As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  It didn’t take long for Syrah to figure out that Raz wasn’t on the top deck, and the realization made her insides squirm as she caught sight of the open hatch in the floor near the aft, like a dark mouth leading down into the belly of the ship. She approached it cautiously, unable to shake the fact that she distinctly did not want to descend into the dark. When she stood over the opening, peering into the blackness below, the feeling redoubled.

  “Raz?” she called down quietly. “Are you down there?”

  Again, silence was all that answered her.

  Given that she was fairly sure Raz hadn't jumped overboard, Syrah began to feel annoyed, which did much to bury her anxiety. Lifting a hand up, she willed her magic into being, and ivory flames flickered to life in her palm. They cast the ship in a bright, cheerful glow that chased away the rest of her apprehension, and carefully Syrah stepped into the gloom, avoiding the slick sheen of blood that covered the right half of the stairs leading down.

  Raz was waiting for her in the rowing galley.

  As she stepped through a doorway at the base of the steps, her flames bathed the compartment beyond it in white light, casting shifting shadows over the space. They danced between the dozen benches set on either side of a raised walkway, tilting with the swing of a trio of dark lanterns in the rafters above her. The fore wall of the space was a collage of light, shining through the narrow bars of a pair of cages set in the floor at the back of the galley.

  And there, in the center of the starboard row of seats, Raz sat with his back to her.

  Syrah didn’t say anything as she approached him, her steps pulling away flakes of the dried blood that painted the raised walkway from the back door of the chamber in a faded streak. She stayed silent, too, when she stepped down to join him, taking a seat at his side and following his eyes to the fore wall, where the twin cages stood like still, dead things. She didn’t touch him, didn’t reach for him, but she kept the flames alight in her hand, trusting in the warmth of the magic to find him in whatever dark place the man had sunk to.

  After nearly a minute of nothing more than the quiet rush of the sea through the oar-hole to their right, Raz finally spoke.

  “Did Akelo tell you why there weren’t any of my kind aboard?” he asked her, his voice sad and grave.

  Syrah frowned, then shook her head slowly. “No. I didn’t ask.”

  Raz nodded, like he would have been surprised to hear her answer any other way. “Food,” he said simply, still staring at the cages. “He told me atherian made poor ship slaves because the amount of meat needed to sustain them on long journeys was never worth the cost.” He laughed, but it was a dull, hollow sound. “Apparently atherian are almost exclusively property of the city-states, for that reason. They have such little value, there are some tasks not even pirates will put them to, just because they aren’t worth the trouble. I think I’m more vexed by that than I would have been if we had found a ship full of lizard-kind. Is that strange?”

  Syrah said nothing, knowing Raz wasn’t actually looking for an answer.

  “There were another thirty on that second ship, Syrah,” he told her, his shoulders quivering. “The Red Turor. I wish you hadn't stopped me.”

  “You would have been killed,” Syrah told him softly, reaching out now to slide her free hand into his. “You could barely stand as it was.”

  Raz made no attempt to contradict her, and his shaking subsided at her touch. “I know,” he told her as the wind picked up outside, whistling through the holes around them. “And I know I made you a promise not to do anything rash. But…”

  “You still wish I hadn't stopped you,” Syrah finished for him with a nod. “I know. And truthfully—” she sighed unhappily “—if I’d had a moment to consider what letting the ship escape meant, I would have been tempted to let you go.”

  That managed to get a smile out of him. It was a weak, paltry thing, but it was a smile nonetheless. With a flick of her wrist, Syrah transformed the flames into an orb of light, letting it float free in the air above their heads as she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Akelo and the others are free because of you, Raz,” she continued softly, looking at the cages as the shadows of the bars continued to swim against the wall behind them. “Don’t lose sight of that. You won’t always be able to save everyone.”

  Raz grunted in frustrated agreement. “I’m never able to save everyone. Not the Arros, not the Koyts, not the Laorin…”

  It was Syrah’s turn to smile sadly. “That doesn’t mean you should give up trying.”

  “Giving up is the last thing I’m thinking about.”

  Syrah’s brows knit at that, and she sat up again to look at him directly.

  “What are you thinking about, then?” she asked apprehensively, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

  For a while, Raz didn’t answer her, his jaw moving like he was chewing on his words.

  Then he turned and looked right at her, golden eyes glinting like dusk over the ocean waves.

  “I’m tired of running, Syrah,” he told her in an exhausted sort of voice. “I’m so, so tired of running. I told myself when we were still in the North that I was done turning tail every time trouble reared its head, and look how well that’s worked out. It’s been over a year since I fled Miropa, and in all that time all I’ve been doing is running and hiding and running some more.”

  Syrah frowned. “Yes…” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But isn’t that the point of this journey? First Perce, then the Cities, and from there the West Isles, or the Imperium. If we reach the Emperor’s Ocean, you won’t have to run anymore, Raz. You’ll be free.”

  “I might be free,” he corrected her somberly, and his eyes were dark with sadness and anger. “And it’s not just me now, Syrah. It’s us. So long as you’re with me, you are running. Hell, even if we parted ways, there’s a bounty on your head now. You might never be safe again.”

  Syrah felt all the heat leave her body at those words.

  “Is… is that what you came here to think about?” she asked shakily, pulling her hand from his. “To figure out how to tell me you’re leaving? Is that what this is all about?”

  In response, Raz gaped at her, the look on his face so dumbfounded she might have just punched him in the snout.

  Then he laughed, the sound echoing hollowly against the empty hull around them.

  “Gods, no,” he managed to get out finally, smiling in truth now, like he couldn't help it, before reaching out to take her hand back. “No. I’m not sure I would have had it in me to make it to the Isles with you, and certainly not without you. No. That’s absolutely not what I came down here to think about.”

  The warmth returned to Syrah’s body, relief washing over her, but something kept her happiness in check.

  “‘Would have had’,” she quoted uncertainly. “What do you mean, ‘would have had’?”

  Raz stilled, the amusement in his eyes dying as he realized he had let something slip. The smiled faded, and his face grew slowly hard, firm with what Syrah could only describe as conviction.

  “I’m tired of running, Syrah,” he said again, like he was goading her toward some understanding. “I’m so, so tired of running.”

  Syrah watched him, disconcerted, her good eye flicking back and forth between his, looking for additional clues as she struggled to find the answer in his gaze. At first she thought he was telling her that he wanted to stay as a part of Argoan’s crew, but that didn’t fit. She doubted he would have the heart to sell Gale off at port—much less make the horse suffer a life of confinement at sea—and while this passage across the Dramion had been unforgettable in its own way, the role of “sailor” had never fit either of them quite right. Syrah herself hadn't felt more alive in the last two months than she had during the battle, defending her life and that of her friends. She was a fighter, had always been a fighter, from the moment Talo had first taught her how to hold a staff. She required more from the wor
ld than the typically monotonous repetition of a smuggler’s day.

  Even more so, that vibrancy, that glow of energy, had been reflected tenfold in Raz as she’d watched him combat the Percian. The atherian might claim not to take pleasure in the deaths dealt by his hand, but there was reason for him there. There was meaning in the protection of those he cared about, and in the punishment of those who wronged them. Raz was born to wield a blade. It was his essence, these wars he waged, this bloodshed he brought to the feet of those he deemed deserving. It was his purpose.

  Purpose, Syrah thought, and the word made her think of the fervor with which Raz had encouraged Akelo to take hold of this second chance at life.

  Then, abruptly, it clicked.

  “You want to stay!” she hissed in astonishment. “You want to stay in Perce!”

  Raz hesitated, then nodded.

  “For a while, at least,” he told her. “Not forever.”

  “But why?” she asked in disbelief. “What for? Almost twenty people died today because of the simple fact that Perce is not our friend, Raz. And that’s not counting the pirates slain to win that battle. If anything, this land is going to be even more daunting than we thought! Why would you want to stay?”

  This time, Raz was much longer in answering her. For a while he didn’t meet her eye, staring down at his own feet. When he was silent so long she began to get annoyed again, Syrah glanced down too, intending to demand what in the Lifegiver’s name was so enthralling he couldn’t be bothered giving her a reason for this sudden change of heart.

  She choked on her anger, though, when she saw the floor of the boat beneath her.

  The oar that would have slotted through the hole in the hull at their right when needed had been slid out of the way, half-hidden under the raised walkway to their right. Of the section she could see, though, Syrah made out worn divots in the haft, smooth as stone, but discolored with dark red splotches where blisters had burst and blood had run free over the wood to stain it like spilled wine. Beneath this, tangled about each other like discarded bear traps, two sets of manacles were bolted into the floor, one for each foot of the paired rowers who would have taken up the bench she and Raz now occupied. Thinking of this, Syrah reached down and pressed shaking fingers to the surface of the seat. She felt where the coarseness of the plain timber block faded into a glassy smoothness, polished down by so many men shifting and bending for hours on end to pull at the oars.

  Lastly, her eyes lifted to the cages, where she imagined the pirates had imprisoned the captives they took on their raids, allowing them a glimpse of the life they were likely to live as they gazed out over the broken slaves laboring miserably to get them back to shore.

  Even before Raz finally gave her his answer, Syrah understood.

  “Because I want a chance to save everyone, for once,” he told her in a calm, cool voice as they sat there in the dim glow of her arcane light.

  CHAPTER 31

  “After the fall of Karesh Nan, the Mahsadën sought to prepare themselves. They gathered every ally they could to their banner, and—when that wasn’t enough—nearly emptied their coffers enlisting whatever sarydâ and other mercenary groups could be mustered to their cause. The last šef of Miropa, a man by the name of Adrion Blaeth, ended up amassing an army the likes of which the South had never seen before.

  What good that did the society in the end, though, can be witnessed in what remains of the Mahsadën today…”

  —A History of War & Peace, by Marret Vern

  After he’d explained the details of his plan to Syrah, Raz led the way out of the galley, up the hatch stairs, and back over the gangplank onto the Sylgid. There were whistles and catcalls from the drunker of the figures still celebrating about them as he dropped onto the ship and turned to help the Priestess down, as well as quite a few odd looks from the more sober sailors, undoubtedly wondering what they could have been up to aboard the gruesome scene that was the Moalas. Ignoring all, Raz took Syrah by the hand and made a line straight back toward the largest knot of festivities, where Argoan and Lysa were still seated along the steps.

  “Captain!” Raz shouted over the noise of conversation and laughter and clinking tankards. When Argoan turned to look at him, Raz pointed a clawed finger at the door of the guest quarters, off to his left. “A word, if you please!”

  The Amreht looked puzzled, but nodded, inclining his head at his first mate quizzically. Raz nodded, indicating that he should bring the woman as well before turning and stepping toward the cabin. As he did, he felt eyes on his back, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  While he could have sworn Akelo Aseni had been watching him a moment before, it seemed the old Percian was now deep in conversation with one of the other freed slaves.

  Shaking off the feeling, Raz moved with Syrah into their quarters.

  Argoan and Lysa joined them not a minute later. The captain, Raz was surprised to find, was quite steady on his feet for a man who’d been clutching a flagon of ale all night. The first mate, on the other hand, half-stumbled into the room, leaving the door open behind her while muttering about being dragged away from the “fine work of a man” she’d been nuzzling with.

  She sobered up quickly, though, when Raz and Syrah told them what they intended to do.

  “You want to what?” the woman practically shouted, the flush of her cheeks doing nothing to reduce the shock painted across her face.

  “We’re going to stay, Lysa,” Syrah repeated calmly. Raz had let her take the lead on the explanation, thinking the pair would trust her as the more level-headed of the two. “In Perce. For a time, at least.”

  Lysa gaped at her, then at Raz, then back at Syrah, her mouth moving all the while like a fish out of water.

  “Th-that’s… madness,” she finally managed to get out, falling back against the bow wall of the room and sliding to the floor, one eye drooping as she struggled to overcome her cups. “Why? Why would you… want to stay?”

  “There’s work to be done here,” Raz told her evenly. “Syrah and I are clearly already infamous in these lands, thanks to the Mahsadën. There’s a chance we can use that to our advantage, or at least to the advantage of others. Regardless, it’s clear we’re going to find about as much peace in this place as we would have if we’d made straight for the fringe cities.”

  “Exactlyyyy,” Lysa insisted, drawing out the word drunkenly. “You shouldn’t… shouldn’t be here at all, let alone be talking about… this! Stay with us.” She gave the pair of them an affectionate—if distinctly inebriated—smile. “S-Stay on the ship. No more pirates.” She raised her arms and closed her eyes, still smiling. “No more… Perce.”

  “We can’t stay on the Sylgid,” Syrah said, regarding the woman with sad fondness. “It would be too dangerous for all of you. You need to sail. Let anyone who asks search the ship. When they realize we aren’t aboard, they’ll leave you be.”

  “We’re done running,” Raz finished, speaking with every ounce of conviction he could muster.

  “B-but it’s madness,” Lysa insisted again, turning to look at Argoan and blinking like she was seeing double. “Tell them, Garht!”

  The captain was leaning against the starboard wall of the quarters, staring into the hollow of his tankard as he swirled the swills of his drink absently. When the woman addressed him, he looked up, frowning at Raz and Syrah.

  He didn’t, though, agree with Lysa outright.

  “You are welcome to stay,” the man said steadily, looking between them. “The crew would have you in a moment, and you’ve saved my ship—my life—twice now. There is a home for you both here, if you desire it.”

  Raz’s fingers prickled, so surprisingly touched was he by the offer. He knew he and Syrah were appreciated—the captain had already made that clear ten times over—but he hadn't realized just how much their presence on the boat meant to the man until that moment.

  Despite this, though, he had to shake his head.

  “No, Captain,” he said, h
oping he at least sounded a little disappointed. “For one thing, the Sylgid would never have come under attack if we weren't here. For another… Syrah and I aren’t meant for the sea.”

  At that, Argoan shrugged. “Neither are men of the mountains.”

  Raz chuckled. “Point made.” Then he shook his head again. “But no. The offer is appreciated—greatly, even—but we can’t accept. I chose my path a long time ago, and it’s time to see it through.” On his lap, he turned his hand over, palm up, and looked down at the pale ring of skin that wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s been over a year since I butchered the Miropan Mahsadën. Before that, I was lost. Wandering through life one bloody step at a time.” He lifted his hand, making sure the other three could clearly make out the scars left by the manacles he didn’t even remember. “When I met Eva, I was working for the wrong side, refusing to acknowledge that I was a building block of the society itself. I found her chained with a dozen others, half-frozen and half-starved, each one having given up all hope of regaining the life they’d been torn from. Only then, when what I’d become was put right in front of my face, did I realize how far gone I was.”