The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1

by Bryce O'Connor

  “If he’d wanted to hurt us, he would have tried to by now,” he conceded, watching Raz finish licking his bowl clean and toss it away, taking an interest in the shiny new bangles on his wrist. “Even so, it’ll settle the minds of the others if we keep him in here for a few more days at least. We’ll take him outside at night, but briefly.”

  They all agreed, watching the child, who was hiccupping as he flicked the bracelets and listened to them jingle. As small as he was, Raz would have looked harmless had he been human. Instead, though, the folded wings on his back, his sharp sunset eyes, and his scales, claws, and tail gave him a distinctly predatory air. Agais remembered the first time he’d seen the boy move, a blur of limbs and teeth, and he shivered.

  “Just a few days,” he said again, hoping Raz wouldn’t get tired of being cooped up. “After that it won’t be long before the lizard-kind come from the mountains, and he can be someone else’s problem.”

  Jarden and Tolman nodded, but it was the Grandmother Agais’ eyes flicked to. The old woman didn’t move. Instead she watched Raz yawn, showing off his dozens of narrow teeth before curling up into a ball on the floor, tail looped around him. One wing unfurled to cover his body like a blanket, and almost at once the boy’s breathing was long and deep.

  Finally the Grandmother glanced at Agais, and the look in her eyes spelled the mutiny of her thoughts out so clearly she might as well have screamed it to the heavens.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next day proved utterly uneventful, as did the following. Steadily more families were trickling over the dunes, and within a week the number of caravans and tents pitched around the desert lake swelled from a dozen to four times that. More would arrive in the coming days, others probably sporadically after that, but regardless their little settlements would grow quickly. It was a mere stroke of luck that none of the clans had chosen to circle in too near the Arros, allowing Raz’s presence to remain concealed.

  That would change soon enough, Agais forced himself to acknowledge.

  Still, he had bigger things to worry about. Grea had been confined to their tent for over a day now—too uncomfortable to walk as the baby shifted ceaselessly in her womb—and while she was still capable of eating, sleep had been difficult the last few nights.

  For her and her husband both.

  Agais’ original sense of wonder at his wife’s pregnancy was fading with every passing hour. Now he felt her pain, felt her discomfort whenever she flinched or let out an involuntary groan, and felt much more than that. His mind was a muddled mess of thoughts and images, a splintering display of questions and concerns that resulted from this clashing anxiety between finally being a father and his black fear of the Grandmother’s silent warning. He was at once thinking of what he would do when his child learned to walk, and what he would do if his child didn’t survive. Or if Grea didn’t survive. Or if they both didn’t survive…

  In the end, though, the hope he had formed for himself held solid. He clung to it like a single lit candle in the dark, trusting the light to keep the shadows at bay. The child—son or daughter, it didn’t matter—would be strong and healthy. They would grow to laugh and play with the older boys and girls and would one day marry and bear him grandchildren to bounce on his lap. All else faded as Agais drove that image to the forefront of his mind, and soon he was even able to let go of the Grandmother’s irksome belief that Raz i’Syul was the answer to the telling the Twins had granted her.

  Not that Raz would grow up poorly, though. Agais felt funny admitting it to himself, but the babe—had he been born to man—could have been any mother’s dream. After the effects of the herbs wore off, Raz had emerged an intelligent, well-behaved, and pleasant boy. Fully aware for the first time in weeks, the child only complained about his confined space in the tent and wagon, squawking unhappily until the Grandmother had finally figured out how to convey to him that he had to be quiet or he would be in danger. When, astonishingly, he listened, the old woman convinced Agais to let Raz out a little earlier every night. The other caravans were still some distance away and usually kept to themselves in the evenings, and the clanmaster took amusement in watching the lizard-babe emerge from his tent for the couple of hours of sunset and twilight that followed. For the first two nights the infant had examined everything with expected curiosity, split eyes wide when he saw the wagons and fire and horses for the first time. By the third, though, he’d lost interest, and instead somehow managed to coax Jarden and Tolman into playing in the sand with him.

  But Raz, as childish as he seemed, was still the beast at heart. Night noises pricked his ears, and more than once he abandoned what he was doing to bare small fangs at the empty darkness outside the camp. It was impossible to aptly explain the occurrence of breaking branches and loud neighbors, so Agais, the Grandmother, Jarden, and Tolman could only wait until these spouts of defensiveness passed. Raz instinctively didn’t leave the ring—though whether this was because he felt it was home or because he was scared of the world outside remained unknown—and after several long seconds he would relax, sniff the air, and return to whatever game he was about.

  Another day passed, then the next, and with every rising Sun Agais’ nervousness redoubled. Sleeping had become next to impossible for Grea, despite being confined to her bed, propped up by pillows against the wheel of the wagon. Her pain had subsided somewhat, her anxiety the only cause of restless nights now, but Agais couldn’t help but feel that it was the calm before the storm. Sure enough, after the clan’s tenth day at the edge of the Garin, the Grandmother appeared from their tent looking haggard, approaching the edgy husband who’d waited outside during her inspection.

  “Tomorrow,” she told him quietly, placing a hand on his arm. “The day after at the latest. Agais, I know we agreed not to tell her, but please—”

  “You can’t be sure,” he said flatly, not looking away from the tent. He pictured his child again, holding his son or daughter in his arms, and the light held. The Grandmother’s words barely grated him. “At this point I doubt I would tell her even if you could be. She’s too fragile.”

  The woman sighed, unhooking a lock of silvery hair that had gotten caught in her tribal chain and looping it behind her ear. “Fine. But if you aren’t going to tell her, at least prepare yourself. The vision was clear, Agais, the girl won’t—”

  “You. Can’t. Be. Sure,” he hissed, closing his mind to the words he imagined she would finish with. Moving around her, he nearly ripped off the leathered hides stepping inside.

  Grea was sitting up again, her sweet face bright and enlivened. Reaching out to take his hand, the woman pulled her husband down suddenly, wrapping her free arm around his neck to kiss him.

  “Tomorrow,” she breathed after she released his lips from her own, closing her eyes and resting her forehead on his. “Agais, tomorrow you will be a father.”

  “She said maybe the day after,” he whispered, hoping silently, not moving her arm from around his shoulders as he kneeled beside her. Before his knees even hit the mats, the man felt something sharp and cold wrench into his stomach and twist.

  Her Stars, he cursed silently. He was hoping for a delay of the moment he’d been anticipating for the past seven months of his life, ever since Grea had told him she was pregnant. He could feel his candle dimming and scrambled to hold onto it, trying to conjure his happy images.

  They wouldn’t come.

  Instead, all he could do was look into his wife’s face—his beautiful, loving wife—and imagine it twisted with pain, confusion, and immeasurable grief.

  What if? What if the Grandmother was right? What if the child didn’t survive? Could Grea, who so wanted to be the mother of the baby she bore in her womb, live past that tragedy? The idea of losing a daughter hurt Agais enough, but at the thought of losing his wife as well…

  “Grea…”

  But she wouldn’t let him speak. Instead she kissed him again, misunderstanding the building tears in his eyes for tears of joy. By the tim
e she was done wordlessly telling her husband of her love for him, Agais’ strength was gone completely. He sat in silence for the next hour, holding his wife and rocking her gently until she mercifully dozed off.

  Morning dawned faster than any Agais could remember. The night had seemed fleeting, despite his own lack of sleep this time, and to the clanmaster the Sun rose so quickly he swore the day would pass like an hour. He stood outside the caravan, toeing the shallows of the Garin and watching morning come. Soon Grea would wake from her rare moment of rest, and then he wouldn’t leave her side again. He’d forgotten all about Raz for once, his entire being revolving around his wife, trying to feed the dying ember that was all that was left of his hope.

  The Grandmother had never been wrong before…

  From somewhere off to his left, amidst the palm grove, quiet music played on the wind, whispering its way into camp. Jarden was having an early morning as well, apparently, and Agais stood at the edge of the lake listening to his brother play a melody on his panpipes, praising the new day.

  And hopefully praying to the Moon that she would not have need to visit them tonight.

  By noon her water had broken, and within a few hours Grea’s labor was in full swing. The Grandmother and Agais hadn’t left the tent since late in the morning, and every other member of the clan knew better than to go in unless called. Even then only Delfry—with her own two daughters and her experience assisting in the birth of a half-dozen others—was asked to fetch water and aid with the tasks.

  Everyone else, for their part, went about their business as best they could, ignoring Grea’s pained keens. Kosen, the oldest member of the clan apart from the Grandmother, took over Agais’ responsibilities, delegating tasks to the rest of the family. When the Sun began to dip toward the western hills, Trina, Iriso, and Hannas started on making dinner as the rest of the women set up fishing lines baited with bits of meat. Izan and his brothers were sent with a few copper barons to buy dried fruit from the other clans along the lake border, then to fetch wood from the grove. Jarden took it upon himself to watch over Raz, distracting the confused boy by letting him play with the panpipes, amused as the infant tried to imitate him, blowing awkwardly down the wrong end of the tubes.

  Even so, eventually the birth became impossible to ignore, and some of the smaller children grew increasingly frightened by Grea’s building groans and cries. In an attempt to occupy them, Ovan shepherded the group out of the wagon rings and into the oasis shallows. Tolman, armed with a staff and the long dagger he’d always worn before joining the Arros, stood guard, watching the waters for dark shapes. Stripped naked, the little ones shouted and played, splashing left and right.

  It wasn’t long before Delfry appeared once again, looking drained and weighed down with a heavy pan filled to the brim. Tolman got up to help her, wrinkling his nose at the mix of water and sick inside.

  “Any news?” he asked quietly. Together they carried the heavy basin away from the playing children, pouring its putrid contents out deep in the trees and kicking sand over the spot. The Garin fed off an underground river, but it was common agreement that waste and other such things be given over to the desert rather than the lake. “How is she?”

  The exhausted woman glanced around quickly, making sure the happy exclamations were still a ways away before speaking.

  “She’s a good bit paler than we’d like, but the Grandmother isn’t worried about Grea,” Delfry told him, bending down to scrub the pan with sand. “The baby though… It hasn’t tried to emerge fully yet, but we saw its feet. She had to turn it around so that it will come out headfirst.”

  Tolman looked at her blankly in response. Getting to her feet, Delfry explained.

  “The baby has to come out head first or there’s a chance its neck will get caught. From there, freeing it can be… difficult.”

  “Ah,” Tolman said simply, nodding, and together the pair made their way back to the water’s edge.

  “There shouldn’t be a problem, though,” Delfry continued hopefully, filling the pan with clean water. “The Grandmother managed to turn the child around. Now all we can do is wait for it to come. Grea is doing her best to coax it, but it’s a stubborn thing. She’s exhausted, and the Grandmother’s already gotten her permission to trigger the delivery if it hasn’t started by nightfall. She has the plants necessary.”

  Tolman nodded, watching her go. Then, turning west, he grimaced, seeing the Sun’s lowest tip sink below the dunes in the distance. Returning to his place by the water, he sat down, hard pressed to watch the tiring children as the day came to a close.

  From the trees, though, another pair of eyes gazed hungrily across the shore. Attracted by the sounds and the scent of the birth, four clawed paws padded silently over the sand to crouch beneath the lowest brush that clung to the base of the palms.

  CHAPTER 9

  The child started to come just as night reached its fullness, Her Stars appearing one by one like bright witnesses in a dark sky. Tolman could tell. Just as he and Ovan were gathering up the worn-out, dried and dressed children to return them to their parents, the distant groans of discomfort and pain reached a new level. Before long, Grea’s suffering howls pierced the quickly cooling air.

  “Hush,” Ovan told the youngest children clinging to him, patting Foeli’s head reassuringly. “You are hearing a miracle. There is nothing to be frightened of.”

  Tolman nodded in encouragement, and together the two men shepherded the group back into the wagon ring. The children huddled together on the far end of the circle from Agais and Grea’s tent, not much comforted. The women, too, seemed nervous. Understandable, considering almost half of them had young ones of their own. No doubt their day’s conversation had revolved around their own experiences, and how they thought Grea was doing.

  Tolman sat with his back to the space between his wagon and the one shared by Prida, Trina, and Kâtyn. The colorful fire in the center of the circle cast waves of steady heat across the camp, banishing the cold, but it did little to block out the sounds coming from the clanmaster’s tent. Tolman had hung up his dagger, but he kept his staff on hand instinctively. Maybe he was jumpy, his nerves set on edge by Grea’s continued labor, but the weight of the wood felt comforting in his callused palms.

  After a while Jarden reappeared from the Grandmother’s canvas hut, checking to see the progress on the night’s meal before coming to sit beside Tolman. For several minutes both men sat in silence, feeling out of their element.

  “How’s the boy?” Tolman asked eventually, more to spark conversation than anything. Forced exchange was preferable to whatever else they might hear tonight.

  “I left him to his own devices.” Jarden jumped on the opportunity. “The birth was making him nervous. I think he could smell it, oddly enough. Combine that with what he could hear, and I guess it’s understandable. He’s playing with that copper circlet he likes so much.”

  “You think it was best to leave him alone?”

  Jarden shrugged. “I tried bringing him outside at one point, but he didn’t seem keen on the idea. Maybe it’s best we give him some space. Between the lot of us, he hasn’t had any time to himself in the last month.”

  “I don’t think time means much when you’re out cold for two weeks,” Tolman chuckled. “And outside of that, I don’t really know how much space a toddler needs on his own.”

  Jarden smirked, kicking sand out from between his bare toes. “Young he might be, but I swear the boy has an old mind between those spiny ears. You were already with us when Hannas’ and Iriso’s whelps were young.” He jerked his head at the group of children Ovan was now distracting with exuberant storytelling, his arms swinging upward to hold an invisible sword aloft, depicting some heroic moment. “Slobbering little things, you know what I mean. And the Grandmother says that Raz hasn’t yet reached three summers. We think the atherian are beneath us, but that boy does a lot to make me question it. I’ve never known a human child of two capable of making himsel
f understood as well as him, and that’s without speaking a word of the common tongue.”

  “True enough,” Tolman acknowledged, “but what if he isn’t actually as young as the Grandmother says? What if he’s just stunted, or a runt?”

  “Ha!” Jarden snorted, grinning. “A winged male, the runt of the atherian breed. Sounds like the start of a bad joke… But I guess it could explain much. Still, I think I’ll trust the Grandmother, as should you.”

  Tolman nodded. Although he sometimes found the rest of the Arros’ generally one-sided opinion of the old woman tiresome, he couldn’t deny her wisdom. She was never wrong.

  “I’d rather put my trust in her being able to get that poor girl through her labor,” Tolman muttered, listening to Grea’s moans pick up again from across the fire. “How long do you think…?”

  But he stopped midsentence. His eyes were fixed on the dark space between Agais’ tent and the Grandmother’s, open to the desert beyond. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but he’d thought he’d seen something glimmer and blink through the night, catching the light of the cooking fire. Only black stared back now, but nomadic life rarely led a man to brush such things aside so easily.