“Good people can be found in the strangest of places,” al’Dor said, nodding solemnly. Brahnt and Raz returned the gesture simultaneously.
“Have you heard more of the mountain man?” Raz asked after a pause. “Baoill, was it?”
The question seemed to take the Priests by surprise, because they blinked. Raz shrugged.
“You made him seem like trouble enough to keep tabs on,” he explained simply.
“More than enough,” Brahnt muttered. “But no. Nothing of import, at least. Rumors that he’s only a few miles north of us circulate about as much as rumors that he’s not pushing southward at all. It’s typical, for the time of year. The storms too often cut the valley towns off from each other, as well as any eyes they might have out in the world. The temple here is even smaller than Azbar’s, too, so there’s no guarantee if Ystréd’s governing council did happen to know something that we’d hear about it.”
He stopped, eyeing Raz with a cocked eye, as though suddenly suspecting something.
“Why do you ask?”
Because there are bad men in the world, Raz wanted to reply, thinking of something Alyssa Rhen had told him while keeping him from getting himself killed that day on the frozen pit floor of the Arena.
Instead, he said only, “Because I’ve never had much taste for men who build their power on the pain and suffering of others.”
al’Dor chuckled at that. “Too true and then some. And it’s about time that someone—” he looked pointedly down at Brahnt, “—did something about it.”
“Carro has been sour company since I insisted we wait until you woke before setting off,” Brahnt said, speaking to Raz but shooting his partner a falsely sweet smile over his shoulder. “He thinks every day we spend here is another day we let the Kayle dig his fingers into the Arocklen.”
“He might not be far off the truth,” Raz said, watching Brahnt carefully. “But what do you think?”
“I think some things are worth sticking around for. Some opportunities require delay and compromise.”
Raz nodded, but said nothing more, waiting for the question he knew was coming.
When Brahnt met his gaze, it was with a burning intensity that Raz couldn’t help himself from emulating, feeling it rouse up a vengeful anger within, the flickers of the justified rage that had made ash of the Mahsadën, the champions of the Arena, and Quin Tern himself.
“Raz,” Brahnt began, leaning forward again so that their eyes were perfectly level. “Gûlraht Baoill is a plague. He’s a tyrant and a murderer and a slaver. He places no value on human life, and has no respect for my god, your gods, or any gods that do not insist on blood and sacrifice as proof of devotion. He has burned the old and infirm alive, and impaled children—still breathing—along the walls of his conquered cities as a warning to his enemies.”
He paused, letting his words settle in.
“You left Azbar for a reason. You followed us for a reason. You know this man, or at least know his kind, and I don’t imagine it takes much for you to sum up what this new Kayle is capable of, what he will do if left unchecked.”
Another pause. Then he asked the question.
“Will you help us?”
The last time the Priest has asked this of him, Raz had turned him down, summoning every reason he could to convince himself that he was not suited for what Brahnt wanted from him. He’d insisted he was of more value in Azbar, where he could champion the people of the city and keep his charges safe.
Now, though, the Koyts were dead, and the people he had been trying so desperately to shield from the cruelty of the world had cheered along with Quin Tern when Arrun’s head had rolled across the frozen mud and snow of the pit floor.
This time, Raz just nodded.
CHAPTER 8
It was two days before Raz could get out of bed on his own again, and another two before he was well enough to travel. He’d insisted he was fine as soon as he’d been able to stand but—to his surprise—it was Carro al’Dor who had shouted him down.
“You’ll be fine when I say you’re fine, and not a damned second before,” the man had told him fiercely, shoving him back onto the edge of the bed unceremoniously. “In the meantime, sit down, shut up, and let us take care of that wound.”
As big as the Priest was, he was still an easy head shorter than Raz. Still, Raz had allowed him do as he insisted, letting the man clean the laceration, apply the ointments he and Eva prepared, and cast his healing spells before packing it with clean bandages.
Some fights, Jarden Arro had once said long ago, are best avoided.
By the time the fifth day rose a grey dawn, dark clouds lumbering threateningly over the world like angry giants of smoke and wind, Raz was sick enough of being cooped up that he would have set off on foot if someone had given him so much as the opportunity. Fortunately, there turned out to be no need. Tana Atler’s Priests and Priestesses had claimed the mercenaries’ horses from the city guard as reward for the Laorin’s intervention, stabling them around the back of the temple. Raz watched through his bedroom window as al’Dor went about prepping the animals for their departure, foggy breath billowing out from beneath the white hood he’d pulled over his mane of beaded blond hair. The Priest had been at it for the last half-hour, lashing everything from food to bedding to rope and spare clothes off either side of three saddles.
Water was the only thing he didn’t pack. There was never any shortage of snow to melt along the road.
“You’re sure you won’t come with us?” Raz asked aloud.
From her place beside him, Eva nodded her head, also looking down at al’Dor’s warped form through the cheap glass.
“I’ve got a place here,” she said. “And Sven is going to need help going underground. Can’t assume the sellswords will rot for too long in the city lockups, and when they get out they’ll be after blood.”
Raz only grunted in reply, not convinced.
Eva smiled. “I’ll be fine.” She reached up to rest a hand on the bandages over his left shoulder. “And it’s not like you need me anymore to take care of you out there.”
Raz said nothing again. It was true, despite his reservations. Once the infection that had slowly been eating away at him had been eradicated, his body had responded with its usual fervor. The wound in his back was still tender, but raw pink flesh had replaced the hole the West Isler Sury Atheus had carved into him with his narrow blade.
Raz doubted he would ever be rid of the scar, but it beat the alternative.
Still, he was far from fighting fit just yet. The healing muscle was stiff and sore, and he still had trouble moving his left arm without significant pain throughout his back. He kept it in a black cotton sling, tied behind his neck like a necklace, and had had to suffer the indignity of relying on Eva for help getting his shirt and cloak on for the past two mornings.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Raz finally said, still watching the Priest laboring away below. “Ystréd isn’t as safe as you think. If even half of what the Priests say is true, then falling across the path of this ‘Baoill’ character will be trouble.”
“And if he shows up at our doorstep, I’ll find a way to sneak away, just like the good little fugitive I am,” Eva said, looking around and flashing him an exaggerated smile.
Raz turned to glare down at her intently, wanting to make her realize how little amusement he found in the possibility of the Kayle’s arrival at the city gates.
It didn’t work.
“Relax,” the woman said, patting him on the shoulder before letting her hand fall. “In this weather it will be months before he could make it this far south. Just like it will be months before I can leave. Even if I planned on running—and I don’t—what good would it do me? Where am I supposed to go?”
“North. With us. As I’ve been telling you for four days.”
“And for four days I’ve been telling you I won’t leave. So stop trying.” Eva looked up at him, then, her eyes softened. “I have peopl
e here who need me. And, in a lot of ways, I need them. I can’t just leave.”
The words hit Raz hard, but he didn’t let her see it. They summarized everything he had told Brahnt when he’d first refused to leave Azbar.
He didn’t like it, but he understood.
An hour later, Raz stepped back out into the cold for the first time in days, Eva at his side and Ahna—her blades hidden in their usual leather sack—thrown over one shoulder. A heavy traveling bag filled with his armor and other weapons hung from her end. He marveled as always—and as he seemed incapable of stopping himself from doing—at the bite of the air. The chill had deepened even in the week he’d been unconscious and recuperating, but beneath the heavy sown furs a few of the temple’s more talented seamstresses had put together for him, he hardly felt it. The thick, tan and brown pelts spilled heavily across his shoulders, falling around him and making Raz feel rather like a moving, furry hill. They covered him nearly completely, even hiding—when his hands were by his side—the clawed steel fingers of his gauntlets, the only gloves any of them had been able to find that fit him.
Jerr’s work continued to remain unparalleled.
The Laorin had done much better than just providing him with the massive mantle, though. They’d fashioned him boots, of a sort, more furs bound in thick leather, which shielded his shins and feet a great deal better than the makeshift wraps he’d made of his old cloak that had barely kept his toes from falling off on his feverish ride north. His claws protruded from slits in the skins, and the bottoms of the boots had been stitched together with the paw pads of some larger animal, hopefully improving his purchase on ice and snow. He’d have to watch where he stepped, and try to keep the insides as dry as possible, but the boots were a fine gift, and when Raz had received them he’d given Atler an appreciative nod, which the High Priestess returned in kind. It softened a little of the budding apprehension Raz was beginning to feel, knowing now where their true destination was.
Cyurgi’ Di, the High Citadel, the greatest pillar of Laorin faith in the world.
A place Raz didn’t expect to find many kindred spirits…
“Ready, lad?”
Raz turned back to the open double doors of the temple to see al’Dor standing in the opening, one last pack thrown over his shoulder. Behind him, Brahnt was sharing a few finals words with Atler, leaning heavily on his staff as always.
In answer, Raz nodded to the Priest. He was turning to face Eva again, intent on imploring her one final time to come with them, when the woman wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight.
“Safe travels, you,” she mumbled into the furs. “And thank you. For everything.”
“I think that’s my line,” Raz said with a chuckle, easing Ahna against the nearby wall so he could return the hug with his good hand.
“Maybe,” Eva said, pulling away and wiping her eyes with the back of her glove before smiling up at him. “But, I never really got to say it the last time, and I think I owed you the favor anyway.”
Raz returned the smile, reaching up to put his clawed right hand on her head, pushing it about in a brotherly fashion.
“Take care of yourself,” he said. “Stay safe.”
Eva nodded, but said nothing more as Raz turned away to face the road. al’Dor was watching him expectantly, the bag he’d been carrying already hanging from the side of the saddle of his hefty grey mare. From the temple, the thump of steel on wood came, and Brahnt joined them outside.
“Best we’re off,” he said to Raz as he passed. “I can’t pretend we haven’t delayed too long already. Have you said your farewells?”
“Yes,” Raz said, not looking back at Eva as he retrieved Ahna from her place on the wall and heaved her and the bag back onto his shoulder. “Lead the way.”
Brahnt did so, limping out into the road until al’Dor met him, taking the High Priest’s free arm and helping him to the brown spotted mare beside his own mount.
The last animal remaining stood separate, and was a far cry different from the docile pair the Priests had selected for themselves. A massive black stallion, maybe seventeen hands tall, it snorted temperamentally as Raz looked over at it, meeting his eye defiantly, daring him to approach. Raz had rarely seen a specimen of the same size, and only then as sleek creatures of preened elegance, kept as badges of luxury by some of the wealthier clients—and targets—he’d had in Miropa. It stomped and hoofed at the ground, shaking its great head and bobbing it up in down in challenge.
“Had to trade for that one,” Atler said, stepping out of the temple last to stand beside Raz. “Wasn’t hard, actually. Apparently no one wanted to go near him.”
“Wonder why,” Raz muttered sarcastically. He’d just taken a step towards the horse when Atler stopped him.
“Arro, a moment,” she said. Raz turned to look back at her, but the woman wasn’t watching him. Instead, her eyes were on Brahnt and al’Dor, the latter boosting the former up into his saddle.
“I need you to understand something,” she said, still not taking her eyes off the pair. “Talo has told me enough of your story to convince me you bare no ill intentions towards him or any of our faith, but I’m not so convinced that your presence among us won’t bear poor results regardless. That man”—she indicated Brahnt with a tilt of her head—“is arguably the most important leader of our people, and therefore the most important part of the Laorin’s stand against Baoill, and all men like him.”
At last, she turned to Raz.
“I need you to understand,” she said again, “that you don’t just travel with a man of importance. You travel with a man who understands evil, who has lived it, breathed it. Many of our faith—myself included, I’m afraid—have led sheltered lives. The Laorin are powerful, it’s true. We have numbers, magic and influence. But we have no plan, no greater purpose beyond spreading His word and His light to those in need. Talo does, or at the very least has the ability to marshal the faith and the valley towns to some purpose, whatever it may be.”
She took a deep breath, as though attempting to conquer some fear. “If Talo was willing to wait so long, to sacrifice so much precious time to have you with him, I have to believe there is a reason. Still… please… understand what I am telling you. Understand what he is. And understand that you are a danger to him.”
“I know.”
The response took Atler by obvious surprise, but Raz didn’t let her cut in as he continued.
“I do understand,” he said, also watching the Priests as Brahnt successfully swung his bad leg over the saddle. “Maybe I don’t yet appreciate the full value he has to you—much less to the North as a whole—but I’m certainly aware that my presence around him and al’Dor isn’t conducive to their safety. Miropa still has a bounty on my head, not to mention whatever the council of Azbar has probably thrown into the pile by now. I would be surprised if we so much as manage to get out of the city without any trouble.”
His gauntleted hand tightened around Ahna’s handle reflexively. “And yet, he wants me with him. I’m not sure to what end, or honestly what sort of help I can be in whatever shit storm it is he’s riding the three of us into, but I believe as you do: there is a reason. I may not know what it is—hell, I’m not convinced he knows what it is—but it’s there, carved out either by my gods or yours.”
He held the High Priestess’ gaze firmly, letting her see the resolution there. “I am part of this now, despite either of our reservations, and I don’t think there’s anything to be done but wait and see how the cards fall.”
Atler’s face turned somber at that. “His life is worth more than yours,” she said, her voice hardening. “And you owe it to him, if it comes to that.”
Raz nodded once. “If it comes to that.”
Then he stepped away from the woman, neither glancing back at her nor at Eva over his other shoulder, and made for the stallion.
The animal watched him approach almost imperiously, one dark eye taking him in as Raz moved in a s
low arch around it, careful to stay in easy view the entire time. When he stood fifteen feet from its right shoulder, he eased Ahna and his pack down to the ground.
Then, careful to stay low and as small as he could manage, he edged forward, slowly advancing until he was only a few feet away from the horse. As it dragged an iron shoe over the ground in warning, Raz worked his right gauntlet off awkwardly with his left hand—a tough job given the sling. When he managed it, he reached out, leaving his bare palm up, and waited.
It was several seconds before the stallion showed any interest, and another long few before it made its move. In that time Raz could feel the cold and wind start to numb his long fingers, digging down to the bone, but he suffered the discomfort. His patience paid off when the horse turned towards him, taking a few plodding steps in his direction to snort at his scaled skin, first from a little distance, then closer as it made out nothing threatening.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 80