Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1)

by Bryce O'Connor

  It was the mental place where he could learn to never again slip too deep, as he had been so close to doing only hours ago.

  Raz made one last bound, hurdling over the edge of a roof one story above and landing on his feet. He stood straight and walked to the far ledge, letting go more and more. He could feel himself consciously easing down the hill toward the place he didn’t want to cross, edging closer to the line he wasn’t sure he’d be able to bring himself back from. But it was a willful act, this time. He controlled his descent, and as he closed his eyes Raz could almost see himself peering over the edge into the bottomless pit he’d only so recently discovered.

  He’d felt it for the first time that day, saving the girl. She was most likely Laorin, the Grandmother had explained to him. An acolyte, a Priestess-in-training of Laor, a deity much more commonly revered in the North. It was their faith’s code to never take a life, which explained how she’d acted when Raz had been on the verge of finishing off the injured man, the helpless last survivor.

  The verge…

  Maybe it was that which he had felt, though he’d only realized it later. An edge, inexplicably tangible in the way the wind was, marking a drop whose depths he had sensed only briefly.

  Now, though, he let himself go, releasing his chambered nature little by little. He opened his eyes again and stared blankly off into the distance. For a long time he watched the glowing orange of the bonfire on the horizon, its colors accented by the dozens of flickering dots of hand-held torches and oil lamps that sparkled throughout the city.

  It was simple now that he knew what was happening. Like he was descending a ladder he eased his way further down into his unconscious, seeking the emotions he’d had during the fight…

  He was there, just there at the edge again, when he heard the scream.

  Raz’s awareness roared back into place in a blur that left him light-headed. Even as he tripped backwards a step, his eyes stayed straight, gazing off at the growing glow in the distance, clinging to the edge of town.

  Something was off. Something wasn’t right…

  For the second time that day, Raz listened as hard as he could. It was easier this time. The silence of the night didn’t offer the cacophony for his ears to overcome that the market had. He willed himself to block out the calls of the crickets and the hoots of an owl that had taken residence nearby. He pushed his senses to their limits, fighting until everything but what he wanted to hear was a dull thrum in the background.

  Was that another scream? The ring of metal on metal?

  Raz frowned, still watching the distant glow.

  A bonfire? Is it…?

  And then something gripped Raz’s stomach and tugged hard, a feeling he didn’t know or like. Ice flushed through every inch of his body, and like an arrow shot from a bow he took off, heading for the distant light.

  Raz ran as he had never run before, little more than shadow in the night. He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, sometimes dropping to the alleys below just to haul himself back up again. No matter how fast he moved, his wings flattened tight to his back under his furs, he never took his eyes off that reddish glow in the distance. Within minutes he could smell the smoke and ash.

  And the flesh… he could smell burning flesh.

  The feeling pulled even harder, and he pushed himself to go faster. The closer he got, the greater its grip tightened. He must have made a mistake. It couldn’t be. He was going in the wrong direction…

  But it was no mistake, and he knew it. That light, that hateful burning glare that lit up the night, was in the same direction as the Arro camp.

  “No.”

  He didn’t feel the burn in his legs, didn’t feel the pounding of the mud-brick roofs under his feet or the air whipping around his ears. He was out of the slums in five minutes, and soon the streets below, all but empty only a few blocks in the direction he’d come, started to show signs of life. People appeared, at first running in the same direction as Raz, then joining the throng that bottled up the roads, everyone trying to see what had happened.

  Finding himself blocked by an alley too wide to jump, Raz dropped down to the main way, landing among the crowd.

  “Out of the way!” he yelled. Shoving people left and right, he fought his way forward, beating himself a reckless path through. “Out of the way! MOVE!”

  It was frightening how word seemed to spread ahead of him. Most of the crowd parted like they knew he was coming, and the look in some of their eyes did nothing to settle the feeling of foreboding he had.

  “I SAID MO—!” he started to yell, but stopped, finding that he had finally broken through the last line of onlookers.

  The scene before him caught a strangle cry in his throat.

  The camp was an inferno of twisted wood and metal. Almost every wagon had been tipped over and lit ablaze. The horse corral had been bashed to splinters, and to a one every animal lay still in its own blood, throat slit. Smoke plumed like a terrible beacon high into the sky, any hint of Her Stars swallowed by the light of the flames. Heat rolled in waves from the wreckage, roaring wild from the blaze.

  For a stunned second Raz stood frozen, shock and terror washing over him.

  And then he dashed forward, leaping clear over the remnants of what he thought had once been Karren and Sios’ small cart, landing in the broiling sand in the middle of the fiery ring.

  “MAMA!” he screamed into the roar, whirling around and calling out, feet and tail kicking dirt and dust into the air. “FATHER! AHNA! AHNA!”

  Nothing.

  There was only the deafening cacophony of the fire, the cracking of wood and the groan of bending metal as somewhere an axle tore free of its hinges.

  “FATHER! JARDEN!”

  Nothing.

  But then, for a second, there was something. What was that?

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” Raz yelled, spinning in the heat as he scanned the ruined camp, trying to find the source of what he’d heard. “WHO’S THERE? WHERE ARE—?”

  He stopped. In his frantic search he’d lost his sense of direction, but there was something about the burning wagon in front of him that made him halt, taking in the overturned ruin with wide eyes.

  He knew that shape…

  “No…” he hissed, stepping forward and automatically reaching out to the blazing silhouette of his parents’ cart. As he did, part of the covering fell, sending a wide jet of sparks into the air. Raz stopped dead, transfixed.

  A blackened, charred hand reached out of the burning wood, fingers extended and resting against the upturned side floor like they were scratching at the timber, trying to get out. For a second the fire abated just enough for him to see by, and Raz caught a glimpse of a skull-like face and what looked like a line of silver hanging loosely from it. The metal was melted and twisted, and even as he watched the clanmaster’s chain fell from Agais’ nose, anything it might have been attached to burned away.

  “No,” Raz breathed again, and the stone in his stomach became a boulder, dragging him helplessly down to his knees.

  No. No. He’d heard something. He knew he had.

  Tearing his eyes away from the burning remnants of his home, Raz searched again. This time he heard it clearly. A dull banging, coupled with muffled coughs and pleas. He couldn’t tell who the voices belonged to, but it didn’t matter. If there was a chance, even just a chance, that someone was alive…

  Maybe Mama… Maybe Ahna…

  His eyes fell on Tolman’s wagon, one of the few that still stood straight. Flames licked at its sides, and with a jolt Raz realized that a number of flat timber beams had been nailed over the front opening, effectively boarding it shut with barely space to see through.

  Still, it was enough for him to catch sight of the gray eye that stared out at him between the planks, bulging in panic.

  Raz leapt to his feet, ignoring the smaller flames
around his ankles to reach the cart. The fire-weakened wood tore off in great chunks in his clawed hands, flying in every direction. In a matter of seconds he’d ripped the entrance almost completely open again. As soon as the space was large enough he reached in, grabbed the first handful of whatever felt human, and pulled.

  Mychal emerged, coughing and drenched in sweat. His left arm was badly burned, and his pants had giant singed holes in them, revealing the ugly scarred stump of his missing leg.

  “Mychal what happ—?” Raz started.

  “Inside!” Mychal cut him off. “Get them out! Get them out!”

  Unceremoniously Raz shoved his cousin out of the ring, clear of the fire. Then, with a massive kick that blew clear through the last of the planks blocking his way, he stepped into the burning cart.

  It was like walking into a vat of boiling water.

  The air shimmered around him in waves, forcing Raz to bring a hand up and cover his eyes as he stooped, avoiding the burning roof. Instantly the long hairs of his fur collar blackened and curled. Through the dry heat he blinked away he saw several forms nearby, and he grabbed for the closest one, pulling the person toward him.

  Prida.

  She fell, coughing and gasping, into his chest, her dark hair singed, her clothes so badly burned they hardly clung to her decently.

  “B-behind me!” she wheezed. One of the other forms stood just out of reach, and this one Raz recognized.

  “Grandmother!” he yelled, and the woman turned, gazing at him blearily through the heat. She seemed… calm.

  From above there was a loud crack.

  “Grandmother, hurry!” Raz exclaimed, dropping his arm from his face to shield Prida as burning splinters rained down on the both of them. It was so hard to breathe. The heat bit at every inch of his body.

  The Grandmother stood for another second, then walked forward leisurely, as if she were strolling along in the market. Taking a blind swipe at her, Raz grabbed her shoulder.

  And then they were out in the night again, all of them gasping and hacking soot.

  As soon as he could see, Raz dragged them out of the ring and dropped them both hurriedly by Mychal, who was shivering in the sand nearby. Several townspeople crowded around him, covering his raw shoulders in a loose blanket to ward off the cold, doing their best to help.

  Raz had just turned around, taking a step back toward the cart, when a hand grabbed the hem of his shirt.

  “D-don’t!” Prida gasped, breathing hard and looking up at him. Someone had thrown a blanket over her as well. “They’re gone. Delfry, Eara, A-Aigos…” She choked on her son’s name. “They’re gone, Raz. I… I saw them… saw it happen. Don’t go.”

  Raz looked down at her, his eyes still stinging. Then he looked at the cart. Even standing there, he knew she was right. There were no more bangs or screams now. Nothing but corpses waited for him inside.

  “Prida… Prida what happened?” Raz demanded, falling to one knee beside her and taking her face in his hands. “Tell me what happened!”

  But the woman wouldn’t say any more. She stared back at him, her body shaking, tears streaming from her eyes to cut streaks down her soot-covered face and trail along his thumbs.

  “Raiders.”

  Raz looked at Mychal, who was staring wide-eyed back into the flames.

  “Raiders. The slave rings… They came all at once. There must have been fifty of them. I was asleep, but the screaming woke me up. A group of men broke into our wagon and dragged my mother away. Then they…” He started to cry, turning to look at Raz. “They took my father, Raz. Slit his throat and left him and my brother to the fires. They threw me in Tolman’s cart while he was fighting one of them. I tried to get out, but they threw everyone else in after me and boarded the entrance up. The screams, Raz… I can hear them scream…”

  Raz’s body was quaking. The heat of the flames had left him feeling icy in the cooler air beyond it. Still, even to this he was numb. Standing up slowly, he turned to look back over the remains of what had been his home, that imperfect, burning ring.

  Dead. They were all dead. Nothing but falling ash and breaking wood moved in the fire. He thought he could see their faces, everyone’s faces, screaming out to him from the ruins.

  Dead. Everyone…

  And then something caught his eye. Something moving slowly, painfully across the ground near the edge of the ring to his left, partially shielded by the billowing smoke and distorting heat.

  There was another survivor.

  One last figure remained untouched by the flames. A man in chain and leather armor was crawling on his hands and knees between the burning wreckages of the Grandmother’s and what was left of Raz’s parents’ wagons. His left leg dragged uselessly behind him, and Raz saw the handle of a dagger protruding from above his knee.

  Tolman’s dagger. Thrust in to the hilt.

  Raz felt some raw chill flow through him. It wasn’t shock this time. It wasn’t an icy deluge of pain and denial. This… this was something far different. The chasm he had been toying with ripped upwards from inside him, and he suddenly felt himself suspended over its endless opening.

  “Mychal, take Prida and the Grandmother and go. There’s an abandoned house three streets down from the butcher’s on the west side of the south market road. The one with the hole in the roof. I’ll be there soon.”

  Behind him, Mychal looked up. His eyes were red and puffy against his ash-darkened face. His long bleached hair was seared, and the burns on his arms gleamed in the firelight.

  “What are you…?”

  But he stopped. Raz’s head had shifted a quarter turn, and what gleamed there in the one amber eye he could see scared Mychal so much he choked on the question.

  “I said go.”

  Mychal swallowed and nodded. With the help of one of the onlookers he stood up, leaning on Prida in place of his crutch, and helped the Grandmother to her feet. The old woman was shaking now, her eyes focused on something far past what was in front of her as she half smiled at nothing. The look on her face shattered the fragile vestiges of what was left of Mychal’s heart.

  Her mind was gone.

  Fighting the tremors of panic and despair that racked his own body, Mychal gently turned the two women away from the carnage that had been their families. They made their way as instructed, the ringing crowd parting to let them pass.

  When they were gone, Raz let go, feeling himself swing even further over the dark depths of whatever this blackness was hiding inside him.

  He took a step forward, then another one, leaving clawed footprints in the dust and sand to mix with the hundreds of others. The cold came in full, washing over him completely. It numbed him, crawling upwards toward his head.

  When it reached his mind, an icy bane seeping into his thoughts, the world changed.

  Red outlined every line and shadow. Like a mist descended it clung to the scene around him, highlighting every motion, every flick of the flames. As Raz walked slowly, deliberately hunting down the man who was doing everything he could to crawl away, the cold changed to cool, then warm, then hot.

  And then it was boiling, agonizing rage.

  The last few steps, Raz didn’t remember. Where he was twenty feet behind the slaver one moment, in the next he was beside him, one foot pressed against his side and shoving.

  With a thump the man fell over, screaming and yelling, desperately trying to scramble away.

  Raz heard none of it.

  Pinning him to the ground by his throat, Raz fell to one knee again. He brought their faces inches away from each other, thin white fangs a whisper from flushed skin, staring into the pale brown of his captive’s eyes.

  “Why?”

  It was a single word, a long, drawn-out hiss of a question, but the injured man stopped struggling. He was silent, terrified and shivering. When no answer was fort
hcoming, the clawed hand around the man’s neck tightened.

  “WHY?”

  This time there was a gurgle of a response. Loosening his grip slightly, Raz waited for it to come again.

  “T-told us to do whatever we wanted… said you deserved it… w-we don’t know—AAH!”

  The man screamed suddenly as he was lifted and slammed back into the ground, hard. Along the spine of Raz’s neck, the blue-orange crest flared like a drawn blade.

  “WHO? WHO SAID WE DESERVED IT?”

  Silence again, and this time Raz snapped. With a feral roar that made even the men in the crowd around them step back a pace, Raz lifted the slaver clear off the ground with one hand. The man’s good leg kicked, and he grabbed at his captor’s wrist, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat. Raz moved forward, coming to a halt at the edge of the inferno that was all that remained of Sameyl’s cart. The flames were so close they could both feel the heat eating at them. The blackened forms of Sameyl and his sons leered from beneath the burning wood, dead faces laughing at what they saw.

  “Keep an answer from me again,” Raz hissed, squeezing so tightly he felt claws puncture skin, “and I swear by the Sun, Moon, and all Her Stars that I will feed you to the flames.”

  Another gurgle of a reply, and Raz lowered his arm so the man could partially stand.

  “Ayzenbas!” the slaver gasped, his face turning purple and his eyes popping. “Crom Ayzenbas! Y-you got in our way! He said you got in our way!”

  The agony spiked, as did the rage. For a long moment Raz stood, his thoughts tumbling. He dropped deeper into the dark, the fragile human conscience that had taken so long to build barely holding up a fight.

  “Where?” he finally asked. “Tell me where I can find Ayzenbas.”

  This time the answer was prompt.

  “Blue Horizon! A brothel in the west slums! Crom does all his work out of the back rooms! Now, please! Let me go! Please!”

  Raz was silent for another moment. He could feel the balance inside him shaking.

  “And you?” he breathed, looking past the fires and up at the Star-gone night. Somewhere, in a section buried deep now by the brutal side of his soul that was roaring forth, Raz realized that his deities had abandoned him to the dark. “Who did you butcher?”