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

by Bryce O'Connor

  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 could 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.

  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 his 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…

  CHAPTER 38

  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 and 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.