with what cities it has left sca
ttered across its forests and mountains. It took us this long to find him, though, which means you have to act quickly. If word gets out that we know… How long do you think it would take us to hunt him down again?”
That gave the woman pause, the heartless smile shifting slowly into a frown of annoyance as she heard the wisdom in his words this time.
“Too long,” she admitted, straightening and tilting her head back against the throne behind her, fingers stroking at her neck pensively as she thought. “He can’t be allowed to disappear again. We have trouble enough as it is without the common rabble hearing that he managed to slip through our fingers again.”
Adrion sat in silence, knowing better than to say anything more even though he thought he could guess what the woman would do long before she made the choice herself. In that way he was much like their former master. Ergoin Sass had always been the even-headed one, the šef of sharpest wit and quickest thought, apart from perhaps Imaneal Evony himself. Adrion had learned much in his years of servitude to the man, and it was amusing to see that his fellow apprentice had not absorbed that keenness despite the pair’s apparent closeness.
The skills she’d learned in its place, on the other hand, certainly had their uses…