Wings of Thunder Read online

  Contents

  Speak The Language

  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 1

  What Now?

  Also by JD Monroe

  About the Author

  WINGS OF THUNDER Copyright 2019 by J.D. Monroe.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Mighty Fine Books, LLC

  PO Box 956

  Evans, GA 30809

  Editing by Gayla Leath

  Cover Design by Celtic Ruins Designs

  Book Design and Ebook Formatting by Katzilla Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-944142-26-1

  First Edition: 2019

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Created with Vellum

  The Dragons of Ascavar – the Kadirai – have their own language and customs. While all terms are explained in context, if you want to follow along with the language of the dragons and learn more about their culture, you can check out this link to the Kadirai glossary on my website:

  | SPEAK THE LANGUAGE |

  Perhaps it was the wine talking, but Aryath Silverbrand had never been as relaxed as he was right then in the hands of the human woman. Several days of moving heavy cargo in both his dragon and human form had left him aching and sore. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the woman was casting a spell on him as her nimble fingers untangled the tension in his muscles.

  He let out a deep breath, sinking deeper into the plush seat. The humid air of the bath house was thick with the intoxicating blend of incense and dark red wine. “What would it cost to take you home to Tahlan-Lev with me?”

  The soothing massage stopped. The pretty woman cleared her throat. In a pronounced accent, she said, “Not for sale. Am sorry.”

  Sitting bolt upright, he turned to look at the human woman. Her plain features were furrowed. It had not been long ago that his kind enslaved humans for their own profit. If his grandmother had heard him say such a thing…

  With his cheeks burning, he bowed his head. “My apologies, that is not what I meant.”

  Laughter erupted from the other side of the room. “Silverbrand, do not apologize.” Pelah Galesworn opened one kohl-lined eye to regard him. Instead of a massage, the female dragon had opted to have her hair washed and styled. Dressed in matching linen tunics, two human women stood behind Pelah, combing her long dark tresses. “You have done no harm to the creature.”

  He frowned at her choice of words. At least he and his fellow dragons were paying well for the luxurious service. The dent to his purse would surely alleviate some of his guilt. The masseuse tapped his shoulder and resumed her work, but he couldn’t let it go.

  The trip to the bath house was a much-needed reward after several days of exhausting travel and tense business deals that morning. Houses Silverbrand and Galesworn had both built their fortunes on mining and metalwork. Together they had delivered a large shipment of fine weapons to one of the queen’s outposts on the southwestern border of Adrahl, the lands of the Stormflight dragons. With the job completed, their small contingent had retreated to the small city of Desh.

  Desh was a town inhabited mostly by Vak, the humans that lived alongside the Kadirai, the dragon shifters that Aryath called kin. The elegant bath house was out of place amidst the dusty sprawl, but there was enough traffic on the trade roads and flight paths near Desh that the innkeeper kept a steady business of Kadirai guests.

  The bath house mimicked the finer homes in the bustling capital city of Arvelor. The ornate carved stone of dragon homes was approximated with painted plaster, with bright tile mosaics depicting aspects of the Skymother, the Kadirai goddess. It paled in comparison to even modest Kadirai homes, and Pelah Galesworn had said as much when they arrived, her full upper lip curled in a sneer. But Aryath appreciated the effort and had complimented the innkeeper to make up for Pelah’s slight.

  “How does your companion fare?” Aryath asked, hoping to move on from the embarrassing exchange with the human woman.

  Pelah sat up from her cushion, prompting the two Vak women to scurry behind her, each with a glossy lock of hair in their hands. Their expressions were irritated as the woman settled herself with the regal bearing of a queen. “He is uncomfortable,” she said. “It is nothing a sister of Mara cannot deal with when we return to our home.” She tilted her head, prompting another annoyed look from the serving girls. “These trade trips have become rather dangerous. If my mother trusted anyone else, we would simply pay someone else to handle them.”

  The deserts of Adrahl concealed deep veins of silver and varastrin, a precious metal that twisted through the earth like a glowing stream. Prized for its magical properties, varastrin was in high demand. Traveling near the border invited attacks from the overzealous patrols of Agni to the southwest, as well as any opportunistic parasite who would risk their skin to steal the precious metal they brought in trade.

  On their trip to the south, they had a contingent of five. Aryath and his cousin Khelath had come to represent House Silverbrand, while Pelah, her uncle Samketh, and a hired hand represented House Galesworn. As they rested near a river just west of Desh, they had been ambushed. Even in human form, the Kadirai were capable warriors. Within minutes, all six human mercenaries lay dead, while Khelath had taken a nasty gash to the ribs, and Pelah’s hired hand had a spear through his shoulder. It was nothing serious, though they’d been on alert as they finished the trek to Desh.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m told there is talk of war in Agni.”

  Pelah snorted in derision. “There is always talk of war in Agni.” Aryath’s face flushed again. He had spent most of their journey feeling like he had stepped in shit and tracked it across Pelah’s path. “War is good for our families, is it not?”

  His stomach lurched. “I suppose.”

  Pelah’s eyebrow arched. “You suppose. Hmm.”

  The dismissal in that small sound sent a jolt of unease through him. He could imagine his silver-haired grandmother Fevyri, the matriarch and shrewd business mind at the head of House Silverbrand, giving him a pointed, disapproving look at his weak answer. She’d always said that he lacked certainty when he spoke. “Why should I believe what you say when you do not even believe it yourself?” she’d told him once when he stammered out a weak reply to a question of how he would deal with a disagreement between trade partners.

  Pelah’s uncle, Samketh, extended his hand. One of the serving boys scurried forward to deliver an ornate silver goblet. Without acknowledging the boy, Samketh brought it to his lips for a drink. “Peace is an idea for those who are blissfully rem
oved from reality. Aryath, an-kadi, there has been much talk of marriage to bond our houses. With your sister’s initiation as a sister of Mara, that leaves you. My daughter Eleya would be the obvious choice for your hand. What do you plan to do to increase the wealth of our great houses?”

  Aryath’s cheeks flushed. The dismissive term made it clear Samketh saw him as a naïve child. “I…well…” There had been hints, but he was not prepared to give up his life to go into the Galesworn house. The thought of becoming family to Pelah…it was enough to make him shudder.

  “Yes, what exactly do you do for the fortune of House Silverbrand?” Pelah asked.

  It was uncanny how much Pelah’s expression mirrored the stark disapproval his grandmother always wore. “I am skilled with the sword,” Aryath said, his tongue thick and clumsy.

  “Forgive my lack of enthusiasm,” Pelah said.

  “Now, child,” Samketh said. “Let the boy speak.”

  Aryath bristled at the term boy. “I have spent several years under the guidance of my elders to learn how best to serve. The Skymother will guide me as she sees fit for the betterment of my house.”

  Pelah laughed aloud. “A diplomatic answer. Bullshit, of course, but well said. Perhaps you do more for your house than you realize.”

  “My cousin is too modest,” Khelath said, speaking up for the first time since they’d arrived. He glared at Pelah. “He is a skilled liaison with the clans of Edra, and the Vak in our city. Our great nation has changed, and my cousin has risen to this change. He is well-liked and skilled with communicating with our new allies. He simply possesses too much modesty to brag about it to you.”

  Aryath winced. He appreciated the kind words on principle, but the intrusion made it look like he couldn’t speak for himself.

  “Well,” Samketh said, giving him an appreciative nod. “Whether we like it or not, we must reconcile our Queen’s edicts in dealing with the lesser denizens of Adrahl.”

  One of the women behind Pelah scowled as she finished coiling the thick braid around the crown of the dragon woman’s head. Her lips tightened into a thin seam, as if she’d locked them tight to contain the angry words behind them. She understood more Kadirai than she let on. Her eyes met his and darted away.

  As the woman secured the braid, Pelah gave an exaggerated yawn. “We should depart,” she said. “If we leave now, we can reach Auran-Kahl by midnight. They will be better suited to care for Jaros than this…charming village.” She stood and stretched. Her dark blue tunic skimmed her thighs, leaving her long legs bare. The swirling green tattoos of House Galesworn covered her arms from spine to fingertip. Pelah was undeniably pleasant to the eyes, but the woman intimidated him too much to call her attractive.

  Aryath and the other men followed her lead and stood. With the regal bearing of a queen, she waited for them to approach. After Khelath bowed, Aryath approached Pelah. She squeezed his forearm with an iron grip, as if she needed to remind him one last time of her dominance. She brushed a kiss on either cheek, surrounding him in a spicy-scented cloud from the hair oil.

  “Safe travels,” she said. “May the Skymother’s light shine upon you, and the winds of fate always take you true.”

  “And to you,” Aryath said.

  He and Khelath waited silently as the two Galesworn dragons finished their wine and left the bathhouse. When they had gone, he sat back on the cushion and released a heavy sigh. With Pelah gone, the room felt larger, the air freer. It was only in her absence that he realized his stomach had been rolling in waves the whole time he spoke to her.

  As soon as he slumped back to his cushion, the petite Vak woman began rubbing his shoulders again. He turned and shook his head. Her eyes went wide. “That’s enough for now.”

  She frowned. “Not good? Hurt you?”

  He spoke only a smattering of Chari, the language of the Vak. The women had a far better grasp on his language than he did theirs, but he wanted to make up for his fumble earlier. “Very good. Thank you. We want…talk alone.”

  She smiled at his halting speech and gestured to a golden cord hanging from the wall. “Call for me if you need.”

  “Thank you.” The woman gestured to the other attendants, who hurried to clean up the discarded goblets and the basket of ornaments they had brought for Pelah’s hair.

  When they were alone again, he turned to Khelath. “I hope that our dear matriarch does not ask how things went.”

  “Things went fine,” Khelath said. “Pelah Galesworn is difficult, to put it politely. Everyone knows that, including Fevyri.”

  Aryath loosened the cloth around his waist and stepped into the steaming bath. The hot water enveloped him in its pleasant embrace. White flower petals floated on the undulating surface, sweetening the thick steam that wafted around him.

  They would begin their flight home in the morning. While the trip out to the outpost had taken them nearly two weeks because of the heavy cargo, they could make it home in two days of hard flying. The dusty simplicity of Desh made him miss the comforts of home, but he was in no hurry to return to the sharp-eyed scrutiny of his grandmother.

  Everything would have been easier if not for his sister’s divine calling. Until five years ago, his older sister Aniya was in line to inherit the mantle of House Silverbrand. But Aniya had been called by the sacred healers of Marashti. Though it was a sign of divine favor upon their house, Aniya’s acceptance of the call had meant she could no longer bear a title or power. Much to the chagrin of his grandmother, his mother Sunetiri had been cursed with only sons after Aniya, meaning the responsibility of heading House Silverbrand would someday fall upon Aryath’s unprepared shoulders.

  Aryath had spent his entire life in Aniya’s shadow, which suited him fine. Even as an adult, he’d shadowed his aunt Telani, who navigated sticky trade deals and diplomatic tangles with the grace of a dancer. He was happy to provide support and to carry a sword when needed, but it was different when he was responsible. And if he couldn’t even speak to Pelah Galesworn without making a fool of himself…

  Even with the tension of dealing with Pelah, he’d enjoyed spending time with his cousin. Khelath was a few years older, and they were cut from the same cloth. And thankfully, Khelath knew that there was sometimes value in peaceful silence. In the absence of the Vak attendants, quiet formed around them like a low-hanging mist.

  His head drooped, and he jolted awake from the gentle doze pressing in on him. Stretching his legs under the water, Aryath leaned against the warm tile and closed his eyes.

  A metallic ting broke through the quiet. Aryath’s senses went into high alert and he whipped his head around. The red silks hanging in the doorway at the far end of the room fluttered. He caught a glimpse of a leather-booted foot just as something sharp bit into his neck.

  “Khelath!” he snapped, slapping at his neck. His fingers came away bloody. Fear and anger flooded him, overwhelming him with paralyzing indecision.

  His cousin surged out of the water, leaping clear of the shallow pool and landing easily on the side. Khelath had just landed on the slick tile when he staggered back with a shout of pain and splashed into the water. A thick black bolt protruded from his chest. The sight of blood spreading in the water broke Aryath from his paralysis.

  Plunging underwater, Aryath released his hold on his dragon form. Crackling heat exploded through him from the base of his spine, erupting in tiny explosions up each vertebra. He focused on the crackling spark of magic, thinking faster, faster, as his skeleton broke and reshaped itself. As soon as he felt the peeling, stretching sensation of his wings forming, he surged out of the water and let out a roar that reverberated off the walls. Water exploded around him as he unfolded his wings and flared them outward.

  A chorus of surprised shouts echoed off the plaster walls. His sharp gaze swept across the bath house. A dozen figures in dark clothing spread in a triangular formation in front of the door. The warm glow of the lanterns reflected in flickering beams off a dozen drawn blades.


  Aryath drew a deep breath and called on the lightning. The spark filled his chest, then exploded forth like he was exhaling pure energy. Electricity enveloped two of the attackers and sent them flying backward into their companions.

  The charcoal-colored dragon was Aryath as much as the man was, but things were much simpler this way. He did not care what these men wanted, who they were, or where they had come from. The first bolt to draw blood had sealed their fate. They attacked him. They would die.

  As he unleashed another volley of lightning, one of them aimed a heavy crossbow toward him. His sensitive ears caught the subtle creak and snap of the mechanism as it released another bolt. He ignored it and lumbered forward; a tiny bolt would do nothing to him in his massive form.

  Sharp pain lanced through his neck, pouring liquid fire into his veins. He recoiled, shaking his horned head as the searing sensation spread into his throat. Another snap of a crossbow sounded, and something pierced through his wing.

  He swept his tail over the tile, catching the two closest attackers and sending them flying into the wall. He relished the choked sounds of pain as the wind rushed from their lungs. A third ran toward him with a sword brandished. Aryath raked his claws across the man’s chest, tearing through his clothing like paper. The metallic smell of blood bit into the humid air and drowned the floral perfume.

  No one had spoken yet, so a murmured word from one of his attackers caught his attention. As he turned back, a flash of movement caught his eye.

  One of the dark-clad intruders was female. Her face was uncovered, and her pale blonde hair gleamed in the low light. She held a silver globe close to her face, a small flame flickering near her lips. With a grunt of effort, she lobbed it at him. He ignored the tiny weapon, lunging for her and preparing a deadly barrage of lightning.