Then, at last, the beast’s face came into clear view, and what courage Ykero might have been able to hold onto fled him completely.
He had heard the tales of Raz i’Syul Arro, of course. Everyone had. In Perce, though, they laughed at the stories, jeered at the fear and awe the rest of the world seemed to hold for the famed “Monster of Karth.” The atherian could be dangerous, sure, but only when not dealt with appropriately. The legends of the so-called “Dragon of the North” had been circulating for weeks now, spread wide at the command of the Tash of Karesh Syl to the west, but men like Ykero had scoffed at the warnings as readily as they’d salivated over the size of the bounty. A creature like this “Arro” had likely simply never come across a group who knew well how to deal with insolent lizard-kind. When the captain had told them that the weapon described in the contract, the wicked spear now held before them, had been found aboard the Sylgid, they’d all rejoiced, cheering over the riches they were sure would be spilling into their hands soon enough.
Now, though, looking into the face of the Dragon himself, Ykero was quite sure gold was the last thing that was about to be spilled.
Arro dropped down from the gangplank almost casually, his amber eyes—like molten sunlight—scanning them one after the other. His gaze was so calm, so impassive, Ykero felt like the atherian was about as threatened by any of them as they might have been by the laundry they hung up to dry in the sea breeze. He couldn’t blame the beast, either. Seeing him now, Ykero understood every rumor, every warning the notices and riders had spread of the man. Ykero had spent his life among subservient lizard-kind, as any but the kuja did, and he saw now how that had skewed his understanding of the titan before him, how it had made him underestimate the stories. It was as though all his life Ykero had only ever known the feel of summer rains, but now stood before a lightning storm, cowering beneath broiling black clouds of such terrifying power they seemed capable of sweeping away all that was the world.
Arro’s wings flickered on either side of him, blood-red and sunset-orange. His reptilian head turned as he looked at each of them. The webbed blade along the back of his neck and head rose. When he spoke, it was a dark growl, like the storm had a voice of quiet thunder.
“Who is the captain here?”
Beyond the Dragon, the battle continued to rage. Ykero could make out continued screams, the clang of blades and the whoosh of more fire. There were flashes of strange white light, the grind of wood of the hulls of all three ships moving against each other.
And yet, to every man who had heard the atherian’s question, no other sound existed.
Captain Omara did not volunteer himself, though whether this was out of surprise or fear, Ykero couldn't guess. Even with more than twenty men left aboard the ship, not a soul was moving toward the atherian, each and every one of them held firm by their fear. It was that same crew, though, that gave the poor man away, several heads swiveling in his direction at once. He stood, suddenly separated from his company as those closest to him stepped quickly away, like they wanted to distance themselves from whatever punishment the Sun had seen fit to deliver upon their captain on this day.
The atherian’s eyes settled on him instantly.
“Captain,” the beast said, taking a step further onto the deck and lifting his two-headed spear up onto one shoulder like it weighed as much as a toy sword. “I’m surprised at you. I would have thought a man of such distinguished rank wouldn’t fear a lowly creature such as me.”
In response, the captain stiffened. Omara was a tall man, well over six feet in height, and he had earned his title the hard way, by fighting for it. His dreaded hair fell halfway down his chest from beneath the spiked half-helm, and he held a curved scimitar in one hand matched by a pirate’s sagaris—a long-handled axe with a narrow steel head balanced by a slim spike—in his other. His skill with those weapons was well-known, almost legendary along the coastal villages of Perce, and yet now, standing before the Dragon, the sword and axe seemed almost limp in his grasp.
As the atherian called him out, however, some of the captain’s courage returned.
“Your kind do not address their betters directly, in this land,” he said fiercely, managing to keep the tremor out of his voice that Ykero could clearly see in the shake of his arms. “You will learn this swiftly, I think.”
The atherian’s brows rose in what was very obviously mock surprise, though he appeared to eye Omara’s sagaris with interest even as he replied sarcastically. “Oh, will I? Do tell me how. Are you planning on instilling this lesson now, or will I have to wait until you chain me up with the slaves of your village? Personally, I see no need to wait.”
“You assume we intend to take you alive,” Omara spat, moving a brave step forward and motioning for the rest of his men to follow his lead. Only a few did, including Ykero. “The Tash has not stated that as a requirement to collect the bounty on your life.” He smiled cruelly. “We could just as easily take your head now. Maybe pin your body up by your wings in the galley, so the others can see what happens when you do not bow to those you are inferior to.”
Right then and there, Ykero knew the captain had crossed a line. Where a second before the atherian had been relaxed, almost amused in the way he spoke and held himself, now his body told a different story. His wings stiffened and stilled, his face hardening into something almost feral. His arms and legs flexed, the great black tail at his back going rigid. Around the haft of his spear, his hands tightened abruptly, and his eyes almost glowed with anger as they bored into Omara.
“You have slaves here?” he asked, his voice a deadly hiss. “Here? Aboard the ship?”
The captain must have sensed the danger, but it seemed as though Arro’s spell of fear was failing as Omara glanced around, realizing just how many men he had left compared to the Dragon alone. With another nod, he took a second step forward, and this time the entirety of the crew began to press in around the beast.
“Aye,” he said with another cruel smile, bringing his scimitar and axe up in preparation. “You should have heard them, as we set sail. Whispering amongst themselves and praying to every god of the world. Apparently you’re something of a hero to their kind. Let’s see what happens when we—!”
Shlunk.
Arro moved so fast, Ykero thought he had blinked and missed it. There was a moment in which the atherian had been standing before the gangplank, still as stone, listening to the captain speak. Then in a blur, he was suddenly in front of Omara, materializing like some great dark shadow in the smoke before the man. No one saw the spear move. No one saw it arc back, then rip around with all the force of a sharpened battering ram.
All they saw was their captain falling to the deck, his body severed in half, cleaved in two from hip to armpit.
There was a space of two heartbeats in which all was silent. The world itself seemed to still, the sounds of the battle echoing over them as though from far, far away. Every eye was on the body of Omara, his chest, arms, and head convulsing as his legs kicked weakly some three feet away. Terror, unlike anything he had ever felt or thought he could ever feel, washed over Ykero.
“I’m sorry,” Arro said, lowering the spear slowly and bending down over the corpse to tug the sagaris free of Omara’s twitching fingers. “I had intended to challenge the man. I’d hoped to end this without more bloodshed.”
He hefted the axe experimentally as he stood up again, slashing it through the air as he tested its weight. Apparently satisfied, he brought it to his face, studying the narrow steel head with interest.
“You’ve made that impossible.”
And then the Dragon was moving again, a black blur streaked with silver and gold, and all the world was blood.
CHAPTER 28
“There is a place for all in life. There is a place for happiness and sadness, for joy and grief. There is a place for gain and loss, for friendship and betrayal. To an extent, one could argue that there is even some small place for the ravages of madness…”
—the Grandmother
Raz saw red.
It had been some time, he realized distantly, since the animal had managed to gain any amount of control over him. He’d found peace, these last eight months, first among the Laorin as a whole, then with Syrah alone. The woman had been the keystone of his willpower, his strength in keeping this monstrous part of his soul at bay.
Now, though, he had relinquished that control, and his body moved without thought, taken over by a will all its own.
The pirates fell before him like wheat beneath the scythe. These were not the fighters of skill and reputation he had felled in the Arena. These were not the great warriors of the Sigûrth, molded by Gûlraht Baoill himself. These were not the living shadows, the trained assassins of the Mahsadën. These were mere men, mere vessels of human greed, who thought so little of the freedoms they so dispassionately stole away.
Raz was more than happy to steal something greater in return.
Like an armored hurricane he barreled around the deck of the brigantine, Ahna and the strange new axe he had stolen from the captain’s corpse leaving a wake of death and destruction in his stead. He did not stay tethered to the ground, instead leaping and sliding, somersaulting off the rough wood of the masts as he slashed downward, jumping up onto the railings as the dviassegai arced out before him, ducking beneath swinging blades to cut at knees and guts and groins. Screams filled his ears, trembling through his skull, but Raz—even the conscious part of his soul which had so willingly allowed the animal to rise—felt no pity. He struck and slashed, kicked and punched. Men died clutching at their wounds, howling in agony and writhing on the ground as limbs were severed and tumbled away, or struggling to keep themselves together as organs tried to escape from great gashes in their chests and guts. Some tumbled overboard, or were thrown, screaming as they plummeted, too late as they scrambled to free themselves of the heavy armor that would drag them to the bottom of the sea. Blood painted every surface in great arcs and smeared splatters, sometimes even slashing across the sails above their heads. The wood became slick and slippery, and Raz had to dig in with his talons to keep his footing. His weapons moved about him without effort, and for a time he forgot the weight of his own armor as he extinguished all life around him.
A few men put up better fights than others, managing to block a blow or two before falling. Raz would have almost liked to take his time with these individuals, to drive in the terror that weaker men feel when the will of someone stronger is pressed upon them. He would have liked to make them suffer, to punish them for daring to wield their talents as an advantage over those who had no defense. He wanted to tear them apart with his bare hands, to toss them in several pieces over the rails into the waters that were steadily reddening around the ship.
Instead, he satisfied himself with breaking their spirits, allowing them to understand just how weak they actually were as he knocked aside their weapons to cleave them half-in-two or crush their skulls with hammered steel.
After a time, though, the weeks at sea began to betray him. Raz’s movements became heavy, his blows slowing. A dozen or more lay dead or dying about the deck, but another ten still stood scattered, slipping and tripping in the blood that glossed the planks beneath their feet. Soon Raz was fighting harder, shifting about as quickly as he could to keep them scattered, keep them from managing to gang together. He feinted toward one, then twisted Ahna around as another tried to take advantage of the opening, severing the attacker’s right leg from his body. Before the screaming pirate had even fallen to the ground, another died, the man behind him unprepared for Raz’s sudden bull over his dying comrade, or the axe head that took him through the stomach and ripped out his side. After that, a pair managed to get their wits together and push him at once, trying to pincer him in from either side, and Raz just managed to get out of the way of their falling blades, deflecting one with Ahna’s blades and feeling the other whistle past his ear as he sidestepped. He shifted around them, succeeding in spearing one with the dviassegai’s weighted tip, but before he could try for the other the remaining five were rushing him, and he found himself backing away quickly. He was just starting to wonder if Syrah would be screaming her frustrations at his corpse before the battle was over when there was a roar from off to his left.
Lysa appeared, leading a dozen sailors through the smoke over the gangplank.
They took the pirates in the flank, crashing into them one after the other. The Percian whirled to meet them, but within seconds they were outnumbered. Raz allowed himself a respite, dodging back as far as he could and breathing hard. He gave himself five seconds, ticking them off against the hard drumming of his heart. He realized the animal had faded, and he cursed the weight of his armor, realizing he had been a fool to allow his body to learn how to move without it again.
Then, with a snarl, he rejoined the fray.
The pirates didn’t have a prayer. The crew of the Sylgid had numbers on their side, now, and that was before Raz—tired as he was—returned to the fight. It was a short, brutal battle, and Raz was glad he was in control again. In the chaos it was already hard enough to distinguish friend from foe. He wondered, distantly, if this was what war felt like, if there was that constant hesitation in every strike, wondering who you were about to fell. He was almost careful as he fought, using Ahna for parrying and defense for fear her sweeping reach might do more harm than good. His new axe, with its long handle, worked better in the confines, the long spike on the back of its head punching cleanly through leather and iron in quick, efficient blows.
A minute later, the last of the Percian pirates tumbled to the ground, attempting to stem the blood coursing through the hole Lysa had carved across his chest. As the man died, Raz half-expected there to be a roar of victory from those of the Sylgid’s crew left standing. Instead, though, the men and women looked around, gaping in horrified fascination at the scene around them. Glancing about as he fought to catch his breath again, Raz could understand why. It was very possible the first mate’s charge had saved his life, but even then the crew had only had to cut down a half-dozen pirates.
Scattered about the deck, a battlefield outlined in smoke, blood, and dying fire, some fifteen others were already still, and more corpses that hadn't sunk could be seen floating off on the waves around the ship.
“By the Sun…” someone hissed quietly, and another voice muttered a prayer to the Lifegiver. One sailor, a young woman, stumbled to the closest rail and vomited over the side of the ship.
Lysa managed to shake herself first, though she looked pale as she stepped over bodies to get to him.
“Raz…” the scarred woman said, blinking around at the carnage. “Raz, this is… this is…”
“Why they call me ‘Monster,’” Raz finished for her with a grunt, grimacing at the scene. “Vile, isn’t it?”
Lysa didn’t seem to have an answer for him, her eyes fixed in disgusted awe upon the bisected corpse of the man who had been the pirates’ captain.
“Lysa,” Raz snapped, shaking the woman out of her trance. “There will be plenty to gawk at when this fight is done. Get your people back to the Sylgid! There’s still fighting to be done.”
The first mate looked shaken as she met his gaze. “What about you?”
“I haven’t finished here.” Raz couldn’t help but growl, his eyes finding what he thought might be the hatch to the lower galley. “I’ll join you soon. Go!”
Lysa cast about one last time, as though not believing her eyes, then nodded. With a quick order she led her group back to the gangplank and over the gap, disappearing into the smog and sounds of battle.
When they were gone, Raz moved quickly.
Flicking the axe clean, he slipped its handle into the loop of his belt where another weapon had once hung, feeling it settle about his hip with a nostalgic sort of weight. As he did so, Raz hurried over to the great double doors in the center of the deck. They’d been latched shut with a heavy padlock, either to keep board
ers out or whatever was below in. Slipping Ahna’s end through the iron lock and into the wood, he used her like a lever, straining up on the top of her haft with a grunt. There was a crack, then a crunch, and the padlock tore free of the door completely. Raz pulled it clear of the dviassegai’s tip and tossed it into the sea before reaching for the closest handle.
The moment he hauled the hatch open there was a defiant howl, and Raz was forced to dodge out of the way as a blade streaked up from below, slashing at his legs. The pirate rushed out from the lower deck to meet him, closely followed by a second. Raz might have had to retreat to gain back the advantage, but the bloody scene about them seemed to shake the pair, because their war-cries faltered and strangled off as they stared in disbelief at the slaughter.
As Iron Falls Page 31
