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

by Bryce O'Connor

  So, the savages have claimed Harond, too…

  They’d heard of Metcaf, of course. Weeks ago now. It hadn’t caused much of a stir, though. The mountain clans of the North had been raiding for centuries, attacking every year and taking what was needed before vanishing like a fading fog back up into the cliffs. That they had razed the city completely seemed foolish, as nothing could be plundered from a place that wasn’t allowed to rebuild, but when they’d heard that the clans were uniting under a new Kayle, Quin and the council had written it off to inexperienced leadership and the inability of their new master to control his troops.

  But Harond, too, now… This changes things.

  All at once, Quin felt cold.

  “Get more wood on the fire,” he snapped at a manservant attempting to fluff the cuff of his left sleeve as he read. “And someone find Azzeki.”

  At once a few of the men scattered, leaving the rest to wait with Quin, half-dressed with his letter. Again he read the words, as though taking them in twice would reveal some secret deceit, or perhaps even a bad joke.

  But no. As much as his distaste of the Laorin ran deep, Quin had never known the faith to bring concern to anything that didn’t deserve it.

  And they think the man is moving south? Quin thought, alarmed as he again reached the passage regarding the Citadel’s suspicions of the new Kayle’s plans. Why would he come so far from his mountains? What value would be gained in putting the eastern cities in his warpath?

  Quin wished suddenly that he had done a better job of paying attention to the historical instruction his father had put him through as a child. He’d taken well enough to mathematics and economics, but he’d never seen much value in the study of the distant past.

  Why would he be pushing for Azbar?

  A figure appeared in the room’s open doorway, and Quin looked up to find Azzeki striding in, bedecked in his usual blacks, curved saber on his hip.

  “You wanted to see me?” the Percian asked, revealing the gleam of white teeth against his dark face as he spoke.

  Quin nodded. “Summon the council. Tell them I have need of them at once, and to be quick about it. I expect them here within the hour, and any who are late can count themselves replaced.”

  Azzeki, for once, looked taken aback. “Today is a four-day for the tournament. The lizard fights this morning. Most of them will like be heading to the Arena already. I thought you, too, would be—”

  “Azzeki, when I tell you to do something I don’t mean ‘after I’ve convinced you to do it.’ I mean now. And have a runner sent to Kal Yu’ri. I’d sooner spit on the man than let him in my front door, but there are things to be discussed.”

  Azzeki barely hesitated this time before nodding. Then, turning on his heel, he left the room, again at double pace.

  For another minute Quin kept looking down at the letter in his hand, no longer reading the words, but going over them carefully in his head. Then he looked up.

  “Well?” he demanded imperiously, looking about at the manservants now standing awkwardly around him. “What are you all waiting for? These robes aren’t about to finish putting themselves on!”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Among the great cities of the old North still standing today, Azbar was arguably the largest. At its peak in the early 800’s v.S., the valley town held a populace of nearly three-quarters of a million. Over the next two hundred years or so, as the citizens of the North sprawled out into smaller villages and began colonizing the woodlands and plains, the old writings tell us that those numbers dwindled somewhat, though never low enough to keep the city from being a major source of trade with the Southern fringe cities. With the development of our more modern sea trade and the paving of the Lands’ Road leading north and south from the Tundra all the way to the Seven Cities, though, Azbar has lost much of its former luster. Today, the city struggles to survive on fees from its once-great Arena, as well as what meager timber it can collect from the rapidly depleting woodlands around it.”

  —The North: Ancient Tradition and Culture, by Agor Kehn

  Blood ran in rivulets down Raz’s right leg, but he ignored it. It was a narrow gash, granted to his opponent while Raz twisted out of the way, allowed in favor of letting the steel take him full in the side, either cleaving him in two or disemboweling him where he stood.

  If I’m to die, Raz thought, almost amused as he leapt back, giving himself some room, it won’t be as an accidental homage to you, Sass.

  All around him, trampled snow had turned the pit from a serene circular field of white to a chaos of brown-and-black slush. Red dotted and streaked the ground even in places where winter’s blanket hadn’t yet been disturbed, and smooth lines crisscrossed here and there where bladework had brought the weapon low enough to nearly catch earth.

  Raz glanced down at himself, grimacing. Apart from the wound in his right leg, he had a new dent in the thigh guard of his left, a shallow stab in his abdomen, and one of the chest straps that held the pauldron encasing his upper left arm would have to be replaced. It had been severed by a crossing sweep that had come far too close for comfort, leaving a thin cut diagonally across his chest, and even as he moved Raz felt the steel shift awkwardly on his shoulder.

  “It’s a pity,” Raz said aloud, calling out in a raised voice as he reached around to undo the armor’s remaining straps. “You’re not unskilled with that thing, boy. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be making a name for yourself out in the world than die by it here today?”

  Across from him, Breck Tilus stood a few paces away, his heavy breathing misting around youthful features. He looked exhausted, the curling black hair that snuck out from beneath his leather helm wet and plastered across his forehead, his wide form quivering as he fought to catch his wind. He looked content enough with the brief reprieve, pale brown eyes never shifting away from Raz.

  Likewise, the tip of the heavy bastard sword he held in both hands never dropped below a defensible position.

  Raz, on the other hand, had no weapon. It had been like this for nearly every fight in the last two weeks, in fact, since the gruesome results of the tournament’s opening day. The victors of the tourney kept opting to face him man-to-man, having convinced themselves that without his blades—and most certainly without Ahna—Raz was an even opponent.

  None seemed very considerate of the fact that the corpses kept rolling back down the gangway regardless, if just one at a time.

  The boy smiled across the pit at Raz. It wasn’t a sneer, for once, like the look most of his opponents cast his way, overly confident in their own skills and bearing the firm belief that there was no way he, some “lizard from the South,” could best them.

  No, it was a true smile, if a hard one, and it made Raz sad.

  “I thank you for the compliment, Master Arro,” Tilus responded between breaths. “But making a name for myself is exactly what I intend to do here and now.”

  Raz frowned. Then, with one hand, he pulled the useless steel from his shoulder and let it crash to the snow.

  “Impatience is about to get you killed, boy,” he said, starting to walk forward, ever ignoring the numbness of his scaled feet against the frozen earth. “Only the headstrong rush needlessly forward, and only fools do so with a sword in hand.”

  “My father told me the same thing,” Tilus said with a laugh. “He told me that before I won my first fight, then again before I claimed my first bounty. He told me that when I joined the mercenary companies, too. You say I’m headstrong? At my age, aren’t I allowed to be?”

  “You are,” Raz growled, coming to a stop a couple feet outside of the bastard sword’s reach. “But you’re also meant to have the opportunity to grow out of it, to grow older. If you do this… you’re not going to get that chance.”

  Tilus paused then, and Raz thought he saw some of the boy’s confidence waver. He hoped, for half a moment, that he’d gotten through.

  But—as it is like to do in the thralls of youthful ignorance—vanity w
on over sense.

  “Your advice does not fall on deaf ear, I swear it.” Tilus brought his sword up to his cheek, pointing it right at Raz and taking an aggressive stance. “But as you say, I’m not unskilled with this thing.”

  And with that, he rushed forward.

  At once Raz was on the defense again, as he had been for most of the fight. Every now and then the blows came around at angles that allowed him to deflect them carefully with the thick steel of his bracers, but mostly Raz spent his time dodging and weaving. He used the shape of the pit to his advantage, trailing the rounding of the wall so that he never got pinned with his back against the stone. He was careful as he moved, all too aware of the precision of the boy’s strikes, the strength of his blows. All it would take was one slip, one mistake, and Raz was liable to lose a limb, maybe even a wing or his tail. He had to stay focused, stay calm, and stay as aware of his footing as he was of his opponent. After the first snowfall, the Doctore had allowed him access to the pit as much as he needed, giving him the opportunity to train himself, to adjust. It hadn’t been easy, and he had his doubts that anyone was infallible on such unstable purchase, but he’d learned his strengths and weaknesses and adjusted accordingly.

  So, though the chill and wetness of the snow bit at his flesh, tearing painfully into his skin, Raz had thanked the Sun often in the last week for having born him into the world with claws.

  When both feet found ideal footing, winning good grip in furrows and divots in the frozen mud beneath the snow, Raz decided it was time to turn the fight on its head.

  Tilus was not expecting the pounce. For a time during his charge, he might have been wary of a counterattack, but after a while all fights tend to settle into a rhythm. It is the primary weakness of inexperience, the true cost of youthful ignorance, though, that leads young fighters into embracing the pattern. For Tilus, paths like that would have always been in his favor, his superior strength and skill allowing him to lead the dance until he won.

  When the dance is forcibly changed, though, such men are often left reeling.

  The boy had just brought his blade up for another crossward blow when Raz was suddenly moving at him rather than away from him. To his credit he didn’t hesitate in his strike, bringing it down just as he’d intended, aiming for Raz’s newly bared left shoulder. Raz, though, closed the gap between them faster than any steel could fall. He was already beside Tilus by the time the blow would have reached him, and the sword—driven downward with all the hopes of a killing strike—dug into the snow and earth, sticking there. Before the boy had the chance to pull it out, Raz’s foot collided with the back of his weight-bearing leg, bringing him to his knees. He still clung one-handed to the blade, his grasp at an awkward angle with the sword lodged in the ground. Without hesitating, Raz punched down with a mailed fist, crushing the boy’s right shoulder. As Tilus screamed in pain, his hand dropping loosely from the bastard sword’s handle, Raz reached out and pulled the blade free.

  Then, in a single motion, he swung the blade around and dragged its razor edge across Brek Tilus’ throat.

  If one has never seen the force with which arterial blood can spray, it is a terrifying thing. A gush of red, misting in the icy air, erupted across the snowy ground and stained the stone of the angled wall beside them. Tilus didn’t even have time to choke on his own blood. Raz had cut so quick and so deep that he was gone in seconds, allowing for only one bubbling rasp from his severed windpipe before he was still.

  Putting a foot to his back, Raz shoved the boy so that he fell facedown into the slush and mud.

  “Fool,” he said sadly, watching the red creep into the brown and white of the snow. “Dead ears are no better than deaf ears.”

  Then he tossed the bastard sword aside, and looked up into the crowd.

  The sounds of the world returned to Raz in a rush, as they always did after a match. Abruptly the dull throb of white noise that he had all but forgotten erupted into the ear-splitting cacophony that was the comprised roar of ten thousand spectators. The colored ocean of fur and wool waved around him like churning water as some jumped up and down in excitement, some applauded from their seats, and some waved fists about, cursing him for lost wagers. The great iron sconces along the stairs burned bright and hot, lining the sections of the stands so that each looked like a painting of mismatched color framed in fire.

  It was a familiar sight, one he was becoming accustomed to, if no less appreciative of.

  Something today, though, was not quite right…

  Turning about, Raz peered up into the Chairman’s box. He was used to the fleshy form of Quin Tern leering down at him after each victory, as pleased with himself as he was with Raz, outlined in the light of the flames behind him. He was used, too, to the dark form of Azzeki Koro there, half-hidden behind the Chairman’s heavy throne. He was accustomed to their presence, and even more so to Tern’s habitual post-fight monologues, praising “the Scourge” and “the Monster” for his skills and praising the people of Azbar for making such a wise choice in the selection of their champion.

  So when the only silhouette to appear in the alcove’s opening was the narrow frame of a herald, Raz got the distinct impression that something was wrong.

  “Victory of the fifth branch of the Chairman’s Tourney is given to Raz i’Syul Arro, the Monster of Karth, the Scourge of the South,” the man announced in a carrying voice to cut over the still-shouting crowd. “Thus concludes our third week of tourney. Preliminaries for the sixth branch will start tomorrow for any who—”

  As the herald continued to announce the schedule for the coming days, Raz turned away from the box, eyes on the crowd. Most were getting up now, rising to their feet and making for the Hall of Heroes, murmuring excitedly over the day’s matches. Some, though, were keeping to their seats, too enthralled in their conversation to be bothered with the queues that led out of the Arena, or else waiting for the herald to finish speaking, in case he announced anything exciting.

  If something’s going on, Raz thought, still scanning the masses, they’ll be here…

  His eyes found the section he was looking for, the first on the left of the Hall. It was easy for them to blend into the crowd, pretending to be simply part of the throng. It was how they’d been in communication, how they’d agreed to make contact if they needed to speak. He’d met them a few times over the last two weeks, discussing strategy and options and what could be done about the cancer that was the Arena.

  Sure enough, the Priests waited patiently for him to see them, seated as close to the pit as they could manage.

  Raz met Talo Brahnt’s blue eyes, and he nodded. The Priest returned the motion, then leaned over to whisper something to Kal Yu’ri. At once the smaller Priest stood up, reaching out to help Brahnt to his feet, and together the pair joined the line leaving the stadium.

  Turning away from them, Raz bent down to pick up the pauldron he’d pulled off his shoulder, lifting it from the dirty snow. As he did, his eyes fell again on the still form of Brek Tilus. A pair of attendants were already ducking under the rising gate of the portcullis to Raz’s left, making for the boy’s body. When they reached it, each went to take an ankle, intent on dragging him away.

  Fury spiked in Raz’s chest, and the red of the crest along his neck flared into sudden brightness.

  “Pick him up!” he snarled, causing both men to jump and quail away from him. “Carry him. And if I see you roll him down the ramp, so help me if your families find enough left of you to know what happened.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A half hour later the great double doors from the Arena underworks opened for Raz, and he stepped out into the familiar wash of the crowd. Despite the fact that it had started to snow once more, frosting the hair, hoods, and shoulders of his admirers, the numbers seemed to have only increased yet again today. They moved about him, still smart enough to stay out of reach, except for one unfortunate, who must have been pushed across his path. He met the man’s eye for a moment, then
a few others, then moved on, scanning the edges of the throng.

  Where are you?

  He found them hugging the mouth of the alley directly across from the doors, keeping to the wall, just as they had on the day they’d first introduced themselves.

  Raz moved forward casually, parting the flood of bodies around him, ignoring the screams and cheers as he passed. Finally ridding himself of his fans, he strode right past the Priests, making for the deeper parts of the residential quarters, where one could get lost in all the twists and turns.

  For a few minutes Raz walked, picking his way haphazardly through the buildings. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t suspect where he might end up. He just picked a direction and went with it, choosing a turn at every split, exploring an alley at every opportunity. It was never hard to find his way back. The citizens of Azbar were nothing like the Miropans of past years, who would spit at his feet or curse as he passed. Here in the North, when he asked for directions people tended to trip over themselves offering them up.