As Iron Falls

by Bryce O'Connor

  Here we go, Adrion thought, seeing the woman settle on a decision, her eyes returning to the present before looking once more to the ground. Putting an elbow on the arm of her seat, she rested her cheek against her fist.

  “Na’zeem.”

  She spoke the name quietly, like the one she wished to summon were standing over her shoulder, waiting for her call. Instead, there was a shift in what little shadows survived the beating of the Sun through the windows, and a figure stepped out from behind the back right-most pillar of the hall. Adrion tensed once more, as he always did when the man appeared, unsettled by the unnatural stillness of his form within the plain tunic that hung loose over his body. Pale grey eyes gleamed in the space between the maroon turban wrapped about his head and the black veil that cut across his face, hiding his nose and mouth from view. One hand hung at his side, the other wrapped expectantly around the well-worn leather grip of the saber sheathed across his lower back. He said nothing, nor did he so much as glance at Adrion. His eyes were fixed on the woman, dutifully awaiting her command.

  “Approach,” she said after a moment, and it seemed no more than an instant before the man stood at their feet, his clothes settling around him quietly as she held out the letter. “Read it.”

  Accepting the parchment carefully, Na’zeem did as he was told with dutiful efficiency. Adrion watched the man’s eyes skim the contents once, then again, seeing what might have been the slightest presence of surprise in the subtle shift of his brow.

  “‘The High Citadel’,” Na’zeem spoke at last. His voice was as soft as his master’s as he handed the page back to her, if made heavy by the accents of the lower fringe cities across the Cienbal. “I do not know this place.”

  Beside him, Adrion felt the woman shift in what could only be excitement.

  “But I do,” she said smoothly. “Very well, in fact. Summon your shadows. You are about to depart on the greatest hunt of your lives.”

  Adrion—who had turned in disbelief at her words—did not see the shift in Na’zeem’s eyes, the thrill bordering on bloodlust. A moment later, the man was gone, stepping away and vanishing behind his pillar once more.

  “You know the place?” Adrion asked once he was gone.

  For a long time the woman said nothing, the little finger of the hand she leaned into tracing the line of the scar that ran down across her cheek. After several seconds, she finally lifted her head, bringing the hand up before her and spreading it, as if presenting some gift to an invisible visitor.

  There was a flash of light, and the now-familiar flames, white as the carved ivory sold as trinkets in the markets, bloomed to life within the cage of her digits. It flickered, exuding a cheerful glow that so harshly contradicted the violent nature of the magic the woman had ripped from the corpse of the woman she had once so efficiently pretended to care for. Adrion watched it apprehensively, nervous in its presence, hating the memories he held of the sorcery. He had nightmares, sometimes, of the screams of the men that fire had consumed before his very eyes. Failed soldiers, captured spies, often even just unfortunate messengers. It was a savage thing, hunger and rage made pure, and it devoured so cruelly and efficiently that no other soul except Na’zeem and his contingent—men the woman had taken under her wing directly and trained in the same arts Sass had so efficiently instilled in her—had ever witnessed it and lived to speak of the event.

  As a result, it was Adrion, in the mind of his men and lessers, who so wickedly wielded the powers of a demon.

  “The High Citadel,” the woman answered finally, speaking so quietly he had to strain a little to hear. “Cyurgi ‘Di. Yes… I know it.”

  “How?” Adrion pressed, still watching the flames in her hands. At his words he saw the woman’s arm spasm, and the fire sparked and grew, encircling her fingers in a layer of flickering white tongues.

  “It is the place I gained and lost everything,” she snarled. “The place that gave, then took away.”

  Her hand was trembling now, and Adrion finally managed to tear his eyes from the magic to study her face once more. Her eyes were set, hard as stone and wide with fury, on the fire curling about her fingers. Adrion saw hate in that gaze, as clear and vivid as the hate he sometimes saw in the more willful of the men and women the Mahsadën had thrown into the Cages. It was visceral, born of a grudge the depth of which he didn’t think he could ever fathom.

  Then the woman’s expression cooled, suddenly replaced by something like satisfaction. With a jerk she closed the fingers of her hand, extinguishing the sorcery with a sizzling crack.

  “The High Citadel,” Lazura cooed, smirking ever so subtly at the trailing sparks of arcane light that fell and faded about her lap. “Your cousin could not have picked a more appropriate place to die, Adrion.”

  CHAPTER 1

  “It is the naïve conscience that considers terror a product only of the material world. If you are of such a mind, take pause and consider this: if terror thrives in the plane of man, by what word would you thus describe the twisted product of said horrors after their corruption by the cruelest enemy of a fragile imagination: one’s own mind?”

  —Dreamer’s Dictation, author unknown

  Syrah awoke to the distant sound of children screaming.

  The cries pulled her mercifully from the throes of a fitful night, lifting her upward out of the darkness and fear that had plagued her sleep. Images lingered above her, flickering against the faintest details she could make out of the stone ceiling above her bed. Cruel, bearded faces, made hungrier and uglier every time they visited her, their voices seeming to echo off the walls of her small room.

  Instinctively, she reached out, her hand scrabbling at the side of the bed, seeking the comforting coolness of familiar skin.

  Nothing.

  Of course there was nothing. He had told her he would be gone before she woke, and it had been some time since Syrah had last suffered the night terrors. Almost three weeks, in fact. Three weeks of freedom from being dragged back to the confines of that small tent, the intricate details of the space reincarnated by memory with terrifying accuracy to paint her nightmares. It had been so long that Syrah had started to hope she might be free of the pestilence upon her sleep.

  Now, though, that glimmer of optimism guttered and died. The nightmares had returned, and the strange face that always chased them away wasn’t there, looming above her, outlined in the dark.

  Abruptly Syrah realized her cheeks were wet, and she quickly reached up to wipe them clean with both hands. As she did, her fingertips moved over the divot of the scar that cut down through her right eye, bare to the chill air of the room, and she snatched them away with a gasp. Rolling onto her side, she felt about in the limited light cast by the outline of the door in the far wall, searching until she found the cloth folded in a neat pile on the crude table beside her bed.

  Pushing herself up to sit on her heels atop the feather-stuffed mattress, Syrah quickly looped the black wrappings about her head with familiar ease, pulling them snug over her face. This done, she let her hands fall, sighing in relief.

  Tomorrow, she promised herself, as she had every morning for the last six months. Tomorrow, I won’t be frightened of my own face.

  That hope, she still held firm upon.

  Just then, more shouting rang faintly through the door to her room, and Syrah recalled what it was that had pulled her into wakefulness in the first place. The continued cries of the little ones rang distantly, their squeals and screams cutting dully through the dark. Echoing them, muffled but all-too-familiar, came the roars and bellows of what most anyone else would have assumed was some terrible beast let loose within the halls of the Citadel.

  Syrah, though, only smiled, the sounds of that “beast” chasing away what shivers her nightmares had left her with.

  Kicking away the furs tangled about her feet, Syrah swept her legs off the bed and stood before moving over to the massive wardrobe that took up almost the entirety of the room's north wall. Throwi
ng it open, she took a moment to appreciate the solemn emptiness of the thing, the distinct vacuum left by the absent spaces along the shelves and pegs where steel and leather had hung almost untouched for months, until that morning. Now, all that was left to fill the vastness of the closet was a cloth shirt, some sewn leather britches, her boots, gloves, and a simple hooded traveling cloak.

  After she’d pulled these out and setting them on the bed, Syrah couldn’t bare the true hollowness of the wardrobe and everything it meant, closing it behind her.

  She dressed rapidly, ensuring the cloak was snug about her shoulders before making for the door. As she opened it, she again paused to look back, taking in the chamber that had been her home for more years than she could properly remember. She looked about the space, marveling at how small it seemed in comparison to what lay ahead of her, and how she couldn’t decide what she wanted more: to shut the door behind her, or to throw herself back into the fur blankets of the bed that had been hers since she’d been no more than six summers old.

  In the end, she stepped across the threshold and pulled the latch shut, wondering if she would ever set foot in that room again.

  Pale light, cast by the kicking flames of dozens of blue and white candles nestled about the base of the wall and in little recesses scooped right out of the stone, flickered around her as Syrah began to make her way north up the hall. The well-worn soles of her boots made little sound as she moved, and her shadows were faint as they danced and jumped about her. It was warm, despite the fact that summer had only barely reached Cyurgi ‘Di, kept humid and comfortable by the great furnaces that channeled fresh air through copper pipes built into the great temple’s very walls. Before long Syrah began to feel herself sweat as she grew hot beneath her layers, and it was with some relief that she turned down the main outer corridor of the Citadel and saw a familiar form slumped in a chair not far down the hall. As she neared, the figure stirred, drawn from his light sleep by the sound of her approach.

  “Oh. Syrah.” Dolt Avonair, the Citadel’s head gatekeeper, spoke in a tired voice, blinking away the drowsiness and pushing himself to his feet with the grunt of an aging man as he peered at her. “Is it that time already?”

  “It is.” Syrah gave him a sad smile. “You’ll be missed something awful, Dolt.”

  Before the man could answer, there was another beastly roar from outside, only barely muffled by the heavy timber door kept shut tight against the early-summer chill, and Dolt shivered visibly. The howl and squeal of children that followed seem to do nothing to appease him.

  “Are… Are you sure about this?” he asked her in a sudden whisper, his eyes wide. “There’s talk, you know. Many among the faith—”

  “Aren’t pleased that I’m leaving,” Syrah finished for him in a huff, rolling her good eye and crossing her arms. “Believe me, I’m aware. I’ve spent most of the last month avoiding people trying to convince me to stay.”

  “It’s not that you’re leaving.” Dolt was almost pleading now, something like real fear seeping into his watery eyes. “It’s that you’re leaving with him. Are you sure this is what—?”

  His words were choked off as Syrah reached up, pulling the gatekeeper into a firm hug. After a moment of surprised hesitation, he returned the embrace.

  “He’s a good man,” Syrah said quietly as they stood there, sharing a last goodbye. “Don’t worry your head off over me. He’s a good man.”

  Dolt didn’t reply. Eventually, though, Syrah felt him nod, and she broke away from him. The Priest held her gaze a moment longer, as though looking for a final confirmation. When all she gave him was the same smile, he sighed, then moved to take the great iron handle of the gate with both hands. There was a groan of metal and wood, and the door crept open slowly. When it was just wide enough for her to slip through, Dolt stopped and looked back at her.

  “Stay safe,” he told her gently. “For Talo’s sake, if no one else’s.”

  Syrah squeezed his arm in promise, then stepped through the gate.

  The outside world greeted her with one of the most glorious mornings she could recall. Shading her face against the gleam of the sun that had just started to peek over the walls of the Citadel before her, it was several seconds before her sensitive eye adjusted to the brightness of the cloudless day. A brief wind, cleverly sneaking its way over the ramparts that surrounded the inner courtyard before her, teased at her cheeks, pulling locks of her white hair loose to play in the breeze. She tucked them quickly behind her ears, making a mental note to braid her hair before starting the descent later.

  Then she caught sight of the scene before her, and all other thoughts whirled away.

  To her left, standing and sitting about the bottom of the short flight of stairs that led down to the cobbled floor of the courtyard, a group of men and women in the white robes of the faith were waiting, some in the shade, some with hoods pulled back and faces upturned to take in the sunlight. Syrah’s stomach gave a nervous twitch as she looked down on the backs of the council members, particularly when she saw the black stripe running down the hood and spine of one of the robes. It had been months since the tragedy of Gûlraht Baoill’s attack on the Citadel, but some among the faith had never forgotten the role she’d played in the battle, both in its victories and its losses.

  Syrah herself least among them…

  As several members of the council turned to look at her, noting the sound of the gate opening, Syrah shifted her attention to the second group taking up the courtyard. This, by far, was the odder of the two gatherings. Mountain men all, as varied in their markings, garmets, and sizes as they were by tribe. At a glance she saw examples of nearly every clan among their dozen or so. The scarred faces of the Kregoan, the painted cheeks of the Amreht, the animal skulls of the Gähs. The eastern tribes who called the Saragrias Ranges their home were also present, and there was even a single representative of the Sigûrth, an old man, only just starting to twist with age, his silver-white hair and beard braided and decorated with iron and steel baubles and carved wooden rings.

  As though sensing her gaze, the tribesman turned to look at her, and Syrah frowned as the somber blue eyes of Rako the Calm met her pale pink one. There was a moment of tension, then the Sigûrth inclined his head respectfully. Stiffly, Syrah did the same, then turned her attention to the last of the wild men, sitting on a stone bench at their head. When this figure looked her way she smiled, seeing it returned at once.

  Carro al’Dor was a much different man than the one she had known for most of her life. Not a year ago he’d been a respected member of the faith, a leader amongst the Laorin, even seated at the council he now stood separate from. With the fall of the Kayle, however, many things had changed. His face was content but weathered, the distinct scar of his Breaking transecting it in perfect diagonal lines from around his right eye. He’d always had the braided and beaded hair of his Sigûrth heritage, but instead of the white robes of a Priest, Carro now sat bedecked in leathers and furs. Similarly, where once his great hands had held firm to the patterned steel of a Priest’s staff, they were now wrapped about a curious wooden stave, solid in its build and beautiful in its craftsmanship. Carvings crowned its upper quarter, depicting peaceful, pensive faces of a number of bearded, bright-eyed men.

  It was an antithetical representation of the Stone Gods—the brutal deities of the mountain men—Syrah hoped to see much more often in the future.

  As she watched him, Carro’s eyes abruptly grew wide, and he opened his mouth as though to shout a warning. Before he could say anything, however, Syrah noted the clambering of a dozen little feet, and she turned just in time to witness no less than six or seven small, squealing forms rushing up the stairs at her. She’d been so distracted by the presence of the council and Carro’s mountain men that she hadn't yet looked to the last group taking up space in the courtyard. She would pay for her lack of awareness for several days after as the children collided with her, screaming happily and laughing as they knocked her
back, landing her on her rump on the hardened stone of the top step behind her.

  Syrah hardly noticed. Instantly she was laughing and shouting along with the children, tickling the smallest and wrestling the bigger ones off one after the other. For several seconds they played, ignoring the cold ground beneath them in the warmth of the sunny day, enjoying the freedom summer had delivered.

  Then their frolicking was interrupted by a deafening roar that seemed almost to make the air itself shiver.

  “AHA! BREAKFAST IS SERVED!”

  At once the children scattered, darting off in every direction as they shrieked with delight, running away from the great shadow that had risen to loom over them at the words. When they were all gone, dashing to be far clear of the man who’d come up behind them, Syrah finally managed to right herself, sitting on the edge of the step to look up into the strange face she had missed that morning.

  No one in their right mind would have the gall to call Raz i’Syul Arro ugly, whether to his face or otherwise. For one thing, most of the world knew him by a reputation that lent itself to fear any variety of terrible retributions for such a slight. For another—at least in Syrah’s opinion—there was a unique beauty to the atherian, a sort of awe-inspiring wonder one might witness in the lithe form of a mountain lion, or in the dangerous geometries of a viper’s curves. At over seven feet tall, the Dragon of the North towered above nearly any other man, including the several lumbering Kregoan standing behind Carro along the far wall of the courtyard. His eyes shone above a serpentine snout, their vertical pupils bisecting an amber that was the color of a sunrise made liquid. His scaled skin was dark almost to the point of black, hinting at a sheen of green where the light hit it just right. His spined ears were webbed, their membranes a reddish gold and lined with the faint outline of threaded veins. This was even more noticeable in the great wings he had half-folded against his back, the delicate skin between the more prominent arching bones frayed along their edges, giving them the impression of worn sails in a slow wind. He stood on the balls of his feet, his clawed toes clacking against the stone as he took two steps up the stairs, his heavy tail snaking along behind him as he came to a stop in front of Syrah.