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

by Bryce O'Connor

  He landed shakily on the crumbled stone ledge of the west wall, almost losing his balance and tumbling right over into street below. Steadying himself, Raz held Ahna close and ran along the edge, toward the unburned roof to his left.

  He’d just taken his first step onto the slated surface when a crossbow bolt tore a hole through the stone barely six inches from his right foot.

  Throwing himself to the side, Raz scrambled up the roof, following the burning edge to take advantage of the smoke. An arrow went wide of him, disappearing into the fires to his left, but now he could hear the shouts of alarm as more and more of the guards spotted him.

  He reached the apex of the roof and turned around. Raz could practically feel every sight in the vicinity training on his figure. Even so, he took the briefest of moments to collect himself, drawing a deep breath and watching the pillar of smoke before him disappear into the night.

  And then he ran.

  Raz could literally hear the doubts screaming in his ears as he shot forward the short way down the slant toward the burning hole. His conscious self was battling with instinct, waging a war to make sure he didn’t do exactly what he was planning on doing. The humanity in him shrieked warnings and common sense, begging him not to be a fool.

  Drowning it out, though, Raz took the last step before the flaming pillar, spread his wings…

  And leapt.

  He had some idea of what he was supposed to do. He’d seen desert hawks ride the thermals before, seen them glide gracefully upwards in spiraling circles. Ideally he imagined a serene arc upwards, his wings caught firm in the hot air. He imagined his body lifting high above the ground, shooting off over the rooftops and disappearing into the night before any of the men surrounding him could realize he was gone.

  Nothing could have prepared him for what actually happened.

  The instant he caught the heat, Raz was jerked upward so violently he nearly dropped Ahna, the broiling heat from the flames below abruptly shooting him a good fifteen feet into the air. He could barely maintain his balance. Muscles in his back he didn’t even know he had flexed and strained instinctively, trying to keep him right side up in his tumble skyward. Flaming soot and smoke whirled around him in a fiery storm, blocking his view. The rush crushed against him, filling his lungs with boiling wind. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He suddenly realized he was going to black out and plummet earthward to the cobbled road below. He realized he was going to die.

  Then, abruptly, it ended.

  The heat was gone. Raz was gliding unhindered, suspended by nothing. There was an instant, just a fraction of a second, when the panic disappeared and the city opened up like a map before his eyes. The world below came alive around him, a flat blanket of lights and shapes and lines where lit streets cut across Miropa’s dark face. Raz had time for a single gasp, a single moment of unfathomable wonder as he soared.

  But the moment didn’t last, and with gut-wrenching force Raz felt gravity take him, pulling him down. He floundered desperately to keep his set course, as though the spastic whipping of this legs and free arm would help him through the air. The pull of the earth was cruel, though, aiming him straight at the wall of the three-story building in front of him, the roof he’d so desperately hoped to reach slipping away. He started to fall, losing almost all forward momentum, the solid stone rushing toward him.

  And then his wings, extended to their fullest reach on either side of him, strained.

  Drawing inward simultaneously, they pushed his body upwards through the air with such force Raz felt the wind whistling through the spaces in his armor. His mouth hung slack in numb realization as he felt his wings beat again with the barest of conscious thought, eyes on the wall slipping by in front of him. The edge of the roof reached his head, then his waist, then his feet, and before long it was ten feet below him.

  He was flying. Without trying, without thinking or meaning to. The world opened up once more, Miropa suddenly an enchanting puzzle of lanterns and candlelight, a carefully carved floor for his feet to never touch. The rush returned, the air suddenly freer, sweeter.

  He was flying…

  And it was in that empty second of blooming ecstasy, when all thought was whisked away from his fight for survival, that a skillfully aimed bolt crashed into Raz’s side, throwing him forcefully forward while pain like nothing he had ever imagined erupted from his abdomen.

  ________________________

  From beneath the overhangs across the street, a pair of blue eyes watched Raz i’Syul’s form disappear over the ledge of the high roof. She’d seen the bolt catch him in the back, but her professional experience had outweighed the leap in her breast she’d felt at the sight. The wound would be excruciating, even immobilizing to anyone else since damaging the muscles of the abdomen made it almost impossible to breathe.

  But it wouldn’t be fatal, and the atherian wasn’t anyone else.

  Even as Lazura watched a score of the guard sprint for the structure, she knew they wouldn’t make it to the roof in time.

  “Idiots!” she hissed under her breath, turning away from the flaming bathhouse and sliding into the closest alleyway. They’d had him trapped! Surrounded by half the standing force of Miropa’s best!

  And they’d let him get away…

  Even now the Monster was probably long gone, doubtfully leaving so much as a blood trail to follow.

  Sass is going to be livid, Lazura thought, melting into the darkness and making her way to her master’s offices.

  Especially when he found out the damned lizard had learned to fly…

  XVI

  Raz shouldered his way into the safehouse basement, nearly knocking the rickety door clear off its hinges in his semiconscious scramble. Ahna fell loosely from his fingers, hitting the dirt floor of the dark room with a dusty clatter.

  Raz didn’t notice, one hand held tight around his waist, pressing down on the tourniquet he’d made from his shirt and momentarily staunching the blood from flowing freely again. He’d managed to pull the bolt clean through, thank Her mercy, and the wound was far enough from his center to avoid any vital organs. Still, it throbbed like a hot iron pole had been shoved through him, and the bleeding simply refused to stop. Already the cloth beneath his fingers was damp and soaked crimson, and the first free trickle escaped down the skin of his belly while Raz fumbled around the room with his free hand.

  In the near dark it took him a moment to find the table. With a grunt he swept it clear, knocking its contents to the floor. The inkwell overturned and splattered. Unlit candles broke and rolled away. Most importantly, though, the stolen scrolls and blank parchments tumbled into a misshapen pile. Raz fell to one knee and felt around for the bag lying in a nearby corner by his bedroll. Finally finding the burlap, he ripped it open.

  He’d lost his good flint when he’d abandoned his ruined cloak to the fire. He’d lost his lock-picking set as well, but at the moment that was a minor concern. What was important was the little lead box he’d been lucky enough to pack, stuck at the bottom of the travel sack he’d readied for his quick break to the next safehouse.

  Finding it at last, Raz tipped it over. A few small scraps of dried paper fell out, nearly lost to the dark, along with two small pieces of flint. Squatting and bending over his knees so that his thighs could hold the tourniquet in place, Raz struck the rocks together over the piled parchments, fumbling as his hands shook.

  At last, though, the sparks caught.

  Within two minutes a cramped fire burned in the center of the tiny room. Getting up momentarily, Raz lifted the wooden table with one hand and shattered it against the wall, feeding the smallest pieces to the flames, one after the other until they were embers. All the while he turned the night’s events over and over in his head.

  The ecstasy he’d felt over his escape and momentary flight had far from dissipated, but between the pain in his side an
d the reality of his situation, Raz fought to focus his mind elsewhere. He had to act fast. The magnitude of the trap the Mahsadën had set for him meant they were getting more than a little serious in their attempts. The silver lining of this gloomy news: such plans were rarely dealt with by middlemen. If he hurried, Raz knew he might have his shot soon, the opportunity to get at more than one or two of the šef. Given that they’d failed to kill him, some—if not all—would convene to plan their next move.

  Raz drew his dagger from his side and placed the blade in the flames, wincing at the motion.

  He wouldn’t be able to follow any of the šef directly. By now word would have reached them of his escape, and in all likelihood each and every one of them would have made for their own secret hideaways. On the other hand, he did know one man who’d had a hand in setting the evening’s clever deceptions. One man who did not yet have the wealth and power to afford himself such refuge.

  First things first, though, Raz thought, pulling the dagger back out of the flames and grimacing at its white-hot tip.

  He had to stop the damn bleeding.

  ________________________

  Adrion had set the decoys, planting the false maps in his office. He’d known he was Raz’s best opportunity to get to the Mahsadën’s highest members. It was obvious now, looking back. The trap had been set, the bait offered, and all the šef had to do was wait and see what would happen, playing on the stalemate Raz had backed them all into.

  It was a clever idea, and one that by all rights should have worked.

  Once again, though, the society had underestimated him.

  And now, Raz thought with a humorless smirk, sneaking a glance over the crenelated edge of Yvin Gors’ five-story home across from Adrion Blaeth’s, it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.

  It had been less than two hours since his narrow escape from the middle districts, the Sun barely poking its head over the horizon to the east. Turning to look at it, trying to gauge his time, Raz hissed at the waves of white-hot shock that rippled upward through his right side and neck. Both of the wound’s openings were sealed shut, their cauterized flesh forming angry welts that cracked and oozed, but at the very least they weren’t bleeding. It had been a desperate measure, one that seemed hardly worth it during the painful rush to reach Adrion’s house before morning broke, but Raz hadn’t had time to think up anything else.

  This might be his only chance. He had to pull it off.

  As it was barely dawn and this was one of the wealthiest quarters of the city, the streets below were empty. Raz could even hear Gor’s gentle snores emanating from an open window below him. Nothing stirred apart from the swaying of the Grandmother’s white hair, the old woman sitting stone still on Adrion’s balcony, but for once Raz didn’t see her. Instead he watched and listened, inspecting every road and backstreet he could see from his high perch, desperate for a sign that this opportunity would come. If the šef met, and if word was sent to his cousin, then there would be a chance Raz would be able to tail the man…

  But that was if they were even convening and if Adrion was summoned, if he was even informed at all.

  There were a lot of ifs in this plan of his, Raz realized unhappily.

  Still, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was banking on the fact that a meeting would be called at once, probably in an effort to deal with him before the attempts on his life pushed him to greater lengths in his rebellion. Truthfully there was a good chance Adrion—having the most knowledge of the way Raz worked—would be called on to offer his insight.

  Are you important enough, though, cousin? Raz thought, frustrated. If the summons didn’t arrive soon and he was forced to follow Adrion in the middle of the day, it would spell trouble. Likely it was going to be difficult enough an endeavor without a thousand people washing through the streets like colored ants.

  Raz’s ears pricked up. Somewhere nearby, coming from the south, rapid footsteps were approaching. The rustling and clinking of chain mail told him who the group were, and within a minute four guardsmen—three men and a woman—appeared in the street directly below, moving at double pace toward Adrion’s home. The first reached the heavy timber door, knocking solidly, and Raz watched the four of them wait, taking in their fidgeting as the seconds dragged on. They clutched at the hilts of their sheathed swords as though wanting to make sure the blades didn’t vanish from their sides, alternately looking around into the empty streets.

  Whatever their objective was, they were certainly nervous.

  There was a quiet clang from below, and someone unlocked the door. It opened wide, and a blonde woman dressed in a black nightgown stepped out, her blue eyes considering the unit standing outside with less surprise than Raz would have expected. He barely had time to notice the X-shaped scar that crossed her face, centering around her right eye, when the guard who had knocked spoke.

  At the height he was, Raz could barely hear anything, a reality not helped by the fact that the man seemed to be whispering. Still, whether it was luck or the fact that his mind was so focused on the one thing, the words “at once” and “urgent” were amongst the disjointed dozen that he did manage to catch, whispered up to him by the wind.

  Anticipation jolted through him. Raz watched carefully as the woman he assumed was one of the housekeepers gave a brief bow and closed the door. Two minutes later it opened again, and this time Adrion himself appeared, his slim form hastily dressed in a light black and gold suit with a white turban that fell down one side of his face. His crutch clicked against the cobbled sidewalk, and he nodded to the guards, who turned and began moving south, back the way they’d come.

  Doing his best to ignore the pain in his side, Raz stood, picking Ahna up off the roof where she’d been lying beside him. He’d been unable to get out of his armor—his one attempt ending in the painful realization that he probably wouldn’t manage it without help—so while he moved, leaping from building to building and scaling up and down brick and stone walls, he stayed clear of the edges. Every now and then he’d peer over to assert he was keeping with the group of five making their way through the empty streets below.

  The going was easier than he’d anticipated. For almost a half hour Adrion and the guards moved as rapidly as they could—surprisingly quick considering the man’s handicap—all of them apparently as eager to get to their destination before the morning crowds as Raz was. On the other hand, they seemed to be headed toward the bazaars, a busy place at all times except the darkest hours of the night. It wasn’t long before Raz was having to do more stalking than following, darting over narrow alleys and clinging from low overhangs to avoid being seen by the growing number of people milling about. He was positive one woman caught a glimpse of him as she hung her wet laundry out for the dry wind.

  He was gone before a double take could tell her it wasn’t a trick of the morning light.

  For another quarter hour this was the pattern. Raz would check to ensure he was still heading in the right direction, then duck through a window into an empty room or drop onto a hanging balcony before he was spotted. He was just starting to wonder if he’d already been sighted and was being led on a wild chase when finally he stopped, crouching low against the wood-slatted roof beneath him.

  Adrion and the guards had come to a halt outside one of the market’s dingier buildings. A thick timber-and-brick monolith, it squatted between a tanner’s shop and an apothecary famous for medicines that more often than not turned out to be equal parts dirty water and cat piss. It was a surprisingly unassuming structure, far from the grand image Raz had been carrying in his head of where the Mahsadën might hold their most intimate meetings, but it made some sense. The šef wouldn’t want to be ostentatious about the business they held behind closed doors. A grand city-palace in the middle of the wealthy districts would have attracted more attention than it was worth. Never a fine idea in their line of work.

&nbs
p; Still, Raz was surprised the group had managed to humble themselves to this level…

  But, inching to the edge of the roof and watching the proceedings below, he grew more and more certain. A pair of men dressed in filthy rags seemed to be loitering pointlessly around the entrance, chatting and kicking small stones back and forth. It was a good act, failed only by the fine sword hilt sticking from the pant loop of one man and the broad-spear poorly hidden in the archway of the entrance door. Those few merchants and customers who moved armed through the marketplaces rarely carried weapons of such quality.

  Nor did the guard, for that matter…

  Sarydâ, Raz concluded, frowning. He watched Adrion approach the closer of the two men and mutter something in his ear. The mercenary nodded, looking both ways down the street before opening the door and waving Adrion through. Closing it behind him, the man nodded again to the four guardsmen, who dispersed at once for the market.

  Within a minute they were gone, and Raz waited. Fighting his impatience, he looked both ways down the narrow street. When the brief moment came where the roads were clear of possible witnesses, Raz opened his wings and dropped, falling silently on the two men below.

  They died before either could so much as whisper a breath of warning.

  XVII

  “They say he’s made a’ steel and fire, with eyes like a’ demon and claws like a’ wolf. He moves quieter than the Moon, and smiles with teeth red from the blood a’ bad children. If’n you don’t listen, a silver duke’ll buy him for the night, and in the mornin’ you’ll be gone, never ta’ be seen again…”