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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Leaving their horses tied at the archway, Talo and Carro followed the narrow path right up to the heavy oak doors of the temple. As Carro reached out to knock the head of his staff briefly against the wood, Talo looked around them, thinking of the first time he’d set foot on the ancient reed mats they stood upon, right in front of the entrance.

  It doesn’t change, this place, he thought as there was a clunk of a lock bar being shifted out of the way, and the door swung open with the quiet grind of well-oiled hinges.

  A face appeared in the entrance, youthful and curious. At once Talo got the distinct impression that unannounced visitors did not often frequent the temple, because the boy eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and excitement as he took in their garments and the paired steel staffs.

  Then he spotted the thin line of unassuming black along the ridge of Talo’s white hood, and he blanched.

  “High Priest!” he exclaimed at once, leaping forward to tug at the second door, swinging it wide. “Please, come in! High Priest Yu’ri made mention we might have visitors, but I don’t think he was expecting you for some time.”

  “He made it clear the need was urgent,” Talo told the acolyte with a nod, stepping into the temple after Carro. “That, and the road wasn’t as harsh as it might have been.”

  “And thank the Lifegiver for that,” Carro muttered, pulling his traveling packs from over his shoulder to set down beside the door.

  The interior of the temple was just as unadorned as the outside walls, but at least it was warmer. They’d entered directly into the great hall, much of the slate floor taken up by a single long table with several dozen mismatched chairs pushed under it on either side. Above them the roof jutted upward, angled sharply in order to shed the unforgiving snow that would bear down in due course. Curved rafters cast odd shadows against the incline of the ceiling, shifting about in the light of the massive fire that burned in a wide hearth jutting out of the wall at the end of the hall. Heat washed in waves over the room, and the flames outlined a large huddle of figures sitting and standing around the fire, talking in quiet murmurs to one another. As one the group looked around when Carro and Talo were let in, and almost at once a figure broke away, hurrying towards the door.

  “Talo! God, man! Has Laor seen fit to give you wings? It’s been barely three weeks since I sent the bird!”

  “Kal,” Talo greeted the smaller man fondly, accepting his embrace with one arm, his other hand still holding tight to his staff. “No wings, sadly. Though I hear there are more of them in this town than last I was here.”

  Kal Yu’ri chuckled, breaking away to step back and take them in. He was a slight man, with darkened skin he’d inherited from a Southern father. His eyes were still the same blue of his Northern mother’s, however, and the crinkling around them—only hinted at the last time Talo had seen the man—was deep and sharp, but kindly. His High Priest’s robes, bearing the same single black stripe as Talo’s, were frayed and patched in places, but still crisp and clean. All in all he looked like a man worn by time and responsibility, but carrying it all well.

  “Yes,” Yu’ri nodded, still smiling and turning to Carro, “Raz i’Syul has certainly been making waves, to say the least. And you, sir, I can only assume must be Priest al’Dor.”

  “In the flesh, though not for long in spirit if we don’t get nearer to that fire of yours, Priest Yu’ri.” Carro returned the smile easily, accepting and shaking the High Priest’s offered hand. “And please, no need for formalities. Carro is fine, if I may do the same.”

  “By all means!” Kal waved them towards the fire, where the group he’d left still waited. “I don’t know about your Citadel, but I think you’ll find formalities only go so far in the valley towns.”

  “I remember,” Talo chuckled, following Kal’s lead as they made for the far end of the hall, his staff clinking on the slate. “It seems not so long ago your mother was scolding me for my ‘appalling choice of verbal diction.’”

  “Ah, Mother,” Kal said sadly as they reached the group. “Yes… the Lifegiver saw fit to return her to his embrace some dozen years ago now, and she left me with the High Priest’s mantel. I like to think it might have gone to my father, but he’d passed a few years before her. Don’t let the woman fool you, though. I once heard her tell one of the other Priestesses in secret how amusing she found your ‘gutter language.’”

  “Hard woman, gentle soul,” Talo agreed with a nod before looking around at the figures gathered before them.

  The group was an odd mélange of sorts. Talo was relieved to see that Kal had understated their number somewhat in his letter, but there still couldn’t have been more than two score men and women around the fire. Among them, perhaps a dozen wore the robes of consecrated Priest and Priestess. About the same number wore the plainer robes of acolytes, pressed and clean as Kal’s own despite being in varied states of shabbiness. The rest wore plain clothes of all styles, marking them most likely to be followers of Laor, men and women of faith who came to the temple to pray and seek guidance. Such people made the occasional pilgrimage up to Cyurgi’ Di during the highest points of summer, but aside from that were rarely seen in the Citadel.

  “My friends,” Kal announced, stepping through the ring into the firelight, motioning Talo and Carro to follow. “Allow me to introduce High Priest Talo Brahnt and Priest Carro al’Dor, come from the High Citadel. They’ve traveled hard to get here in such short time, and undoubtedly would appreciate a moment’s rest before delving into the matters at hand. I think it best if we end the morning’s discussion for the time being, to be resumed once I’ve brought our friends up to speed.”

  There was a stirring among the crowd. Many of the individuals—mostly among the Laorin—were looking at the pair of them with rapt attention and interest. A few, however, had harder looks, specifically among the members of the city itself. Talo was unsurprised to see that these gazes were reserved almost solely for him, and came mostly from those about his age or older.

  Not for the first time, an old sadness touched surface, stroked to life by the fingers of bad and bloody memories. Talo imagined each of the men and women watching him with barely veiled dislike were feeling some similar form of those same emotions.

  Sadness, he thought, watching as the group dispersed, the town’s faithful heading for the door and the members of the temple going about their duties, or perhaps worse.

  Once the hall had all but emptied, Kal breathed a deep sigh.

  “With every week we see less and less of the faithful come to discuss Azbar’s situation,” he said sadly, motioning to a triad of chairs that had been vacated, set up near one side of the hearth. “You should have seen this place when Tern first started claiming debtors for the pits. We couldn’t fit everyone inside the temple! People were clamoring to have us stand up to him, begging the Laorin to put a stop to the madness.”

  “What happened?” Carro asked, helping Talo ease into the middle chair before taking one beside him. “I didn’t count more than fifteen from the town.”

  Kal sighed again, claiming the last chair, and nodded.

  “Much and more.” He shrugged, then thanked a small girl in acolyte’s robes as she appeared and presented him with a steaming cup of some strong tea smelling of herbs. As the girl offered a cup in turn to Talo and Carro, promising to return with bread and cheese from the kitchen, he continued.

  “For one thing, the longer it goes on, the less people care. We see it every year during the summer months. For the first week or so the town clamors to help those most affected by the freeze. Collapsed roofs are fixed, the hungry are fed, clothes and blankets and firewood are donated in droves. After that week, though, the help slows. The donations become less frequent, until they stop almost altogether. Within the month even the hungry are invisible again.”

  “It becomes part of the life they live,” Talo said with a nod, swirling his drink absent-mindedly as he listened. “The desire for change is enacted by change, not by a lack
of it. When things shift, there is a natural outcry, a desire for a shift back. Sometimes this is a positive reaction, sometimes not. Regardless, once that shift becomes the new normal, that desire to effect dissipates and is eventually forgotten.”

  “Exactly.” Kal brooded for a moment before continuing, watching the fire flicker as he sipped his drink. “And such has it been with the Arena. Not immediately, mind you. There were enough volunteers to last for a while, so no one was immediately alarmed. By the time I started to think I should reach out to you, however, things were already slanting towards bad. Those guilty of violent crimes were being offered a chance at freedom if they fought. Soon after, they weren’t even given the choice. From there it only got worse. The prisons were emptied, the woods around the town hunted free of bears and wolves and any other dangerous game that could provide some form of entertainment. Minor crimes suddenly became punishable by bouts in the Arena. Dozens died before the only criminals left in the city were the ones too smart to be caught.”

  “And that’s when Tern started claiming debtors?” Carro asked.

  “It is,” Kal nodded. “For the first week or so they tried to make do with deathless fights, using the gladiators the Arena keeps for true entertainment, but that didn’t last long. People are bloodthirsty at heart. The crowds demanded murder, and the Chairman was happy to sate them when he found his answer. Men, women, even children. If you could die, you could fight.”

  Talo felt his whole body still. He’d been in the process of raising the cooling tea to his lips, but froze instead. After a moment he lowered the cup slowly, hard-pressed to keep his hand still.

  Beside him, Carro’s face registered much of the emotion Talo was feeling.

  “Children?” he hissed in fury, one hand gripping the arm of his chair so tight the old wood looked liable to break. “Tern is having children thrown to the pit?”

  “He was.” Kal frowned. “That was when we attempted to make our voices heard in truth. We’d tried before, mind, but nothing overtly aggressive. Public displays of intolerance. Petitions for the closing of the Arena, and then—when that didn’t work—for the banning of fights involving anyone but trained gladiators. We had some success for a time, but eventually Tern had the guard break up our gatherings, citing us for ‘disruption of the peace’ of all things. When it became clear he had no conscience for who he threw in the pit, so long as they bled, though, we had to act. I took the matter to Tern and the council directly. I pleaded, begged, even threatened. I warned them of the wrath of Laor they might incur for spitting so casually on His gifts, of the wrath of man they would bring upon their heads if they kept tearing families apart and butchering the innocent in the name of the law.”

  “I’m assuming that didn’t go over as well as you would have liked,” Talo said, leaning back in his chair, still listening raptly.

  “They laughed.” Kal’s jaw was a hard line, clenched and tight as he fought to control the anger in his voice. “These men who claim to seek nothing but the good of the town and its people. These men, many of whom I have consoled through life and loss and hard times, telling them to seek the Lifegiver. They laughed, called me an old fool with outdated morals, and had me thrown from the town hall. When I tried to go back the next day, I was barred entry under suspicion of ‘seeking to harm one or more members of the council.’”

  There was a moment of heavy, seething silence. Talo absorbed it all, eyes on the fire, letting everything sink in and take hold.

  Children, he thought numbly. Not even in my time did the Arena allow children into the pit…

  Eventually, he turned back to Kal.

  “What happened, though?” he asked. “You said ‘he was.’ You imply Tern only allowed these fights to go on for so long. Why? Was the Arena failing to draw the crowds?”

  Kal snorted.

  “Failing to draw the crowds?” He laughed. “No such luck. If anything, fights between commoners or criminals drew greater attention to the place than ever before. It seems there’s nothing quite like witnessing two parties of equally lacking skill and knowledge have it out in a desperate battle for survival.”

  “The feeling of power, of control,” Talo nodded absently. “It’s what drew the crowds in truth the last time, the only thing that kept the gold flowing in earnest once the spectators got mostly bored of gladiators and wild animals having at it.”

  “Then it seems your Arena of old was missing Raz i’Syul Arro.”

  There was another pause.

  “i’Syul?” Carro said tentatively after a moment. “… You’ll have to explain.”

  “The atherian is the reason.” Kal drained his cup of tea, then set it carefully on the arm of his chair. “You asked what happened? What changed to make Tern stop claiming minor criminals and debtors as fodder for the pits? Then I tell you: Raz i’Syul Arro. The man appeared out of thin air, a week or so after I’d sent you the bird. No one is sure how or why, but one day everything is normal, and the next morning there’s a Southern lizard-kind wandering the streets of Azbar. Took some getting used to, to say the least.”

  “And he… what?” Talo pressed. “Convinced Tern there was nothing to be gained from stealing men and women from the populace? What did he have to say that you didn’t?”

  “It’s not what he had to say that made the difference. It’s what he had to offer. It’s not all clear, but the rumors say i’Syul was able to make an exchange for the freedom of the captives. He bargained to have them set free, and Tern hasn’t claimed a single man or woman from within the walls of Azbar since.”

  “But what did he bargain with?” Carro demanded, obviously shocked. “What could he possibly have had that would press the Chairman away from a lucrative system already in place?”

  Kal opened his mouth to speak, but Talo beat him to it. The High Priest was gazing at the far wall, putting together the pieces as they clicked with what he’d known of the man beforehand.

  So that’s why he’s doing it. That’s why he’s thrown himself to the pit…

  “He bargained with the only thing he had, and the one thing that might be more valuable than the lives of debtors and criminals,” Talo said.

  Then he turned to look at his partner.

  “Himself, Carro. Raz i’Syul gambled his life for theirs.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Though the Tundra beyond the Northern Ranges is vast and largely unexplored, I cannot imagine it a more unforgiving place than these mountains in winter. Despite our shelter, family, and warmth, beyond the comfort of these great walls the world rages with the fierceness of titans. Even as I sit here, scribbling away in the faded light of my lantern, I hear the wind ripping against the stone. I will not sleep well tonight, I fear. And if I do, I imagine dreams of winter demons will plague my slumber.”

  —private journal of Eret Ta’hir

  The battlements of the High Citadel were among the few places in the great temple one could be truly alone. The Laorin had no use for them, after all, and few thought to explore the tops of the keep’s walls when they were quite content simply staying within them.

  For those among the faith who were not so fulfilled, however, they proved sometimes to be a place of freedom in a world otherwise caged in stone.

  Syrah’s boots crunched in the thick layer of snow built up over the parapets as she walked. The storm had passed, the winds shifting to carry the blizzard south, but not before framing the world and all its vast entirety in gray and white. Had Syrah looked in either direction as she walked, she might have been dazzled by how the snow had softened the hard edge of the surrounding mountains. Rather than teeth seeking to devour the sky, for now the ranges seemed more like the tips of reaching fingers, curious to touch and feel the clouds and darkness beyond.

  As it was, Syrah saw nothing but the snow beneath her feet, her mind preoccupied with the letter clenched in one gloved hand at her side.

  When she reached the most southeastern corner of the wall, she finally stopped. In truth it w
as less a corner and more the rounded lip of a bastion jutting out over the cliffs, a suspended mass of worn granite hanging over empty air. Overtop of its crenellations, the world was laid out for Syrah, an intricate patchwork of woodland beneath the wisps of low-hanging clouds. In the clarity of the day, the Arocklen sprawled from the base of the mountain, weaving and dipping over land carved by time and nature. A great blanket of white and green, it stretched almost to the lip of the horizon—a substantial ways, considering Syrah’s vantage. At the very edge of view, a thin, broken line of paler green marked the end of the woods and the start of the Dehn, the great plains beyond.