As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  The effect it had on the man was disconcerting, given that every other part of his mind was screaming at him to get as far away from the woman as possible.

  Then, though, he saw the loose roll of parchment she held in one hand, rolling it back and forth between her fingers, the wax seal broken along the lip of the letter.

  “So soon?” he asked her, relieved that he was able to control the fear in his voice, his question coming out even and surprised. “It’s hardly been a month since we received word that Karesh Syl had been razed…”

  “Our spies inform me it was not a long battle,” Lazura said calmly, though there was a tremor in her voice that revealed the fury she was clearly attempting to subdue. “Apparently your cousin has been busy training his men on the march.”

  Adrion bristled at the subtle jab, but brushed it aside.

  “An unfortunate development,” he said, annoyed. “Very unfortunate, even. But you’ll forgive me if I say I don’t see why this couldn’t wait until morning.”

  “There’s more,” Lazura hissed, and the danger in her tone was palpable now, like poison in the air. “It seems you may have to suffer a family reunion soon, Adrion.”

  At that, Adrion felt his stomach turn over, and he inhaled sharply.

  “Here?” he demanded, the word shrill with uncertain trepidation. “The bastard is coming here? You’re sure?”

  In response, there was a snap, then a searing flash of white light that nearly blinded the man as the letter in Lazura’s hand erupted into brilliant white flames. All the same, Adrion couldn't find the strength in his arms to raise them to shield himself from the glare. His eyes were transfixed, staring at the spot where the woman’s face had been illuminated, visible in the dark for one brief, horrible second.

  There, in the lines of what were usually delicate, fragile features that bore well the beauty of her Northern heritage, Adrion saw something unlike anything he had ever borne witness to. A deep, horrifying hunger echoed over the rage etched into the scars about Lazura’s right eye, twisting the woman’s face into something monstrous, something utterly demonic.

  In that moment, in that one, petrifying instant, the sorceress was far, far less human than Adrion thought the “Dragon of the North” could ever be.

  “I am sure,” Lazura’s voice slithered through the dark of his stolen vision as the letter fell to ashes from her hand, her words as sharp as a viper’s bite. “Arro has finished his work in Perce. Over a week ago, his army turned north, fifty thousand strong now.”

  There was a moment’s pause, like the woman wanted the venom in this news to seep, icy and pure, into Adrion’s very bones.

  “The Monster of Karth, it appears, is coming home.”

  And Now, Enjoy This Exclusive Sneak Preview of the Upcoming Epic Finale in The Wings of War Series!

  *Disclaimer: the following chapters are rough drafts, and subject to significant further edits and changes in the coming months!

  862 v.S.

  SNEAK PEEK: PROLOGUE

  “I do not think, then, that I ever paused to wonder if I might have been in the presence of a monster…”

  — Serys Benth, šef of Karavyl

  How quickly things change, Serys Benth thought to herself, stepping out of the carriage as Ashed, the captain of their retinue, offered her his hand in assistance. When her sandaled feet reached the cobblestone of the market street, she looked around, wondering what it was she was feeling. Outwardly, there was little different about the marble and stone buildings that rose up around her, the façade of the city itself unaffected by the darker churnings that seemed taken over its depths in the last year. The square behind the carriage was as busy as ever, the bustle of the morning crowd doing much to drown out the cries from the infamous Cages Serys knew rose up in the center of the plaza. The dawn Sun was at her back, illuminating the street before her, and little seemed out of place in the glistening windows and overhanging balconies from which strands of brown and green veins and resilient flowers hung. The area seemed a popular place of residence of the wealthier middle class, likely for merchants and traders who did well for themselves in the bazar, but were still far from the dream of an estate in the upper-class quarters to the east.

  Yes, on the outside, nothing had changed.

  But, as Serys took a step forward in order to allow her travelling companions to be helped out of the wagon as well, she could feel the difference subtle aura of the city.

  It hadn't been so long since her last visit to Miropa. When word came that Imaneal Evony, Ergoin Sass, and the rest of their comrades had been butchered by the Monster of Karth, Serys and other representatives from the Mahsadën had rushed to the Gem of the South from each of the fringe cities, fearing what would happen if the society lost control of the largest municipality in the realm. They’d arrived, though, to discover none of the chaos and civil unrest they had expected.

  Rather, in the weeks that followed the death of the old šef, a new power had risen to take the reins of the city, a power for which Serys didn’t know whether to respect or fear.

  That’s what I'm feeling, she thought as she heard San Loreyn step down to the street and stretch with a groan behind her. That’s what’s changed…

  She was sure of it. There was something lurking there, in the shadows of the buildings and the alleys. Something unseen, but distinctly present. There was a stillness to the Miropan streets that had been absent on any of her previous visits, and somberness to the shouting of the merchants and the rumble of their clientele. She shivered suddenly as a cloud passed over the Sun, wondering why the desert breeze—ordinarily so warm—gave her the impression of the winter winds she’d known as a child, living as a borderer in the lands between the Northern and Southern lands.

  “Carriages,” San muttered, and Serys looked over her shoulder to see the man rubbing his rear with a disgruntled expression. “Damn things will be the death of me. Why couldn’t we just ride our own horses?”

  “Because a pompous trim like you wouldn’t survive half-a-day in the Cienbal, left to your own devices,” Analla Zaren answered flatly, appearing at the door of the carriage and accepting another soldier’s hand with a charming smile. “I don’t imagine we would have managed more than an hour’s ride before you either passed out from the heat or insisted we take the long way round the desert.”

  San puffed out his chest indignantly, whirling on the Percian girl, his sleek brown hair seeming almost to bristle in offense.

  “I tire of your insolence!” he snarled as Analla reached the street, her smile turning sour in her dark features as she looked at the man. “I should have you whipped on our return! Serys!” San turned to Serys, one hand pointing at Analla like a child wailing to his mother. “Rein in your wench!”

  “Analla merely voices my own thoughts, San,” Serys told him coolly, narrowing her eyes at the man. “Give me reason to think her deductions inaccurate, and I’ll order her flogged myself.

  San deflated at once, his pointed finger going limp as he seemed to shrink in on himself.

  “Is this the place?” he asked the closest soldier—one of their Miropan guard that made up half their twelve-man escort—in an effort to change the subject.

  “Near, sir,” the guard said with a nod, indicating the street before them with a hand, the other on the hilt of his sword. “The road narrows ahead, so we’ll be walking a short ways.”

  San nodded haughtily, and the soldier started forward at once, his fellows falling in at his sides, Serys, San, and Analla’s own guards closing in behind them as they moved. They clearly didn’t have far to go, but in that time Analla caught up to Serys and hooked a slender arm into hers, leaning in like they were two women gossiping about which of the soldiers they found most appealing.

  “Do you feel that?” the Analla asked softly, her dark eyes shifting over the buildings faces around them even as she masked her face in a simpering smile that would have fooled anyone who happened to glance at her.

  Serys
nodded at once, but it was a moment before she responded, taking in the shadows of the narrow alleys they passed.

  “I do,” she said softly. “And it concerns me…”

  “There are rumors,” Analla said, and Serys detected what might almost have been apprehension in her right hand’s voice. “About Blaeth. They say he’s—”

  “I’m familiar with what ‘they say’,” Serys cut her off gently as the Miropan guard at their head halted before a narrow set of stairs, its worn stops steps leading up to the front door of an old building. “Though I’m not so sure they’re merely ‘rumors’…”

  Analla looked as though she wanted to say something more, at that, but bit her tongue as the soldiers parted and turned, half-bowing as the man at their head indicated the building before them.

  “This is where we leave you,” he said. “Your retinue as well, I’m afraid. No one but the šef and their confidants are allowed within, along with a few hand-picked sentries.”

  “Nonsense,” San challenged the officer irritably. “We will take our soldiers with us. Do you truly expect us to—”

  “Ashed.” Serys cut the other šef off without so much as a glance at the man, looking instead to the captain of their own guard. “Wait here. I don’t know how long we'll be.”

  Ashed, a weathered Southerner with a scar down one side of his neck, nodded at once, and with a quick command had the rest of his men fall in line with the Miropan guard. As San spluttered and tripped over his complaints, Serys unhooked her arm from Analla and lifted her short skirts, starting the climb the stairs.

  The building was a surprisingly plain thing, a lumbering, timber-and-brick structure that would have seem utterly ordinary had it not been for the dozen guards and their charges gathered about its entrance. Indeed, from the corner of her eye Serys saw several passersby glancing curiously in their direction, as though wondering what such finely dressed strangers were doing visiting a place like this.

  Clever, she thought to herself as she reached up and knocked on the heavy wooden door at the head of the steps, making a mental note to see what sort of inconspicuous estate might be made available for purchase once she returned home.

  After a brief delay there was a clunk of a latch being lifted, and the door cracked open. A single grey eye peered at them through the gap, silently taking Serys, San, and Analla in for a full three seconds before the man spoke

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “Karavyl,” Serys replied in short.

  The sentry scrutinized her one last time, and Serys was impressed by the utter indifference in his gaze. She was perhaps not as beautiful as she had been in the absolute prime of her youth some half-dozen years prior, but it was rare to find a man whose look didn’t at least linger on her hazel-blue eyes, the stretch of her bust, or the slenderness of her waist. She might even have taken offense, except for the emptiness that weighed heavy in his eyes. It wasn’t the hollow sort of loss she’d seen in the slaves they sent to the Seven Cities, or in the Cages in the market plaza down the road. Rather, it seemed instead to be a removal of desire, an utter devoidness of emotion.

  With a creek, the man pulled the door open, revealing himself. He was a slender figure, garbed in grey-and-black fabrics that fell loosely over his body. A scarf hung limp about his neck, of the kind soldiers wore to keep the blowing sands out of their nose and mouths, and his features were plain, but hard. He gave Serys the impression of a sandcat, still and patient, but ready for any opportunity to strike when the moment came.

  Something tugged at her gut, and she realized it had been a long time since any man had elicited such unease in her.

  “Follow me,” the figure said curtly, turning his back to them and starting down the hall beyond the door. With a quick exchange of looks, the trio did as they were told, Analla shutting the entrance again behind them with a creaking thud.

  The inside of the building, Serys discovered, was much more along the lines of what she expected from a secret meeting place of the Mahsadën. The hall was wide and cavernous, opening up into the second story, with arched supports holding up the walkways overhead. A thick red carpet lined the marble floor beneath their feet, muting their footsteps as they hurried to follow their silent escort, and delicate sculptures before every column complimented the frescos that hung between and beyond the pillars. As Serys looked around, her nerves tingled again when she noticed other figures, half-hidden in the shadows of the room. They, like the man leading them towards a wide marble stairway at the back of the building, were garbed in grey-and-black, and watched the three of them pass with the same empty expressions. She did her best to ignore them, and was grateful when San and Analla did the same, though she heard the man offer a brief prayer to the Sun, asking that he be allowed the sky again.

  They reached the stairs, and their guide took them rapidly, forcing Serys to hitch her skirts even higher as she trailed him. They took one flight, then another, then finally a third which led them to the top floor of the structure. The man stopped when they reached the final landing, stepping aside and allowing Serys, San, and Analla to catch up.

  “They expect you within,” he told them, waving a hand at the single, plain wooden door opposite them. “You are the last to arrive, so I imagine they wait for you with some anticipation.”

  Serys almost chuckled at that, wondering if that was the man’s way of saying they should hurry.

  Then he was gone, hurrying back down the stairs before any of them even had a chance to offer a word of thanks.

  Serys took a breath, then stepped forward. The door was indeed unornate, but there were some curiosities in the stone frame it was set in. Empty holes in the mortar stood out, where steel nails might once have been chiseled into the rock. What’s more, the iron and wood casting of the door itself looked new, and the hinges showed little tarnish.

  This has been kicked before, Serys realized, her brow shooting up in surprise. What sort of place have we been gathered in…

  There was a polite, quiet cough, which brought the woman to her sense. She glanced around to give Analla an embarrassed half-smile, then stood straight and flattened the folds of her dress. There were voices within, she realized, a dull buzz of anxious conversation within.

  Gathering her wits, Serys herself gave a small cough to clear her throat, then knocked on the door.

  There was the scrape of a chair on stone, then the quick patter of feet. Another clunk came as the handle was lifted, and the door swung open, revealing a nervous looking youth with blonde hair and brown eyes. Before Serys could get a word in, the man stepped away quickly, revealing the room beyond even as he waved them in with a trembling hand.

  Serys prided herself on her nerves. She had risen from her place on the streets of Dynec, surviving as a whore after her bastard of an uncle had sold her to a passing merchant caravan following the death of her parents. She’d clawed her way up from the depths of hell in a short decade, pushing her will past the rapes and abuse and violence that had been a part of her life for too long. When she set her mind to it, Serys could handle anything the world sought to throw at her.

  Even she, though, felt those nerves strain as they stepped through the door.

  The room, while spacious, was clearly not designed to board so many delegates at once. A wide, circular table took up much of the center space, around which some score of familiar individuals were gathered. Another twenty—that attendants of the šef—lined the edges of the room, some sitting in chairs that had been supplied for them, the rest standing as they watched the middle group nervously. Light poured in through a set of wide, diamond pained window cut into the west wall, and the floor was polished stone. Even through the edginess of the situation, as she approached the last empty seat at the circular table, Serys noted more oddities about the space. Here there was scratches and broken chunks in the rock of the floor and walls. There were gashes and wounds in the wooden surface of the table. Even one of the windows looked newer than the others, like the iron w
iring and glass had been replaced not so long ago.

  Serys knew, even as she took a seat in the empty chair—San coming to stand over her shoulder and Analla moving to join the other confidants along the wall—that there was a history to this place, and she had a nasty feeling she would be intimately acquainted with it before this meeting adjourned.

  “Welcome, Serys Benth,” an even voice spoke up, ending the quiet. “With Karavyl’s representation present, we can begin.”

  Among the šef gathered all about her, Serys was relieved to see she was familiar with the majority. Acrosia, the South’s wealthiest province after Miropa, had sent four delegates—half the ranks of their Mahsadën—while most of the other cities—Cyro and Dynec, in addition to Karavyl—had sent pairs and trios. Only Karth had sent a single representative, a wiry, bored-looking border Serys didn’t know, which hardly surprised her. In addition to being of greatest disrepute, Karth was the most volatile of the fringe cities, the titles of “šef” changing hands more frequently than a common street whore as those who took on the roles were either forced out or vanished mysteriously every other year or so. This character was of even lower standards than what she’d come to expect from Karth, and Serys grimaced distastefully at the man as he gave her an oily smile.