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

by Bryce O'Connor

  “Bastard,” Syrah snapped. “What did you do?”

  “Shall we just say,” Grahst said with a wicked tilt of his head, hand still up in the air, “that none of them want to discover that their children weren’t blessed by the Gods…”

  Syrah felt her hands shake, though she knew her anger was only partially directed at the Sigûrth. She felt stupid, almost pathetic. Of course a man like Gûlraht Baoill would have crafted himself an insurance policy. His army was made of men who likely hated him. Of course he would guarantee himself a way to control them.

  “Syrah?”

  Syrah turned to see one of the Priestesses, Sehne, looking at her with terrified eyes, and she realized she’d been silent for several long seconds.

  “Syrah… W-what is it?” the Priestess asked her shakily. “What is he saying?”

  Syrah opened her mouth to answer, but no words offered themselves in adequate response.

  “Nothing,” she finally said, her eyes moving over the rest of her group. “At least nothing worth listening to. We’re leaving. It’s time we got word back to Jofrey. Get the others ready to—”

  “No.”

  Grahst’s sharp interruption cut across Syrah’s orders, and she half turned to look at him, frowning. The man was still smiling, but there was something infinitely crueler about the sudden glee in his face.

  And he was still holding that damn hand up, like a child with a question…

  “We’re leaving,” she said again, in his tongue this time, in case he’d misunderstood. “You’ve made your point, and I’ve failed in making mine. The flag of truce guarantees us safe passage. We’ll return to the Citadel, and you can freeze your bloody damn arse off down here until your master arrives.”

  Grahst’s face only stretched with further pleasure. “You came into our homes, Witch, preaching of your god and his ways. You spat on our traditions, stomped on our beliefs. Our customs were nothing more than an annoyance to you, to be followed out of courtesy rather than any true respect. You treaded your muddy boots all over our culture, and yet you expect us to recognize your laws? Your formalities? HA!” The man’s laugh was bitter and hard. “No, Witch. No. Unfortunately for you, my ‘master,’ as you call him, would take great pleasure in making some points to you himself. I have my orders, and we already told you—”

  Syrah realized what was about to happen before the man had said the words, and she felt that cruel cold wash over her again as her eyes shot up to Grahst’s raised hand in sudden realization.

  “—we don’t recognize your flag.”

  The hand dropped, chopping earthward in a signaling stroke.

  “LOOK OUT!” Syrah yelled in the Common Tongue, whirling around. “BEHIND—!”

  She didn’t get to finish the sentence. There was a thump, and a dark form landed in front of her, cutting her off from the others and bulling her back with a narrow shoulder pauldroned by the skull of some feline animal. Syrah stumbled and tripped over the uneven ground beneath the snow, tumbling down and landing hard on her back. Scrambling onto her feet quickly, she rushed forward, back into the fray.

  The Goatmen of Gähs, the scrawny wild men she’d thought had fled from Grahst’s company at her spurring words, were dropping down from where they’d slunk up into the cliffs above them. With great leaps and howls of the hunt, an easy score of them rained upon the ten Laorin huddled together at the base of the pass, killing two before anyone had time to react, cut down by bone knives and stone-headed hatchets. One other—Loben, she thought—fell as Syrah shouted for “STAFFS!”, his scream cutting through the sudden din of the battle. Derro, at the center of the group, extended his arms before him and pulled his hands inward, as though coaxing some imperceptible form into a loose embrace. Then he thrust his open palms skyward.

  From beneath the snow at their feet, ten steel staffs leapt upright to stand, momentarily suspended, throughout the chaos.

  Syrah plucked hers out of the air, and years of training and skills coursed back into her limbs. Taking a running leap and pulsing a touch of magic into her back foot, she shot over the seven remaining Priests and Priestesses to land right in the middle of the Goatmen, taking them utterly by surprise. With a scream of rage she lifted her staff high, then drove it downward into the frozen earth, pouring as much power into the blow as she could manage.

  A concussive blast rocked the air, blowing the snow in a ten-foot radius around Syrah away in a perfect circle. The Goatmen outside of that range stumbled and tripped, knocked about by the invisible discharge of force.

  The half-dozen inside were thrown a fifteen feet up and away by the shockwave.

  Not waiting for her enemy to recover, Syrah pounced on the fallen men like a wolf among wounded animals. By the time the Gähs had recovered their footing she’d broken a jaw, an arm, and knocked one less fortunate out completely. Her staff twisted about in her hands like an extension of herself, working more like a lash of supple leather than the hardened steel of Cyurgi’ Di’s forges. It dealt out blows in rapid succession, forming a cage of silver around her that none of the thin, dirty men could penetrate. Every now and then she would summon up a little speck of light and throw it with precise deliberation out into the melee, looking to stun anyone that wore furs and bones. These spells the Gähs generally dodged with ease, but the magics kept the men on their toes and were getting more and more difficult to avoid as the other Laorin began to find the rhythm of battle around her. It wasn’t long before the remaining Priests and Priestesses were joining Syrah to form a defensive ring, each protecting the others’ backs.

  They were only six, now…

  But six was enough. About fifteen Goatmen still encircled them, their beady eyes peering through dirty hair. The mountain men howled like a pack as they circled in staggered directions, some around to the right, others to the left, and all alternatingly dashing in for feigned jabs at hands and legs and faces. It made for a confusing tactic, forcing the Laorin to watch every one of their opponents rather than just one at a time. Any wrong move would leave them exposed from some angle or another, and their precarious stalemate would shatter. Syrah felt herself start to sweat as she recognized the tactic. It was how the Goatmen hunted.

  And she and the others had just become the prey.

  “Watch for the rush,” she said over her shoulder, just loudly enough to ensure that everyone could hear. “They’re going to come all at once. Be ready.”

  No one said anything, but she heard the sound of shifting snow and muttered prayers as bodies tensed and magic was drawn from the ether. Syrah readied her own spells, feeling power course through her arms and legs, bolstering them for the fight. She could see the tension altering the Gähs, see them shift slightly in preparation as if some silent signal was given.

  They looked just about ready to pounce when howled words shattered the taut silence that had momentarily gripped the battlefield.

  “DA BRÁN ED BRÛN!”

  Syrah’s attention snapped around, but too late. The Sigûrth, Kareth Grahst at their head, split through the ring of Gähs, the Goatmen leaping back and away at the warcry. The Laorin—having been too preoccupied with the immediate danger—were suddenly hit by the spearhead formation of a dozen true tribal warriors, steel flashing and teeth bared in violent excitement. They struck head on, trusting in the overwhelming force of their charge—and the sheer mass of their leather and fur-clad bodies—to carry through whatever the Priests and Priestesses could throw at them.

  They weren’t wrong.

  Syrah felt her grip on the magics wink out as she lost her concentration, the casted strength she’d been building up in her body vanishing in an instant. At the same time, she saw Kareth bring his sword down on Sehne, the heavy blade smashing through her hastily raised block and catching her squarely in the head.

  The woman’s skull split with a crack, like a log under a woodsman’s ax.

  Rage and fear burned through Syrah, helping her find and draw from her gifts again in panicked h
eaves of power. She shot a trifecta of stunning spells at the Sigûrth even as she ducked under the horizontal swing of a heavy warhammer, and didn’t see if they made their marks or not. Dodging a second swing, she tucked her staff under one arm and thrust the open palm of her other hand in the direction of her attacker, a massive man in black furs with a myriad of silver bangles in his blonde hair. It was a move Talo had drilled into her, and the practice yielded instant results. The blast that erupted from between Syrah’s fingers caught the mountain man a direct blow, bowling him backwards and sending him tumbling and bouncing a half-dozen yards. Another man stepped in to replace the first, the paired hatchets he hefted in each hand already slick with the blood of some unfortunate or another. Syrah didn’t have time to summon another spell before he was on her, and she had to dance out of the way, ducking, somersaulting, and spinning from under the Sigûrth’s heavy blows. When she’d gained just enough distance to recover herself she shifted the momentum and met the man head on, surprising him with the abrupt change in pattern. Working this to her advantage, Syrah made quick work of the Sigûrth, breaking a wrist with a swift downward cross-strike before snapping her body back, reversing the staff up, right into the mountain warrior’s temple.

  Steel hit hair and bone with a thunk, and the man went stiff, toppling over sideways, out cold. Breathing heavily, Syrah turned towards the rest of the fight, looking to assist whatever comrades might still be left standing.

  She didn’t so much as get to take a step before she found Kareth Grahst himself blocking her way, his leering grin bearing down even as his blade snaked in—deftly handled despite his bulk—and dealt her a shallow slash across the ribs.

  A blooming pain seared through the left side of Syrah’s chest. She stumbled backwards, desperately avoiding another quick jab from Grahst’s sword. The next one she parried away with her staff, and the next, but the fourth punched through her defenses, leaving her robes hanging loose at one shoulder where a narrow cut marked an upwards slant of weeping red across her collarbone.

  Grahst, though, had no intention of letting up.

  He worked her back relentlessly, nearly running her through when she tripped and scrambled to her feet as her heels found the first step up the pass. He kept his blade moving, dealing her superficial strikes when he could, but mostly just bearing his sword down on the steel of her staff as she frantically deflected his attacks. Syrah had always considered herself a good fighter, a natural combatant. She’d shamed most of her classmates in the Citadel, and held her own out in the world without much effort more than once.

  Now, though, she saw for the first time what true skill was. Rather than talent and teaching, Grahst’s bladework was the result of need and hardship, an expertise gained only from living by the sword since he was old enough to wield it. There was almost nothing she could do. Had he left her even a moment to recover she might have been able to blind him with a flash of magic, or blast the ice and snow out from under him, but Grahst was all too clearly aware of this. His attacks were preemptively relentless, a vicious series of cuts and thrusts that kept her attention completely devoted to blocking, dodging, and parrying his blade.

  Syrah didn’t know what scared her more, in that moment: the fact that the mountain man could have killed her a half dozen times already, or that he hadn't with obvious intent…

  Their fight was a long, drawn out ordeal, with Syrah taking every opportunity she could to free a hand for a spell or sneak her staff in to deal her own counterblows. Each time she attempted either of these things, though, she was forced to take the defense once more as Grahst’s strikes increased in speed and strength. Despite her training, her will, and what magic she’d managed to passively pull into her failing limbs, eventually Syrah felt fatigue set in. At first the burning pain in her shoulders and hands was slow to build, but before long she felt her reactions slowing, her blocks weakening. Eventually, the only thing left to happen did.

  One slashing downswing, driven as hard as Grahst could manage, ripped the staff from Syrah’s weak, numb hands to send it spinning and pinging down the stone stairs.

  Quick paired blows to the shoulder and outside of her left thigh with the flat of the Sigûrth’s blade took Syrah to the ground, sending her sprawling to her side in the snow. From there, she struggled to get up, her gasps billowing out like plumes of smoke as she fought to catch her breath, but another hit to her arm sent her down again with a cry.

  Twice more she tried to rise, and twice more Grahst put her back on the ground.

  It was only after she’d laid there for a time, her breast heaving and the exposed skin beneath her slashed robes burning against the wind and wetness of the snow, that Grahst bent down. Syrah screamed as his thick fingers entwined themselves in her white hair, pulling her forcefully up onto her knees. She clawed at the hand that held her up, feeling her scalp stretch to the point of tearing under the excruciating tension, and she screamed louder.

  “SILENCE, WITCH!”

  Syrah was thrown forward violently, Grahst shoving her back down the stairs he’d forced her up. She barely managed to get her hands out in front of her before she hit the stone, though she still felt her lip split and some jagged edge beneath the snow catch the flesh above her right eye, ripping through her brow. When she stopped tumbling, spilling out before the first of the steps, Syrah curled up, shivering and struggling with all that was left of her strength not to sob in pain, exhaustion, and fright.

  There was the crunch of approaching feet over the ice, and Grahst’s big hand took her by the already-tearing neckline of her white robes, half-lifting her from the ground.

  “See for yourself,” the Sigûrth breathed into her face, still grinning maniacally and sheathing his sword at his side as he squatted beside her, “what your false god has given leave to. See for yourself what he has deemed a worthy end for his oh-so-noble warriors.” He grabbed her by the jaw, pinching the lower half of her face between thumb and fingers, and forced her head around.

  Syrah’s wretched shriek came out in an agonized moan through the man’s hand.

  There, at the base of the stairs, what was left of the Priests and Priestesses Jofrey had entrusted with guarding the mountain pass lay like a red stain on the whiteness of the world. Nothing moved among the remains except the vulturish Goatmen, darting from corpse to corpse in search of anything of value or interest. The sheer strength of the mountain men was evidenced by the scattered limbs, hands, and heads that lay around and within the area of the bodies, the trampled battlefield dyed with pooling and splattered blood. Few of the corpses were left intact, and even those were savaged and disfigured by great slashes and the ugly crush of bones that left faces unrecognizable. It looked rather like one of the Stone Gods themselves had reached out and struck the place where the Laorin had stood with some great hammer, smashing the bodies of the faithful beyond all recognition.

  And then, as though in an effort to completely wipe their memory from the world, Syrah watched the falling snows rapidly begin to hide what was left of her companions from all mortal eyes.

  “Take their heads up the pass and throw them at the keep’s gates!” Grahst roared, releasing Syrah’s face roughly and letting her slim, beaten form hang from one hand at his side as he pushed himself to his feet. “Let them see what they can come to expect!”

  There was a unanimous roar of approval from the rest of the vanguard, even those hundreds not of the Sigûrth tribe, and the closest to the Laorin’s corpses set about their orders with enthusiasm. Syrah found herself utterly numb, her head and arms hanging limply, her legs curled beneath her, refusing to follow her desperate desire for them to leap into action, to tear her away from Grahst’s hold and fly her up the stairs, back to the safety of the Citadel.

  Instead, she managed only to shed a single tear from her right eye, which stung as it trailed downward along her cheekbone, pulled sideways by the lopsided tilt of her head.

  She felt Grahst’s gaze fall once more upon her.

>   “Now, White Witch,” the man said, and she could hear his smile in his voice, “let’s see how long it takes us to strip you of that defiant pride of yours.”

  Then, raising his free hand, he dealt her a massive blow with the hard leather back of his gauntlet, and Syrah plummeted into darkness.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I admit—with no small amount of shame—the cruel delight I experienced when I realized Raz i’Syul Arro’s purpose among us. Our trust in the Lifegiver comes with the sacrifice of never—or at least never again—claiming another’s life. To most this seems a small, trivial part of the vows, an afterthought of amusement associated with the absurdity of the notion. To most, Laor might as well have demanded that they never fly, or never breathe beneath the water, or never craft mountains with their bare hands. To a few, though, that sacrifice was larger. In Talo’s case it was the ending of a chapter in his life, a final farewell to the Lifetaker and all his vicious glory. To others, it was a welcome abandonment, a forgoing of the ugliest—if fortunately only occasional—necessity of a hard life. For me, though… For me the vow to leave my hands unbloodied has been a much, much larger offering. It was a talent for murder, after all, that lent itself to the excitement of my youth. A gift for killing. The haggling over price, the hunt, the act… I lived for every moment of it. It was difficult, therefore, to give up that greatest part of myself when I discovered that with age sometimes came a conscience, and with a conscience came a burning, brutal desire for absolution.