As Iron Falls

by Bryce O'Connor

In the end, eleven of the surviving freed slaves—including Akelo—cast their vote in favor of joining Raz and Syrah. When all was said and done, such a number was likely a small thing—they were apparently considering bringing their fight to the doorstep of some god-king of Perce, after all—but in the moment Raz wasn’t sure he had ever felt more honored, or more terrified. One by one they stood, pushing themselves up from where they’d all been sitting in a group on the deck under the next day’s early-morning Sun to hear out his and Argoan’s respective proposals. As each of the men got to his feet to volunteer themselves, Raz had felt a thrill of apprehension and excitement. The captain, too, hadn't come out too poorly. Four men, a Northerner, two Southerners, and a Percian, elected to stay aboard and join the crew. While this might not have been the numbers Argoan would have liked, he seemed pleased enough with the result, extending his hand to each man as he came forward and officially welcoming them aboard the Sylgid while cheers rose up from the ship’s company all around.

  Two men—both former kuja themselves, judging by the tattoos of different colors spiraling over their bodies—chose not to join either group, stating that they planned instead to strike out on their own into the wild plains in search of the families they had been taken from.

  When the decisions came to an end, Raz found himself between Syrah and Akelo, standing before a clump of ten men who were all looking at him with nervous expectancy. There were a few faces among them that he recognized, Raz realized, looking each over carefully. There was the short West Isler, his black hair looking like it had been recently shaved tight to his scalp, his grey-green eyes bright but cautious. At the back of the group, the big form of the man Raz suspected to have mountain blood in him stood silently, the top of his blond head looming half-a-foot over the others, apparently not noticing the anxious glances Syrah kept shooting his way. There were others, too, scattered throughout. Men he had witnessed battle with savagery and desperation as they fought for their freedom, whom he had seen weep over the still forms of fallen comrades.

  He decided the best place to start was with honesty.

  “Akelo has told me that many of you believe you know who I am,” he said firmly even as he heard Argoan start his own speech for the newcomers at the far end of the ship. “Through stories and tales, you’ve been made to believe that I am some great hero, come to deliver you and the world from your bindings. What I will ask of you first—” he met each of their eyes individually “—is to cast that understanding aside.”

  There was a disquieted shuffling from the group, as well as some uncertain mutterings, but Raz kept on before anyone could voice their confusion.

  “My intention when Syrah and I entered Percian waters—” he gestured toward the Priestess at his right “—was not to fight. I did not board your ship with the intent of freeing you. I boarded the ship because your former masters attacked us, seeking to drag me down in the same irons that they held you. I boarded the ship because those men would have kept me from my larger goal: to flee Perce through the Seven Cities, and on to a better life in the western realms of the Emperor’s Ocean.”

  There were hisses of disbelief, but he raised a hand to quell them.

  “I tell you this not to break your spirits, or to change your mind, but to offer you the basic truth: I am—for lack of a better metaphor—as human as any of you. I am capable of foolishness, of cowardliness. I am able to fall, able to bleed, able to die.” He raised both arms, showing off the bandages Syrah had bound about his chest to cover the wounds he’d received the day before. “I am not invulnerable. I am not invincible. I tell you this because if you intend to follow me, you need to understand that you follow a man, not a myth.”

  He paused, allowing the words to sink in. This time, there were no sounds of disgruntlement.

  “All that being said, I will not deny that the stories are true. I challenged the Mahsadën of Miropa, and I emerged victorious. I tore the ruler of Azbar from his throne, and left him to die in the winter snows. Some of you—” his eyes raised to the large man at the back of the ten “—may even have heard that I slew the greatest warrior of the mountain tribes of the North, shattering his armies.”

  The large man blinked in surprise, but made no other sound.

  “You have heard them call me ‘Dragon’,” Raz pressed on, motioning to the crew of the Sylgid, clumped about their captain and new recruits some fifty feet away, “and though you’ll hear me say I find such titles distasteful, believe that I earned it. I fought with everything I had to earn it, in fact, fought with everything I had to keep the darkness of this world away from a people I learned to care for, even love.”

  Syrah made a quiet sound at those words, but he didn’t look around at her.

  “You must understand that I am not infallible, that I am not untouchable. But give me reason to, and I will fight just as hard for you and your kind. Give me reason to, and I will prove to you that man can be just as great as myth, when driven to his limits.” He waved a hand at the weapons the men had strapped over shoulders and at hips. “I can offer you training. I can offer you discipline. I can offer you a reason to live and a reason to fight. I can even offer you some small taste of revenge.” He frowned at the group, making it clear he was measuring his words. “But for that, you will have to let me lead you into a war you should never have been a part of. For that, you will have to lay your life on the line, and place others before yourself. I can give you much, but it is likely that I will ask for even more in return.”

  Again, he looked over the group, searching for hesitancy.

  Surprisingly, he found none.

  “You are already delivered from your bonds,” he said, waving a hand at the two kuja who sat along the bow, talking to each other about their plans to search for their families. “You have the right to walk your own path. If that is what you desire, I urge you to take it. Follow me, and the road inevitably leads to pain, to blood and hardship.”

  “Arro…” Akelo whispered warningly, like he was concerned Raz was pushing them too far.

  But Raz gave him a sharp look, and the Percian fell silent.

  “But if you follow me,” he insisted, “then that road might—just might—also lead to something greater than yourself. I do not promise this. I do not promise to be able to grant freedom to every person, to every soul who screams out in the night, fearing the day and the pain it will bring. I do not promise to liberate your families, your friends, your loved ones. I do not promise to rid this world of cruelty, of greed and pettiness.”

  He stopped for a full second, willing the words to sink into the men.

  “But give me reason to,” he finished slowly, “and I do promise to fight for all of that with every ounce of my will and being… or die trying.”

  There was a long, heavy pause as he ended. For a while nothing could be heard over the drone of the sea and the call of the gulls overhead as the wind drifted lazily through the empty rigging of the ship. For a while, no one spoke, every eye on Raz.

  Then, abruptly, the West Isler stepped forward, loosening something on his belt as he did so. For a moment Raz was confused, unsure of what the man was doing, but then the former slave pulled the curved saber he had been wearing on his hip free, scabbard and all.

  When he reached Raz, he dropped to one knee and placed the sword on the deck in front of him.

  “In my land,” the man said in his sharp accent, loud enough for all to hear, “it is believed that there is no greater honor than to serve a cause one believes in with all their heart. I am Cyper Edalos,” he looked up at Raz once, then bowed his head, “and I am yours, Dragon.”

  After that, though none of the others took a knee, one at a time they nodded, eyes steely and resolved, looking at Raz in a new light.

  It was nearly noon before they got to say their farewells. It didn't take long for Raz and Syrah to gather their things—not to mention that their new entourage quite literally owned nothing more than what they carried on their bodies—but it w
as almost an hour alone before Gale and Nymara allowed themselves to be guided up from their compartment, then carefully onto and over the width of the swaying gangplank and back down to the deck of the Moalas. The Sun was practically overhead before Syrah and Lysa broke apart tearfully, both women promising the other that they would meet again. As several of the crew moved back and forth between the Sylgid and the Moalas, toting sacks of provisions and two small barrels of fresh water, Raz clasped arms with Garht Argoan.

  “You’ll be missed, boy,” the captain said with a melancholy grin. “You’re sure we can’t at least escort you to land? It’ll be tricky, manning the ship with only the lot of you.”

  “I’m sure,” Raz said grimly as their hands fell apart. “We’ve wasted enough time as is. The Red Turor could return with reinforcements, and I want you and the Sylgid as far away as possible before that happens. We’ll manage just fine.” He indicated the Sun with an upward nod of his head, then the shore of Perce along the western horizon. “Clear sky, friendly wind, and land in sight. We’ll get there in one piece.”

  “Aye, if you say so,” the captain said with a shrug. Then he turned to watch Syrah and his first mate, who hadn't yet quit consoling one another. “Never seen Lysa in such a fuss. She’ll be heartbroken for weeks, I tell you.”

  “Good friends are hard to find,” Raz said, watching Syrah’s newly-laundered robes catch the ocean breeze and blow westward about her feet.

  “Aye,” the captain agreed simply, and for a while the two stood without speaking, content in each other’s company, watching the two women exchange a last few words.

  A quarter-hour later, Raz stood at the helm of the Moalas, watching the gangplank being pulled back onto the still-bloody deck as the last of the grappling lines were hacked free. With a groan of wood the two ships began to drift apart, the Sylgid tacking for a southern route, and Raz brought the brigantine slowly around, taking full advantage of a fortunate westward tailwind while those among his miniscule crew who knew what they were doing climbed up the ratlines and masts to drop the sails. As they turned, Syrah moved along the stern rail, waving for as long as she could to Argoan and Lysa. When he was sure they were on a direct course for land, Raz lashed the wheel in place with rope, then made to join the Priestess at the edge of the ship. Together they bid farewell to the Sylgid, even long after the details of the captain and his first mate were lost to the distance. Raz, though, could just make out the glint of the spyglass turned in their direction, and he guessed Argoan wanted to see them safely toward shore for as long as he could.

  He smiled gratefully into the wind.

  When the sails of the vessel were nothing more than vague shapes in the distance, he finally brought his hand down, resting it gently on Syrah’s shoulder.

  “Do you think we’ll see them again?” the woman asked him, not looking away from the southern horizon.

  Had Raz been a better man, he might have told her the truth: that he didn’t know, that he wasn’t even sure he and Syrah would be alive in a month’s time, much less thinking of old friends.

  Instead, he lied.

  “Without a doubt.”

  He suspected the Priestess could sense the dishonesty in his words, but she seemed to appreciate them all the same. Reaching up, she took hold of his fingers, as was her fashion, and together the pair stood quietly at the rail until the Sylgid was gone completely from sight.

  They only broke apart when Akelo and the West Isler, Cyper—who seemed to have assumed a sort of second-in-command position to the Percian—joined them on the aft.

  “Neret says we’ll make land within a half-hour,” Akelo told the pair of them as they turned to meet the two men. He was in full armor again today, and his right eye was a little less swollen between the viewing slots of his spiked half-helm. He was pointing, as he spoke, to a blond Northerner at the crown of the foremast, squatting on the flat platform that topped it to act as a poor excuse for a crow’s nest. “He says we’ll need to reef the sails soon, or risk running the ship aground.”

  At his words, Raz looked around at the deck of the Moalas, taking in the blood-splattered wood and the flies that still seemed to buzz about despite the healthy wind.

  “How hard is it for you both?” he asked the men without glancing back around at them, his right hand thumbing the strange axe—the ‘sagaris,’ Argoan had called it—he had scavenged from the corpse of the vessel’s former captain. “How difficult is it to be back on this ship?”

  He realized he hadn't considered this when they’d made the decision to take the brigantine. Argoan had been willing to chart the Sylgid inland at the nearest estuary and anchor along the river-mouths, but Raz and Syrah had squashed the idea. The captain had no use for the Moalas, with his crew already depleted, and the boat could serve at least one last purpose.

  Akelo and Cyper exchanged a dark look.

  “We will manage, Dragon,” the West Isler said with forced certainty. “A small price to pay, to say the least.”

  Raz looked around at Syrah, seeking her opinion silently. He was pretty sure the woman understood what he was trying to ask, because she smiled in a satisfied, cold sort of way, and nodded.

  Raz turned back to the paired men.

  “I told you I’d give you some small revenge, at least,” he said with a hard grin. “Tell the crew to brace for impact.”

  CHAPTER 33

  They started the fire in the rowing galley.

  After beaching the Moalas at full speed with a crashing crunch of the keel over the white sands, Raz had Akelo coordinate the men into lowering the gangway and carrying their provisions up the shore into the safety of the palm trees. As they did this, Raz and Syrah led Gale and Nymara down onto the beach, both horses going half-mad with joy the moment they realized they were on firm land again. Raz couldn’t help but laugh as he let the stallion go, allowing the animal to tear down the shore at full gallop for nearly a quarter-mile before calling him back with a long whistle.

  Once the horses were settled in the shade with a drink of fresh water, the ship was stripped of anything of use or value. Raz then gathered the men in the galley, where he personally broke each of the twenty-four oars in half by placing them at an angle between the hull floor and the raised walkway, then stomping on them. By the time he was done, Raz’s foot was numb and there were splinters everywhere, but each of the freed men held a length of wood a little taller than they were. When he nodded to her, Syrah had moved about the group, taking the shattered timber of each piece in hand—though ever careful not to touch the men themselves—and willing them to take flame.

  Then the two of them had left the eleven to their task, walking together down the gangway and clambering up the shifting beach once more just as smoke began to furl from the port and starboard oar-holes.

  For a long time Raz and Syrah sat in the shadows of the trees, listening to the wind rush about them, bearing with it the thickening smell of smoke and burning wood. Together they talked and watched the dipping Sun glimmer in and out of sight through the thick, fan-like leaves high above them. They’d lain out one of several pieces of spare sailcloth salvaged from the Moalas, unfolding it like a blanket over the sandy earth of the grove. All around them their scavenged goods had been deposited like an eclectic collection of merchant wares. Several caches of iron and steel weapons, some sharp and well-cared for, others rusted through. Additional provisions, including a bag of candied toffee and fresh fruit discovered under the bed in the captain’s bunk. A small chest they’d found in the same place, brimming with silver and gold crowns, gems, and jewelry, which Raz suspected would come in useful. All in all, it made for a pleasant early-afternoon, sitting in the semi-seclusion of the palms, both chuckling as they watched the men by the shore laughing and dancing in maddening satisfaction before the rapidly burning skeleton of the pirate ship, the tide rolling steadily in around them.

  After an hour or two the ocean waves had risen enough to begin lapping at the still-burning husk of the Moal
as, and the men seemed finally to have enough of spitting on the wreckage and hurling curses into the heat. They moved as one up toward the trees, Akelo and Cyper at their head, wet booted feet slipping and sliding as they walked.

  “Thank you, Arro,” the old Percian said in a hoarse voice when he came to stand before Raz and Syrah, pulling his helmet free of his bruised face and sweaty hair. “I don’t know if you could have given us a greater gift.”

  Raz nodded in turn, watching the men settle around them. The group indeed seemed much more at ease as they found clear space along the edges of the cloth. A few were even smiling.

  “It wasn’t a gift,” Raz said after Akelo had sat down on his left, his eyes on the rising smoke as he made out the hiss of the ocean starting to spill over the crumpling sides of the burning ship. “No sane man would have dared take that right away from you.”

  The Percian shrugged, accepting a pear with a word of thanks as Syrah handed it to him. “All the same,” he said, polishing the fruit with his sleeve, “you have our gratitude.”

  “How did it feel?”