As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  “How did it feel?”

  It was Syrah who asked the question, using a knife from their salvaged weapons to cut herself a chunk of salted pork before passing the meat and blade carefully to Marsus Byrn, a Southerner who’d taken a seat at her right.

  Akelo seemed not to understand the question, taking her in with a look of confusion.

  Syrah grimaced, half-amused, half-disappointed. “If I could have had the chance to burn Grahst’s camp to the ground…” she started, but trailed off, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Don’t.” Raz cut Akelo off as gently as he could as the man opened his mouth to ask Syrah what she was talking about. “Just don’t.”

  The Percian gave him an odd look, but then his good eye fell on the ring of scars around the Priestess’ wrists. His expression softened, and he didn’t pursue the matter more.

  Gratefully, Raz also noted that he hadn't answered the question.

  They ate their late lunch in relative silence, which didn’t surprise him. He and Syrah spoke, as well as Akelo and occasionally Cyper off to their left, but the others seemed generally content in their lack of conversation, intent on their plain meals. As they ate, Raz cast about the group, testing himself on every name and what he knew of the men. They’d made introductions that morning, before shipping off on the Moalas, and he wanted to be sure he remembered each face.

  Marsus, beside Syrah, was the only Southerner of the group, a balding man with a scar across the left line of his jaw. His grey eyes unnerved Raz somewhat, reminding him all-too distinctly of another life, but during the battle with the pirates of the Red Turor the man had looked to know his way around the steel round-mace he kept slung at his hip.

  At Marsus’ right, a threesome of Percian sat in silence—Kalin, Odene, and Zehir. They seemed most comfortable keeping to each other’s company, which Raz supposed he could understand. All three had kuja tattoos running across their torsos and shoulders like Akelo, though the inks were red, greyish blue, and a purplish-green, respectively. The group had fought well together, from what Raz could recall, though their knowledge of the swords leaning against the trunk of the palm behind them had appeared rudimentary at best.

  Beside these three and across the circle from Raz and Syrah, a pair of Northerners were sharing a large chunk of pork and washing it down with swigs of water from a flask they passed between themselves. Neret and Aemen had claimed spiked Percian half-helms, like most everyone, but had opted not to take them off as they ate. Perhaps the armor made them feel secure in their freedom, or perhaps they were afraid someone might take the helms away if they removed them. More likely, though, Raz thought their refusal to doff the armor had something to do with the nervous glances they kept shooting at the lumbering outline of the man seated at their right, further away from the group than anyone else, half-hidden in the shadows of the grove.

  It was Akelo who had had to give Raz the mountain man’s name: Hur. As it transpired, Hur was mute, his tongue having been cut out at some point in the years he had spent in chains. The Percian had added, as an aside, that it was commonly believed the man was a eunuch as well, but Raz didn’t believe that. He’d seen castrated men in the fringe cities before, beggars who’d lost their manhood as punishment for crimes, or attendants who were well-compensated to give them up willingly by masters who didn’t want functioning men in the presence of their wives and courtesans. The poor bastards had always had a unanimous softness, a delicacy to them as the rough edge of masculinity abandoned their bodies.

  Hur—despite the fact that his name apparently came from the dull sound he made when he breathed—was none of those things. The man was a chiseled wall of power, his arms and legs thicker even than Raz’s, though he stood six inches shorter when not sitting. His long brown hair hung straight and lank over startling blue eyes, and his beard was thick about a square, solid chin. Despite the fact that he was doing nothing more than licking his fingers free of the juice of the peach he’d just scarfed down, muscle rippled over his shoulders and neck, like snakes writhing beneath his skin. His hands were massive, and though Raz had seen him fighting with a club and shield the day before, it looked like Hur had abandoned the selection in favor of a large, single-headed battle-axe they’d found among the caches on the Moalas. It sat across his crossed legs, glinting in the fire. Raz felt a twinge of worry as he looked at it, remembering another axe-wielding mountain man. He couldn’t blame Neret and Aemen, who looked to have been raised in the valley towns of the North, for being skittish.

  Nor could he blame Syrah for the semi-frightened looks she kept shooting in Hur’s direction, despite the fact that both Raz and Akelo sat between them.

  Closer to the flames, on Hur’s right, Cyper sat in the middle of the last two men. The West Isler had also replaced his blade with one they’d salvaged, trading the saber he had presented at Raz’s feet that morning for a longer, narrower straight-sword which made Raz grimace as he noticed. The blade must have been a traditional weapon of the Isles, because he’d come across its make once before, when Sury Atheus had nearly run him through the back with it in the pit of the Azbar Arena.

  Of the other two, Raz knew little, and neither had presented much in the way of clearing that up. The first was an older man—of an age with Akelo, even—who’d given only his first name. Arnus had greying hair that looked to have once been thick and ringed, but now hung limp, flaccid and mostly lifeless. His despondent features, however, stood in direct contrast to the skill with which Raz had seen the former slave wield the six-foot spear that protruded from the sand by his knee. In addition, it appeared the older man had commandeered the round-shield Hur had set aside in favor of his axe, as it now hung from a notch in a tree at his back.

  Spear and shield. Raz thought he’d been told somewhere that this was the preferred style of combat among the Imperium’s legionnaires, which offered some inkling as to where the old man might have come from…

  The last man, Erom, was fortunately less of a mystery. Though he, too, had given nothing more than his name, he had faintly tanned skin—not quite as dark as Marsus’ Southern complexion but nowhere near the pale tone of Neret and Aemen, the Northerners—and blue-grey eyes under wavy, dirty-blond hair which gave him away as a borderer. A mismatched set of grips stuck out from either side of his lower back where he’d strapped a pair of long daggers, and the pommel of a smaller knife could be made out over the cuff of his right boot. Though Raz hadn't had the opportunity to see the man fight, he had the distinct impression that Erom was—or had at least once been—well-versed in the use of such blades.

  All these men, Raz took in one after the other. It felt strange, in so many ways, to look around at the group and realize how suddenly he’d become responsible for the lives now sitting around the circle, quietly eating a late lunch. A part of him—a small, cowardly part—grew cold and wondered if he could get away with convincing them all to hide forever in the cool shade of the palms, trusting in the trees and the sea to provide for them. He didn’t want to put these men at risk, didn’t want them to fight his battles for him. Despite whatever he’d said to the contrary, he had the impression the former slaves still saw him as something more than a man.

  He was contemplating this, watching Hur chomp at another peach with a look of pure delight flickering over his sunken eyes, when Syrah’s gentle touch brought him back, her hand coming to rest at the base of his neck.

  He looked around at her, and thought perhaps the woman was able to tell where his mind had wandered to. She smiled, almost in amusement, her gaze very clearly saying “It will be fine.” He took heart in that, drew faith from her confidence in him.

  Returning the smile briefly, he turned his attention to Akelo.

  “Do you know where we are?” he asked as the Percian wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, wetness from the leather skin he’d just swigged from glistening in his beard. “We can’t stay here too long. The smoke from the fire is going to attract attention sooner or later.”r />
  It was part of the reason he had allowed the men to burn the ship. If the Red Turor returned, he was hoping the smoking ruins would give the Sylgid at least a bit of a lead.

  At his side, Akelo nodded, passing the waterskin to Erom on his left.

  “Generally, yes,” he said. “The village we come from is perhaps an hour to the south, down the beach.” He pointed through the palms. “If we made inland, the groves would give way to the marshes, and the savannah a day’s hard ride after that. If we reach the plains, I’ll have a better idea.”

  “With only two horses, it’s going to be slow-going,” Raz muttered thoughtfully, watching Gale and Nymara pacing back and forth, munching contentedly on the salt grass they found along the base of the palms. “A day’s ride is a long way on foot. How far to the nearest city?”

  Akelo frowned in distaste, like he didn't want to think about the place. “Karesh Syl is north and west of here. If we had the mounts, we could make it within a week. As is… Three? At least?”

  Raz groaned. Three weeks was a long time to be moving at a slow pace through unfriendly lands.

  “And that’s if we cut through the marshes and over the savannah?”

  The Percian shook his head. “We wouldn’t be able to manage the swamplands. They’re treacherous, even for kuja. Footing is too unstable, and shell beds will slice through armor and cloth better than a knife if you’re not careful. Crocodiles aren’t uncommon, either, and I challenge even you to win a battle with one of those bastards if they drag you into the bog.”

  Raz made a face at the idea. Thinking of the struggle it had been to swim for Garht Argoan after the man had been swept overboard at sea, he was not keen on fighting for his life in the water ever again.

  “What’s our best option, then?” Syrah asked from Raz’s right, jumping into the conversation. “How are we to make for the city?”

  Akelo immediately pointed left, up the shoreline. “We follow the coast. There should be another village a ways north of here. I couldn’t say exactly where—the Moalas only docked away from home when the storms caught us too far out—but it can’t be more than two or three days' walk. From there, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find safe roads inland.”

  Raz snorted at the image. “I’m not sure the locals will react pleasantly to our little group strutting straight into the village square.”

  Akelo half-smiled. “We won’t have to. Once we find it, we can manage our way through groves. They’ll be none the wiser.”

  “Until we’re caught on the open road to Karesh Syl,” Raz grumbled in annoyance, turning the problem over in his head. “Three weeks is too long. We need to find a way to move faster.” He blinked as a thought struck him, and he turned to Akelo. “Would they have horses in the village? Could we send a few into town to buy more?”

  Akelo nodded slowly. “Perhaps…” He glanced at the small chest of gold and silver in the center of their canvas sheet. “However… I won’t pretend I know the cost of a horse anymore, but I don’t imagine we have near enough to buy more than two or three, much less eleven.”

  Raz took in the treasure as well, feeling like it was shrinking before his eyes. He was just about to suggest stealing what they needed—he had a funny feeling the borderer, Erom, could help them with that—when Syrah voiced a thought.

  “We don’t necessarily have to move faster,” she said, her eye—oddly enough—on the charred husk of the Moalas at the water’s edge. “What we need is a way to move without being found out.”

  Raz wasn’t sure he followed.

  “How do you mean?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too confused in front of his new men.

  Syrah waved around at their group, most of whom were now watching their conversation intently. “You and I are the odd ones out,” she told Raz, sounding like she was growing more confident in her idea with every word. “Without us, they could be anyone.”

  To their left, Cyper frowned.

  “Are you saying you would leave us?” he asked suspiciously in his Isler’s accent.

  “No,” Syrah said with a laugh and a shake of her head. “I mean that so long as Raz and I don’t appear to be with you, there would be little suspicion cast upon the group by anyone we pass on the road. We could take all the time we needed.”

  While the concept made sense enough, Raz was relieved to see the utter confusion with which every other man was staring at the Priestess.

  “Syrah,” he said, almost imploringly. “You’re leaving us in your dust. What are you talking about?”

  In response, Syrah pointed down the shore. As one, every eye followed her finger, trailing over the initially unremarkable outline of the corpse of the ship, smoke and steam still furling into the clear blue sky as the water continued to rise over it. For several seconds Raz was still unclear as to what she was trying to show them. He was about to demand—with no small amount of frustration—that she explain herself, when his gaze settled on a pair of silhouettes.

  Rising out of the crumbled hull, like fire-blackened omens, the iron cages stood lopsided and half-sunk into the sand.

  With a thrill of anxious realization, Raz thought he understood Syrah’s plan.

  CHAPTER 34

  “In the end, I was as blind as all the others.”

  —Azzeki Koro, Third Hand of Karesh Syl

  Ekene Okonso was in the middle of an audience when Osana interrupted them. Fortunately for the Tash, he had always prided himself on being more level-headed than the majority of his predecessors, and so when the woman slipped into the room—unnoticed by the court’s guests—he did not immediately roar for her to be flogged for her insolence. Ekene had an understanding with his slaves, a balance that he always kept carefully tilted in his favor. They were treated well—even with respect—so long as they performed their duties to his satisfaction. Failing this, however, they were made an example of, used to give every other of their kind within the palace cause to redouble their commitment to serve to the best of their abilities.

  With this in mind, Ekene held his tongue when Osana made herself known. If the woman—one of the few servants trusted enough to be allowed to stand unchained in his presence—had deemed the news she bore important enough to interrupt his meeting, then she likely had good reason.

  The Tash sat in his usual place in the center throne upon the twelve-stepped dais that led down to the court floor before him. On his left, Naizer Ima slouched as he typically did in the seat of the Second Hand, one cheek resting against his fist in a distinct bid to leave little doubt he was as bored as a man could possibly be. On Ekene’s right, Yseri Suro had returned from his diplomatic mission to Karesh Nan, and now filled the First Hand’s throne with a quiet dignity that never ceased to impress the Tash. He’d discovered the young man some ten years prior, a second son of one of Karesh Syl’s less-loved noble families. Yseri was paunchy, and anything but handsome. His bald pate and round, hairless cheeks always made it seem like the man was a child stuck in a body too big for him, and his dark eyes were unduly large for his face and not quite even. Despite this, though, despite how harshly the nobility must have initially judged him according to their petty ideals of beauty and presentation, Yseri had proven himself a master of social tact. Before the man was twenty he’d been in the process of rapidly building up to be one of the most popular members of the court circles, raising himself in the esteem of the lesser minds with nothing more than natural charm, wit, and a keen, calm intellect.

  Seeing the potential there, Ekene had plucked him from the crowd, and within six years Yseri claimed his seat at the Tash’s right hand.

  Below them, several steps from the base of the dais and flanked by two guards each, five men stood in a half-circle, the rich cleanliness of their collared robes and tailored shirts contrasting sharply with the ragged, worn features of their faces. Three were Percian, while the other two—including the one at the head of the group—were Southern-born. It was this middle man, standing half-a-step closer than the othe
rs, with whom the Tash had been speaking when Osana made her entrance.

  “Great Tash,” Vashül Tyre was saying in a voice of forced calm, “surely you can understand our position. These new tariffs your First Hand has agreed to with Karesh Nan do not favor us.” He glared briefly at Yseri with cold grey eyes before continuing. “If you consider this, and take into account as well the new ruling by the Mahsadën that we grant you a reduction on every head we bring you, you must see why you risk running us out of business.”

  “What the Tash ‘must’ do is not up to you to decide, Tyre,” Yseri answered in Ekene’s place as the Tash himself made a small motion that Osana should come forward. “Do not presume that you are owed anything, in this place.”

  The Southerner bowed his head in quick acknowledgement, though his jaw was set in irritation. “Of course,” he said, continuing while several of his comrades turned at the sound of the slave’s bare feet moving over the polished marble floor of the chamber behind them. “I beg your forgiveness for such disrespect. I merely wished to clarify for His Greatness the position we have been put in by these decisions. These tariffs and price adjustments cut sharply into our business—” he frowned, glancing around as well when Osana came to a stop at the bottom of the dais “—and will make it difficult for us to pay our men appropriately. We have families to feed, all of us.”