As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Caysus’ mood was already sour enough without drunks straining his threaded patience. As it turned out, the Silver Grasses had purchased a number of new slaves in the last week, so in addition to the ignominy of a second night of having to stand sentry with a bunch of sniveling new recruits and idiots who weren’t smart enough to know which end to hold a sword by, he and Habib had been forced to suffer Dulan Yazir smugly taking his leave at the start of their watch. The gate general hadn't outright goaded them—he was far too straight-laced for that—but he’d given them a knowing smile as he’d passed, even winking at Caysus.

  The subtle jab had irked the soldier to no end, so when the young couple came stumbling out of the alley into the lamp-lit streets, clearly having partaken too heavily in the spirits of some local inn or another, Caysus was anything but amused.

  “Ugh…” Habib said in exasperation from beside him. “Just what we need to improve the mood of the evening, aye?”

  Caysus grunted in annoyed agreement. At first he watched the pair approach with relative indifference, thinking they were likely to slip back into the shadows of the city once they realized they were tripping their way toward four soldiers of the Tash’s army. When the man and woman kept on, though, he saw with displeasure that the former of the pair was a soldier, his broad shoulders straining an unkempt uniform, his sword at his side but his shield nowhere to be seen. Caysus may not have been a perfect example of an army man—his own drinking had been part of the reason he’d landed this shitty assignment in the first place, after all—but even he felt indignant as this man-at-arms kept on, weaving a slow path in the direction of the gate and laughing loudly with his white-cloaked companion. On the other side of the road, the two recruits he and Habib had been paired with were glancing between them and the approaching couple, clearly unsure of what to do.

  Great, Caysus thought with an internal sigh, giving in to the pressure.

  When the soldier and his woman stepped into the light of the braziers on either side of the gate, not ten yards up the cobbled road, he took a quick step forward, resting his free hand on the hilt of his sword and hefting his shield threateningly.

  “Halt!” Caysus called. “By order of the Tash, all residents and slaves of the city are forbidden from leaving or entering Karesh Syl after dark. Turn around now, or you will be detained!”

  His words seemed to shake the strangers out of their stupor a little. The man looked up somewhat blearily, dark Percian eyes taking in the four soldiers like he was surprised they were there. At his side, on the other hand, the woman kept her head bowed and turned into the soldier’s chest, hiding her face from view.

  “Jus—jus’ looking to get out for a bit,” the man hiccupped, taking another step forward. “C-c’mon, brothers. For a man a’ the army!”

  He slurred most of his words, waving toward the personnel door behind Habib. Caysus glanced back at it. It was a small, rectangular frame set into the much larger mass of the gate itself, used to allow through couriers and emissaries who arrived in the night, as well as to relieve the foursome of guards who stood watch, like Caysus, Habib, and the idiots opposite them, just outside.

  Caysus snorted. “Not a chance, brother,” he snapped, spilling as much sarcasm into the last word as he could and noting with a quick glance at the man’s insignias that both he and Habib outranked him. “Turn around, now, or you’ll find you and your friend in lockup while I send a runner for your cohort captain.”

  The threat should absolutely have shaken the man. Any man-at-arms knew well what that sort of trouble would mean for him, outside of even the immediate threat of corporal punishment. Drunk in uniform. If the broad-shouldered soldier was at all afraid of being court-martialed, though, he certainly didn’t show it.

  The blank stare the man gave Caysus, in fact, set him on edge.

  Habib, too, seemed to sense that something was wrong, because he spoke up from his spot by the gate.

  “You there!” he boomed, addressing the woman who still clung to the inebriated soldier, obviously well-into her cups herself. “Show yourself!”

  The woman stirred, but did nothing more. She held onto the man, and appeared almost to be shaking, as though the coolness of the night were getting to her, which seemed odd given her attire.

  “I said show yourself!” Habib ordered again, stepping up to stand beside Caysus.

  Again, though, the woman appeared either not to hear him, or ignored him.

  Habib growled at the disrespect, and looked about ready to march on the pair and drag them both to the nearest jail. Before he could move, however, there was a whooshing sound of something falling through the air, and half-an-instant later a large, formless shape plummeted from the night above their heads, landing with a muffled thud and crunch on the cobblestone exactly where Habib might have been if he’d charged forward. Before Caysus had a chance to register what the thing was, though, a second shape plunged from the sky, striking the cobblestone with another ugly sound.

  Only then did Caysus realize what he was looking at.

  Two men in the white-and-gold leathers of the army—the two sentries who had been posted atop the wall to keep watch over the gate from above—lay in broken, bloody piles at he and Habib’s feet.

  Had he not been so utterly shocked by the sight, Caysus might have had time to raise the alarm, might have had time to shout a warning that would at least have been heard by the guards further down the battlements. Instead, he could only stare at the bodies in stupefied disbelief for a full two seconds, just as Habib and the two recruits across the road did.

  As a result, he only barely noticed the woman moving.

  If he’d been quicker, if he’d been faster in his recovery, Caysus could still have saved the day. He would have seen the soldier’s companion detach herself from the man, seen her raise one arm and give a quick tug at the air, like she were pulling something loose from a shelf. He would have seen her bring her other hand up before her, seen the strange glow of white that began to build around her pale, bare fingers.

  Instead, though, all Caysus saw was darkness when the braziers on either side of the gate were snuffed out as if by magic, dying in a blink along with every other lamp and source of light in the vicinity. He managed one pitiful yelp as there was a single flash of brilliance in the sudden blackness, and a splitting streak of white-gold light.

  Then something hot and jarring struck Caysus squarely in the chest, and the world was lost to him.

  Syrah was afraid she was going to be sick.

  She stood, several paces away from where Odene waited nervously in the center of the road in the dark behind her, inhaling heavily and looking up at the sky. She’d pulled her hood back, hoping in vain that the cool evening air would help fight off a little of the nausea and baseless fear that was racking her body. She did not hug herself, refused to lower to that senseless weakness. Instead, she held her hands by her sides, fingers clenched into tight fists, until eventually the feeling faded enough for her to breathe easy again.

  “Syrah, are you sure you’re all right?” Odene asked for the third time, sounding genuinely concerned.

  For the third time, she nodded, though she didn’t turn and look around at him yet. “Yes,” she said shortly. “Just… Just give me a moment.”

  She was getting better. It was the silver lining in this momentary misery. She hadn't even thought about how easy it had been to be alone among her five Percian “soldiers” until they’d infiltrated the city, once again using the guise of the “Lady Ilyane.” Even then, the discomfort had been more of a dull anxiety than any real panic, and when she and the kuja had found a moment to form a plan on how they were going to disarm the guards at the east gate, she hadn't had to work too hard to convince herself she could certainly cling to Odene like a good little drunkard. It had been the first time in nine months she’d willingly touched a man who wasn’t Raz.

  As it turned out, it hadn't been as easy as she’d hoped.

  Still, she’d mana
ged it, reining in the instinctive panic and keeping her cool. Kalin, Zehir, and Rufari had managed their part aptly—though they apparently hadn't thought much of her request to try to keep the soldiers on the wall alive if at all possible—and Odene’s acting coupled with her rapidly conjured stunning spells had done the rest. Syrah managed to glance over, taking in the bare outlines of the six bodies scattered about the road and gate in the dark. She was glad she couldn’t see the blood of the two corpses that had toppled down from the ramparts, but she didn’t berate herself.

  Four of the soldiers were breathing, and Raz had promised he would do his best to keep the men on the outside of the gate alive as well.

  There was a quiet sound of approaching footsteps, and Syrah finally turned around. A set of timber stairs, outlined in the bare light of the city behind them, led up to the ramparts along the wall to the left of the east gate. Through the dark, a trio of familiar figures in white-and-gold leathers was descending toward them, watching the steps carefully. As they reached the road, Syrah raised a hand and conjured up a dim, pale glow, only hardly enough to see by.

  The kuja stepped into the light as one, coming to stand beside Odene, their already-dirty uniforms now speckled with blood.

  “By the Sun,” Kalin said with a low whistle, eyeing the motionless forms of the Tash’s soldiers as Zehir and Rufari did the same. “I guess they didn’t know what hit them.”

  “No, they didn’t,” Syrah agreed, glancing toward the gate. “But neither will we if we tarry too long. Get them out of sight, somewhere they won’t be found for a while. And—” she gave them all a warning, only semi-humorous glare “—if anyone so much as thinks of drawing their swords on these men, I’ll light your boots on fire.”

  Each of the Percian managed a crooked smile at that, even Rufari, but did as she commanded. As they moved in pairs to heave the dead and unconscious soldiers up from the cobbled road, Syrah herself made for the stairs, dimming her light until it was just enough to make out the wooden slats beneath her feet.

  Reaching the top of the wall, she gave herself a moment to appreciate the scene around her.

  In the darkness of the night, the savannah of Perce stretched out like an empty abyss. It might have been part of the heavens themselves, a continuation of the infinite darkness overhead, except for the conspicuous absence of stars in its midst. Opposite this void, on the other hand, the city was aglow, evening bringing with it its own brilliance. Rather than the rising expanse of spectacular marble and granite structures shining gold and silver in the day, Karesh Syl now bloomed with orange light, so many dotted points of fires and torches and lamp-lit streets washing together that a corona of brightness rose from the darker shape of the city, a crown of light over the man-made wonder. The sight doused Syrah in conflicting emotions, at once drawing from her admiration and amazement just as it brought forth anger, disbelief, and disgust.

  Maybe, just maybe, by the time they were done with their work here, this place would truly be as magnificent as the façade it presented to the world.

  Turning, Syrah approached the pointed crenellations and looked down. Below her, the glow of a pair of torches flickered over the bare dirt of the trodden space that extended out before the outside of the east gate. Listening hard, she heard voices, though she couldn’t make out the four men she knew stood guard on either side of the entrance. She’d been worried, as she and Odene had guiled their way into approaching the inner gate, that somehow the outer guard would be tipped off and raise their own alarm.

  Whether because the heavy wood of the doors was too thick, though, or the men below simply didn’t care much what minor scuffle their comrades may or may not have had to deal with within the city, it seemed her concerns had been baseless.

  Giving a small sigh of relief, Syrah lifted the hand within which she contained her light-giving magic. With a thought, the spell pulsed a single time, just barely bright enough that Syrah had to squint out at the dark grasslands of Perce. Silently, she began to count, ticking off the seconds as best she could.

  When she reached thirty, Syrah closed her fist with a snap, extinguishing the magic, as well as the two torches flanking the entrance below.

  There was a confused yelp from several of the men, but no shout of alarm. Most likely, if anything, they thought the wind had gotten to the flames. Indeed, at first Syrah heard nothing but a few loud curses, and what might have been one of the soldiers snapping for someone to find some flint. There was a brief shuffling and more swearing by the Twins and Her Stars.

  Then there was a thwap, and an urk! of breath being cut short, followed by a rapid series of thunks that Syrah recognized all too well.

  The sounds of a staff, or the haft of some heavy weapon, going about its hefty work.

  Syrah hurried back down the steps, keeping one hand on the wall to her left until she reached the road again. She didn’t bother summoning her light a second time, allowing her already-sensitive eye to adjust to the distant illumination of the city. Most of the bodies had already been moved, the kuja currently hefting up the last two to carry them off into the alleys north of the gate. Ignoring them, Syrah made a line straight for the smaller personnel door, fumbling with the latch for a moment before figuring out the mechanism and throwing her shoulder into the iron-bound wood.

  It opened onto true darkness, the world beyond the city consumed by the night. Indeed, Syrah shivered when she saw several forms looming out of the blackness at her, and she moved aside to let them pass.

  Akelo grinned as he stepped through the door first, his own bleached leathers contrasting sharply against the night, his bow thrown back over his shoulder.

  “Nice work,” he said quietly while the others filed in behind him. “As smooth as we could have hoped.”

  “Almost,” Syrah corrected, watching Hur’s lumbering form duck under the overhang. “Two soldiers dead.”

  Akelo gave her a pained look. “Two of ten, Syrah. That’s really not—”

  “I know,” she cut him off, not wanting to discuss the matter further as the last of the former slaves passed through the gate. “I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.”

  Akelo nodded, then turned to join her in watching the dark outline of the door. There was a grunt, then the sound of something heavy dragging across the ground.

  Then, like a demon of shadow, Raz loomed out of the gloom.

  In one hand, Ahna and Syrah’s staff were tossed over his shoulder almost knocking into the overhang when he bent over to fit through. In the other, he was hauling along the unconscious forms of two of the four guards he must have laid low, his clawed fingers twined into the collars of their armor. As he caught sight of her, Raz gave her a half-relieved, half-impressed smile, his white fangs gleaming in the dark.

  Syrah returned it, feeling the thrill of success chase away the residual nausea that had been lingering in her gut. They had done it. Against all odds, they had breached the gate.

  Raz i’Syul Arro, Monster of Karth, Dragon of the North, stood tall within the very walls of Karesh Syl.

  CHAPTER 41

  “Of blood will be born the next of score-and-four,

  yet twice will be the cost.

  The only of his kind, he will fall for a face of snow,

  and follow and be followed to dark depths and icy summits.

  Son of the Sun he is.

  Son of the Sun he will be named.”

  —the Grandmother

  “HHAAAAAAAHHHGH!”

  Karan woke with a start, pulled from a fretful sleep by the sound of Abir’s frightening gasp. All around her there were groans and curses as most of the others awoke in the same moment, the humans muttering in varied languages while the atherian growled angrily in their native tongue.

  Even as she rushed to push herself onto her hands and knees, Karan could sense all eyes already turning toward her.

  Quickly she scrambled across the wooden floor, doing her best not to crawl over too many bodies in the faint light of the room’s
only small window. Everywhere there were voices snapping at her to shut the man up, and when she reached the old Percian she didn’t hesitate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, hissing pleadingly as she did.

  “Abir! Wake up! Wake up!”

  For once, the man came to at once.

  Usually, when the dreams took him, Abir was difficult to free from their clutches. Sometimes he lay in a half-doze limp in her clawed hands, while other times he fought back, occasionally even catching her an inadvertent blow across the chest or face as he struggled.

  This time, though, the man’s eyes flew open, irises black and wide in the night, and he sat bolt upright. His voice rose in a low moan, but it wasn’t the usual garbled nonsense Karan was accustomed to. Abir claimed to have been a seer, in another life, but his “predictions” had always struck her as nothing more than the ravings of an aging, fading mind. For as long as she’d known him his mutterings had been broken and incomprehensible, his shouts in the night irritating and senseless. He was well enough when awake, but when caught in the throes of dreams and nightmares the man was anything but coherent.