The Warrior Race Trilogy
Books 1-3
T. C. Edge
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2019 T. C. Edge
All right reserved.
First edition: February 2019
Cover Design by Laercio Messias
No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
BY THE AUTHOR:
THE ENHANCED SERIES (MAIN SERIES):
The Enhanced (Book One)
Hybrid (Book Two)
Nameless (Book Three)
Assassin (Book Four)
Captive (Book Five)
Renegade (Book Six)
Invader (Book Seven)
Avenger (Book Eight)
Defender (Book Nine)
Nemesis (Book Ten)
Box Sets:
Book 1-4
Book 5-7
Books 8-10
Sequel (to main Enhanced series, and Warrior Race series):
The Enhanced: Awakening
The Enhanced: Conquest
THE WARRIOR RACE SERIES (ENHANCED UNIVERSE):
The Warrior Race (Book One)
The Red Warrior (Book Two)
Angel of War (Book Three)
CHILDREN OF THE PRIME:
The Chosen (Book One)
Trial of the Chosen (Book 2)
Blood of the Chosen (Book 3)
March of the Chosen (Book 4)
War of the Chosen (Book 5)
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:
THE WATCHERS SERIES:
The Watchers Trilogy:
The Watchers of Eden (Book One)
City of Stone (Book Two)
War at the Wall (Book Three)
The Watchers Trilogy Box Set
The Seekers Trilogy
The Watcher Wars (Book One)
The Seekers of Knight (Book Two)
The Endless Knight
The Seekers Trilogy Box Set
THE PHANTOM CHRONICLES:
The Last Phantom (Book 1)
Phantom Hunter (Book 2)
Phantom Legacy (Book 3)
Phantom Unleashed (Book 4)
Contents
BOOK ONE - THE WARRIOR RACE
Prologue
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 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
BOOK TWO - THE RED WARRIOR
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
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
BOOK THREE - ANGEL OF WAR
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Next Up - The Enhanced: Awakening
Also by T. C. Edge
BOOK ONE - THE WARRIOR RACE
Prologue
They came like the wind.
From a dark alley four shadows took shape, materialising from the gloom. The red hues of sunset hovering over the war-torn streets met with the shadows and gave them form.
At first it was their armour that caught the light, silver, glorious, decorated with fine patterns. Then the colour of their capes joined in, dark red, that of thick, newly drawn blood. Their faces were never seen, not enough to garner detail. But beneath their helmets dark eyes shone, and hair as black as burnt bone spilled out.
They moved with a speed that caused the dust and soot that settled over the earth to take flight. The low hanging fog of war parted as they sprang from the shade, moving out into the wide, central street of the city. They dodged around debris, husks of smoking cars, rubble from broken buildings, the general wreckage that forms during times of war, and turned their eyes on their prey.
The two girls before them were gifted, powerful. And one was perfect, just what they’d been looking for.
She was just why they’d come…
Rounds of blue flame came their way, spat from the strange weapons the two girls held. The men displaced, moving beyond the cobalt fire as it tore through whatever lay behind them. They spread, breaking formation, determined to split the girls apart.
One slipped to the far edge of the street, drawing the eyes of the second girl. Her hair was dark brown, her eyes lit hazel, her face a show of fear and confusion. The soldier raised his arms aloft, and summoned the gifts he was born with. The debris on the ground lifted, bits of brick and stone rising and swirling as his mind commanded.
With a quick, sudden motion, he sent his raised arms forwards, throwing them in the direction of the young girl ahead, cowering n
ow near the husk of a car. The debris went too, spitting across the air, hunting down the girl. She rushed away, moving at lightning speed, sliding along the earth behind any other cover she could find.
The soldier’s focus stayed with her. He swirled his arm like a lasso, and the debris under his command followed the motion, peppering the girl’s hiding place. She tried to lift her rifle, to fire back, but was struck in the back of the head by a large piece of brick. It hit hard, knocking her forwards. The soldier saw and knew his work was done.
Further down the street, a terrible wind picked up. The culprit was another of the soldiers, another imbued with powers the girls had never witnessed. He summoned the air, bending it to his will, forcing it to do his bidding as a tornado of his making began to rage.
Within that tornado, the first girl clung hard to a heavy hunk of broken wall, torn from a nearby building. Her hair was the colour of fire, flaming bright and billowing in the ferocious vortex. Her eyes, green as emeralds, were precious and powerful. They searched through the swirling mist of dust and shards of rock, stone, and brick, seeking the men who’d come from nowhere. Wondering who they were.
She tried to lift and grip her rifle, but couldn’t for fear of losing her grasp of the wall. She held on with all her strength as the wind roared like endless thunder, the soldiers nothing but shapes in the mist, standing just beyond the swirling tornado that had consumed her.
There was little she could do. Little but hold on and hope. She’d faced death many times before. Many times she’d thought her last moments had come. But this was different. This was unlike anything she’d ever seen.
Her mind was torn, part frightened, part awed. The storm was so loud to her highly attuned senses she thought her eardrums might split. She shut her eyes tight to offer some shield to the din but it was no use. It built and built within her mind, ripping and shredding, her consciousness slowly darkening as the edges of black night closed in.
And as her mind began to fade, so did the storm. She blinked the dust away as the airborne debris began to drop, raining from the sky. Large blocks fell, threatening to crush her, but were halted in their path by the soldiers and tossed away as if they were nothing.
The girl with flaming hair lay crippled on the ground, eyes flickering to catch the last vestige of light. And within that light, from the same alley the men had come from, another wandered out. More finely dressed, more proud in his step, he strolled into the calming carnage with eyes only for the girl of fire.
He lifted a finger, and aimed it straight for her.
“Her,” he said, his voice a cool whisper.
And the lights of the world went out.
1
The central hallway was swaying as a single guard wandered down its middle. It rocked from side to side, pitching occasionally in more dramatic fashion. The guard was well used to this. He planted his old feet firmly, though let his knees and thighs roll with the motion. He took great pride in never slipping or sliding down here.
The swaying steadied, and the guard pressed on, his feet landing in dull thumps on the wooden planking beneath his heavy boots. It was dark, or at least dim, and the torch he carried was one of firelight, the flickering of the candle inside the lamp presenting some form to his surroundings.
Truth be told, the guard could move around down here blindfolded. He’d spent enough time here to know its nooks and crannies to an intimate level, and was quite aware of where he was at all times.
The corridor was fairly narrow, perhaps ten feet wide, and stretched away into the darkness until it met a dead end about a hundred feet away. The guard wandered casually, a whistle threatening to slip from between his lips but just catching before it pierced the silence.
He reached the end of the dark corridor, then swung his lamplight to the left. It illuminated a set of metal bars, rusted in places, fixed horizontally between the ceiling and floor. He took a step forward, peered into the cell beyond, and gave a little nod to himself as he saw the shape of a body in its correct position.
He ticked off a mental box, turned a half circle, and checked the cell opposite on the other side of the corridor. More bars, another small space fitted with a little bed, and another form lying on top of it.
The man nodded again.
He continued this process, moving left and right and working his way back down the narrow hallway. His balance was tested once or twice as he went, a few violent shifts in the earth enough to topple many a man. But not this one, not Merk ‘the Mighty’, as he liked to refer to himself in largely ironic terms. He’d been doing this job far too long to be caught unprepared, even in the worst of weather.
On he went, left and right, performing his brief examinations. Each time the corridor shook, it brought the rattle of chains along with it. Such restraints were important in keeping the prisoners in place, locking them tight to their beds as they lay unconscious.
Nearing the end, Merk’s mind began to turn to thoughts of dinner. For a lowly prison caretaker like him, rations were hardly of the sort his master would eat. Yet an empty stomach was enough to present the illusion of good flavour, and his was currently growling with demands to be filled.
He muttered to himself to keep his mind busy, moving to the end of the corridor where a set of wooden stairs led up and out of this dank, stale-aired place. His lamp swayed left, then right one final time, checking the occupants of the last of the two cells that called an end to each row.
He stopped on his final inspection, and took a little step closer to the metal bars. He’d learned over the years not to peer too closely or linger too long. The fact that his right hand was missing two fingers was always a firm reminder of that.
Merk shuddered at the painful memory, and the rumbling in his stomach took a short hiatus. After all, the man who bit his fingers off had gone ahead and enjoyed them for dinner. If ever he wanted to dampen his appetite, reliving that particular memory was always a fine way of doing so.
Cautiously as always, he raised the lamp until the form on the bed took shape. He inched closer to the bars, snatching up every spare millimetre possible to seek a better view.
The form on the bed was that of a girl. She was young, only twenty or so, a great deal younger than the old man now staring at her. Her face was pale in the firelight, her skin creamy and soft. It was striking against the red of her hair, wild tousles hanging down her neck and beneath her chin as she lay on her side, looking out.
Only, she wasn’t looking. Her eyes were shut, locked tight like all the rest. Her breathing sounded softly, a few strands of red hair fluttering as they hung down in front of her nose. Merk stood there for a few moments, his hunger forgotten.
Rarely had he seen a girl like this down here. This corridor was for contenders. This wasn’t the sacrificial cells. These weren’t the strays and waifs gathered for the slaughter. This was where the strongest lay. This was a place of nightmares.
Merk continued to peer at her for some time, just watching her chest gently rise and fall, her eyelids flicker occasionally. He wondered where this one had come from. It was a game he liked to play with himself before official word came through, testing his knowledge of the wider world that he’d spent much of his life travelling.
He examined her more closely. Her cloth was rugged, but in decent condition compared to many others. Dark jeans and jacket, torn in places and with more than a few burn marks. Her boots looked to be leather, sturdy and worn, good for combat. There was a suggestion of blood splashed over her too, though hard to see in the light and due to the manner in which she lay. The dust and soot, however, was plain to see, her hands dirty and the odd smear blotting her otherwise unblemished skin.
He began to nod to himself.
“Haven,” he whispered.
The city of Haven was well known, even where he came from. And that was far way across the ocean. It had, for many years, been under the control of a particular group who called themselves ‘Savants’. They were, Merk knew, those of suprem
e intelligence, one of the many groups of ‘enhanced’ individuals who now spread their wings across the world.