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

by Bryce O'Connor

  In fifteen minutes he’d done a general sweep of every one of the four chambers, looking for signs of hidden doors in the walls or maybe some particularly suspicious tent tucked away in one corner or another. Finding nothing promising, he started over, moving more carefully, making sure to light up every square foot so he could look for anything that might point him in the right direction.

  It was frustrating work, especially since Raz didn’t know what exactly it was he was looking for. Soon another quarter hour flew by with no results. He was halfway through scrutinizing the second room, his temper spiking every time the firelight revealed nothing but more rotting food and empty shadows, when he stopped.

  Were those footsteps outside, muffled by the stone?

  Raz’s ears perked. He stood up, turning west, in the direction he’d heard the noise. He didn’t bother extinguishing his torch, confident the light wouldn’t be able to sneak through the windowless walls, but nonetheless he shrank back into the most distant corner of the room, listening hard.

  So hard, in fact, he almost jumped out of his skin when his foot hit the floor of the corner with a loud thunk.

  Elation shot through Raz like lightning, and he looked down, moving the torch to illuminate the ground. There, well hidden under a moth-eaten old rug, was a wooden trapdoor. Kneeling, Raz set Ahna on the ground and reached out, tapping the bit of exposed wood with a steel claw.

  It knocked hollow.

  That same feeling of anticipation rocked through Raz’s core again, and without a moment to waste he flung off the dirty rug, revealing the door in full. Three thick padlocks latched the wood in place, looped around iron hooks bolted to the stone floor on two sides. Raz lifted one of them in his hand and tugged it firmly. The lock held, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Drawing the leather kit from the back of his belt once more, he leaned the torch carefully against the closest wall. Shapeless jumping figures licked at the floor around him, the flames dancing against the stone.

  The picks he chose were simple things, short and slim but flexible. With careful precision one tip went into the narrow keyhole, followed by the other. Three painstaking minutes later, the first lock snapped open.

  It took more effort to undo the other two, their mechanisms more complex and heavy. There was much cursing and pointless threatening before Raz finally pulled them off the latches to be tossed aside. His work done, he replaced his picks and grabbed the torch again with one hand, running the other over the door hurriedly. There was no handle, but after a few seconds the metal claws of his gauntlets found a divot between the tiled floor and wood.

  Getting a good grip, he heaved and threw the door open.

  XV

  Beneath the hatch was nothing but reddish, sandy dirt.

  There was a hole, about half a foot deep, as if someone had taken a shovel and roughly scooped out a heavy wedge of earth from beneath the tiled floor of the bathhouse. Then a door had been carefully placed over it, and locked tight. A time-consuming decoy. A tantalizing distraction.

  A trap.

  The thought flicked through Raz’s head, and in the instant that it registered he knew it was too late. He could hear them now, the footsteps outside thundering in from all directions, pouring out of the alleys and roads to circle the building. He’d been too distracted, too preoccupied and fixed on his treacherous trapdoor.

  Now, though, he could even smell the men and women of the Miropan guard surrounding him.

  There must have been two hundred of them, lining up on every front. The drumming of their feet quieted as they came to a stop at different intervals, replaced by the frantic pounding of Raz’s heart. He snatched Ahna up from the ground. Muffled orders for silence dulled by the thick walls of the chamber did nothing to hide the vast size of the group. They numbered enough that Raz could still hear the clatter of spear butts hitting the ground, and sword scabbards knocking against hard thighs.

  He ignored it all, his mind a violent blur of jumbled thoughts and realizations. An unbidden, wrathful snarl built in his throat, and he looked around, frantically trying to think.

  His planning was heavily impeded by the screaming, self-berating wrath that seemed to consume his every idea.

  The Mahsadën had made him dance again, playing on his strengths to ruse him into a deathtrap. The large room was a double-edged sword; while he’d be able to fight at full advantage, putting Ahna and his tail and wings to perfect use, he would also be surrounded, with no avenue of escape. Even Raz doubted he’d be able to last more than a few seconds ringed by an enemy whose numbers seemed to have reached triple digits. As for making a stand outside, he might be able to get his back against a wall, but he’d still be overrun. Not to mention he had no doubt Ulan Orture, the šef who doubled as head of the city guard, had posted his best archers and crossbowmen on top of the highest properties in range of the bathhouse.

  Not even Raz’s talents for acrobatics could help him now. Even if he could get to the roof, the jump to the next building would be too wide and high to manage.

  Cursing his own folly, Raz bared his teeth. He was caught. The Mahsadën had known he would go after Adrion again, given time. They’d planted all the evidence he needed, then had notable men purposely come and go from the market, knowing he’d be watching the place. But there was nothing here.

  Nothing.

  Stupid. Fucking. Idiot! Raz cursed himself. His eyes darted around the room, assessing his situation. He had no time to rebuke himself. He had to get out. But, even before he could think of escaping, he had to focus on surviving. The guards were still outside, no doubt waiting for a signal to storm the place, and as soon as they did they would be flooding in from three directions: both arched entrances that led to adjacent rooms, and the barred entrance door in the west wall.

  It was when his eyes fell on this door that Raz’s mind started to click together the details that lay around him. A plan started to form, and he almost laughed out loud at the desperate ideas bouncing around in his head. Looking up, he scrutinized the rafters that supported the ceiling, slightly sloped to avoid catching the Sun all day. The wooden beams crisscrossed in several places, overlapping and webbing, with their foundation timbers in each corner of the room…

  Giving in to his own daring, Raz leapt into action.

  Jumping down to the pit floor, he pulled the leather pouch free of Ahna’s blades and tucked it into his belt, dropping the dviassegai directly in the middle of the room. This done, he ran to the doorway. Stuffing his torch into the nearest wall bracket, Raz didn’t wince as the fire caught the tip of the other already hanging there, lighting it with a short-lived whoosh of flames. Grabbing the nearest table, he grunted and dragged it to block the door, flipping it over. Repeating this, he grabbed the next table—more of a small stall than anything—and, thankful it wasn’t bolted to the ground, heaved it over on top of the first.

  In a frenzy Raz worked, tearing down cloth and the thin wooden beams that held up the room’s tents, tossing them on top of the pile that was growing wider and higher with every second. Chairs and empty wooden boxes left from the day added to the mess, and Raz was careful to keep spreading it to the left, southward. Within several tumultuous minutes the heap of dirty rags, tipped-over tables, and splintered wood was wide enough that it cut around the corner, blocking the arched opening to the next room. Raz was just heaving a wide bench over to completely bar the path when he heard a distinct shout from outside, and as the timber crashed to the ground he stopped to listen.

  “—Arro! Raz i’Syul Arro! By order of Captain-Commander Ulan Orture of the city guard, you are to surrender yourself for arrest!”

  Oddly, the call seemed to be coming from all directions, as though several people were yelling at once.

  They don’t know where I am, Raz realized.

  He was torn. Shouting back would lose him what little advantage he might have, but it might also buy him
some time. Reaching up to tear down the cloth overhang of a small tent, Raz thought quickly.

  Even if they didn’t know where he was at the moment, it would be seconds before the guard rampaged in and found him. No, it was better to clue them in and take the risk if it meant he might get so much as another minute to prepare.

  “On what charges?” he roared back through the wall, tossing the fabric onto the pile in front of the arch, already grabbing yet another table. Sure enough, over the groan of the heavy wood he could hear the flurry of feet and the not-so-quiet orders of the guard surging in front and around the western room.

  “You are to be arrested on charges of disturbing the peace, theft, assault, and multiple counts of murder and attempted murder! Place your weapons on the ground and come out unarmed, and we will escort you to the court keeps where you will receive fair trial!”

  Raz snorted. Fair trial only meant one of two things: either the Mahsadën would try to flip him again, or they’d have him assassinated before he could so much as reach his cell. Grabbing a chair in each hand, Raz threw them on top of the mess, stepping back to examine his work.

  “And if I don’t?” he shouted, not really caring what the man said in return, studying the pile. It satisfyingly blocked both the west door and southern archway, crossing the room’s corner in an even L-shape and peaking in the center. Moving back to the wall bracket where he’d hung his torch beside the previously unlit one, Raz reached up and pulled both free. He heard the man outside shout something about “executed on sight” and “strung in the Cages for all Miropa to see.”

  Raz grinned, inexplicably amused.

  Then, taking his flames, he stuck them into the piled heap under every piece of dry cloth he could reach.

  Fire roared to life in the fabric instantly. It was only moments before the blaze smoldered throughout the barrage he’d thrown together, growing with each step he took down the line.

  “That sounds like fun!” Raz yelled, not taking his eyes off the growing glow. Bright orange and red spread through the dry assemblage faster than he could have hoped. “When do we start?”

  There was a silence outside, and then the man yelled again.

  “Raz i’Syul, this is your last warning! Come out, unarmed, and we will show you leniency for your crimes against—!”

  “SHUT UP AND COME GET ME IF YOU CAN!” Raz roared, hurling his torches across the room at the last few tents he’d left standing.

  A little more fire couldn’t hurt, after all.

  His taunting had the desired effect. As Raz leapt into the bath pit to grab Ahna off the ground, he heard a crash. The men outside seemed to have taken a battering ram to the west door, which didn’t budge, blockaded by the burning heap.

  All around the building though, three more crashes echoed, and in each of the other rooms the doors flew open.

  The first thing Raz heard was the panicked shouting and yelling coming from the guards in the southern chamber, their plan falling into confused shambles when they found their way obstructed by a raging fire they couldn’t have seen from the outside. Without turning around Raz could hear a few hardy men brave the flames before falling back with cries of pain, their metal armor rapidly superheating.

  Then men appeared in the east archway, the only access point left open, and Raz stopped listening, focusing solely on the task at hand.

  The first two died together, barely with time to blink away the firelight before a great winged shadow bedecked in white hurdled out of the smoke. Ahna took one head and gashed the other’s throat in a single powerful sweep, already crossing back to meet the next group rushing for the archway like a flooding wave.

  Choking them through the one entrance, though, Raz had gained back his edge.

  Ahna’s twin blades were sister scythes, sweeping back and forth and swinging in quick circles like a whirlwind, cutting legs from under bodies, slashing faces, and cleaving through chain mail to leave organs and fluids spilling from open chests. Raz’s tail struck out, breaking knees and necks like a lashing great snake as he turned and twisted, dancing back and forth across the archway. Only two managed to slip by, but before either could make use of their position they died, one brutally smashed into the closest wall, the other gasping for life after Raz’s metal claws severed the arteries around her throat.

  As he fought, though, Raz was careful to keep his wings safely hugged to his back. His plan was insane—there was no doubt about that—but it was the only one he had.

  Ahna snuck between the two guards directly in front of him, cutting them down with a quick Z-shaped slash that knocked their bodies sideways into the men on either side of them. The dviassegai spun over Raz’s head, slashing vertically with less speed than usual. The line of men and women in front ducked, clearly pleased with their small victory when the blades whizzed harmlessly over their heads.

  Their success was short lived, though, as they leapt up, realizing the trap too late to stop Ahna coming full circle for another sweep, unstoppable behind her momentum.

  Thump, thump, thump. Three more bodies fell to the floor.

  Raz was starting to feel the wear of the fight, though. The first part of his plan was working perfectly, but the wall of guards seemed never ending. The temperature in the room was spiking, and he could see the swarming crowd of bodies through the rippling air. When a jump kept his feet attached to his body, dodging a low blow from a longsword, Raz caught a glimpse of bows at the back of the group.

  The archers had been called in.

  It didn’t worry him. He landed and grabbed the closest man by the arm, throwing him backwards into the fires that were raging throughout the chamber now. In this one-sided fight he’d created, arrows couldn’t be let off without a high risk of injury to the rest of the guard. He was safe for the moment, but it wouldn’t be long before the officers got smart enough to order a withdrawal, forcing Raz to either follow them into the east room or retreat backwards. If he wasn’t fast enough, the archers would get their shots off and—as much as he might wish it at the moment—catching arrows was not in Raz’s arsenal of talents.

  CRACK.

  The sound ripped so sweetly through the roar of the fires, and somewhere behind him Raz heard something fall and crash into the inferno. Sparks spilled in sheets through the air, and he took advantage of the distraction to duck low and sweep the front line of guards with his tail, knocking most of them to the ground. Ahna snaked out in a flash, catching the second line unawares. Two women and a man fell to the floor clutching at the twin stabs that had appeared in their chests as though by magic, the dviassegai spearing each of them in quick succession before being retracted into a defensive position. Parrying a spear thrust with Ahna’s pointed tip, Raz struck an arm out at the weapon’s owner, catching the man in the side of the head. As the guard was thrown back into the group, the wonderful sound came again, louder this time.

  CRACK… CRUNCH.

  Something bigger fell, and Raz gave his best guess that it was time to make his move.

  Just when he heard the order yelled to fall back, Raz dashed forward. At over seven-feet in length, Ahna’s steel-and-wood shaft spanned almost the entire width of the archway, and she caught the front-most soldiers squarely in the chest. With a roar Raz shoved the group back, pushing with all his strength. Unable to stop him, the line toppled over into the men and women behind them, who in turn fell back themselves.

  It gave Raz just enough time to leap back, disappearing into the smoke of the room.

  A blind arrow ripped through the air to his right, a solid five feet clear of him, but nonetheless Raz threw himself into the bath pit. Crouching low between the fires on every side, he did his best to stay clear of the fumes. The heat was almost unbearable, but with his thick hide meant to withstand the savage beating of the Cienbal’s desert Sun, Raz grit his teeth and endured it. The metal of his armor was heating quickly, though. He cou
ld feel his steel plating start to sear the scaly skin of his left foreleg and thigh. Hurrying over the tiled floor toward the back corner of the room, it occurred to Raz that if he didn’t get out soon he’d be burned alive.

  It was at that moment, though, that hell broke free of the sky.

  The inferno Raz had set ablaze beneath the foundation rafters had done its job. With a screech of shattering wood and the crunch of tumbling stone, a quarter of the roof caved in right above Raz’s head. His reflexes were all that saved him. He threw himself out of the way and rolled across the floor as a wave of flames washed over the tiled ground.

  Jumping to his feet, Raz tore off the remnants of his white mantle, the dyed silk aflame. His neck and right shoulder exposed, extending bare from his sleeveless cotton tunic, he felt a chill and looked up.

  The night sky, Star-less against the light of the flames, extended infinitely above him.

  Raz had never been happier to see it.

  There were shouts mixed with a few premature cheers of victory. The guards still posted outside the burning bathhouse were realizing part of the roof had caved in. Grim faced, Raz acted, not having the time to plan his moves. The moment he was spotted the marksmen would sight him out, and then he’d be nothing more than moving target practice. The smoke would cover him for a bit, hopefully.

  But “a bit” wasn’t long by any standard.

  The burning roof ledge was about five feet above his head, easy enough to grab with a jump under regular circumstances, but Raz doubted he could make it weighed down by his armor and Ahna, much less pull himself up without breaking off the charred edge. Instead he ran straight for the burning pile in the very corner of the room, his eyes on the glowing surface of one of the tables that hadn’t charred all the way through. Praying to the Sun that the wood wouldn’t collapse under his weight, Raz took a running leap. His foot found the surface, pushing off again before the skin had a chance to burn.