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

by Bryce O'Connor

  “Good man,” Raz said in a soothing voice—or as soothing as his voice could get. “That’s it. We can be friends, can’t we?”

  The horse—as horses are like to do—ignored him. Instead it kept snuffling at his hand, then at the furs hanging over him. As it moved up his arm Raz reached out to carefully place a few fingers on the bulge of the stallion’s shoulder. When it didn’t protest, he slowly slid his palm down the animal’s hide, going with the grain of the hair.

  Eventually he made it up the horse’s neck and mane, until finally his hand was petting along the dark ridge of its muzzle.

  “Good man,” Raz said again to the now-calm animal.

  After that it took a little effort for him to figure out how to mount one handed, but he managed, finally balancing Ahna and his things precariously across the saddle before putting one foot in the stirrup and heaving himself up using the pommel. Once he settled, the dviassegai now balanced more comfortably across his lap, he took hold of the reins and turned the stallion about.

  Brahnt and al’Dor were both waiting for him, looking on with bemused expressions.

  “Problem?” he asked, heeling over to them.

  al’Dor shook his head. “Just surprised to see you handle a horse so well.”

  “We were betting what part of you the thing was going to take a chunk out of first,” Brahnt joked, grinning.

  Raz managed to give them a crooked smile in return. “Rhen said the same thing when she got me out of Azbar. You forget I spent my childhood with the desert caravans of the Cienbal. I could break and ride you two into the ground, if it came to it.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t,” al’Dor grumbled, eyeing Raz’s stallion as it huffed at his mare.

  Then, with nothing more than a last grateful incline of his head in Atler and Eva’s direction, the Priest turned his mount about and started west down the road. Brahnt paused long enough to raise a hand in farewell to the two women and shout his thanks before kicking his horse into a trot to catch up with his partner.

  Raz took the longest, unable to help himself from looking back at Eva. He had no other words for her, and nor—it seemed—did she for him. Still, it was a long moment before he raised his own hand, watching her return the gesture with a sad smile.

  Then Raz wheeled the stallion about, urging it down the road with a flick of the reins and a shouted “hyah!”

  “Gale.”

  The name came to Raz not long after, riding in silence between the two Priests, and he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it out loud. Still, both men turned inward to look at him. al’Dor looked a little confused, but Brahnt seemed to know where Raz’s head was at.

  “The horse?” he asked, and Raz nodded.

  “It was the name of my father’s horse, when I was a boy,” he said, passing the reins to his bad hand long enough to pat the side of the stallion’s neck. “The beast I learned to ride on, in fact.”

  “That must have been a sight,” al’Dor chuckled, surprising Raz with the humor.

  Apparently getting back on the road was doing much to lift the man’s spirits.

  “It was,” Raz said. “Apart from the fact that Gale was hell-bent on not having a scaly little bastard like me on his back, Father always said I had about as much interest in riding as ‘the sands did in turning to snow.’” He laughed. “Oh, the irony…”

  “What was your father’s name?” Brahnt asked him. “I never found out.”

  “Agais,” Raz told him at once, amazed when he realized this was, perhaps, the first time he’d spoken the name aloud in years. “My mother was Grea, and my sister was Ahna.”

  “Ahna?” al’Dor asked curiously as they took a corner between the buildings. “Ahna, as in…?”

  He let the question hang in the air between them, glancing down at the dviassegai’s hidden blades, suspended over the cobblestone as the haft remained balanced across Raz’s thigh.

  “The very same,” Raz said, pulling Gale back to fall in behind the Priests as they entered the more trafficked lanes of the main fairway, which would take them straight to Ystréd’s west gate.

  He thought al’Dor may have mumbled something in response to this revelation, but ignored it, preferring to keep the good-natured Priest he was seeing for the first time to the stern and anxious man he’d been dealing with over the last few days. Raz also decided it was time to focus on other things as, looking around, he watched their presence being noted by the crowd of riders, pedestrians, and beggars that ringed them on all sides.

  Brahnt had assured him that getting to the gate wouldn’t be an issue, so long as he stuck close to them. Sure enough, no one seemed inclined on bothering their party as they clopped along down the road, moving with the crowd. Indeed, while most of the eyes that peered in their direction were first drawn to Raz, poorly hidden despite the heavy furs, it was only briefly. Then the stares would shift, flicking between Brahnt and al’Dor, often lingering on the black line along the back of the High Priest’s white cloak before looking away again.

  Influence, Raz thought, remembering what Atler said and impressed by the deference. In truth, while he could begrudgingly admit to himself that he had developed a certain esteem for the Priests—particularly Brahnt—Raz had never seen much to indicate the Laorin held any sort of sway in the North. Azbar had been his only example to go by but—seeing this new response to the white robes—the people of that particular city were rapidly proving poor models for how most of the populace reacted to the Laorin. Indeed, some of the people milling about them made it a point to press closer to al’Dor and Brahnt, reaching out to touch their horses and legs as they passed, and smiling as the men rapidly traced a sort of half circle and horizontal line across their foreheads, like a rising sun.

  Fortunately, the masses seemed smart enough to give Raz a wide berth.

  It continued like this, the three of them moving at a crawling pace, for nearly half a mile. At last, just as Raz was starting to feel a familiar headache return as the people pressed in on all sides, the gate came into view. It was a sad thing, more of a glorified hole in the low ten-foot wall than anything else, but it served its current purpose well enough. People came and went from either side of the road, and as they got closer Raz made out a trio of men in uniform directing the traffic with practiced signals, controlling the comings and goings that were undoubtedly spiking with the temporary taming of the winter storms.

  When one the guards caught sight of him though, his signals stopped, and he froze.

  It was then that Raz started to feel uneasy. He watched the man as they approached, keeping one eye on him and only barely listening to Talo’s and Carro’s exchanges on either side. The guard went back to his duties, but he couldn’t seem to help glancing around every few seconds, as though to make sure Raz was still making his way along the road.

  Raz’s suspicions came to fruition just as he and the Priests reached the gate, making to follow the wagon that had fallen in in front of them. The guard he had been eyeing stepped across their path sharply, blocking their way to the rolling snow-covered hills that could be seen beyond the wall.

  “Halt!” the man shouted, throwing one hand up and placing the other on the hilt of his sword. “You, biggun”—he pointed a finger at Raz—“show yerself. Now.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Brahnt asked in reply from slightly in front and to the left of Raz, his horse sidestepping nervously at the sudden stop.

  “What’s going on?” One of the other guardsmen—an officer, judging by the metallic patch on his shirt—had walked over to see what the fuss was about. “Wetts, why are these people stopped?”

  Then he noticed what little of Raz’s face wasn’t hidden beneath the hood of fur mantle, and his eyes grew wide.

  “Sir, it’s him,” the guard called Wetts said unnecessarily, his voice pitching into an excited squeak, his eyes never leaving Raz’s. “It’s him. It’s the Monster!”

  Though the travelers around them had certainly already been
aware of Raz’s presence among their throng, the energy that had been tempered by Brahnt and al’Dor’s places on either side of him was quickly rising with the guard’s blatant audacity. Whispers soon built into shouts, and everywhere people were craning up on their toes to see what was happening, or else peering around wagon covers and over high carts.

  “Lieutenant,” Brahnt spoke to the officer, obviously having a better understanding of the patch on his breast than Raz did, “this doesn’t concern the city guard. My friend—” he said the word pointedly, accenting it with a gesture towards Raz so that there was absolutely no mistaking the line Wetts and his commander were toeing “—travels with me on Laorin business, and makes for Cyurgi’ Di.”

  The name of the Citadel drew more whispers from the crowd, if less than Raz’s byname had. Through the hum of a hundred voices, Raz made out several mentions of “High Priest” and “Talo Brahnt” and even “Lifetaker…”

  To his credit, the lieutenant seemed to keep a good head on his shoulders, and after a moment’s hesitation he nodded.

  “Move along,” he said briskly, stepping aside and waving them through. “Wetts, get out of the way.”

  The younger guardsman looked almost horrified, whipping around to look at his commander.

  “Wha’? But there’s fifteen thousand gold on his head!”

  Most unfortunately the idiot didn’t bother to keep his voice down, and Raz felt a wave of furor welling up in the crowd, a sudden, boiling hunger erupting from what had been nothing more than awe and curiosity. Almost instinctively he reached back down for Ahna’s shaft, wondering in the back of his mind how long he would last, one-handed against a mob of hungry and greedy peasants.

  “I said move, Wetts,” the lieutenant snarled, fixing the man with an angry glare.

  For a moment, Wetts looked on, stunned. Then, finally, he stepped aside, red in the face.

  “My thanks,” Brahnt said to the officer, tipping him an appreciative gesture with one hand, after which he kicked his horse between the two men and on through the gate.

  Raz was next, but he urged Gale through more slowly, keeping a subtle eye on Wetts, who stood to his right. The man’s hand had never left the hilt of his sword, and he seemed to be building himself up for something, staring at the ground with wide eyes and shaking like he were trying to draw every ounce of strength and bravery from the deepest part of his soul.

  Raz knew what the man was going to do, even if Brahnt and the lieutenant didn’t. Therefore, when Wetts ripped the blade from its sheath and leapt forward at him, howling like a madman, he almost sighed in exasperation.

  Twisting Ahna’s haft in his hands and throwing her weight forward with a quick shift of his hips, the blunt side of her heavy steel end caught the guard beneath his raised arm. The blow certainly didn’t kill him, but it launched him sideways, causing the man to careen into Gale’s muscled shoulder.

  The stallion barely seemed to notice.

  “Raz, no!” Brahnt shouted, and Raz heard the High Priest’s mare whinny as she was brought about.

  “Relax, old man,” Raz growled back calmly, letting Ahna’s weighted tip slide to the muddy ground as he threw a leg off his saddle. “I’m not gonna hurt the idiot.”

  He noted both Brahnt and al’Dor’s silence as he stepped down, feeling his claws and boots find good grip despite the slush. Moving around Ahna’s diagonal haft, he squatted down beside Wetts, who seemed to have been dazed by his collision with the horse. He was having trouble pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes a little lost until they took in Raz’s form so close to him.

  Letting his dark red wings peek out several feet to either side of him beneath the mantle, Raz spoke.

  “Listen here, shit-for-brains.” Raz picked up the man’s sword with his good hand, lifting it out of the mud. “I’m hurt, I’m tired, and I’m out of patience when it comes to every crook and two-bit fool who thinks my head is their ticket to wealth and glory.”

  He flipped the sword over in his hand and, aiming carefully, drove half the blade into the hard earth, right between Wett’s sprawled legs, inches from his groin.

  “I’ve killed a dozen bastards for every time you’ve pissed the bed,” Raz snarled, slowly pulling the hilt of the sword sideways, careful not to show so much as a flicker of the strain it took. “I’ve cut and sliced and murdered my way through more men and women than I think your dull little mind is able to fathom. So, next time you decide you want a shot at taking me on”—there was the tinkle of cracking metal—“think better of it.”

  The iron sword broke with a pinging screech, scattering silvery shards in the muck and leaving the better part of the blade buried in the mud.

  Getting to his feet, Raz tossed the hilt of the weapon aside and turned around, fearing no reaction from Wetts as he did. The guard was practically catatonic, wide eyes on shattered metal protruding from the ground not a half a hand from the seam of his pants. As Raz took hold of the pommel, pulling himself up awkwardly back into the saddle, he wrinkled his snout at the sudden stench.

  Ironically, the man had wet himself.

  “A bit much, wouldn’t you say?” al’Dor asked him under his breath, passing his mare around Gale and reaching out to help Raz pull Ahna back across his lap.

  “Not in the least.” Raz shook his head, then tilted it over his shoulder to indicate the thick line of people and draft animals behind them. “We weren’t so far off from being the center of some very unfortunate attention. Now look at them.”

  The Priest’s brows creased, and he looked around. The palpable aura of greed Raz had felt had cooled as suddenly as it had arisen, and it must have shown in the shocked and frightened faces of the people, because al’Dor’s eyes went wide.

  “I thought you’d prefer scare tactics to my… uh… usual methods,” Raz said with a shrug as the man returned his attention to the road, both of them heeling their mounts into trots, approaching Brahnt side by side.

  There was a moment in which al’Dor looked at him thoughtfully, the sudden wind of the outside world kicking the braids of his blonde hair and beard about his face.

  Then he smiled and, without a word, reached out to clap Raz once on the back before spurring his horse into a half gallop along the cleared north road.

  CHAPTER 9

  “While it is generally believed that the wars of 861 and 862v.S resulted in a total forfeiture of peace between the valley towns and mountain clans, this is one of those facts sadly so often ‘lost to history.’ Indeed, while the burning of Metcaf and Harond certainly took their toll on many potential truces at the time, the treaties previously established by the Laorin Priestess Syrah Brahnt—perhaps best known for her mitigating influence on the Dragon of the North—were used as templates by the Peacekeeper over the next decade, eventually manifesting into the near-total integration of the valley and tribal cultures.”

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

  They arrived, like shadows of the falling snow itself, melting out of the trees in one uniform, semicircular line. Syrah saw the goat skulls of the Gähs, the reddened faces of Amreht, painted in animal blood, and the scarred cheeks and pierced noses of the Kregoan. She also saw a few white-painted foreheads of the Sefî, the heavy necklaces of human bones that adorned the necks of the Velkrin, and a scattering of other tribal markers she didn’t recognize.

  She suspected the worst, though, when a small pack broke off from the rest of the Kayle’s vanguard, wading quickly through the shin-deep snow. Syrah and her small retinue of Priests and Priestesses stood in a defensive staggering at the base of the mountain pass, below a long strip of white cloth that whipped and snapped on its birch pole in the indecisive wind of the blizzard.

  Her fears were confirmed as the mountain men grew closer, and she saw that they bore no other markings than the bones and beads entwined in their thick hair and beards.

  Sigûrth, she thought, succeeding in masking the chill that ran down her spine as the m
en stopped half-a-dozen paces away. Several of the ten others on either side of her didn’t fare so well at keeping their composure. She heard whispering mounting around her, and Priest Derro—the viperous coward—even took a step back in fright.

  Her job was only getting harder by the second, she realized.

  For a long time only the creak of trees and the fluctuating shriek of the storm against the mountain broke the tense silence between the two parties. When it threatened to become a full minute, Syrah decided it was time to speak.

  “Ahd, vér üd’gen,” she greeted them in their own tongue. “Garros es dü Kayle.”

  Hail, honored guests. Glory be to your king.