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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Had the staff been Ahna, the Priestess would have lost a leg moments before being run through by the dviassegai’s wicked blades. As it was, the woman fell back with a pained inhalation as all the air rushed agonizingly from her lungs, the muscles of her chest momentarily paralyzed by the shock of the blow. Even as she crumpled, though, Raz was turning, the woman’s staff moving like silk in his hands. The man who had caught his attention first was still charging him, joined now by two more, one on either side. Carro watched in horrified anticipation as the atherian’s body tensed, his legs coiling beneath him, the supple body of a snake set to strike. He thought to shout out, thought to scream a warning at the trio so foolishly rushing into a fight they had no prayer of winning.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a line of light slashed across his vision, cutting through the air with the crackling buzz of angry magic. Like a whip the goldish-white stroke of thin fire slithered out, wrapping around Raz’s right arm just as he started to pounce. The atherian roared as the spell pulled him down and sideways, throwing him off balance. His golden eyes shifted, seeking out the offending spellcaster.

  They settled, cold and hungry, on the thin form of old Jerrom Eyr, shaking and frail on the steps below. The wizened Priest looked to be struggling mightily, all his limited strength having gone into first transforming the light he had been holding into the lash of fire, and now restraining just one of the atherian’s arms. Raz, it looked like, was realizing this quickly, because even as Carro watched the Monster gave the magic a testing pull, forcing Jerrom to take a shaky step forward.

  Before the atherian could do anything more, though, there was a flash, and another sizzle of boiling air.

  The second lash, bright and white, slashed upwards from the left to snake around Raz’s other arm. Carro turned in time to watch Behn Argo strain to hold onto the magic, his face going red under the effort when Raz roared in fury, pulling at this new restraint. Another flash, though, and a third tether joined the melee, Benala Forn’s magic wrapping around the howling Monster’s neck like a noose even as he screamed louder.

  A fourth. A fifth. A sixth.

  Within five seconds, Raz i’Syul was trapped in no less than a half-dozen magical snares, one around his throat, one around each leg, one around his left arm, and two around his right. It seemed, though, that the spells did little more than immobilize the man, the thin flames already starting to fail in places as Raz threw himself about, thrashing and straining against the bonds, snarling like a rabid beast.

  “Someone PUT HIM DOWN!” old Elber yelled from up in the seats, straining with Jerrom to control Raz’s right arm. “PUT HIM DOWN! BEFORE HE GETS LOOSE!”

  Even Carro didn’t find it in himself to argue, now. Aster and Loric were sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs before him, feet away from the cracked stone that bordered the crater from which the blasting magic of the failing ward had emanated. Above them, the unnamed Priestess had found her breath again, and was now using it to screech in agony as she rolled around, clutching what looked to be a shattered knee.

  Madness, Carro thought in unbelieving sadness, his eyes falling on Raz again, watching him fight his bonds and remembering something Talo had once told him. A taste of madness…

  Carro himself thought he could sense a hint of it in his own thoughts, thinking of the ravages he and Raz had left Syrah to at the hands of the Kayle’s men.

  Abruptly there was a blinding bloom of light, and Carro was forced to raise his good hand to cover his eyes as they burned and watered. It took a moment, but eventually he was able to peer through the glare to see Jofrey standing at the base of the stairs, hands moving before him as the High Priest summoned and pooled his magic. A great orb of shifting, swimming white built up in the space between his palms, growing and expanding outward as Jofrey crafted the spell. It took several short seconds—a testament to the man’s skill with the gifts Laor had granted him—but when the sphere of combined stunning spells was about his chest-width across, Jofrey didn’t so much as hesitate. With both hands he lifted the spell above his head, then flung it with all his might up the stairs.

  The magic lanced upwards, over the steps, lashing out bolts of blue electricity at anything that got within a few feet. Like a lightning storm condense it boiled and raged as it flew, the air around it reverberating with pulsing power. Raz saw it coming, saw the end it spelled to his rage. He roared again, redoubling his fight against the bonds of flames. Valaria Petrük screamed as her lash broke, freeing his right leg. Jerrom’s was next, and above him Elber cursed as he suddenly became the only one fighting Raz’s right arm.

  Before the atherian could completely free himself, though, Jofrey’s magic struck him full in the chest.

  Raz’s scream of fury in his last moments of consciousness was cut abruptly short as the spell collided with him. The remaining four lashes all broke together, overloaded by the power of Jofrey’s casting. Untethered, Raz’s body was lifted clear off the ground, careening up the steps, his long arms and great wings trailing behind him like the grotesque tail of some bright comet.

  He only stopped when the spell carried him all the way to the top of the stairs, smashing him into the heavy door of the room itself.

  Meeting a solid object, Jofrey’s shock spell finally dissipated. For several heartbeats Raz half-stood, propped up with his back against the wood, the carved portraits and scenes around him charred and blackened by the residual discharge of the magic.

  Then he fell to his knees, and it was only a moment before he collapsed face first to the stone floor in a heap of dark limbs, brown fur, and red wings.

  For a long time no one spoke. There was no shout of triumph, no call of victory. Even Petrük and Argo were silent in their fear, eyes fixed on Raz’s still form. It was quiet, save for the groans of Priest Loric as he came to, and the continued pained wails of the Priestess up in the seats.

  “Lifegiver’s fat fucking arse,” Kallet Brern finally managed to get out, and the world took life once more.

  “Valaria, Behn, Jerrom,” Jofrey shouted in a commanding voice, already moving up the stairs. “You three see to Loric and Grees. Kallet and Benala, get Aster and Reyn to the infirmary. Tell the healers the truth. No use in trying to keep this under wrap now.”

  Carro had to agree, looking around. While the members of the council were moving as quickly as they could to do as their new High Priest ordered, the other Priests and Priestesses in the room were standing rock still, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Each and every one was staring without fail up the stairs, mesmerized by Raz i’Syul’s prone form.

  The story would be told and retold a hundred times before the evening meal, Carro knew.

  “Carro!” Jofrey yelled from the top of the steps. “Cullen! With me!”

  Carro jumped, shaking himself free of the residual shock of what he had just witnessed. Pausing only to retrieve his staff—and hissing as his re-broken arm shifted in its sling—he fell in quickly behind Cullen Brern, hurrying up the stairs.

  They found Jofrey standing over Raz’s prone form, staring down at the atherian, face pale.

  “Could someone please explain to me,” he said in a half-furious, half-desperate voice, “what in the Lifegiver’s name just happened?”

  Carro swallowed painfully as he felt Cullen’s eyes move to him. Taking the hint, Jofrey’s mimicked the motion, piercing Carro’s with confused anger.

  “Carro?” he pressed firmly.

  For a moment, Carro could say nothing. He stood there, staring at his new High Priest, left arm throbbing against his chest, right hand shaking at his side.

  This was going to be harder than telling them about Talo, he realized suddenly.

  After a few seconds—and all the limited patience Jofrey seemed to have left—Carro opened his mouth. Slowly, painstakingly, he told the two men standing on either side of him of the horrors he suspected he and Raz had abandoned Syrah to, down there at the bottom of the pass, in the shadows of the snow and trees…
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  CHAPTER 32

  “There is no shame in defeat, so long as the battle lost was one worth fighting…”

  —Jarden Arro, Champion of the Arro clan

  Raz woke to pain the likes of which he had only rarely experienced. It consumed him completely, an angry, bone-deep ache, like every inch of his body had been pummeled and kicked by a hundred men wearing armored boots. He groaned as he rolled onto one side, trying to get his bearings and figure out where he was.

  As he did, he felt the unfamiliar touch of cold granite against his scaled skin.

  Raz jolted up instinctively. He regretted the motion at once, feeling the aches intensify and wash through his body in one nauseating wave. It reminded him on the one hand of his first weeks training with Ahna, echoing the constant tenderness of brutalized muscles, and on the other of the time—some months back now—when a crossbow bolt had taken him through the side.

  Neither were particularly fond memories.

  Raz pushed the pain aside, forcing it out of his mind to make room for greater concerns. Chief among these: he was naked, or at least very much felt so. He had been stripped of every piece of his armor and weaponry, left bare save for the long pants he had taken to wearing under steel in order to add an extra layer of buffer between his already-cool skin and the bite of the Northern freeze. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn't been within arm’s reach some part of his gear, usually Ahna, or his gladius at the very least. He felt, for half a moment, utterly helpless.

  Then he decided he didn’t like that feeling either, and shoved it aside as well.

  He was in a cell of a sort, Raz realized as he looked around. He’d been laid out carefully on the flat stone “bed” carved into the back wall of a moderately sized room, the entire space about five paces wide by eight long. It might have been more spacious than he was giving it credit for, but most of the floor was taken up by a half-dozen tall, layered shelves, line up on either side of a narrow path that led to the room’s reinforced timber and iron door, stacked high with any number of foodstuffs. Potatoes seemed to take up most of the space, piled wherever they fit, but there were roots, dried berries and other fruits, grains, spices, flasks of wine and ales, and a stack of barrels between the shelves on the left wall that had the distinct smell of salted meats.

  Raz chuckled to himself, momentarily amused that the Laorin had so little use for their dungeons that the Citadel could afford to turns its cells into larders. Then he remembered why he had been thrown into this place, and all amusement fled, swallowed by the pit that ripped open in his stomach.

  Syrah.

  He had left her. He had left her to her suffering, to the savage treatment of Gûlraht Baoill’s men and all their horrid pleasures. He had been so close to her for a moment, been practically within arm’s reach. He had heard her, though the memory of her pained cries brought no pleasure to him. His gladius had been in his hand, half drawn and all too ready to spill the blood of the men taking their liberties in that tent.

  But he’d sheathed the blade, and left her.

  Abruptly, the rage returned. Raz felt his heart start to beat faster, thudding in his chest as a fire sprung up within him. His breath began to draw itself in in ragged, burning heaves. He barely noticed his clawed hands ball into massive fists, nor the twitching, threatening rise of his neck crest, flaring for no one in particular.

  When the anger reached a boiling point, Raz opened his mouth and screamed.

  He screamed and screamed, howling out in thundering, shattering roars filled with grief and fury. When the fire didn’t die within him, Raz threw himself at the nearest of the shelves, shattering the wood with a single colossal blow, ignoring the pain that lanced through his unarmed fist and hand as splinters and potatoes and carrots and all manner of other fare tumbled through the air around him. Before the mess even had a chance to settle Raz had moved to the next shelf, crushing the horizontal slats with a heavy two-handed blow.

  For another three or four minutes Raz allowed the Monster to rage once more, barely keeping a leash on the animal. He rampaged around the cell, unchecked and half-mad as he drowned in the emotions spilling out from within.

  I left her, was the only thing his mind allowed itself to register. I left her.

  By the time he had run the madness out, Raz had turned the larder-made-cell into little more than the aftermath of an earthquake. Not a single shelf remained standing, their fractured and broken remnants scattered about the ground like the bones of long dead enemies. Their broken forms mixed in with the mess, strewn up in the chaos, the potatoes and roots coming to rest in the grooves and cracks of the slate floor, the grains and other dry stuffs soaking in the wetness of spilled wine and spirits.

  And in the center of it all, flat on his knees as he stared at the cuts and bruises of his hands, Raz sat defeated.

  I left her.

  And he had. He and Carro both.

  For a long time Raz gave himself to the wallowing, allowed himself to flounder in that truth, that inconceivable irony. His interest in seeing Syrah again, in discovering what she’d become in the years that separated them, had swelled over the last weeks. Raz realized now that he needed to see the woman, needed to witness the one good thing that had risen from the ashes and butchery that were all that was left of his memories of Karth. She was, in so many ways, the only thing left that even remotely connected him to an old, coveted life.

  Raz traced the twin scars that ringed both of his wrists, the paler flesh almost bright against the darkness of his otherwise scaled skin. It seemed an eternity since he’d last really looked at them, really remembered the feeling—that acrid, sickening sensation that never faded, no matter how old he got—of the chains that bound his hands.

  And he had left Syrah to that bondage, abandoned the one true gleam of goodness to have risen from his past to those same irons, and renounced her to the horrors that came with them.

  Once or twice, Raz tried to convince himself it wasn’t actually reality, talking himself—as Carro had tried to—into thinking the woman he had heard was some camp slave, some battlewife taken in the Kayle’s march of pillaging and death. For moments at a time he conned himself into experiencing a mixed sense of relief and grief, thinking it much more likely that the tormented woman he had heard had been some commoner, some unfortunate who’d fallen into the hands of the mountain men as they marched.

  Every time, though, Raz returned to the truth. Reflecting back, he knew he hadn't heard any other women when they’d first found the camp. He hadn't made out the gossip of cooks, nor the grumbles of discontent washerwomen, nor the shouts of true wives yelling at their men. The contingent Baoill had sent to the pass were nothing but male warriors of the mountain clans. They had been sent ahead, untethered and unencumbered by women and families and all such other distractions in order to make all haste for the Citadel.

  And there, they’d found Syrah.

  I left her.

  Raz continued to stare at the blood dripping from his fingers, smelling the iron scent in the air that swirled to mix with the odd, musky perfume of the smokeless magical candles set into the walls around him.

  So what are you going to do about it?

  Raz blinked, then grimaced. The question came from a different part of his soul than the softer, fragile portion that was allowing him to be so submerged in the desperate sadness of the situation. It was a colder, harder part, one honed by tragedy and a hard life.

  And it was much, much stronger.

  Raz felt himself lifted up and out of his melancholy slowly, steadily. It took him a long minute, but eventually he got to his feet, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gave his wings a shake to free them of the dust and splinters that had settled within their folds as he had taken his revenge on the room. Eventually a smile, unyielding and wicked, began to play at his mouth. Slowly it spread, bringing with it an odd, corrupt tingle of pleasure as Raz realized what it was that he was going to ‘do about it.’ It wasn’t an elabor
ate answer. It was a brutal, bloody solution that took a simple, uncomplicated path, one that Raz had enacted too many times in his life already.

  But for the first time, Raz thought he would rather enjoy showing the mountain men of the western ranges what true savagery looked like.

  First, though, he thought, looking around himself before eyeing the chamber’s single heavy door, how to get out of this damn room…

  “Syrah Brahnt is dead, you old fool!” Valaria Petrük was saying with a dismissive sneer, eyes on Carro. “And if she’s not, then it’s no mercy. Perhaps Laor is punishing her for fraternizing with practicers of untruths and worshipers of fraudulent divinities!”

  Not for the first time in his life—nor indeed for the first time that morning—Carro had the abrupt and devouring urge to leap across the table and grab the old Priestess by her scrawny, mottled neck, and choke the life right out of her.