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

by Bryce O'Connor

  It was an odd—but not unwelcome—change.

  When he’d gotten himself good and turned around, Raz finally stopped. The courtyard he found himself in was a pleasant little space, a sort of semi-private circular pavilion with a single gnarled fir growing in the middle, the earth it was rooted in elevated to about knee height and held secure by a flat-topped wall. It was here that Raz sat, brushing away the little buildup of snow that had accumulated on the stone, and tucking his furs beneath him.

  Then he waited.

  It never took the Priests long to find him. He wasn’t exactly sure how it was they managed to track him down so quickly, but he had his suspicions. He’d seen one or two tricks of theirs so far, the power of their magics. He supposed he should have been impressed, but in truth what abilities they’d demonstrated thus far—though more tangible, perhaps—seemed somewhat lacking compared to the recurrent omniscience he’d witnessed growing up from the Grandmother.

  They have their uses, though, Raz thought with a shiver, feeling his body start to tighten up in the cold now that he had stopped moving.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t more than half a minute before the staggered footsteps of Kal Yu’ri supporting a limping Talo Brahnt reached his ears, and only shortly after that that the pair turned a corner and made their way slowly down the snowy alley into Raz’s little courtyard. On seeing them, Brahnt leaning as heavily as he always did on Yu’ri’s arm, Raz frowned.

  “I still don’t see the value in all this cloak-and-dagger, Priest,” he growled while Brahnt eased gingerly down beside him with a relieved sigh. “You’re putting yourself through unnecessary strain. I should just come to you.”

  “If Tern got word that I was in town—much less that we’ve been speaking—it could spell disaster,” Brahnt said with a shake of his head. Yu’ri stayed standing before them. “I can’t impress that upon you enough. Now that the Arena is on its own two feet again, to the council of Azbar the Laorin are something akin to soldiers in a rebellion. It would not do well for you to be seen with us.”

  Raz grumbled under his breath, but nodded, reaching out to pull the furs tighter around his body.

  “Oh!” Talo exclaimed in doleful alarm. “Pardon my ill manners. Here.”

  He waved a hand in Raz’s direction. The air rippled, as though shifted by some blasting force, but instead of being thrown off his feet, Raz felt warmth seep into every inch of his body, pressing its way comfortably down into him. He relaxed, breathing his own sigh of relief as the stiffness of the cold left him.

  The spell didn’t ever hold more than an hour or so, but it was wonderful while it lasted.

  “Thank you,” he told the Priest with a nod. “Now, though”—he looked between Brahnt and Yu’ri—“what’s going on? Tern wasn’t at the fights today, and he’s never missed an ounce of that bloodshed. The fact that you showed up tells me there’s something I need concern myself with.”

  At that, Brahnt looked around at Yu’ri. “Tern probably received the same news we did,” he said. “Syrah will likely have sent birds to all the Northern cities.”

  “Along with the other temples,” Yu’ri said with a nod. “If she’s convinced the Citadel to vie for an end to Baoill’s atrocities, she’s going to be looking for as much support as she can get.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Talo agreed, before turning back to Raz. “What do you know of the mountain tribes?”

  Raz shrugged. “Scattered bits,” he said, thinking back to what stories Arrun told him during his first couple of weeks with the siblings. “Not much. I can attest to their fighting skills, perhaps, but that’s about as far as my expertise is like to reach. Who is Baoill?”

  “A villainous bastard.”

  Both Raz and Brahnt blinked at that, looking at Yu’ri.

  “Sorry,” the Priest muttered, going red in the face. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  Something like a smile pulled for a second at the corner of Brahnt’s mouth, but it was a pained twitch, and Raz had the sudden impression he was not going to like whatever he was about to hear.

  “Gûlraht Baoill,” Brahnt told him, “is as dark a spirit as they come. He took power among the mountain men through combat, as is tradition. The old Kayle, though—what we might think of as a king or emperor—was the first in a long line of mountain chieftains willing to negotiate with the Laorin and valley towns towards peace and mutual prosperity. Syrah did a lot of work with him personally, in fact. For almost three years she traveled between the northern towns and the Vietalis Ranges above them, hammering out accords and treaties between the two peoples. Baoill, though, had no interest in keeping the peace. From the moment the crown fell to him he seems to have been gathering himself for something bold, bolstering the ranks of his armies for some great coup. He came out of the mountains with twenty-five thousand men, razing one valley town after another. Now he seems to have settled north of here for the winter, in the Arocklen Woods.”

  “Baoill,” Raz repeated the name thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of him…”

  “You aren’t likely to have,” Brahnt said with a nod. “Not many had, until a few weeks ago, when he burned Metcaf to the ground.”

  “Along with tens of thousands,” Yu’ri added sourly, his face darkening. “Though the ones he left to the flames were only those he didn’t manage to chain and drive into the ranges.”

  Abruptly, the spell of warmth around Raz seemed to shatter. Though he knew it was there, could feel the caress of magic on his smooth skin, it felt as though the heat had suddenly gone from the air.

  “Slaves?” Raz growled, his armor clinking gently as it shifted to accommodate the sudden tension in his form. “You have slaves up here?”

  It was obvious that Brahnt and Yu’ri had noticed the change in him, because they exchanged a concerned glance before anyone spoke.

  “We do not,” Brahnt said pointedly. “The Laorin had all forms of indentured servitude banned in the settled North nearly three hundred years ago, and it stuck. The mountain tribes, though, don’t fall under any governance or religious law. Prisoners of war are used as camp slaves, or claimed as battle wives. When the march is over, when the tribes return to their mountains, they are divided among the people like the rest of whatever riches each raiding party returns with.”

  Raz said nothing, sitting there on the low wall, watching the little flakes of snow fall around him, twisting away from his body as the warmth of the Priest’s magic kept them at bay.

  It was happening again. The sudden cold realization that the world around him, so grand and so green, was only a façade to cover up the ugliness that was beneath. He was growing to love this land of trees and snow, growing to tolerate the cold and wet and wind if it meant knowing the lushness of the woodland and the grassy bounty of the earth and mountains.

  At the same time, though, Raz was also growing to realize that he would never be able to run fast enough to escape the corruption of man and his corrosive pursuits.

  “Will it never end?” he growled somberly. “Years. Years I’ve spent trying to forge a dent in the world, and each time I feel I’m making headway I turn around only to realize the shadows I slew behind me have only been replaced by greater and deeper darkness.”

  “Or you look ahead and see the road you’re on seems to have no light at its end,” Brahnt said with a nod. “Yes, I’m all too familiar with that feeling, sadly. Then again… Imagine what the world might look like if we didn’t fight to better it. Out there in the woods”—he waved a hand vaguely about them, indicating some distance place—“roads are cut through the trees, some wide enough so that carts can be two abreast, passing without colliding. There are men whose sole purpose is to keep those roads clean and unhindered, pulling up roots, moving toppled trunks, even rebuilding when too much stone and dirt get washed away in the summer floods. They toil every day, keeping the forest at bay. They know they would never be able to destroy it completely, to wipe every tree and hill and boulder from the map, but they do enough t
o keep the roads safe and intact. Can you imagine what would happen if one day they gave up? If one morning, tired of fighting a battle they could never really win, those men put down their tools and bent to the will of the woods? It would be a matter of weeks before the roads became ungovernable. Within the year nature would reclaim them completely, and in ten you might never have even known there was any sort of path in the first place.”

  Raz cracked a smile at that.

  “So that’s how you picture us?” he asked. “As glorified caretakers of a world too twisted out of shape to attend to its own troubles?”

  “Sometimes I don’t even think we qualify as ‘glorified,’” Brahnt said with a snort. “But yes, in a word, though we go about it differently. It is a hard task, one that requires persistence and patience, sacrifice and a good head on your shoulders. But it is an essential task just the same.”

  Brahnt looked to the sky, then frowned.

  “Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. Especially in times like these.”

  Raz nodded. “So what are you planning to do?”

  Talo sighed. “Baoill has twenty-five thousand, and his position in the Woods gives him great advantage. Ordinarily it’s only a fool who goes beneath those trees in the freeze, but none of the usual dangers will pose any threat to the Kayle’s army. Instead they will offer him shelter, game to survive the winter, and even some measure of freedom to keep his march moving, if slowly. Syrah believes he will be pushing east and south as often as possible through the freeze, and at first opportunity will break from cover and make for Ystréd, the only true town north of here. Once he’s done there, Baoill will make for Azbar itself.”

  Raz nodded again. “Even the city walls won’t last against an army that size.”

  “That’s not even considering that it may grow,” Yu’ri offered suddenly. “There are tribes in the Saragrias as well. It’s unclear whether Baoill conquered or coerced the other mountain men of the Vietalis into joining him, but either way there are bound to be groups enticed by his assault on the cities. The clans have been raiding—and the valley towns defending themselves—for as long as anyone can remember. Even the old archives in the Cyurgi’ Di imply that it’s a vicious cycle with no likely or obvious end.”

  “But this Baoill seeks to end it through violence,” Raz snorted, then looked at Talo. “Weren’t you telling me of a similar story, a few weeks back?”

  “If you’re implying that Baoill and you are similar, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Talo shook his head. “Baoill seeks no peace through his actions. If he did, he would have built on the treaties Syrah drafted with the old Kayle. In fact, he wouldn’t have challenged Emhret Grahst at all. No, Baoill is seizing power, looking to reclaim the Northern lands for himself and his people. Peace might come from it all eventually, true, but that’s like saying the best way to end a fight between neighbors is to have one executed. There are infinite more opportunities to come to a less barbaric solution.”

  “And you intend to leave, so you can explore them.”

  Raz said it as matter-of-factly as he could.

  Talo hesitated. It was clearly not an easy question to answer.

  “We do,” he said finally.

  Raz nodded, unsure of what to say. The disappointment was more bitter than he would have admitted. He might not like the Priests, but he had to admit to himself that he had slept better the last few weeks, with their camaraderie easing the unpleasant weight of his role within the lumbering stone walls of Azbar.

  “And I would like to know if you would consider coming with us.”

  Raz looked around so fast beneath his hood that he felt his neck pop. Yu’ri, too, was obviously surprised by Talo’s statement, because he was gaping at the High Priest like the man had abruptly grown an extra head.

  “Talo!” he finally managed to hiss. “What are you—? You can’t really—!”

  Talo cut him off with a raised hand. “You can keep your opinion to yourself this time, Kal. I would have asked in the long run anyway, but it seems our timetable has turned.” He watched Raz intently. “Let me be clear: I do not want to leave. This battle, the one you have been fighting these last two months, is as much mine as it is yours. More so even, and I am loath to turn my back on it when we have only just begun. If I stayed, though, I would be staying for myself. Azbar’s troubles are great, yes, but they pale in comparison to the brewing storm north of here, and I have a responsibility to the people of the land before I have a responsibility to the peace in Azbar.”

  He pointed northward.

  “In Cyurgi’ Di there are those among the Laorin who have experience in the arts of battle, of war. But we are few and far between, and at this time we are not nearly enough to face the tide of the Kayle’s army. Whether we will ever be, I don’t know, but regardless your experience could prove invaluable to us, should it come to that.”

  “But he’s a killer, Talo,” Yu’ri hissed, not even bothering to keep his voice down in his desperation to get his point across. “You cannot suggest we turn a blind eye on his—!”

  “What I suggest,” Talo said loudly, a note of anger creeping into his voice for the first time since Raz had met him, “is the exploitation of an advantage, Kal!”

  “Yu’ri is right, though,” Raz offered. “It’s one thing to request my assistance, Priest. It’s another to expect me to bend to your rules. Your kind can’t kill, and I thought you were forbidden from condoning the death of others.”

  “I do not condone their death,” Brahnt told him. “I do not condone your methods, or the means by which you meet your ends. But I condone your values, and your skills. And if you would ask me which I would prefer—the death of less or the death of more—I can give you an easy answer. As the world stands, violence is inevitable. No amount of prayer, of work, of missions or sermons or preaching will cure our lands of bloodshed overnight. Laor knows this. Laor understands this. So when He sees fit to offer me the opportunity to save what lives I can, I will take it. Even if you are that opportunity, Raz i’Syul Arro.”

  “And even if it means abandoning the work we’ve done here, in this place? The work I’ve done here?”

  Talo’s face darkened, but he didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ve said it once today, and I will say it again. If Baoill is not dealt with, there may be no Azbar for you to protect come the summer seasons.”

  Raz watched him steadily for a moment, weighing the Priest’s words. He considered his options carefully, attempting to fathom every detail, every outcome.

  But this was not a fight. This was not a duel of fist and blades, and Raz realized quickly that he could not so easily see what lay ahead of him on either path.

  On one hand, he had responsibilities here in the city. While he wasn’t about to call the place a “home,” it was at least home to Arrun and Lueski, and it was home to over half-a-million others. Others who had come to depend on him, whether they knew it or not. Others who had need of him, had need of his presence in that pit, a presence that filled the void left by their merciful absence. The Arena was a beast of endless hunger, and despite anything he might do or say, Raz had no clear concept of how to end—or even sate—that hunger.

  On the other hand, though, war seemed to be plodding down on them from the horizon. Raz had never been at war. Not in truth, anyway. He’d waged his own battles, perhaps, fought for his personal vendettas and vengeances, but what seemed to be descending on the North from the mountains was a different sort of fight altogether.

  And what good is one man in a fight like that?

  Raz considered that question. Here, in Azbar, he had value. Real, true value. Here, with the death of three or four a week, he saved dozens. Here, his actions mattered.

  The dark form of a pedestrian in some sort of hurry darted past the mouth of the alley, shifting Raz’s gaze to it. No one else followed, everyone tucked away and warm in their homes, but Raz imagined what the streets of Azbar must be like in the summe
r, alive with energetic bodies anxious to enjoy the warmer months while they could. Here, in the city, Raz could do something to keep those people safe, to keep their thoughts on the mindless things people were supposed to think about. Here, he meant something.

  Imagining being out there, in the world, against an army of twenty-five thousand and growing, Raz suddenly thought he had some small understanding of what it must have been like to be the smallest fish in a very, very large pond.

  “No.”

  The answer passed Raz’s lips before he even had a chance to articulate an explanation. He watched Talo’s face fall, and sighed.

  “No,” he said again. “I won’t come with you, though I appreciate the offer. I have more value here, fighting this fight we started, than out there against an enemy I know nothing about.”