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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Steel found the crook beneath jaw and neck, hiding under Manoth Corm’s thick beard, and the older man died without a sound, windpipe severed along with the thick veins in the flesh paralleling the spine.

  Barsyn raised his bloodied sword to the heavens, and the crowd rose to their feet in a frenzy, cheering and applauding with renewed gusto.

  “Such a waste,” Kal said sadly, having remained seated beside Talo. He watched as a handful of footmen in plain brown-and-gray uniforms hurried onto the field to start dragging away Corm’s motionless form. Barsyn, still waving and beaming into the crowd, followed the body down beneath the Arena.

  “‘Death is the beginning of new, just as birth is the end of old,’” Talo quoted, echoing past words of Eret Ta’hir. “Somewhere in this world, Corm will return soon enough.”

  “Then let us pray his next ending isn’t in a place like that,” grumbled Kal, pointing down into the pit. “Still… how did you know he was going to lose?”

  Talo half smiled at the question. “Surviving a duel is as much about being able to wield and control your own strengths as it is knowing an opponent’s weaknesses. Corm never learned that. You could see it in his bearing. He was itching to end the fight as soon as possible. The big ones usually are.”

  “You’re big,” Kal retorted with a chuckle. “Is that how you did it?”

  “Fortunately, no. I figured out as much of my own strengths and weaknesses as I did my opponents’. Each match I learned all over again when to strike, where to strike, and how to strike. They can teach you how you’re supposed to do something, but showing you how to adapt when what you’ve been taught is more likely to get you killed is another beast entirely.”

  “And I suppose you adapted,” Kal said with a whistle.

  “I suppose I did.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Only so many of the statues that once stood in the Hall of Heroes remain intact today. Among them, though, is an oddity. While all the others comprised of carefully cast bronze on a heavy marble pedestal, there is one that is made of cheap iron, bent and hammered into its rough but unmistakable shape. Though Raz i’Syul Arro was—for numerous obvious reasons—never deemed worthy of standing among the other greats by the leading parties of Azbar, it seems that there were plenty among the city’s people who thought otherwise. So many, in fact, that when the crude depiction of his form was set among the Heroes, one must venture that the council knew better than to order it removed.”

  —A Comprised History of the Arenas, by unknown author

  The fights took most of the day. From his place on the wall, Raz watched the pairs take the gangway, one after another. He started to play a game with himself, attempting to guess who would survive and who the Arena’s attendants would roll down the ramp as a corpse at the end of a bout. On a few occasions no one died, one combatant having yielded to the other in the hopes of living to fight another day.

  On one occasion, both were rolled.

  Raz had to give the Doctore her credit. She knew how to judge the men and women she’d been presented. Most often he guessed correctly who would walk down the ramp and who would tumble, but not always. There were a few surprises here and there. A thin, dirty fellow wielding nothing more than a pair of daggers beneath his tattered cloak strode unscathed behind the bloody body of man in leather armor, a man Raz had been quite sure could handle the curved saber he’d had strapped to one hip. Later, an older woman with a scar that split the dark hair along her left scalp had to be helped down the gangway by the attendants, having bested a spearman Raz would have put his money on. Then again, judging by the darkness of the cloth she clutched against her abdomen, glistening wet in the light of the underworks’ torches, he wasn’t so sure he’d been that far off.

  The day went on, Raz watching from behind his assigned guard, the crowd of fighters thinning out with every hour. He had thought he’d get bored, but the sound of the matches above coupled with the waxing and waning commentary of the crowd kept him thoroughly entertained. The metallic stench of blood was fresher now, accented with oiled leather and sweat. Before long, Raz even felt the edges of true excitement brushing against his conscience, the kind he used to get when handed a contract that demanded the head of a slaver. By the time attendants brought him food at midday—seared venison and some sort of spiced vegetable stew he didn’t bother with—Raz was hard-pressed to stop himself from demanding how much longer he would have to wait. He loathed the Arena and its spectators. He would never have given them the blood that they wanted, never oblige to the butchering of the innocents and gladiators Tern and his council would have thrown to him as fodder in an instant if they thought it would turn them a profit.

  This, though… These hunters had come with every intention of seeing him dead. They would take any and every chance they could to separate his head from his shoulders and ride it south to Miropa.

  Yes… This blood, Raz could give to the crowd more than willingly.

  “Final bout,” the high voice of one of the heralds called out eventually. “Athur the Goat Man to challenge Lelan val’En. Combatants… BEGIN!”

  Raz droned out the ensuing clash of steel on steel, already almost drowned by the thousands of cheers so loud it was hard on his ears even down here in the underworks. Instead, Raz stepped away from the wall he’d been leaning against once more and stretched his wings. Then, one limb at a time, he began to loosen up, not wanting to be stiff for what lay ahead.

  “Any man can lose to any other man,” Jarden Arro had once told him. “Only a fool doesn’t consider the fact that every fight, any fight, might be his last.”

  Raz rolled his long neck, loosening it with several distinct pops that made a couple of his guard glance over their shoulder. Next he rolled shoulders and stretched wrists, opening and closing fists to ensure cold fingers stayed strong and ready. By the time he finished all of his little exercises, the crowd’s volume had reached new heights, and a minute later the portcullis at the top of the ramp was raised once more.

  In life, Athur the Goat Man had been nearly as round as he was tall. In death this served him well—or at least the Arena attendants tasked to ridding the pit of his body. The man needed little more than a half push before he tumbled down of his own accord, hitting the underwork floor with a muffled thump and the crunch of adjusting dirt. The attendants scurried behind him, huffing and grunting to shift his massive form so that they could roll him away into the side chamber that housed the bodies of the other defeated until they could be disposed of.

  After them, the Southerner Lelan val’En strode imperiously down the ramp, broadsword and dagger still drawn, both reddened to the hilt. He was a tall man with large shoulders and long arms that let him use his paired weapons to great effect. He had a pinched face, though, the kind that made him look as though he were always staring down his nose at something. It didn’t go well with his darker complexion, and it didn’t endear him to Raz at all.

  Nor did the raising of his sword to point in Raz’s direction.

  “Like tha’, scaly?” val’En spat, waving the dagger in his other hand to indicate the body of the Goat Man the attendants were still struggling with. “Enjoy the show. Ain’t nothin’ keepin’ me from dumpin’ your carcass in the pile with the rest of them, now.”

  “Oh,” Raz replied with a smile, “I can think of one or two things that might make it difficult for you, val’En. You’re one of four, don’t forget. A few of the others might have something to say about you claiming the price on my head all for yourself.”

  “Just gotta promise you I’ll get to you first, then, ain’t I?”

  This time Raz allowed a little of the excitement he hadn’t been able to temper leak out into his smile. It must have shown, hungry on his reptilian features as the red crest on his neck flared half-erect, since val’En seemed to lose a little of the Southern bravado in his dark eyes.

  “I hope you can keep that promise, Southerner. Because if you don’t get to me first, I swear on the
Sun above I’ll get to you last.”

  To his credit, val’En recovered his composure well. Seemingly choosing not to dignify Raz with an answer, he spat once more and strode off, wiping his blades clean on the side of his thick cotton pants as he walked. Raz watched him go until the man turned a corner in the underwork tunnels and disappeared.

  There goes one we’ll enjoy taking a chunk out of, huh, sis?

  Raz shivered, opening and closing his hands again. He had enough faith in the Doctore to have entrusted her and her helpers with Ahna without much pause. Still, he felt bare without the dviassegai at his side. Anytime she wasn’t within reach, in fact, he felt much the same. Now, not knowing where she was, the bareness was accented with a tinge of loss.

  Funny enough, though, Raz had the distinct impression he would be seeing Ahna again soon.

  About five minutes after val’En’s departure, the gladiators of the Arena began forming along the gangway. They would provide entertainment for the next half hour while the four finalists rested and had any minor wounds stitched up and cared for. Then all would be called back to the Arena, and the finale of the Chairman’s Tourney’s opening day would begin.

  For the first time since that morning, Raz finally grew restless. The combat he could hear above seemed to draw little more from the crowd than the occasional cheer or—more often—jeer. The herald kept up a lively commentary that helped paint the picture a little, but from the sound of it the spectators seemed barely satisfied with the entertainment offered during this brief interlude.

  And Tern knows that, Raz realized, watching the misting gray light descend in rays through the wooden crossbars at the top of the ramp. He’s teasing them just enough so that, when the main course finally shows, they’ll be starving for blood.

  At long last, after what felt more like half a day than a mere half hour, the herald announced the conclusion of the exhibitions. There was relative silence as the gladiators gave their formal thanks to the stands for their attention and patronage, and then the men and women under Alyssa’s care marched back down into the underworks, sparing Raz more than a few glances of loathing on the way. Not a minute after them, three men—including val’En—and a woman crossed before Raz’s guard to gather along the ramp. While val’En wore light leather over striped cloth, the other two men—Wellen Ryvers and Tymoth Barse, if Raz remembered correctly—wore a mixed fit of studded leather and plate over chain. Each had won their branches of the tourney decisively, not letting any match go longer than a minute. In one hand, both men carried a tower shield. In the other, though, Wellen preferred a flanged mace to Tymoth’s longsword. Had it not been obvious by their matching skill and equipment, the whispered conversation they were having a pace from the other two only confirmed the pair knew each other.

  Something to keep in mind, Raz thought as he turned his eyes on the woman.

  Sona, she’d called herself simply. Unlike the others, the woman was there partially by luck, having won her final bout by default when her would-be opponent succumbed to wounds he’d received vying for his shot. Despite this, Sona was also the one Raz thought most likely to take him by surprise. A heavy cloth cloak hung over and around her shoulders, and he’d seen nothing of her body except for pale Northern legs over furred boots slip through the slit in her cape as she walked. Her bouts had been surprisingly quiet, and faster even than Ryvers’ or Barth’s. Judging by the response of the crowd, though, whatever she’d done had been entertainment enough to forgive her the speed of her kills.

  “Combatants! Up the ramp! The gate opens in one minute!”

  Alyssa Rhen had appeared again, showing up for the first time since Raz had seen her that morning. She looked weary, the age in her face more pronounced than ever.

  “Something the matter?” Raz asked as she passed through his ring of guards again.

  “You try explaining to a score of men and women, all armed, why the crowd—usually so fond of them—barely gave them so much as a whistle as they fought,” she said angrily, coming to stop before him and crossing her arms.

  Raz shrugged. “Your spectators have a taste for blood. They’ve been teased all day. Did you expect it to go any better?”

  Alyssa shrugged, raising one hand to press on her eyes. “No, of course not, but they didn’t. Nor did they want to hear that. You robbed three hundred gladiators of a majority of their livelihood when you showed up. They’re keen on any reason to blame you, these days.”

  “My, I’m so shocked,” Raz said dryly as the herald called out again. “However will I live with myself now?”

  Alyssa smirked, looking over her shoulder to watch the portcullis lift.

  “Spectators!”

  It was no longer the herald, but Tern now, who addressed the Arena once more.

  “Friends! You have witnessed today some of the finest blades in the world! You have picked your winners and placed your bets! Cheered for your survivors and mourned your lost! Now, though, the true entertainment begins. In a moment’s time you will meet again the brave warriors come to slay the great Scourge of the South, the four who fought hardest, survived longest, just to win and keep your affections!”

  The crowd roared in unison, screaming their approval.

  “They had best prepare, though,” Tern continued in a theatrically hushed tone that still managed to carry through the stadium. “They had best be ready, for what comes out of the gate after them is more than man, more even than beast. Raz i’Syul Arro has claimed more lives than any ten you saw today combined. He has fought—and won—many battles in this very Arena. He has no blades, armed only with steel claws and teeth stained by the blood of the murdered. He comes with no intention of dying, and every intention of feeding your hunger.”

  The crowd was quiet now, hanging on to the Chairman’s every word.

  “So!” Tern’s voice picked up again, climbing back into an excited pitch. “Who will you choose? Will you cheer for the brave four, come to slay the Monster and claim their reward? Or will you stand behind your champion, a being more savage than anything to have ever walked this earth? Whatever you decide, it is time to PLACE. YOUR. BETS!”

  Over the boom of the stands, the herald began calling the names of the four finalists. Raz didn’t make out the first two, but watched as val’En and Ryvers disappeared through the gate. Sona was next, and he heard the distinct cheers for her name as she stepped out into the gray sunlight. Barth went last, and finally Raz was alone, with only Alyssa and the guard standing between him and his turn in the pit.

  “I guess I don’t need to tell you to watch your ass?” the Doctore said half sarcastically, half warningly.

  “If you did, I doubt we would ever have gotten this far,” Raz laughed, stepping forward.

  With only a moment’s hesitation the guard parted, and he started to climb the gangway. The cold of the outside air clawed at him almost immediately as he got close to the gate, chilling the steel of his armor and tips of his fingers and ears. He kept moving, though, eyes on the dim glow that was the Sun in a cloud-darkened sky above.

  Perhaps it was good the Twins couldn’t see what would happen here today.

  “Now,” the herald shouted, cutting over the crowd, “it is time to meet the challenger. Men and women of Azbar, stand in welcome of your champion! Enter, RAZ I’SYUL ARRO!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Raz blinked away the momentary blindness of stepping back into the day. When he could see normally, he had to actively deny himself the temptation to stare openmouthed into the stands.

  Never in his life, not even in the thriving mass markets of Miropa, had Raz ever seen so many people.

  His fights before today had drawn the crowd, even selling out the Arena, according to Rhen. Now, though, the masses flowed like ants, an ocean of colored furs and cloth that undulated unnaturally, as though blown by a hundred different winds in all directions. They numbered so many that Raz could literally feel the heat of their bodies in the moderate coolness of the air that—by all ri
ghts—should have been frigid.

  So this is what thirteen thousand looks like, he thought to himself, standing in the pit at the mouth of the portcullis that had already begun to lower behind him. Who knew there were this many people in the world?

  As he looked around, a form directly across from him caught his eye. The Chairman sat in a great throne-like chair, scooted very near the edge of his box. His eyes, clear cold blue even from this distance, were watching Raz expectantly, though he demonstrated no such inclination by any other indication. Beside and behind him, an ever-present shadow almost invisible in the shade of the alcove, Azzeki Koro stood watch. The whites of his dark eyes were on Raz as well, though Raz imagined there was more hope for failure in them than the Captain-Commander would ever let his master see.

  And there, below them both, suspended by ropes against the stone wall some seventeen or eighteen feet above the pit, was Ahna.

  Raz couldn’t help it. He smiled.