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

by Bryce O'Connor

  They were beautiful works all, and every generation certain members of the faith made it their duty to maintain and restore the paintings, ensuring the history locked in those colors would remain intact for all those come after them.

  Syrah made for the very back of the library, circling the heat well and ignoring the curious glances thrown her way by a few of the readers. Passing them and slipping through the other side of the rings of shelves, she reached the far wall, where a set of wide steps had been carved out of the stone, leading up. Running parallel to the wall, she took the steps rapidly, stepping onto the landing as Jofrey hurried along behind her. The second and third floors of the library weren’t true floors. Rather, they were wide walkways that led all the way around the chamber, each inmost edge comprising of the wall of the floor below, giving the entire room a great sensation of growing as one looked up. Narrower halls led off the walkways, branching into smaller chambers secluded for private study.

  It was towards one of these that Syrah made. Passing a young acolyte, maybe twelve or thirteen, she grabbed him gently by the arm.

  “What’s your name, boy?” she asked kindly. The acolyte blinked blue eyes at her, glancing down at the paleness of her hand.

  “W-Willor, Mistress Brahnt,” he stuttered.

  Syrah smiled at him, dropping her hand and kneeling down so that she was face-to-face with him.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Willor,” she said quietly. “Now, I have a favor to ask you. Can you run and fetch me as much clean parchment as you can find, as well as ink and a quill?” She glanced at Jofrey over her shoulder, and grinned mischievously at him. “Actually, make that two quills. Can you do that for me?”

  Willor nodded furiously.

  “Good. You can bring them to me in here.” She indicated an empty study to her right, complete with its own thick-paned window, through which the snow could be made out, whirling against the gray and black of the mountains outside.

  “Letters?” Jofrey groaned as the boy took off, then followed Syrah into the room. “Did I just willingly sacrifice my evening so I could spend it cooped up in a room with you writing letters?”

  “Not letters, per se,” Syrah said with a smile, plopping herself down on the thick cushion of one of the two mismatched chairs around the small table that took up much of the room’s space. “More like a call to arms. Of course, if you have a better idea on how to coordinate our strategy with the remaining valley towns, I’m all ears. You know I was never much of a scribe.”

  Jofrey’s resigned sigh was answer enough, and he took a seat in the other chair.

  “Fine,” he said, propping his elbow on the table and his chin in hand as he turned to look out the window. “Not much is going to get through this storm, though.”

  “We’ll send them as soon as it clears,” Syrah said with a nod, pushing a lock of white hair out of her eyes as she, too, watched the snow. “Mind you, between Talo, Carro, the valley towns, the smaller villages, and all the faith’s temples, it could very well be spring by the time we finish up.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Jofrey mumbled sarcastically.

  Then he groaned, because Willor had just appeared in the doorway of their small room, balancing two inkwells with quills on a stack of sheeted parchment so tall he was having trouble seeing over it.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Fear the Gods, my son. Revere them. They are the ones who granted you your strength. They are the ones who granted you your mind. When the time comes, Gûlraht, do not shun Them of Stone. For if They have the power to craft a man such as you, consider what manner of creature They will have to create in order to dole out your punishment for angering them.”

  —Tarruk Baoill’s last words to his son

  Gûlraht Baoill drank in the quiet like water offered to a man dying of thirst. Only once before had he known such peace in a place. It had been a cave, an abyssal cavern where his father had led him when he was a boy, blind in the dark through cramped tunnels and down slick climbs until they reached the place itself. Buried beneath all the weight of the mountains above, a world of light and life existed, a place where the walls themselves were alive with shifting greens and blues, shimmering like false reflections across the surface of still water. For hours they had sat together in silence, allowing the tranquility of that wondrous sunless world to steal away whatever fears and concerns plagued the world of man far above.

  After his father’s passing, Gûlraht had never been able to find the cave again.

  That peace, though, he thought, looking up into the trees, might still be found, it seems.

  He had heard that, in the midst of the freeze, the thick canopy of the Arocklen weighed so densely with snow that the light of day could not pierce its veil. He had heard that the forest floor of the woods was blacker than night come winter, secreting away the treacherous pitch and roll of hills and tricky footing. He had heard that monsters stalked between the great pines, barely allowing a glint of sharp eyes in the dark before dragging away the unwary.

  So far, though, he had seen none of this.

  Perhaps it was that he and his twenty-five thousand still hugged the outskirts of the great Wood. The trees grew narrower and scattered here, allowing snow to pile more thickly in certain places than others, and giving way to sunlight that cut down through the green, gray, and white of the winter woodland. Or perhaps the storms hadn’t come heavily enough. The one or two he’d forced his troops through, trekking for the Woods, had certainly been troublesome, but they were nothing to the howling blizzards that would come with the true depth of the freeze, raging with all the force of the Stone Gods come to test man’s strength and resolve.

  Whatever it was, instead of the bleak portrait of gnarled wood, dirty snow, and oppressive darkness he’d painted in his mind, Gûlraht had found a world of solace beneath stoic branches, a place of calming seclusion that once again stripped the hardships of man from his flesh, lifting the heavy weight of leadership from his shoulders. He stood now in the largest clearing he’d been able to find within a minute’s trek of camp, the space in the canopy above no more than a man’s length wide, peering up through the trees. It was another clear morning, the heavens above a sheet of blue streaked with wisps of pale clouds. Gûlraht would call for a slow march soon, pressing steadily further into the Arocklen.

  For now, though, he allowed his men their fraction of the restfulness he was seeking out himself.

  No birds called out, no animals moved between the thick trunks, but the Woods themselves sang for him, a quiet, divine harmony. Wind snuck, cold but gentle, through the Arocklen, shifting branches so that they creaked in the breeze. Here and there snow slipped from its perch, freeing needled leaves to wave fluidly about. Looking upward, he could watch the tips of the great pines themselves join the dance, waving back and forth until the forest around him seemed a living thing, shifting with each intake of breath.

  Gûlraht’s blue eyes moved a little higher, though, and abruptly the burden of his intents came crashing down on him once more.

  To the common eye, the Saragrias Range could not seem much different from any of the other mountain ridges of the North. It cut upward in staggered rows like teeth, black-and-gray faces only streaked here and there with white. The tips were capped in snow, so that on a cloudy day the mountains might seem to melt into the very sky. They towered upward, just north of the Kayle and his thousands, seeming to take up most of the world, like any mountain does when one stands at its feet.

  To Gûlraht, however, there was little that was not different about the Saragrias. To Gûlraht, it seemed these mountains carved up the sky with evil ambition, marring the very face of the earth.

  Gûlraht—as most men of the mountain tribesmen knew their homelands—was conscious of every mile of the Vietalis Ranges as intimately as one might know the body of a lover. Even leagues upon leagues away he could close his eyes and conjure the ridgeline in his thoughts, imagining it against the glow or rising and setting suns. Those moun
tains, to him, spoke of strength and power, of reverence to the Gods, and reverence to one’s own purpose.

  When he looked up at the Saragrias, on the other hand, Gûlraht saw only weakness, corruption of faith, and could almost taste the bitterness of betrayal.

  Somewhere up there, thinking herself safe behind the wicked line of her mountains, the bitch hid from him.

  “I’m coming for you, Witch,” Gûlraht told the wind softly. “Let us see how your false god answers your prayers.”

  Then, in a whirl of leather and furs and beaded hair, the Kayle turned and started back for camp, leaving his tranquility behind.

  CHAPTER 25

  “There are times—more and more often, I fear, as I grow older—that I wonder why Laor saw fit to place me as He has. Perhaps it was the ignorance of youth, that blind confidence which may just have served me better than most in my earlier years, but I remember a time when the choices were easy, when the decisions were black and white and I only had to stick to whatever I decided on. With the cursed experience and wisdom of age, however, I have lost that confidence. Every question has more than one answer. Every problem, a dozen solutions. Laor has granted me the comforts of the High Priest’s mantle, but in the same breath has seen fit to challenge me with a lifetime of questioning myself and my actions. I pray only that I can bear this weight, and pray even harder that my successor can bear the weight of whatever mistakes I might make.”

  —private journal of Eret Ta’hir

  “Talo, there is no time for this!” Carro nearly screamed in frustration, watching Talo and Kal pull on their plain heavy coats by the doors of the temple.

  Talo frowned at that. “If there is no time for this, then there is no time for the people of Azbar. Are you asking me to abandon tens of thousands to whatever fate Quin Tern has in store for them? That man would grind every member of his populace into blood and bone if he thought it would turn him a profit.”

  “I’m loath to say it, love, but yes. I know it’s not in you to walk away from a fight, but if we don’t act soon there may not be an Azbar for you to fight for!”

  “I am walking away, Carro,” Talo said impatiently. “I said we would leave today, and we will. But there are things that need to be addressed. I can’t leave him without cause or reason. He needs to know, to understand.”

  “Arro will survive,” Carro hissed in exasperation. “He’s made it this far, hasn’t he? And he has friends here, the boy and girl. They will give him enough cause to keep going, even after we are gone.”

  “For the last two weeks the only thing we have been doing is preparing him for an end to his fighting. You’ve met him, Carro. Do you truly believe him to be a man that finds fulfillment in the blood on his hands? Do you think for a moment that he would be content to suffer the killings endlessly, without being told why we abandoned him?”

  At that, Carro hesitated. The truth was that he had, for a moment, thought Raz i’Syul Arro found enjoyment in his actions, in the death and pain doled out by his hand. Carro nearly shivered as he remembered the first time he’d met the atherian, stealing away late in the night with Talo and Yu’ri, making for market quarters, their predetermined meeting place. They thought they’d been the first to arrive, stowing themselves in the shadows of the alleys on one side of the street, the scent of salted meat and stale bread from the butcher and bakery on either side of them mixing with that chill crispness of the air one can only find in a winter night.

  So when a towering black shadow detached itself from the wall behind them, it had taken all Carro had not to scream.

  Despite all description and warning nothing could have truly prepared the Priest for his first meeting with the “Monster of Karth.” To Carro, Raz i’Syul seemed like some devil out of a children’s storybook. All he saw at first was the glint of eyes beneath a heavy hood, glimmering over a black reptilian snout and a number of white teeth that stuck up and down between his lips. At seven feet tall he towered over all of them, making even Talo look suddenly small, which had frightened Carro more than anything. To him, Talo had always held an unbreakable quality, that stoic strength of a man not easily felled, like the wall of some great castle.

  When he looked at Raz i’Syul, though, Carro suddenly realized just how frail even the strongest of men could be.

  It didn’t help that Arro seemed to have little interest in small talk, or friendly exchanges of any sort. He nodded briefly when Talo had introduced Carro as another Priest from the High Citadel, but had given no other greeting. Carro had only learned later why the atherian seemed unable to be anything more than civil towards them, and at the time had thought it base rudeness and reminiscent of every other mercenary and sellsword he’d ever met.

  But then they’d started to discuss the plight of Azbar, and it didn’t take long for Carro to second-guess himself.

  They spoke for hours that night, their conversation covering everything from what Arro was hearing from Alyssa Rhen to what little headway Kal had been able to make before help had arrived. They spoke of approaching Tern again, of attempting once more to rile the population of Azbar itself into revolt, and even of reaching out to other towns for assistance in pressuring the Chairman into shutting the Arena down once more.

  In the end they’d made little headway, but it was certainly no fault of Arro’s. The atherian had listened to every postulation earnestly, taking in their ideas and offering his own when he saw fit. Not only were his suggestions good, but Carro realized after a time that each one seemed resolutely set around ending the fights as soon as possible.

  “I’ve made my point,” Arro had said. “I thought they would stop after a few fights, but Tern is raising the pot after every win to entice more to keep fighting. We need to find another way, and we need to find it fast.”

  This is no monster, Carro remembered realizing. This is a man with skills he doesn’t want to use.

  He’d looked at Talo then, and understood why his partner seemed so intent on freeing the atherian from his burden.

  Looking at him now, he made that realization yet again.

  “He’s not you, Talo,” he said quietly.

  Talo froze at that, his back to the room now, already limping towards the door. It was a moment before he spoke, and even then he didn’t turn around.

  “I know that, but I was him. And if I’d been offered a chance to stop, then abandoned just as hope was offered, it would have been my undoing, Carro. The man has tasted madness once already, I think. I won’t have a hand in dragging him back there again.”

  Then he pulled the door open and, Kal following close behind, disappeared into the gray of the afternoon.

  Quin Tern heard the racing footsteps from the minute the runner entered the town hall. He listened to them hammer their way up old creaking staircases, echoing along with thrown open doors and startled servants in their rush to get to him.

  What now? he thought, eyes narrowing, letting his arms drop and turning away from the low fire in the east wall of his room, causing a great chagrin for the manservants on either side of him. They’d been surging about him, dressing and powdering him in preparation for the day’s tournaments. Whoever had selected his attire had done well today, choosing to layer him in sleek silver wolf furs offset by a black doublet with silver buttons. The clothes were tighter around his midriff than he preferred, but he was in a forgiving mood, pleased with the splendor of the robes. Quin was more than a little irritated, therefore, when the doors to his chambers flew open, revealing a breathless messenger in the uniform of the city, breathing like the bellows, a crunched letter held in one hand.

  “Ch-Chairman, sir!” the runner managed to gasp out as he hurried into the room. “A message for you! Came by bird this morning. Sir… Harond is fallen.”

  The mood of the room changed abruptly. Where a moment before it had been a whirl of servants all attempting to keep about their duties of dressing him as the Chairman turned to face the door, in the next all was still. Every man among them had
turned to face the messenger, eyes wide.

  Even Tern himself took a second to recover.

  “What?” he demanded in a hiss, lumbering forward and reaching out for the crumpled parchment. Ordinarily he might have had the man flogged for presenting the letter to him in such poor condition, but Quin hardly registered the wrinkling as he pulled the sheet flat, scanning it quickly. It wasn’t a long message, but it was succinct. He didn’t recognize the curved signature at the bottom, done in a woman’s crisp hand. He’d heard the old High Priest of Cyurgi’ Di had passed, but it was his understanding that Talo Brahnt—an acquaintance of Azbar in years past—had been chosen to take his place. The fact that it wasn’t Brahnt, rather than this mystery woman, who was sending word made Quin suspicious, but such concerns were rapidly superseded by the contents of the letter itself.