The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1

by Bryce O'Connor

  Raz’s uncle looked away and tucked the instrument into its leather pouch at his side. They were all convened beneath the canvas overhang attached to Jarden’s wagon on the inside of the caravan ring. It had been another day of hard work, and Agais called everyone off a few hours early to get out of the Sun. Raz had returned home at a run—empty-handed, since he’d completely forgotten the original purpose of his trip—and hurriedly told them the story of what had happened.

  “Differently? Probably not,” Jarden finally answered with a sigh. “But I might at least have gone for help.”

  “There wasn’t time to get help,” Raz groaned, annoyed. He’d already gone over the events twice now. “They’d probably have beaten her bloody by the time I got back with anyone, or worse.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  Everyone turned to Agais, who sat a few paces from his son. He didn’t look up when he spoke, eyes on the twig he was whittling at pointlessly with a narrow dagger. Beside him, Grea was fanning herself with a book, cross-legged on the reed mats.

  “I agree,” she said with a shrug, looking up at Jarden. “I don’t like the idea of Raz going off and fighting any more than you do, Jarden, especially not on his own, but what was the alternative? Warn the guards? They probably had something to do with it, the way things have been looking around here. Leave her to fend for herself? This may not be the Cienbal, but our laws still apply where they can, when they can. Raz did what was best with everything he was given, considering the situation.”

  Jarden sighed again, his chin falling to his chest. “I suppose so,” he muttered, staring at the sandy ground. “That still doesn’t change the fact that something needs to be done. There could be more of the group.”

  “I followed the girl all the way back to her friends,” Raz cut in eagerly. “I didn’t see anyone who looked like they might have been tailing her. Wouldn’t they have sent men if they’d been part of a ring?”

  “Probably,” Jarden said with a nod, “but you can’t be sure.” He looked at Agais. “I strongly suggest we get out of Karth. Tomorrow if possible. It would only be a week earlier than we’d planned, and business has been good enough to make up for the time twice over.”

  “A wise suggestion,” the Grandmother agreed. “With any luck the weather will favor us and we’ll be in Acrosia within a fortnight. If business is good, we gain a week. If not, we’ll at least have a few day’s advance at the end of the season to make for the Garin.”

  Agais took a moment to slice the tip of the twig he’d been working on to a small point. Finishing this, he tossed it aside, sheathed the knife, and got to his feet.

  “Start packing your things.” His silver clanmaster’s chain glinted as he stepped out of the shade and into the Sun. “Grea, go tell the others to do the same. We leave in the morning. With any luck we’ll be first out of the city gates.”

  “Assuming we don’t run into trouble,” Jarden added, coming to walk by his brother once the others went off with their orders. “Let’s pray that your boy’s right about those men acting alone, Agais. If we’ve stirred up something with one of the rings… that spells trouble.”

  The brothel stank of sweat, sex, and smoldering ragroot. Wisps of grayish smoke curled around Farro as he made his way through the dirty, brightly colored common room. The whores—some clothed, some only partially so—scuttled to make a path for him.

  Even the new girls only took a few days to learn which men were customers, and which were there on other business.

  Turning into the back hall, one side lined with rickety doors that led to the private rooms, Farro spat on the floor and cursed the tar-colored spittle. He’d kicked his habit over a year ago, but the evidence of his root abuse seemed to be clinging to him more firmly than a starving beggar. Reaching the end of the hall, he pushed aside the silk curtain that separated the larger room beyond it from the rest of the building.

  It was a circular chamber, a single story high but nearly twenty paces across. Solid stone pillars held up the shallowly domed ceiling, and red-and-black tapestries and rugs hung from walls and covered the floor. There was no bed or desk or any true furniture to speak of, but the standing lanterns scattered around the room cast strange shadows over the great mountain of colorful plush cushions in its center.

  Lounging lazily atop them, a pipe hanging from his lips and a pair of naked girls sleeping at his feet, was Crom Ayzenbas.

  Tall and skinny, Ayzenbas was staring up at the stones blankly, his green eyes bloodshot and wet. The spiral tattoos that colored the majority of his wasted body seemed somehow to meld with the tendrils of smoke wafting through the air, and his black goatee was tapered and styled into two sharp points. A thin blanket covered him decently enough, but even so Farro could tell that the man was as naked underneath it as his whores.

  Ayzenbas never was one to limit himself of life’s little pleasures.

  “Boss?… Boss,” Farro whispered urgently.

  Ayzenbas blinked and slowly looked down from the ceiling. He was high, a constant condition nowadays, except maybe in the few hours of sleep he caught each night. Even as Farro watched the man took a long drag from his pipe and exhaled the smoke through his nose.

  “Whaaaaat?” Ayzenbas slurred, blinking against the delirium. Farro had to work hard to keep the frustration out of his voice.

  “The albino got away. That lizard from one of the tanny families butchered Ros, Gillgy, Blith, and Jerd. Garrot’s being looked at by the surgeons, but they don’t think he’ll make it the night. He’s bleeding too much on the inside, they say. Damned scaly put him through a fucking wall… He managed to tell us what happened, though.”

  Ayzenbas stared at Farro for a long moment. Then, slowly, he looked down at the girls at his feet. It seemed to take him a second to figure out how to use his limbs, but when he did he kicked out, catching one of them—maybe twelve or thirteen years old—in the side. She woke up with a cry of pain, crawling up to the man obediently. Ayzenbas laid her down beside him and began fondling her uncaringly, watching her wince.

  “The fuck you want me to do ‘bout it?” he mumbled. The words were so quiet that Farro almost didn’t realize the man was talking to him, and he grit his teeth at the question.

  Crom Ayzenbas had once been a powerful figure. Quick minded and good with his hands, he’d banded together a majority of the loose criminal groups festering in the west and northern slums, uniting them into a single strong circle. For half a decade they’d been feared and respected, supplying the highest quality heads to the slave traders that frequented the city’s outskirts on the seventh night of every new month.

  That had all ended in a whirl of pungent fumes.

  The root had done its work, and now most of the man and his small empire had all but wasted away. Soon Ayzenbas would smoke himself within the Moon’s reach, and on that day things would hopefully change.

  But, until then, people were still too afraid of the man’s reputation to strike out at him directly.

  “Let the boys… let ‘em have some fun,” Ayzenbas said finally, running one hand between the girl’s legs and taking another drag from his pipe with the other. “Turn ‘em loose, do whatever you want… I’m tireeeeed… get out.”

  Farro nodded and turned. He looked back as he let the curtain fall into place behind him, watching Ayzenbas tug the blanket off himself and pull the naked girl atop him.

  CHAPTER 20

  “The Mahsadën had always underestimated him, even after he’d become one of their most valuable assets. They always assumed—be it his race, history, or morals—that Raz i’Syul could be controlled, could be tamed. In the end this was probably their gravest mistake.”

  —Born of the Dahgün Bone, author unknown

  There were only a handful of buildings higher than a single story in and around Karth’s markets. Shop owners—at least those with the coin to—preferred to expand their stores outward rather than up, buying out neighboring shops and lots. It was cheaper than
having expensive wood shipped southward, and the flimsy mud brick that worked so well against the desert Sun didn’t do much to ward off the hot gales and sandstorms that swept north from the Cienbal frequently enough to be a problem. Building high only meant the risk of collapse when the winds came.

  It made sense, therefore, that the only nearby places in Karth worth exploring at all were its poorest districts, where such risks were ignored more often than not.

  Raz watched his breath mist, standing at the edge of the House of Hands, a brothel in the middle of the worst parts of the city, and the only building four stories tall within a couple square leagues. Night had fallen hours ago, but as usual Raz woke after only a short rest. They were leaving in the morning, as his father and the Grandmother had agreed, and he wanted to take advantage of the city one last time before the sands swallowed them up again.

  Up here, warm beneath the layers of fur that protected him from the freezing night air, was the only place within the city limits that Raz could truly breathe easy. It was the only place where he could think straight, unchained from the crowds that crushed around him any other time. Here he could come to terms with the day, the events of which had been thrust to the back of his mind until now.

  He’d killed today—again. He’d slaughtered those men, and it had been easier than breathing.

  None of that bothered him.

  Well, it did, but it was a feeling he’d had before and one he knew he would overcome given time. What was gnawing at Raz’s mind wasn’t the death. It wasn’t even that he’d practically ripped one of the men apart with his bare hands, tearing his throat clean from his neck. He’d been right to do those things, been right to end their lives.

  What bothered Raz was the last man, the one who’d been lying helpless, unconscious on the ground, twisted and broken.

  What bothered Raz was how close he’d come to butchery…

  It was midnight now, and while Karth was far from dead, it was quiet at least. Raz’s ears didn’t ring with the unending pounding of the city’s heart. His head, usually suffering the constant throb that was the bastard child of the rumbling streets and throngs and yelling vendors, felt at ease. He looked up at Her Stars in the dark sky above. He’d tried counting them once, two or three years ago in this very same spot, but gave up when he realized he’d barely covered a fraction of the sky in an hour of sitting still and doing nothing else.

  Something skittered along the alley below. Two boys, their faces and exposed arms smudged with dirt and dust, darted around a corner, heading for the market. He listened to the young thieves’ footsteps as long as he could, holding a cool breath of night air until they faded into the city distance.

  Letting it out, he dropped off the edge of the building with wings spread.

  While he couldn’t fly, at the very least he could slow his falls. He hit the top of the roof two stories below lightly, crouched with one hand on the ground. Then, so quick any witness might have shrugged him off as a trick of the lantern lights, Raz was gone.

  The buildings of the slums were little more than an obstacle course to him by now. Not even Jarden knew how often he came up here, because for the last three weeks it had been almost every night, or every other at the very least. He leapt and twisted over alleys, pulling himself up walls and vaulting over cracked chimneys. Mortar and brick broke beneath his feet. Old wood crunched when he landed on worn thatched roofs. There was no nook he did not know. No loose stone or weak ledge. The best handholds seemed to seek out his fingers, and his clawed toes always found true footing.

  The cityscape worked for him as though Raz had crafted every glorious, grimy detail of it himself.

  While he moved, Raz let his mind go the slightest bit. The last thrum of the world dissipated, and he let his body take over, freeing it of the manacles that held his fragile humanity in place. Everything was fluid, natural. He didn’t have to think, didn't have time to plan or decide.

  It was his favorite place to be, curled up away from his own conscience. Everything about his surroundings—the half Moon high above, the faint glow of a large bonfire to the east, the hardness of the brick under his toes—it all became part of nothing more than the obscure reality that surrounded his instincts. This felt normal to him. This felt right.

  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 und
er 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.