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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Raz relaxed, forcing himself to stop listening to the Crows’ conversation. He rattled the slightest bit, shifting from a sitting position into a crouch, the armor encasing his left arm and leg gleaming in the dark as it caught the limited light of the Moon through the open archway on the opposite wall. The leather wrappings around his right forearm and right thigh were stiff from the cold, and he reached down to loosen them. He was in full gear tonight. He had no delusions the element of surprise would only get them so far in these cramped quarters, and was glad for the white robes he wore under the steel. He’d kept himself moving as much as he could the last hour, but if Kî and her entourage didn’t arrive soon he would have to think of something else to keep from stiffening up in the cold. The heat of the day had dissipated in minutes, like every summer night, and even through his cloth layers Raz could feel the coolness of the metal against his skin. His wings were freezing, cramping uncomfortably from being held tight to his back for so many hours already. His gladius was slung diagonally between them, and every few minutes he reached down instinctively to check that his long knife was still strapped to his thigh and the war ax was looped at his waist.

  Come on, he thought, eyes on the faint glow of the open front door. Where are you, you slaving witch?

  Expectedly, nothing answered him.

  It was almost another quarter hour, in fact, before his ears twitched up, spreading to catch a faint sound in the distance. His first thought was of street runners, already responsible for a few false alarms in the last couple hours, but listening harder he realized the shuffling was getting steadily closer. Grabbing a hard lump of dirt from the ground, Raz tossed it at the dark corner he knew the chattering Crows were crouched, listening to it thunk against some piece of the junk they hid behind.

  “Shut up,” he hissed across the floor. “They’re coming.”

  For what seemed like the first time all night, the Crows stopped their bickering. Raz turned his ears back on the door. He could make out the footsteps almost perfectly now, along with the clinking of armor, growing suddenly louder like the group had turned a corner. In agreement with the thought, the right side of the doorframe was abruptly awash with torchlight, bathing the distant perpendicular wall and casting every other shadowed place inside into even deeper darkness.

  Lowering himself so that only his eyes and hood were above the box he crouched behind, Raz reached out and tapped the nearest of the brothers. In unison he heard two axes being unclasped and drawn, and following the example he moved one hand to grasp Ahna’s handle and lift her from the floor. By the time he had her ready in his hands the first silhouette of a man appeared in the archway. Stepping in and looking around, the slaver brandished a torch high to illuminate the better part of the empty chamber that made up the first half of the building. His sword was drawn, and he peered into every corner of the immediate space around him, looking for anything that might spell trouble. After a few seconds the man seemed satisfied, and he sheathed the weapon before yelling over his shoulder.

  “All’s clear!”

  Six figures trooped in after him, one pair holding two more torches aloft while the other four dropped several heavy bags to the ground, along with what looked like a folding table. Not long after, yet another body stepped out of the night, lavish in heavy red silks that looked ludicrously misplaced in their surroundings.

  Kî Orran was not a beautiful woman, such as the rumors she’d undoubtedly started herself murmured. She was fit, that wasn’t in doubt, slim around the waist and legs and wide across the bodice, but those were her only fortunate features. A furry mantle was pulled over bony shoulders to ward off the night chill, and she clutched at it, looking around. The unfortunate frame of her face reminded Raz of some combination of a horse and a pig. It was narrow, her oversized white teeth gleaming from between prominent lips that seemed to rest unnaturally far apart. Her jowls hung like an old woman’s, and her long nose was upturned, offset by narrow eyes that took in the building around her with extreme distaste.

  Raz watched two of her guards lift and unfold the table, setting it down. Another procured a chair from somewhere. Kî didn’t sit, though, instead motioning to one of the men.

  “Bring me my writing materials, then have someone check the storage areas.” She had an oddly sweet, husky voice that didn’t fit her looks. “It reeks in here. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find some dead slummer tucked in a corner. And tell Dole to bring in the merchandise and start a fire. No use having them die from the cold before morning.”

  Raz’s blood chilled hearing the words. The man Kî had been speaking to nodded and moved back to the door. He leaned around the corner of the entrance, exchanging words with what must have been another guard. At once the clinking sounds Raz had assumed were armor started up again, and another group was led in, wrists shackled, feet strung together by a pair of long chains. Raz felt his body go rigid.

  Slaves! Sass didn’t say they were actually traveling with slaves!

  He watched the dozen individuals herded to the far wall of the building by four men with whips. They were dirty and sleep deprived, their mismatched clothes—undoubtedly the same ones they’d been wearing when they’d been snatched—torn and dusty. Within moments of their entering the room, Raz could smell them, a mixed stench of vomit, sweat, and unwashed bodies.

  “Sit down and shut it!” one of the drivers yelled when they reached the left wall, shoving them one by one to the ground. “You be quiet, you eat! You gripe, and ya’ get the whip! Got it?”

  The slaves nodded, some of them crying, some shivering from a mixture of the cold and fear. Raz had to consciously keep himself low, unable to look away. He felt Ahna in his hands, and the sudden image of smashing her into the heads of every one of Kî’s entourage was so enticing he almost missed the man ordered to check the rest of the warehouse, torch in hand and looking around. Raz only got down in time because one of the brothers grabbed his shoulder, pulling him low.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, glancing back at the man before peering over the edge of the boxes again, carefully this time. The guard passed them by, inspecting the spaces between the piled crates and boxes less than meticulously. He hummed a tune and kept moving, the torchlight casting odd webbed shadows across the wall as he ducked his way through the grid of columns. It was after the man passed the stacked barrels behind which the Crows were crouched that Raz had the idea.

  They’d all agreed to a flexible plan, considering how little anyone actually knew about the circumstances of Kî’s move to the grain house. They’d opted against positioning Basser—who claimed to be a dead-shot with a bow—on the roofs outside, just in case Kî’s men had the same idea. If they could move quickly and maintained some element of surprise, working as a group would be effective enough.

  With this in mind, Raz made his decision. Lifting himself from his crouch just enough to move, he eased Ahna gently to the floor.

  She wouldn’t be needed for this.

  “What’re you—?” one of the men behind him began in an angry hiss, but his brother clapped a hand over his mouth. Ignoring the pair, Raz snuck forward, edging away from the darting light, tailing the slaver.

  Raz was a deadly whisper, slipping fluidly across the floor so as to avoid making any noise—an accomplishment in full gear. He stepped with the shadows until he was perpendicular to the man. There Raz stilled and watched the figure bend over, searching the last corner of the building.

  The moment his back was turned, Raz darted forward, uncaring of the noise. He reached up and around, grabbing the man’s jaw with one hand and pressing against the back of his neck with the other. Twisting them so viciously the metal claws of his gauntlets cut furrows into the slaver’s cheeks, he felt the spine pop and snap.

  There was a shout from behind him. Raz let the body fall to the floor, torch rolling from the man’s dead hands. Snatching it from the ground, he watched the other ten men that made up Kî’s guard spin to face him with drawn swords.


  Then he flipped the torch over, extinguished it in the dirt, and bolted through the sudden black.

  “Distract them!” he hissed in the general direction he knew Goyr and his gang were hiding. Raz had long since memorized every inch of the building. He slipped out the side door, turning and dashing toward the main entrance.

  There was a sentry posted out front, arms wrapped around himself and chin tucked to his chest for warmth. He hadn’t even noticed someone running silently up beside him when Raz’s armored fist collided with his temple, caving in the side of his skull.

  Barely slowing down, Raz grabbed the doorway and swung into the building, drawing the gladius and ax. Just as he’d expected, every head was turned toward the back of the first floor, a few scuffles already breaking out in the limited light.

  Raz pounced, aiming for the nearest exposed back. The ax’s small blade collided with the base of the man’s head, crushing bone and cutting sinew, and he fell like a dropped stone. Spinning, Raz whisked his sword up. It caught the face of the second man who’d had just enough time to turn and look, splitting it.

  Well trained, Raz thought to himself, mildly impressed when the third guard got his blade up in time to deflect a blow from the gladius, parrying it to the side. Using the momentum to his advantage, Raz struck three quick blows with the ax. One to the ribs, then the wrist, then across the throat. He turned away, leaving the man to stagger back and clutch at his neck with his good hand as blood stained the cotton of his shirt.

  The ambush was in full swing now, the Crows and two brothers each engaged in their own battles. Not including Kî—who was yelling orders even as she pressed her back to the wall, trying to get away from Raz—the odds were seven on seven with the five guards dead.

  Odds he liked better.

  Raz’s weapons worked together in fluid motion, blocking and deflecting. They took advantage of every opening, sliding into any flawed defense as he darted across the floor. A thrust glanced off the steel of his plate mail, the blade’s owner stumbling past him off balanced. Raz kneed him in the chest, feeling ribs snap. He stepped back, swinging his sword in a vicious backspin that caught another man across the bridge of his nose, sending him howling to the ground, thrashing and grasping at his eyes.

  The razor-thin blade of the gladius flashed once, piercing the man’s heart. His dying breath seeped out like a sigh.

  Raz looked up, searching.

  Kî.

  With all the men around him dead and caring little that the sarydâ were still fighting, Raz spun around. He found her sliding sideways across the wall toward the door, trying to attract as little notice as possible. Her eyes went wide when she caught sight of him looking at her. She started to sprint, making a break for the night outside.

  Sheathing his weapons in a blink, Raz took two steps and leapt, crashing into her back and bearing her to the ground. Pinning her there, he grabbed a handful of hair and forced her face into the dirt. She was screaming, his wings spreading over her like death’s red cloak. Raz snarled, bringing his teeth inches from her ear.

  “Don’t! Please! Please!” she shrieked, squirming facedown under him, trying to get free. In response Raz put a knee on her back, making her scream again.

  “Tell me what you were going to do with those people!” he roared at her, pointing to the slaves still cowering against the wall behind them. “Where were you taking them?”

  “S-southeast edge of the city!” she gasped. His knee ground into her back unforgivingly. “They were sold to some trader from Cyro! They’re supposed to be shipped in the morning! You want them? Take them! Tell your šef they’re theirs! They’re all theirs! Just let me go!”

  “Like I would let the Mahsadën have them,” Raz hissed, pulling her head back by her hair. He drew his knife and pressed it to her throat. “You can all just—!”

  “TAKE THEM YOURSELF, THEN!” the woman screamed, sobbing as she struggled under his weight. “IF THAT’S WHY YOU’RE HERE THEN TAKE THEM YOURSELF! I’LL TELL YOU WHERE THEY’RE BEING SOLD! I’LL TELL YOU! YOU CAN…!”

  The words hit Raz like a hammer to the head.

  He felt numb shock rock through him as he looked down on Kî, watching her continued to thrash under him. She thought he wanted the slaves. She thought he was looking for his own niche in the market.

  And then, in one moment, every repressed thought and doubt he’d had about what he was doing crashed down on Raz like the roof had caved in. He reeled away from the woman, gasping as he scrambled back, eyes fixed on her stunned face. His metal claws tore at the dirt in his rush to be separated from her, tossing dust in the air. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He barely noticed that the sounds of fighting had finally come to an end, barely noticed Kî leap to her feet and run for the door.

  He didn’t even blink when Davin Goyr stepped between her and freedom, cutting the woman down so viciously her last screech was brought short when the man’s blade cleaved through lung.

  What am I doing? Raz thought, trapped in a maelstrom of fear and panic. What am I doing? What is this? What have I done?

  It was like he was drowning in fire, struggling to breathe, his mind reeling. Kî had thought he was there for the slaves! And why shouldn’t he have been? For years he’d been working with the Mahsadën, misleading himself the whole time. He’d known that his actions did little to change the situation of those whose captors he killed, but he’d never thought of it like this…

  Is this what I am now? Raz thought to himself, watching Goyr bend down and wipe his blade on Kî’s silks. A thug they use to make their takeover that much easier?

  Yes.

  Raz shook as the answer ripped at him. The flames that were his memories burned, and he remembered the faces of the men and women he’d killed for what he’d deluded himself into thinking was the greater good. In reality he’d just been clearing a path, making it easier for the Mahsadën to slip their thin fingers into every nook and cranny of Miropa.

  They’d played him like a fiddle.

  “Oy! Scaly!”

  Raz blinked, realizing he’d been staring at Goyr. The man was smirking, eyeing him contemptuously.

  “Bounty’s mine! Don’t even think about tellin’ Sass otherwise! I saw what ya’ did. What? The little cunt scare you off, Monster?”

  Ordinarily, Raz would have torn the Crow’s throat out without a second thought, even if money hadn’t been involved. Now, though, he did nothing, getting to his feet and looking around numbly. Every one of Kî’s guard was dead or dying, scattered where they fell. The other three Crows were moving about, stripping the bodies of anything useful and knifing those still breathing. The two brothers sat in a corner, one helping to wrap a loose bandage around the other’s thick arm, gashed by some blade or another. Behind Raz the slaves were cringing, either sobbing or staring at the seven of them with terrified eyes.

  “Sass told us to hold the fort until mornin’,” Goyr said, coming to stand beside Raz. He, too, looked at the trembling forms. “He’ll be comin’ with a crew to clean up with, and our pay. You even think abou’ tryin’ to take the bounty, and I’ll gut ya’ from—”

  “It’s yours.”

  Goyr blinked in surprise at Raz’s words. “Oh… Right then.”

  He scratched his beard, studying the dozen figures before them. He caught sight of a pretty girl near the end, and a nasty smile spread across his face. She was dark haired, with empty gray eyes that said she’d given up every hope.

  “If’n that’s the case, I’m gonna have me a lil’ celebration.”

  He moved toward the girl hungrily. She hadn’t noticed the Crow looking at her, but saw him now and scooted back at his approach, horrified.

  “C’mon, girly,” Goyr crooned, bending down beside her. Sitting on his heels, he reached out a callused hand to move a hair from her face. “Let’s you and me have a tumble, eh?”

  The girl sobbed, cowering and turning away, shaking as the man’s fingers trailed down her cheek and neck, fondling th
e hem of her dirty shirt.

  It was all it took.

  In one instant of terrifying change, Raz felt himself lifted from the boiling pit of realization and dropped into an emptiness he hadn’t felt in seven years. The abyss rushed up to meet him, the world falling into faded shades of red and black. What humanity was left, only ever distant in most of the past decade, disappeared altogether.

  Raz moved with the speed of a whip, unleashing the animal. His weapons forgotten, he leapt, seizing the back of Goyr’s neck and wrenching him to his feet as the man sputtered a surprised yell.

  Then, snarling, Raz slammed his face into the rotten planks of the nearest wall.

  The brittle timber splintered. Goyr screamed, his cry muffled through broken teeth. Raz’s snarl grew into a roar, and he slammed the Crow’s face into the wood again, then again, then again. Each time, Goyr’s screams died a little more. Each time, the wood came away wetter and redder. Finally, after a dozen crushing blows, the wall gave in completely. Goyr’s head went straight through, buried to the shoulder, and at last he was silent. Only then did Raz stop, releasing the back of the man’s head to let the body hang there by its throat. The slaves were screaming, the woman he’d saved trying to scramble away from the gore trailing to the floor by her hands.