As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Then, still shaking, she turned and limped back to Raz, helping him to stand.

  It took them more time than they would have liked to calm Gale and Nymara, the animals' fear redoubling at the ghastly sight the two of them must have made. Once they’d managed it, though, they moved as quickly as they could, abandoning everything but Ahna and Raz’s gear and their gifts from the Laorin, all of which Raz stuffed quickly into one large traveling bag and slung from the end of the dviassegai. He had lost the scabbard of his gladius in the fight, and so he shoved the sword and the knife in with the rest of his armor. Not even bothering to saddle the horses, they each grunted and ignored the pain of their bodies as they clambered onto the backs of their mounts. Grabbing fistfuls of mane in lieu of reins, they held tight to their weapons with their free hands and pulled the horses about before kicking them into a full gallop out of the stables, around the temple, and into the street. From there, Raz turned west, leading them thundering down the road just as Syrah made out the clear sound of the city guard turning the corner behind them, headed for the temple.

  They rode hard for some time, neither speaking. Syrah rapidly discovered that she was no good at handling a horse bareback, but was too tired to complain and in too much pain already to notice the discomfort of Nymara’s spine beneath her. She didn’t even have the energy, for a time, to realize that she had no idea where they were going, nor to consider if Raz did.

  Only after nearly a quarter-hour, in fact, as they slowed abruptly to a trot, did Syrah realize that she didn’t know where they were.

  Through tired eyes she took in their surroundings, noticing the run-down state of the buildings about her, as well as the hovels and shanty-towns raised here and there wherever there was space. The road was less stone than flattened earth now, ignored and unattended, and the whole place had a distinctly dirty feel. No oil-fed streetlamps glinted above them to cast any sort of light on the area, and under nothing more than the gaze of the moon and stars the place looked dark and foreboding, like a graveyard in the night.

  The slums, Syrah realized with a hint of fear.

  “Raz?” Syrah said hoarsely, speaking for the first time since they left the temple as she continued to peer into the darkness of the crossroads and side-streets. “What are we doing here?”

  Raz, though, didn’t appear to have heard her. She looked around at him, and the cold that rushed through her then woke her up more thoroughly than any magic she might have been able to summon.

  “Raz!” she yelled, heeling Nymara desperately forward.

  The atherian was slumped where he sat, half-bent over Gale’s neck as Syrah came up beside him. His golden eyes were partially closed, fluttering even as they flicked up to her, and she saw with a thrill of fear that the hand not grasping Ahna’s shaft across his thighs was no longer holding on to the horse’s mane.

  Rather, Raz had brought it up, pressing it against the wound in his arm, trying to staunch the trickle of blood that seemed intent on escaping through his fingers.

  “Oh no,” Syrah hissed, sliding off Nymara’s back and hurrying forward to urge Gale to a stop. “No, no, no. We need to get you off the street.”

  Raz nodded sluggishly, allowing the dviassegai and his sack of gear to tumble unceremoniously to the ground with a crash. Then, with what appeared to be great effort, he dragged a leg over Gale’s back and dropped to the ground, only keeping his feet because Syrah caught him as he staggered.

  “Over there,” he breathed, lifting a single finger to point toward the nearest building, a single-story home with no front door and half its roof having long-since caved in.

  Syrah glanced at it, and with a nervous shiver noticed several dark shapes watching them from the shadows of the place, eyes wide with what looked to be some combination of amazement and fear.

  “Raz, I don’t think—” Syrah began, but Raz gave a quick shake of his head, cutting her off.

  “Over… there,” he said again, each word coming in a weak, single breath.

  Syrah wasn’t happy about it, but she helped him toward the home one fumbling step at a time, leaving the horses to nicker nervously in the street.

  As they approached the home’s single entrance, Syrah made out the shapes still watching them from the dark. A dirty-faced woman, looking awestruck, with two small boys clutched to her thighs. She didn’t flee as Syrah heaved Raz through the door of the building, though she did shrink away from them into the furthest corner of the room.

  “What now?” Syrah asked in a rushed whisper as Raz let go of her and set his shoulder into the wall, sliding down to the hovel’s dirty floor. “Raz, we need to get you help. I can’t heal a wound like that alone.”

  For a moment, Raz said nothing, breathing in shallow huffs that made Syrah’s heart skip in fear. Then he lifted his head.

  When he spoke, though, it wasn’t to her.

  “The Carver,” he said in a weak, ragged voice, eyes on the slum-woman and her children. “Get me… Get me the Carver of Ystréd.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Of the many aspects of the Mahsadën I have found fascinating in my studies, few compare to the sheer will of the society. This was not some loosely gathered band of miscreants out to make a name for themselves. Rather, this was the singular most cohesive collection of criminal minds the South—and perhaps the world—has ever known, intricately winding itself into the very fabric of government and establishment in the old fringe cities around the desert that was then known as “the Cienbal.” They maintained this grip on the municipalities in their control—as well as the order within their own ranks—through one shear measure: an utter, unbending willingness to act as needed in order to survive and thrive.”

  — As Death Rose from the Ashes, by Kohly Grofh

  With a grunt of exhausted effort, Na’zeem shouldered his way through the rickety door of their rundown hideout, promptly heaving the unconscious form of Eram off his back and onto the floor. Ehmed followed on his heels, laying Kailee down more carefully before straightening.

  “That beast…” the man began in a horrified sort of groan, but he seemed unable to finish his thought.

  For once, Na’zeem didn’t berate him for the moment of weakness.

  They had witnessed the Monster of Karth in his element, this night. He had thought themselves prepared, but looking back on the battle Na’zeem wanted to flay himself for his own foolishness. Despite every argument he could offer to the contrary, he’d approached the fight with the utmost confidence, especially after they had successfully silenced the Laorin who might have come to Arro’s aid. To be fair, Na'zeem rather thought they would have taken the lizard’s head that night, had he not made one crucial miscalculation.

  It wasn’t the atherian, after all, that they seemed to have underestimated…

  Syrah Brahnt’s face flashed across his mind, and Na’zeem allowed himself the space of a moment to memorize it, to etch the details of it into his memory. Her pale skin. Her white hair. Her one rose-colored eye reflected like through a broken mirror by the ruined ugliness of the other.

  Gritting his teeth in fury at himself, Na’zeem shoved the thought of Brahnt away, convincing himself that was a satisfaction he would need to seek another day. For the time being, they had more pressing concerns.

  Eleven dead. Eleven…

  Even Na’zeem couldn’t help but be staggered by that number. Whatever Adrion Blaeth might say to the contrary, he had listened to the damned cripple’s warning, had listened to his and others’ descriptions of the lizard’s prowess. He’d planned accordingly, leading the assault himself into the Monster’s room with five others. Enough, Na’zeem had thought, to force him and his woman into a retreat. The plan worked almost perfectly, eventually pressing the pair out into what was supposed to be a collapse attack in the alley by the others. He had expected casualties, had expected losses when their mistress had told him he and his men would be sent out on the “hunt of their lives.”

  But eleven? he seethed, gripp
ing the hilt of his curved sword so tight it made his hand hurt.

  Still… That fact alone cut their work out for them.

  “Five men?” he asked aloud, not turning to look at Ehmed. “We’re sure the city guard took only five?”

  “Yes,” the assassin answered at once. “Zafree, Aseri, Caluso—”

  “I don’t care who they took,” Na’zeem snapped furiously over his shoulder. “Just how many. Five… By the Sun…”

  He couldn’t help but linger once more on the fact, on that shocking thought that—whereas an hour ago they had numbered a full score—they were now only nine, and more than half of that count by now already locked away in some cell in Ystréd’s barracks.

  “See what can be done about waking these two up,” Na’zeem told Ehmed, finally turning and motioning down at the two unconscious men laid out at their feet. “It’s my understanding the woman’s magic won’t kill them, so you should be able to rouse them eventually. When you do, I want all three of you back on the streets. Find out where the guard took the others. We’ll need to retrieve them as soon as possible.”

  Ehmed dipped his head in agreement. “And you?” he asked, almost hesitantly. “What will you do?”

  “Our mistress will want to be apprised of our new circumstances,” Na’zeem said morbidly, turning away again and making through the darkness of the space toward the back wall of the room. “I’m going to draft her a missive. After that—” he forced himself to unclench the fist still bound about the handle of his sword, stretching his fingers and fighting the urge to strangle the next living person he saw “—we hunt once more.”

  “The Monster won’t let himself be found again so easily!” Ehmed called after him in warning. “He’ll be long gone by the time we manage to gather our numbers.”

  Na’zeem stopped at that, tilting his head back to look up at the patchwork of Her Stars he could see glimmering through the large open spaces that had long fallen from the roof.

  “Then we’ll look everywhere,” he hissed into the night.

  CHAPTER 13

  “It can often be heard said by the grandest mystical minds of our time that dreams are much more than a simple dive into one’s subconscious, a ludicrous theory repeatedly proposed by the so-called “scientists” of this era. Through study, meditation, and contemplation, it is not all too difficult to grasp the fact that the worlds we visit in sleep are not mere manifestations of subliminal thought. Rather, they are glimpses into other realms, other realities and planes of existence.

  Perhaps, with the right mindset, one should even consider that dreams are a hint at what awaits us on the other side of the darkness that eventually claims all…”

  —Dreamer’s Dictation, author unknown

  Raz was dreaming of the Garin again. He stood, still in the quiet of the desert dusk, clawed feet toeing the edge of the crystalline waters as a warm breeze made the lake shiver before him. It was his favorite dream, and he smiled when he made out the sound of the clan at his back, men and women going about their chores of preparing for the evening meal while the children shouted and played around them. He didn’t turn around. He never turned around when he found himself in the welcome stupors of this particular place, afraid that if he did there would be nothing to see except smoke and ash and flame. It was enough simply listening to the Arros move about, laughing and talking, though he could never make out their words. Somewhere at his back his mother and father, Agais and Grea, still lived, in their own way. His uncle Jarden would be fiddling with his pipes, or teaching the younger ones how to use the bleached-wood staff he’d always carried with him. Ahna would be sitting by the fire, giggling and pretending with her favorite straw doll. Raz even thought he could make out the happy voices of Lueski and Arrun Koyt joining in with the others, and the sound made him smile.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he simply didn’t wake up. He wondered—as men who live by the sword often do—what he would find on the day his sleep became eternal. Would there be nothing, there in the light of the Moon? Would he be given the honor of ascending to shine among Her Stars? Would he be allowed to exist in this dream, perhaps, to join his family at the edges of the Garin?

  There was very little he had ever wished for more fervently.

  Abruptly, Raz felt something cool about his feet, and he glanced down. The lake, which had only been at his toes a minute before, appeared to be rising, rapidly climbing up to his ankles, then to his knees, then his hips. Raz felt no fear as the water continued to build around him, understanding that it meant his time in this place of happiness was at an end. He gazed down at his own reflection as the lake reached his chest, promising himself he would hold on to the hope of one day being allowed to stay for good.

  Then the water was at his neck, and a moment later he was submerged completely beneath the cool, comfortable depths of the Garin.

  “You’re a damned fool, Raz i’Syul Arro.”

  Slowly, Raz opened his eyes, blinking several times as the world about him came into steady focus. He became aware that he was lying in some sort of bed, a stiff, short cot judging by the way his feet were sticking well off the end. The air smelled strange, a mixture of fire and herbs combined with the faint smell of blood and sickness, and he heard shuffling and the groans of men and women all around him. He was swathed in bandages, several about his abdomen and chest, though most were tied over his left arm, binding it like a white cocoon.

  Then his vision cleared, and he made out two feminine faces tipped to stare down at him from either side.

  Syrah had lost her eye wraps when they’d fled, but appeared to have replaced them with a length of black cloth that looked like it might have been sheared from some larger piece of fabric. She had clean cotton dressings wrapped about her neck—as well as what looked like several sutures under the right line of her jaw—and seemed to be holding a wet compress to Raz's forehead, the excess water trickling down between his ears. He smiled when he saw her, seeing relief brighten her good eye.

  Then he rolled his head to the other woman, the one who had spoken.

  “Eva,” he said hoarsely, grinning. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Evalyn Zall, the Carver of Ystréd, glowered down at Raz in a half-amused, half-annoyed sort of way. She was a pretty woman, her skin several shades darker than any true Northerner even in summer, particularly when compared to Syrah. Her grey eyes, so distinct of her desert heritage, were sweeping across his body, taking him in critically behind several strands of black hair that had fallen across her face. She looked more worn than when he’d last seen her some months past, her face a little thinner and a darkness building under her lids, but she also looked invigorated, as though whatever was keeping her from sleep was nothing she would ever trade the world for.

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t good to see you,” Eva said in a huff, crossing her arms in irritation, “but just once we should have a reunion that doesn’t start with you unconscious on my table.”

  Raz chuckled. “Where’s the fun in that, though?” He started to sit up, wincing as he did, and Syrah quickly put the compress aside to help him. “Got to keep your skills sharp somehow.”

  “Trust me, I have ample opportunity already,” Eva said with a roll of her eyes once Raz had managed to steady himself on the edge of his cot. “Even without you bleeding out all over my floor.”

  Looking around, Raz’s brows rose in surprise. “Yes… I can see that.”

  He sat, his back to the wall of a massive room that he could only compare to the infirmary of Cyurgi ‘Di. Two massive fireplaces burned on either side of the chamber, cut right into the stone, their light bathing the space in bright warmth. Above, a high vaulted ceiling arched over them, with several ladders set into the walls leading up to a second-story catwalk stocked with wooden boxes and barrels of supplies. All about them, on the ground floor, a score of beds just like Raz’s were spaced across the room in several even rows. Almost all of them were full, and he notic
ed with a brief jump of gratitude that he had been placed in the furthest corner from the occupied cots, as far from prying eyes as could be managed. Several attendants moved about the room checking on patients, some changing bandages, some applying salves to wounds or assisting in eating or drinking. There were others, too, about a half-dozen heavier-set men and women in plain clothes lingering about the edges of the place, hands tending to rest on the pommels of the swords they had strapped to their waists.

  When he noticed this, Raz tensed.

  “It’s all right,” Syrah told him at once, coming around to sit beside him on the bed. “They won’t bother us. Eva’s assured me.”

  Sure enough, not a one among the armed men and women looked to be paying him any attention outside of a curious glance here and there. Rather, they appeared intent on the patients, watching them closely, as though keeping an eye out for trouble.