Red Sands: Warlords of Atera

by Kyle, Celia

  Red Sands

  Warlords of Atera

  Celia Kyle

  Erin Tate

  Contents

  Blurb

  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

  About the Author

  Blurb

  She’s on the run from a violent past. He solves his problems with a sword.

  Fleeing a life of abuse, Sheri climbs aboard a mail-order mate spaceship bound for a distant station, but never arrives… Fate intervenes and her trip takes a quick, deadly turn when she crashes on the planet Atera. She’s surrounded by endless sand dunes, dangerous creatures, and alien beings that remind her of Earth lizards. But one particular lizard hardly leaves her thoughts—a sexy, two legged, muscular male bent on protecting and caring for her at all costs.

  Drazan is a fierce warrior, the strongest Ateran of the Red Sands, he rules his dunes with an iron fist and sharp sword, and is honor bound to face all challengers to his position. During one of these battles something… strange… happens. Fire rains from the skies and a strange black metal box filled with females crashes to the sands. All thoughts of fighting are lost to the allure of these odd humans—especially one deliciously curvy female who stirs his blood. Now he finds himself with dark yearnings, strong need, and a hardness between his legs that he’s never used before.

  With Sheri consuming his thoughts, Drazan may have forgotten about his last challenge but his opponent’s brother hasn’t. Now he’s determined to see Drazan suffer… even if that means killing Sheri.

  Chapter One

  Drazan raised his blade, grip balanced and firm, body prepared for what was to come. His forked tongue flicked out to gather his opponent’s scent and he eyed Zevot across the square. He tasted bravado mixed with hesitation and a hint of fear. A smile touched Drazan’s mouth, the corners of his thin lips tightening. Zevot was a braggart and a fool, and it would see him killed someday—perhaps today. Drazan sensed that his challenger was already aware of the grave mistake he’d made. Zevot had dared challenge the warlord of the Red Sands and now he would lose his life.

  The other Red Sands warriors gathered in a loose circle around the combatants, the males cheering and encouraging Drazan to spill his challenger’s blood. They spurred the battle onward, striking the flat of their swords against the stone-hard scales on their arms. The echoing rhythm filled the square and riled Drazan’s blood, his thirst for death rising to match the shouts. He crouched in a defensive pose, blade positioned to parry, and allowed his tongue to taste the air once more.

  Fear. Fear from this pitiful male who dared challenge him.

  Zevot sneered and Drazan tasted the changes in his opponent’s emotions—disgust and fury at his defensive pose—as though Drazan’s position insulted the poor excuse for a warrior.

  All within the Red Sands knew Drazan was the greatest warrior and strongest warlord in generations. There was no reason for him to fight defensively. Unless he wished to taunt the other male and throw him off balance. He stated without words that Zevot was not worth the energy to go on the offensive.

  Zevot charged, a blood-chilling battle cry overwhelming the chanting of the other warriors, and Drazan knew his taunt of his opponent had worked. The other male left his defenses open as he rushed, giving Drazan the opening he desired.

  Drazan dropped and rolled to his right, ducking under Zevot’s blade with ease. He twisted and then brought his own weapon up in a slashing blow across Zevot’s side. He pulled his strike at the last moment, allowing only the tip of the blade to nick Zevot’s red scales. The male hissed in pain and blood dribbled from the wound, plopping to the pale sands beneath their feet.

  Drazan rose once more, sword held in front of him, and awaited the next attack. The gathered warriors cheered even louder with the blow, some laughing when Zevot staggered before finding his footing once more. It was no secret that Drazan could have ended the fight—and Zevot’s life—with that strike. But he didn’t see the weakling as a true threat to his rule. He saw no need to end the challenger’s life. Standing as warlord of the Red Sands meant he faced every warrior who sought to take his position. If he eliminated every challenger, he would soon no longer have any warriors left to lead.

  Though at the same time, he did need to put the hatchling in his place. A bit of humiliation perhaps…

  Zevot scraped his claws through the pale sands, lips peeled back to expose his sharp teeth as he snarled his fury. Drazan merely grinned in response, flashing his own fangs. He made a sweeping flourish with his blade, the metal dancing in the winds for a brief moment and prompting another cheer from the crowd. He performed for his warriors, embarrassing Zevot further as he waited for the young male’s next attack.

  It was not long in coming.

  Zevot charged, his sword held overhead with both hands. Drazan ducked and raised his own to block, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. Zevot put his weight behind the strike, using his bulk in an attempt to force Drazan to his knees. Drazan toyed with his red-scaled opponent for a moment, allowing his arms to tremble as if his strength was near ready to abandon him. Zevot’s face stretched into a sneering grin and he pushed even harder, eager to knock Drazan off his feet.

  Not this sunrise.

  Drazan ceased his struggle and flowed with Zevot’s downward push, using the male’s own strength against him. He rolled across the sands and spun to his feet a short distance away—sword still in hand. The sudden shift made Zevot stagger forward, blade falling from his hands as he reached out to stop his fall. He crumpled to the ground, chin cracking hard against the packed sands below. The crowd broke into cheers for Drazan and jeers for his fallen opponent. Drazan pumped his sword in the air, spurring the other Red Sands onward.

  Behind him, Zevot regained his feet, loose sand falling from his scales like water. Drazan kept his back to Zevot, tracking the other male in his peripheral vision. Like a coward, Zevot rushed him once more, though instead of retrieving his fallen sword, he drew the short dagger from his shoulder strap and stabbed at Drazan’s exposed back.

  What a dishonorable hatchling. Drazan might kill the male simply because he was too stupid to be allowed to live.

  Drazan smirked and remained still, his attention wholly on Zevot. He twisted to the left at the last moment, careful to allow Zevot’s weapon to skitter across his scales. Much like when teaching a toddling hatchling, Drazan pretended Zevot had a greater advantage than reality. He would allow his opponent to draw blood at least once, returning some of the younger warrior’s pride, before he put a final end to the fight.

  He braced himself and thrust his shoulder toward Zevot. An Ateran’s scales were hardest and thickest along his spine, shoulders and upper arms, so Zevot’s dagger would hardly penetrate his armored hide. Just enough to draw blood and give the hatchling a reason to brag when he rejoined the other warriors around the fires.

  The small, thin blade bit into his scales, piercing him with a harsh shot of pain. Drazan winced and gritted his teeth. Nearly losi
ng his arm in battle had hurt less than the small prick, but he had done his duty to the annoying warrior. He expected the ache to pass in a moment, perhaps two, but once the initial jab of pain faded, something else remained. A deep burning radiated from the wound, snaking its way down his arm and across his shoulders.

  A wave of weakness overtook Drazan’s body, his legs growing more and more numb with every breath, and he fell to his knees. He tipped his head back and found that Zevot now stood over him, the cursed dagger still gripped in his hand. Zevot grinned, forked tongue appearing to lick his thin lips. Anticipation filled his gaze as he watched Drazan struggle to remain conscious.

  Drazan’s eyes were drawn to Zevot’s dagger and the familiar brown stain on the edge of the blade. It was a mixture Drazan had seen many times in the past—the sap of the rafol tree, one of the deadliest poisons known to all of Atera.

  He clenched his jaw and tightened his muscles, demanding his body to rise from the sands. He pushed himself to his feet, unwilling die at Zevot’s claws despite his best attempts. His left arm hung limply at his side, paralyzed by the poison that spread fast through an Ateran’s blood, attacking the nervous system and paralyzing its victim within moments of exposure. Soon after, the victim’s organs would succumb to the tree sap, ending only when the heart stopped. With no known antidote, only one in a thousand Aterans survived their fight with rafol sap.

  Drazan growled and clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword. He refused to drop his weapon, especially when facing a betrayer such as Zevot.

  To use poison in an honorable challenge…

  The battle between warlord and challenger was meant to be a test of strength and cunning. A contest to determine the most powerful of all warriors and thus who was meant to rule the Red Sands.

  Drazan met Zevot’s eyes. There was no pride, no honor. Only murder.

  This was no challenge for the right to rule the Red Sands. It was an assassination.

  “Vile betrayer!” Drazan roared and rushed Zevot. Their bodies slammed together in an earth-shaking collision. He used his weight and bore Zevot to the ground. The younger, slighter warrior was no match for Drazan’s bulk.

  Zevot hissed, eyes wide in surprise and caught off guard by the attack. No doubt he expected Drazan to be immobilized by his subterfuge, but that was far from the case.

  They wrestled in the sands. Drazan could not feel his left arm—using the limb was impossible—but he twisted and wrapped his legs around Zevot’s, pinning him in place. Drazan used his good hand to grab his opponent’s wrist. He used the grip to push the poisoned blade further away, stopping it from touching his scales once more.

  Zevot kicked and struggled against Drazan, his hisses spat past gritted teeth as he sought to gain the upper hand. His face was mere inches from Drazan’s, their gazes locked, and he found pure murderous fury in his opponent’s eyes.

  “Concede, Drazan,” Zevot hissed. “The poison floods your veins. You cannot fight. You cannot win.”

  Drazan grunted. He flipped his body and used his greater weight to roll Zevot beneath him. With his good hand, he pinned Zevot’s wrist at his side.

  Concede? Never.

  Then the moment he awaited finally arrived. The numbness in his left hand gave way to a burning tingle, one that raced up his arm and suffused his shoulder. Drazan held his breath and fought past the lingering burn, lifting his hand to clasp Zevot’s neck in a punishing grip. He tightened his hold, not stopping until his claws pierced scales.

  Zevot’s eyes widened and the younger warrior weakly struggled and clawed at Drazan’s wrist. “What? How?”

  Drazan leaned closer, a low growl rumbling through his chest. His arm still burned, but at least he experienced the pain. It meant his body continued to fight the paralysis. “You think you’re the first fool to dishonor the warlord’s challenge? You think you’re the first fool to pierce me with a blade dipped in rafol sap?” He chuckled. “When I was but a boy, I nearly died to such a play. I lay in my cave, clinging to life for six turnings.” He leaned closer, eyes burning with fury. “I vowed never to be so weak ever again. From that moment I dosed myself with the sap of the rafol each seven suns. I am immune to the worst of rafol.”

  Drazan flexed his arm, his strength returning as his body continued to battle the effects of the sap. It had been a potent dose and even his hard-won immunity did not block the entirety of the pain.

  But it would not cause his heart to cease.

  “Now,” Drazan bared his fangs as he spoke, “you are too much a fool to create a plan by yourself. Who supplied you with the rafol? Were you hired to kill me? Like the honorless coward you are?” He shook Zevot. “Answer me!”

  Zevot trembled, red eyes wide as his body vibrated. Just as quickly as he spasmed, he went limp and the whistling sound of gagging came from his throat.

  With a frown, Drazan released Zevot’s neck, yet the hatchling continued to choke and struggle for breath. It was hardly a moment later that Zevot’s body went utterly still.

  Drazan moved away from Zevot and nudged the male with his foot, turning him to expose the poisoned blade firmly buried in his side. The would-be assassin fell on his own blade when Drazan tackled him to the sands.

  “Bah!” Drazan kicked the dagger aside with a sneer. The life faded from Zevot’s eyes and Drazan spat on the pale sands in utter contempt. Water was a commodity in the dry lands of Atera and Drazan had willingly given up his own waters to spit on the male. That was how great his hate had grown.

  Drazan stared at his fallen foe, now knowing this had been no simple challenge. It had to be a conspiracy, but who else was involved? He didn’t think any of his warriors would be so dishonorable, but then he had never expected Zevot, either. Perhaps that was Drazan’s true weakness. Overconfidence. Too trusting. He made the mistake of not seeing a threat in Zevot and had nearly paid the price with his life.

  He turned to the other warriors. They had fallen quiet, their cheers silenced as the plot unfolded before them. Now they waited, some with worried expressions on their features while others appeared angry and awaited orders.

  Drazan had no orders for them. It was rare he experienced any uncertainty, but he couldn’t allow them to see his indecision. He had to tell them something. He would order them to search Zevot’s tent. Then he would think on others who might have been involved in the plot.

  He flicked is tongue out to taste the mood of his warriors, searching through the emotions to find those strongest feelings among them all.

  He opened his mouth to speak only to snap his jaws closed once more. A bright flash overwhelmed the light of Atera’s suns—blinding him to the life-giving sands that surrounded them all. Every warrior turned their attention to the skies—to the streak of orange that burned a searing line through the air. A fireball descended from the stars, as if the suns themselves rained down on them. It twisted and broke as it fell, scattering into dozens of smaller streaks that rained down on the sands below.

  Drazan tracked the fireball on its path until the largest piece fell to the land in the direction of the border between the Heart Sands and Living Sands. He begged Eana—his goddess—that the ball of light landed within the Heart Sands. Then none could argue ownership. If it touched the Living Sands… Drazan would find himself in another challenge. This time, with Traze, warlord of the Living Sands.

  Whatever fell from the skies now belonged to Drazan and he would not be denied.

  A chorus of mutters passed among the warriors. Some whispered of bad omens, especially after Zevot’s betrayal. Others praised it as a sign from Eana and Drazan felt an answering warmth in his chest. Yes. A gift from Eana indeed.

  “A sign from Eana!” Drazan raised his sword, his bellow drawing the warriors’ attention. “A blessing on the Red Sands this Ulmur from the goddess!” He held the attention of every warrior. “We will go to the bright rains and find our gift from the goddess!”

  The warriors caught his excitement and matched Drazan’s cheers,
shouts and war cries, echoing his words. Those who spoke of bad omens were caught up in the excitement and soon whooped and yelled with the others. They hurried to gather their possessions, a contingent of his warriors breaking down their tents and preparing for a hard journey to the edge of the Heart Sands. They would travel to the distant pillar of smoke that marked the path of the bright rains and claim the gift of the goddess.

  Then they would protect that gift with scales and blades. They would not be the only to arrive, of that Drazan was certain. But they would be the tribe to lay claim to the gift.

  He did not know what he would find when he arrived, but he knew whatever he discovered would be his.

  Chapter Two

  Sheri dreamed of volcanoes. Of fire and brimstone bursting around her and filling the sky as far as she could see. The ground shook and crumbled, pulling a sharp scream from her chest, and she was certain the earth beneath her feet was about to break open and swallow her whole. She’d be sent down into the dark abyss of nothingness and…

  Her eyes opened in a snap, wrenching her from the nightmare of fire and blood, but the shaking didn’t cease. It continued to jar her, teeth clacking together with every tremble and bounce. She swung her gaze around the area, and it took her a moment to remember that she wasn’t on Earth any longer. No, she was on a ship, and the shaking came from the deck plates and surrounding hull. The flares of red and yellow weren’t from fire but from flashing lights. Sirens blared and screeched in her ears, sounding more like the grinding and squealing of rocks and metal than an alarm.