Chaos Constellation (eBook)
464 Seiten
TITAN BOOKS (Verlag)
978-1-83541-285-5 (ISBN)
Sara Omer is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author and the Associate Fiction Editor for Orion's Belt, with poetry/prose in PodCastle, The Dark, Apparition Lit, Small Wonders, BSF Horizons, and others. The Gryphon King is loosely inspired by the family stories, culture, and history shared by her father, an Iraqi immigrant. She tweets at @omersarae.
The first in a sweeping Southwest Asian-inspired epic fantasy trilogy brimming with morally ambiguous characters, terrifying ghouls and deadly monsters. Combining cut-throat dynastic politics with expansive worldbuilding and slow-burning romance, this stunning debut is perfect for fans of Godkiller and Samantha Shannon. "e;A twisty feast of politics and fantastical beasts."e; Shannon ChakrabortyBataar was only a child when he killed a gryphon, making him a legend across the red steppe. Now he is the formidable Bataar Rhah, ruling over the continent that once scorned his people. After a string of improbable victories, he turns his sights on the wealthy, powerful kingdom of Dumakra and their vicious pegasus-mounted warriors. Nohra Zultama has no fear of the infamous warlord who marches on her country. She and her sisters are Harpy Knights, goddess-blessed and lethal. But as deceit and betrayal swirl through her father's court, she soon learns the price of complacency. With Dumakra under Bataar's rule, Nohra vows to take revenge yet her growing closeness to the rhah's wife, Qaira, threatens to undo her resolve. When rioting breaks out and strange beasts incite panic, Nohra must fight alongside Bataar to keep order, her mixed feelings toward the man she's sworn to kill becoming ever more complicated. Old evils are rising. Only together will Nohra and Bataar stand a chance against the djinn, ghouls, and monsters that threaten to overrun their world.
AUTUMN, 355
Over a decade after the Sunless Months, food remained scarce, especially among the nomadic tribes west of Dumakra.
—A Dark Era
The eagle screeched as she wheeled through the sky high above camp, her tethers waving like the hair on a war banner. Whoever had cut her leash was probably watching and laughing. Bataar weighed a piece of uncooked meat in his hand, disgusted at himself when his stomach growled. Coaxing her down using the chunk of liver felt wasteful, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Going hunting? There’s good game at the foot of the mountain,” an old man called out, gesturing toward the snow-capped red peaks in the distance. With a broad smile, he warned, “Watch out for the gryphons, though.”
Bataar stiffened. The man’s drinking companions broke into riotous laughter.
“Hah, his face! Like you shoved an arrow up his ass.”
Fermented milk sloshed from a cup, splashing Bataar’s boots. He stepped back, grimacing. He was only fourteen, but he’d been hunting since he could ride a horse. His pride was already mangled and dirty—it could take a hit, and so could he. These men were shadows of the hunters and fighters they’d been before wars and vermilrot outbreaks had left them scarred and gaunt. The rot took better men—it had killed Bataar’s father two summers before. Still, he wasn’t going to start a brawl with a gaggle of drunks over some teasing. He already lost more fights than he won.
These wrinkled sots had never seen a gryphon, and neither would Bataar. Each year, the gryphons moved closer, but never near the mountains. Attacks on the steppe were so rare that the stories had begun to sound like fables to fill children’s heads when their bellies were empty.
Soon, winter would freeze the river. The herds would shrink, forcing everyone to ration, just like last year, and the years before. Hunger was the real monster, and Bataar knew how deep its fangs pierced.
He tossed the meat, and Erdene dove down. When she’d scarfed back the chunk of liver, he snatched up her leather jesses where they trailed in the dirt.
“You better still be hungry,” he whispered. He needed her ravenous.
Turning away from the mocking laughter, Bataar slung his bow over his shoulder and set off across camp to gather his friends. Tarken crouched near one of the cookfires, binding fletching to the shafts of arrows with cord.
Bataar nudged him. “You ready?”
Shaggy hair fell in Tarken’s face as he squinted up. “Why do you look like your eagle crapped in your porridge?”
Bataar’s ears burned. “Just get your brother.”
Tarken held his hands up. “Alright, alright.”
As his friend disappeared beyond the threshold of his tent, someone snickered. “Getting a little hunting party together? It’ll be gerbil stew for dinner, then.” Bandages covered the boy’s head, hiding where an eagle had almost gouged out his eye.
His lackeys cackled. They were still milking the scratches from their hunting accident. Lately, these losers had done nothing but hang around camp, picking on the girls, stuffing their faces, and sneering at anyone they thought was below them, which was almost everyone, especially Bataar.
Respect was earned on the red steppe, and Bataar seemed wholly unremarkable, with his black hair, plain face, and no accomplishments to boast of. He wasn’t the cleverest or tallest or most vicious, but these useless idiots were wrong to underestimate him.
The boy’s good eye narrowed. “What are you looking at, whelp?”
“I was just thinking it’s unfair for someone to be both horse-faced and stupid,” Bataar said, then bolted before the other boy’s thick tongue could form a response.
Tarken burst out of his tent, running to keep up. “What’d you do?”
His little brother Chugai clung to his side, too big to carry like that anymore, his eyes screwed shut and small hands clenched into fists around Tarken’s tunic.
“What makes you think I started it?” A rock flew past Bataar’s cheek. A second struck him in the back, and he almost fell. On his arm, Erdene screeched and thrashed her wings, buffeting his face.
“Cut it out, bird meat!” a girl shouted, emerging from her home across the circle of round tents and throwing a stone back at the older boys. A pained groan answered her hit. Shaza was tall and strong for a girl. Smirking and satisfied, she turned on Bataar and Tarken. “If you dog-brained idiots are going to start a fight, at least finish it. I can’t always save you.”
“Like we needed you!” Tarken snapped.
Bataar winced. “We were coming to tell you I found a good hunting spot.”
She looked at them doubtfully. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You coming or not?” Tarken balanced his brother in one arm, rubbing a spot on the back of his own head where he must have been hit by a rock.
Shaza shrugged, impassive as ever. “Tell you what: let me bring my sister and I’ll come.”
Bataar scowled, picturing her older sister Qaira’s annoying big ears and stupid blushing face. Finally, because he couldn’t think of a good enough excuse, he said, “Fine, bring her.”
* * *
Bataar flung up his arm, casting his eagle into the air. Erdene flew swifter than a storm, shooting across the field. The hare leapt above the tall grass, narrowly evading her talons. Bataar whistled for Erdene to circle back. She arced around, diving to sink sickle claws into its neck and dragging its thrashing body hard across the red dirt.
This side of the river, eagles were the most dangerous predators, alongside the falconers who hunted with them. The hare’s kicking legs went limp. Something iridescent spilled out of its slack face, disappearing like smoke on the wind.
Not everyone could see spirits.
Bataar had been born with his umbilical cord constricting his neck, his skin tinged blue. As soon as his soul had come into this world, it had almost left it. If anyone knew he could see souls, they’d make him become a shaman, reading rune stones and interpreting smoke signs for the great rhahs. But the spirits didn’t whisper wisdom to him. Instead, every death he witnessed was a reminder that he’d robbed Preeminence of a life it was owed. The universe hunted him, and Bataar knew never to look a beast in the eyes unless you were ready for a fight.
He had a plan. He’d keep his sight a secret and get stronger. When he was tougher than everyone in their camp, he would challenge a steppe king, be named a rhah, and rule not only their tribe, but all the Utasoo. And after that, he’d become a king of the world. Then he would finally be worthy of what he’d stolen.
He tried not to grin like an idiot as he imagined riding into battle one day with Erdene on his arm. He’d have a long mustache, a sable cape, and hundreds of thousands of men sworn to his cause.
For now, he just shooed Erdene off the hare before she could rip open its belly, tempting her with a piece of organ meat from his bag. He tied the dangling creature to his saddle and climbed back on his horse. Erdene choked down the heart meat and squawked, gliding up to perch on Bataar’s forearm. Her bloodied talons dug like needles into his vambrace.
“What do I have to do before the men let me hunt with them?” Shaza asked. Her black rope of a braid swished as her mare came abreast of them.
“Are we not good enough for you?” Tarken said around a mouthful of orange berries. He and his little brother shared a horse ahead of Bataar, its legs deep in the ruby-tinted grass.
Shaza let her icy silence be an answer.
“That’s insulting,” Tarken grumbled.
Tarken’s little brother bounced in the saddle, holding a child-sized bow. Chugai was only six, but Bataar had been even younger when he first rode with his father, watching the eagles take down wolves in the snow.
Shaza’s rabbity sister Qaira brought up the rear, wearing ribbons in her braided hair. She caught Bataar looking back and glanced away, flushing. He bristled. Everyone admitted Bataar was a passable shot, better than most of the boys, but he wasn’t as good as Qaira. Still, Shaza’s sister was older than him, yet she bawled when sheep were slaughtered. Bataar didn’t even flinch as he watched souls rip free from bodies, shimmering in the air and evaporating into the sky.
A timid rabbit like her couldn’t even see what was really worth being scared of.
As the noon sun began to dip, they dismounted by a stream to let the horses drink. Surveying their kills, Shaza scoffed. “They’ll laugh us out of camp.”
“Food is nothing to laugh at,” Bataar told her. Blood matted the raked-through pelts of the hares. Erdene ruffled her feathers as she preened, surveying her mangled quarries proudly.
Tarken glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, where’s Qaira?”
Shaza fixed him with a look. “She’s picking berries. We passed the bushes ages ago. How’d you two not even realize she left?”
“She’s so quiet, how could we?” Bataar muttered. “Why’d she bother bringing a bow anyway if she’s going to close her eyes whenever there’s something to kill?”
“She just doesn’t have the stomach for it.”
“Well, at least she’s not useless,” Bataar admitted, starting to smile. “Someone’s gotta mend our clothes and cook for us.”
Tarken laughed. Chugai laughed because his big brother was laughing.
Shaza rolled her eyes. “You two are idiots. You’ll ruin the kid.”
The four drifted...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 8.7.2025 |
|---|---|
| Verlagsort | London |
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy |
| Schlagworte | betrayal • Bisexual • Central Asia • Dark Fantasy • Demons • Djinn • Dynastic Politics • enemies to lovers • Epic Fantasy • Epic worldbuilding • Fantasy Romance • griffins • gritty • Gryphons • LGBTQ+ • Middle Eastern-inspired fantasy • Middle Eastern mythology • monsters • morally ambiguous characters • PEGASUS • polyamorous romance • Queer • Romantasy • sapphic romance • Slow Burn • Southwest Asian-inspired fantasy • Southwest Asian mythology • spicy fantasy • spicy romance • Turkic-inspired fantasy • Turkish-inspired fantasy • Turkish mythology |
| ISBN-10 | 1-83541-285-8 / 1835412858 |
| ISBN-13 | 978-1-83541-285-5 / 9781835412855 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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