The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2)

by Bryce O'Connor

  So this is the freeze.

  Raz pondered how anyone could survive in a place like this. The wonders of the woods, the magnificence of the greenery and life that had so entranced him on first arrival, were now all but swallowed up in the storm’s onslaught. Suddenly Raz dreaded reaching the Arena.

  Let’s hope they clear the pit, at least….

  “I’m worried.”

  Rhen’s words were abrupt and tense, and as Raz turned back to her he saw that any residual resentment at being dragged out of bed into the snow was gone. The stern, calculating face of Alyssa Rhen was back in truth now, and she looked pensive.

  “What about?” he asked her as they bumped over some uneven stone in the road.

  “Exactly what we’re discussing: the fact that I wasn’t told,” Rhen said slowly, a faraway look in her eyes as she thought. “Tern pulled me in so many times to advise while he and Azzeki were designing his ‘Chairman’s Tourney’ that I might as well have had my own room in the town hall. He wanted to know about numbers, times, strategies, what training our gladiators had, what I thought you were capable of and what I thought might be your weaknesses. I think I spoke more with the man in those weeks than I have his entire life put together, despite how close his father and I were.”

  She frowned too, now, and looked out her own window.

  “This time, though,” she continued, “I hear nothing. I’m not told anything, and I can tell you whatever is going on wasn’t part of any plan I’ve heard of…”

  “You said you thought everything would be fine,” Raz said gruffly. “You told me you thought I didn’t have anything to worry about.”

  “And I don’t think you do,” Rhen insisted. “Still, though… You don’t think it’s odd?”

  “Honestly? Not really, when you consider it. I would have been more surprised if Tern didn’t throw us for a loop every now and again. He likes the gold I make him well enough, but I don’t think he was ever happy with the fact that I made the terms of our arrangement. This is probably just his way of letting me know the ground I’m standing on isn’t as steady as I might think.”

  “Maybe…” the Doctore said, sounding unconvinced. She let the subject drop, though, and the rest of the ride was spent in silence.

  Ten minutes later the carriage turned the corner onto the wide road encircling the Arena, and Raz heard the driver shout “Whoa!” and the beat of the horse’s hooves start to slow. The doors to the underworks came into view, and the carriage finally rolled to a halt.

  As soon as he knew they were truly stopped, Raz pushed the door open and ducked out into the storm, careful to watch his step. The road and walkways all around the Arena had been cleared, it seemed, but more than an inch of snow had already built back up since the last sweeping. Turning, Raz held out a hand, ready to help the Doctore ease herself down the narrow carriage step rails.

  The woman, though, took one look at the steely claws and scoffed. Then, holding the doorjamb with one hand, she dropped to the road lightly, unperturbed by the snow.

  “Leave it to a Southerner to be afraid of a little winter storm,” she laughed, striding past Raz as he let his hand fall.

  Watching her make for the doors with narrowed eyes, Raz only paused to pull Ahna from where she’d been lying at his feet on the carriage floor before following.

  Glancing back to make sure he was behind her, Rhen grabbed the iron rings that served as handles and pulled the doors open. At once warmth spilled out from within the underworks, washing over them both and causing Raz to shiver involuntarily at the agreeable settling of the heat on his skin. Other things came, too, though. The familiar scents of the Arena grabbed at Raz’s snout at once, not all of them pleasant. He could taste old blood and oil on the air, mixing with that bitter bite of death that only clung to a place that had seen too many corpses come and go.

  What hit Raz hardest, though, was the noise.

  On opening day, the underworks had been bustling with dozens of men and women. Some were the Arena gladiators, prepping themselves for their exhibition matches to keep the crowds entertained during intermissions. Most, though, had been the bounty hunters, those come far and wide, each and every one preparing their weapons and gear, or else eyeing Raz behind his wall of guards as they waited for their shot at his head. Since that day, Raz had done his best to put a dent in their numbers, killing many and chasing off more as they realized they didn’t have a prayer at taking him on.

  The group that awaited them now, though, made Raz realize, with infinite finality, what little he’d managed to do.

  There were hundreds of fighters packed in the underworks. Despite the early hour of the morning, it seemed that Tern had roused every remaining combatant left within the city walls. None of them was bleary-eyed, though. None of them seemed confused at what was going on. Instead they seemed agitated, the flood of voices buzzing with excitement and energy. As Raz and the Doctore stepped through the door, many turned to see who the latest arrivals were, and the barrage of voices reached new heights, shouting and hollering.

  “What the…?” the Doctore hissed, stopped dead and looking around at the great group.

  The response pretty much summed up Raz’s feelings succinctly.

  “Doctore.”

  Raz and Rhen both looked around. On either side of the doors, a dozen of the city guard stood at the ready. One was approaching them quickly.

  “Officer Erute,” the Doctore said in greeting as Raz, too, saw the gold stripe on the man’s shoulder. “What’s the meaning of all this? What’s going on?”

  “I’m only allowed to say so much, ma’am, and right now I’m to escort you to your quarters.” The man seemed agitated, and he glanced nervously at the line of bounty hunters that stood not ten paces from them. Holding an arm out, he indicated the way, straight through the group. “If you please.”

  Rhen hesitated, looking at the guardsmen, then at the fighters, before finally turning to Raz. She didn’t say anything, but her concerns—and question—were obvious.

  Raz shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice,” he said casually. He rested one hand on the head of the war ax at his waist, though, and twisted Ahna’s handle pointedly.

  Ready for a fight, he hoped to say.

  Rhen seemed to get the message

  “Lead the way,” she told Erute.

  The officer nodded, then signaled his men to form up. At once the guard positioned themselves in parallel lines on either side of Raz and the Doctore and, at a second signal from their commander, marched forward. Erute himself, though, stayed close to the pair of them.

  “I’ve been told to instruct you that you are to stay in your quarters until it’s time for the Monster to fight,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the clusters of shouting combatants on either side of them. “You’re not to leave without express permission of the Chairman.”

  “What?” Rhen demanded, infuriated. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that Chairman Tern is holding some sort of special event to keep interest in the Arena high as the freeze begins.”

  “What kind of special event?” Raz asked. He, too, was watching the men and women on either side of them, eyeing swords and spears and all manner of other weaponry held slack in open promise at the sides of their wielders as they stared him down.

  Erute jumped at Raz’s voice.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Didn’t ask.”

  “You have a guess, though,” Raz prodded. “For example: maybe you can at least tell me why every one of my hopeful killers is here, now, and why they suddenly all look much more optimistic in their chances of claiming their winnings today.”

  The officer hesitated, coming to a halt as they reached the door to the Doctore’s quarters. In rehearsed motions the men of the guard shifted to create a wall two deep between the bounty hunters and their charges.

  “Rumor is that Tern is changing the rules just for the day,” Erute told Raz and the Doctore quietly, droppin
g his voice as he reached out to pull open the door. “They”—he threw a thumb over his shoulder—“are all here because they think they’re going to be given an even playing field to fight on.”

  Raz and the Doctore looked at each other.

  “Well, there goes your theory on Tern’s valuing me,” Raz joked with as much of a chuckle as he could muster.

  All Rhen responded with was a scowl, which Raz felt much like returning. The truth was that, for the first time in a long, long time, Raz felt a prick of fear touch along the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Something was off. Quin Tern was a bastard, but he was a clever bastard with a keen mind and wicked sense of self-fulfillment. Was there perhaps an angle to the games that Raz hadn’t considered? Was there an approach that would make his death worth it in the Chairman’s eyes? The tournaments had been carefully designed to always be in Raz’s favor, if only slightly. The advantages he was granted, the weapons he might be allowed—depending on how the tourney finalists chose to face him—were calculated to give the crowd as good a show as possible while never putting their “Monster” in any situation he couldn’t handle. Raz was the attraction, after all. Even the Doctore said so. Raz was the singular reason the Arena didn’t have enough seats to accommodate all who wished to see the games.

  So what had happened that suddenly made Tern feel gambling Raz’s life was worth the risk?

  “Arro.”

  Raz blinked and looked down at Rhen. She had stepped into her quarters, and was watching him to see if he followed. After a moment he did so, ducking under the low overhang on the door. Erute watched him through.

  “If you require the latrine, or need anything at all, just knock. Otherwise, you will be fetched when it’s time.”

  Time for WHAT? Raz wanted to shout, but the man had already shut the door with a bang.

  “Sun and Moon and all Her Stars,” he grumbled in annoyance as he turned to face the room. It was exactly as it was every other time he’d visited. Someone had already lit a hearty fire in the hearth in the back wall, and the flames cast shadows across the dirt walls and ceiling from the desk, chairs, and accoutrements scattered about the quarters.

  “What?” the Doctore asked, eyebrows pinching together.

  “Nothing,” Raz said automatically. “Southern curses. Seemed appropriate.”

  “I’ll say,” the woman mumbled, obviously no more pleased with the situation than Raz was. “What the hell is he thinking?”

  Raz, though, didn’t respond. A realization had dawned on him abruptly. The names of his deities had brought up thoughts of other gods, and the leap hadn’t been hard to make from there.

  “The Laorin,” he hissed, more to himself than anything. “Son of a—No. Not possible. There’s no way he knows…”

  “The Laorin?” Rhen asked, perplexed. “What do a bunch of old religious zealots have to do with Tern?”

  Raz eyed her then, judging her in truth. He respected the woman. He even thought he liked her somewhat, if he allowed himself to consider it honestly.

  I liked Mychal, too, though…

  After a moment the Doctore raised an eyebrow. “Are you blind to our predicament, or just stupid? I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again: you die, and everything you’ve done dies with you. I have no interest in allowing the Arena to revert to the old way of supplying entertainment, so you might as well stop being hardheaded and just tell me what’s going on.”

  When Raz still didn’t say anything, she sighed.

  “Look,” she said, seating herself in the hard chair behind her desk, “I’m in here with you. I’m not out there”—she waved a hand at the room door—“screaming for your head or cheering you on as you take someone else’s. Whatever you have to say doesn’t have to leave this room.”

  “That, or the minute we’re free you’ll run to Tern,” Raz growled.

  The Doctore’s face turned sour.

  “You’ve been in Azbar for nearly two months now,” she spat, pointing a finger at him. “Nearly two months. In all that time, in all those days, if you haven’t figured out that’s not something I would ever do, then there’s nothing I can say that would convince you otherwise.”

  For a brief time they glared at each other in silence. Then Raz decided she was right.

  “A few weeks back I was approached by two Priests,” he told her, moving forward to seat himself in the chair across from her, leaning Ahna against the wall beside him. “One was master of the local chapter, the other of some temple up north. Very long story made very short, they asked for my help in closing down the Arena again.”

  The Doctore hissed at that, but said nothing more, obviously expecting him to continue. Raz obliged.

  “I wasn’t keen on the idea at first,” he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. “At all. I’ve had my… uh… run-ins with their kind before, and let’s just say it left me with a bad taste. But they convinced me to hear them out. In the end, their arguments were compelling.”

  “So you agreed?” Rhen asked. “You said you would help them?”

  “Of a sorts,” Raz said with a shrug, looking down at the desk as he spoke. “One of them, Yu’ri, wasn’t too happy with my way of doing things, but Brahnt did a job of—”

  Raz stopped, though, as the woman gave a sharp intake of breath, and looked up. He hadn’t thought it possible for Alyssa Rhen to feel much more than sternness, anger, and mild amusement, so the myriad of emotions darting across her face took him completely aback. Shock, sadness, pain, even grief. All these and more registered one after the other, beating out the composure she so usually held and was clearly struggling to recover. One hand came up to cover her mouth, the most indicatively feminine gesture he’d ever witnessed from her.

  “What?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  Rhen opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She closed it, then tried again, with similar results. The third time, though, she managed to get out a few sparse words.

  “Brahnt,” she breathed. “T-Talo Brahnt?”

  Raz blinked, surprised. “You know him?”

  Rhen seemed partially frozen, staring at him. Then she lowered her hand slowly, took a breath, and nodded.

  “This… this temple,” she said in broken words. “You’re talking about… about the High Citadel, aren’t you?”

  Raz thought about it. “… I think so,” he said after a moment. “They might have said something like that. And Seeurgee, or Seeyurgee—”

  “Cyurgi’ Di,” she finished for him. “That’s it.”

  They sat in silence for a time, Raz waiting for an explanation, while Rhen seemed so caught up in old memories that words were failing her again.

  “Rhen,” Raz said finally, tiring of the wait. “What is it? What’s got you so scared all of a sudden?”

  Rhen jumped, then looked at him, bewildered, as though she’d only just noticed him.

  When she spoke, though, it was with her normal, authoritative voice.

  “If Tern found out you’ve been speaking with Talo Brahnt, that’s not good.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Raz grumbled crossly. “Brahnt wouldn’t shut up about it someti—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” the Doctore hissed. “Tern hates Talo. He hates the Laorin as a whole, but Talo holds a special place for him. He was responsible—”

  “For shutting down the Arenas in the first place—yeah, I know,” Raz said, thinking that he might as well get his interruptions in, too, where he could.

  “It’s more than that,” Rhen insisted, and Raz was surprised to hear something like desperation in her voice. “Talo isn’t some Priest who made it his life’s work to preach the ending of the pit fights. Arro… Talo was a gladiator. Before you, he was the best. Nothing like him had ever been seen. There was a time when he was the one chasing the Laorin out of the Arena—sometimes out of town—whenever they came around trying to make people see reason about the fights. The crowd gave him a name for it,
one that spoke to his brutality in the pit and his hatred of the faith. They called him—”

  “Lifetaker.”

  It hit Raz, then. All the pieces fell into place. He remembered his first night in Azbar, climbing up the Arena’s stairs into the Hall of Heroes. He’d never gone back, as he’d planned to, but he remembered vividly most of the statues he’d paused to peruse. The Queen of Arrows. The Ax Maiden. Retribution.

  Lifetaker.

  Raz remembered the oddity, the hollow iron-cast feet on a pile of skulls. He remembered the empty space where a plaque should have hung, denoting name and title, and the worn letters carved over time in the surface of the marble pedestal. He’d run a claw through them, intrigued by the mystery of the thing, curious as to the history.

  And he hadn’t given it so much as a thought since.

  “He’s a traitor,” Raz said in realization. “To Tern, he’s a traitor.”

  Rhen nodded furiously in agreement. “Talo was the man’s favorite when he was a boy. He was the reason Tern loved the games so much.”

  “So when he left, Tern felt betrayed…” Raz finished for her. “No wonder Brahnt was so insistent on secrecy.”

  “Is it possible someone gave you away? Maybe one of the temple residents, in the hopes of gaining favor with the city council?”

  “It’s always possible,” Raz mumbled thoughtfully. “Doubtful, though. I don’t think anyone other than Brahnt, al’Dor, and Yu’ri knew we were in contact.”

  “Who’s al’Dor?” Rhen asked with narrowed eyes.

  Raz shook his head. “Another Priest come from the Citadel, but I wouldn’t bother being too suspicious of him. I only met him two or three times, but I got the feeling he and Brahnt were more than riding companions, if you catch my drift.”