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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Three men stood by the desk in the center of the room, pausing in their discussion when they heard the door open behind them. One was Jofrey, a small man in his fifties, sporting a greying beard that reached the top of his chest, blue eyes crinkled around the edges from laughing and smiling and squinting through his crystal spectacles at too many letters into the darker hours of too many nights. He wore stained grey pants and a loose cotton shirt—a far sight different from the usual refinement he cut in the crisp white of his Priest’s robes—and Syrah felt an involuntary chill run down her spine as she realized he’d been roused from his bed.

  Whatever had happened, it had been important enough to wake him from what rare sleep he got these days…

  Of the other two, Syrah only recognized them vaguely. They were men of the cloth, residents of the High Citadel, but you wouldn’t have thought so given the image they cut now. Bedecked from head to toe in pelts and thick wool overcoats and pants, the men looked like they would have fit more at home with the mountain men that were causing such a stir than among the faithful of the keep. The fur stuck to them in clumps, thick and drenched with what she assumed was melted snow, and they had the miserable air about them of men stuck too long in out in the freeze.

  “Syrah,” Jofrey greeted her with a tired smile as she approached them. “Good. Sona managed to find you then. I hoped she would.”

  “You seemed to have made it very clear that it was in everyone’s best interest she did,” Syrah told him with a nod, coming to stand opposite him, between the two nameless Priests.

  “I did indeed,” he mumbled, half listening as he glanced to the man on Syrah’s right. “Have you met Priest Loben? Or,” he waved to the man on Syrah’s left, “Priest Derro?”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure, no,” Syrah replied, nodding to each of the Priests in turn. “We’ve come across each other in passing, I’m sure, but nothing more.”

  “Always busy running around, eh?” Loben, the one on her right, jested with a strained grin. He had a pinched, ungraciously framed face, but his smile was friendly, if stressed. “I remember you as a girl, much the same. Always running around with Reyn Hartlet and the rest of your little friends. My son, Bellen, was in some of your classes, in fact.”

  “I remember Bellen.” Syrah perked up. “He helped me get through arithmetics! I never had much of a mind for numbers, sadly.”

  “And you never had much of a mind for company either, it seems,” the other man, Priest Derro, grumbled from her left. “What in the Lifegiver’s name possessed you to get involved with the savages, woman? I would think someone cut from Brahnt’s cloth would never have been so foolhardy.”

  There was a thick silence as Syrah turned slowly to look Derro in the face. He was a short, rotund man, barely an inch taller than she, with beady eyes that glared at her with zealous confidence and foolish judgment. His pudgy face looked as though it were usually clean-shaven, but had taken on the shadow of several days of stubble, now sprouting in patches around his flabby neck, weak chin, and thin lips like dying grass on dry soil.

  “What ‘possessed me’”—she rolled the phrase pointedly as she replied—“were the vows we made to do what we can for all people, sir. Not just those whose accessibility happens to be within stone’s throw of a well-laden table.”

  The remark struck the fat man as intended, and he flushed, opening his mouth to respond.

  Jofrey, however, beat him to it.

  “Derro, keep your opinions to yourself,” he said sharply, the tired man replaced suddenly by the striking presence of the interim High Priest. “The news you both bring is enough to swallow tonight, and I need none of your ugly comments to spice my meal, thank you very much.”

  “What news?” Syrah asked quickly, deciding to do her part in bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand as she looked between Jofrey and Priest Loben.

  “Mountain men,” Loben said in mumbled answer. “At the base of the pass.”

  In response to this, Derro snorted. “So Loben thinks,” he grumbled. “Six days we’ve camped at the bottom of those damn stairs, with this one”—he waved an impatient hand at the taller Priest—“jumping at every stray flutter of leaves and flick in the shadows. Spends most of his time shaking in his boots, muttering about wolves and ursali. Now it’s the damn Kayle himself.”

  “Camped?” Syrah repeated, confused.

  “Loben and Derro are two of ten,” Jofrey told her with a nod. “I sent a group of our more experienced through the storms, to guard the mountain pass, with provisions for two weeks. If the Kayle is indeed coming here, the progress of the bulk of his army will be slow. It was my hope, though, that eyes and ears in the Woods might be able to warn us of any scouting parties he may have sent ahead.”

  “Wise,” Syrah said with a nod before looking back at Loben. “And?”

  Loben bit his lip nervously, giving a sidelong look at Derro, who opened his mouth to say something more.

  He hadn't quite gotten it out before Syrah lifted an angry finger, not even turning to look at him.

  “When it’s your turn to speak, sir, you will be told,” she spat, before addressing Loben kindly again. “Now… What did you see?”

  The Priest chewed on his lip a moment more, then found his voice as he shrugged. “I… can’t be sure,” he said. “Men. I know that. I was a ways into the Arocklen, heading west, when I saw them. At first I thought they were just wolves, or something likewise, so I conjured flames to scare them off. When the light hit them, though, they were men.”

  “Or hallucinations,” Derro muttered.

  Syrah ignored him. “What did they look like?” she pressed Loben. “Describe them.”

  “Thin,” the Priest said at once, more eager now that he knew Syrah wasn’t going to shun his story right out the gate. “Bearded. With dirty faces and animal skulls atop their heads, or on their shoulders.”

  Syrah cursed internally.

  “Goatmen,” she told the group, though she turned to look at Jofrey in particular. “The Gähs. Of all the tribes, they are the least fond of blood and battles. They prefer hunting and animal sacrifices to please their gods. Loben probably frightened them as much as they did him. They’re superb woodsmen and trackers, though. It makes sense that Baoill would use them as scouts.” She frowned. “It also means that the Kayle will have found the mountain path, if he didn’t know where it was already. They’ll have followed Loben back easily enough, and then it’s only a matter of time before word gets back to the main army, even if they are weeks out.”

  She paused, struck by a sudden concerning thought. The worry must have crossed her face, because Jofrey’s eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?” he asked her.

  Syrah didn’t respond for a few seconds, mentally going over the possibilities and probabilities.

  “… I can’t say for sure,” she said slowly, “but if Baoill’s bothered to send scouts this far ahead, it’s possible he’s sent a vanguard as well…”

  That didn’t settle well with anyone, though Derro managed to speak first. “A vanguard?” His round face blanched. Apparently he no longer doubted that his companion had seen what he’d claimed. “Of what? More of these Goatmen?”

  “Doubtful.” Syrah shook her head, still thinking. “The Gähs clan isn’t one for open war. They’re archers, cutthroats at best. If the Kayle intends to start his siege as early as possible, he’ll have sent others as a first onslaught. If he’s conquered the eastern tribes, he might take advantage of their knowledge of the terrain. Maybe Sefî or Velkrin. In that case, though, he’ll be delayed. My bet would be on the Kregoan, or the Amreht. He might even send the Sigûrth, if he thinks he can spare them.”

  “And that would be… bad?” Derro asked, the hesitation in the question spelling out all too clearly how much he did not, in fact, want to hear the answer.

  “Any and all of them,” Syrah said with a nod. “The Goatmen are an exception in their relative docility. The rest of the clans h
ave a saying: Garros es Feys es Kayle, da brán ed brûn. ‘Glory to Gods and King, by blood and bone.’”

  She let the portent of the words weigh down on the three men.

  Finally, Jofrey spoke. “So…” he started slowly. “The war reaches us at last.”

  Syrah nodded. “I would pull the rest of your scouts back, at least far enough up the path to make for an easy escape if need be. The Goatmen won’t want for open battle, but they’ll come crawling out of the trees in the night if the Kayle wants your men dead. Don’t give them the opportunity.”

  “Agreed.” Jofrey looked between Derro and Loben. “See to it.”

  The two men nodded, both pale in the face. Giving a brief bow to both Syrah and Jofrey—though Derro’s tilt to Syrah was more a convulsive twitch than any sort of respectful gesture—they turned and hurried off.

  After the door had swung shut behind them, Jofrey sighed, leaning back to rest on the edge of the desk behind him and rubbing his eyes with a thumb and the bent knuckle of his forefinger.

  “A siege,” he muttered, chuckling into his hand darkly. “A bloody siege. I tell you, Syrah, of all the things I’ve seen in my life—and I’ve seen a damn few things, believe it or not—this is not something I’d ever have expected to bear witness to.”

  “That makes you and a couple thousand others, in this place,” Syrah said with a dry chuckle, crossing her arms. “Do we have the provisions to make it through the winter?”

  Jofrey nodded, though he still frowned. “Well enough, though we’ll be surviving off nothing more than gruel if the valley towns don’t come to our aid in time. If they don’t come at all, we won’t make it beyond the first month of summer.”

  “Cheerful,” Syrah grumbled.

  Jofrey shrugged. “Realistic. If it comes to it, we’ll need to know where our weaknesses are.”

  “I supposed,” Syrah said with a huff, reaching up to push a lock of white hair behind her ear. “Still, let’s hope it doesn't come to that. You’ve sent birds out to the towns?”

  “The very night you made out the Kayle’s plan.” Jofrey nodded. “And a few more the morning after for good measure. We’ve done all we can, at this point.”

  Syrah frowned, suddenly thinking hard. “Not quite.”

  Jofrey cocked a brow at that. “Explain.” He leaned towards her, his curiosity piqued.

  “The vanguard,” she told him. “If they come, and they’re western tribes, then there’s a good chance I’ve worked with their people. If they were part of the main host I doubt I would have much of a chance to talk any sort of sense into them while they were under Baoill’s thumb, but separate from the army they might not be so unified…”

  “Go on,” Jofrey said with a slow nod, indicated he followed so far.

  “So…” Syrah started, forming the idea as she spoke. “If we could disrupt the front line of the Kayle’s attack, it would mean a lot of trouble for him when he’d arrive. No siege, no camps, and less soldiers.”

  Jofrey fell into contemplation, his eyes on the floor as he thought, one hand absent-mindedly stroking his beard.

  “A punishing strike,” he agreed after a moment.

  “Very. It would make it harder for the Kayle to establish a foothold in the Woods, much less along the path or at the gates of the Citadel. If we can disband whatever spearhead he sends—or even disrupt it—we could delay him weeks, and at the very least a few days. It might make all the difference, in the end.”

  “So you want me to… what? Give you permission to meet their vanguard head on?”

  Syrah smiled. “Just give me permission to craft a white flag from some old bed sheets.”

  Jofrey sighed, and returned to rubbing his eyes tiredly.

  “I get the distinct feeling,” he said eventually, “that it wouldn’t matter in the least whether or not I give you my blessing to do anything.”

  Syrah laughed, shrugging. “If it makes you feel better,” she said with a sly smile, “it wouldn’t have mattered if Talo had been here either.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “We talked of many things, into the dark hours of just as many nights. We talked of the past, of the future, of the present. We talked of politics and wars, of people and places and things. We talked about dreams, aspirations, and the direction in which life had taken us. When we talked about what we wished for, though, what our greatest desires really were, at the core of all things, Raz would always go quiet. Then he would tell me of what he missed most about an old life, of the warm comforts of home, love, and family.”

  —Syrah Brahnt

  As Raz came to, the first thing he was aware of was that he was floating. A softness enveloped him, a silken gentleness, like the clouds themselves had been stitched tightly together to wrap around him in a soft cocoon.

  The second thing he was aware of was the horrible, bone-deep ache of his back, chest, and head.

  Raz groaned, fidgeting in discomfort. From somewhere nearby he heard a gasp, then the scrape of what sounded like wood on wood as a chair was pushed back when someone hurriedly stood up. He was aware of their presence above him, of a body leaning over him, and the cloud shifting around him.

  No, he realized. Not a cloud. A bed.

  Raz cracked his eyes open slowly, marveling at how even this small motion made his head throb, the painful pressure behind his eyes that accented several days of dehydration, sickness, and what he suspected was very callous treatment.

  “Ooowwwwwe,” was all he could manage through gritted teeth.

  At this some of the tension faded from the blurry outline of the worrying figure hovering over him, and there was a light, feminine snigger.

  “Raz i’Syul Arro, groaning like a child. Now I really have seen it all.”

  Raz’s eyes flew open at the sound of the familiar voice, and he rapidly tried to blink away the sleep. Slowly the faded silhouette solidified, forming itself into a pretty Southern woman bedecked in light Northern fashion, a grey blanket pulled over her white wool shirt in an attempt to ward off what chill the roaring fire in the hearth on the far wall hadn't been able to chase away.

  “Eva?” Raz croaked through a dry throat, not believing his eyes. In response, the woman smiled broadly.

  “In the flesh.” She gave him a little nod. “And very glad to see you back among the living.”

  “But…how? What…?” Raz couldn’t keep his questions in order, taking his eyes off the former slave to look around the room, wincing as the motion shot pain up his spine and into his neck. It was a sparse chamber, with plain plank floors and walls of plaster and stone. Above his head, heavy crossbeams lined the ceiling, supporting what he assumed to be at least one other floor to the building.

  “Go easy,” Eva said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and resting a hand atop his where it lay beneath the covers. “You’re safe. We have all the time to talk.”

  Raz calmed at the pressure of her hand on his, forcing himself to relax, feeling the ache in his back ebb as he let himself sink fully into the pillow behind his head.

  “I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed,” he said, feeling the plushness of the feather filled mattress beneath his shoulders and fingers.

  “You’ve been busy, I hear,” Eva said with a laugh. “Challenging the Mahsadën can’t have left you with much opportunity to frequent the better inns and taverns on your way up here.”

  “It didn’t leave much opportunity for sleep at all, much less anything else,” Raz said with a smirk. Then his face sobered, and he contemplated Eva carefully, studying her face.

  “I want you to tell me everything that’s happened since you left the South,” he said finally, calmer this time. “First, though… I don’t remember much, after the road. I remember the men, and every now and then what I think was the bumping of a cart…”

  “Mercenaries had you,” Eva said with a frown. “Possibly split off from one of the valley towns’ militaries. It happens, and only moreso since word spread about your open invitatio
n in the Arena. I don’t know how they got you, but it seems they wanted you alive. Badly enough even to break for Ystréd and ferret out someone who would patch you up without too many questions.”

  “And that person happened to be you?” Raz demanded doubtfully.

  Eva shook her head. “No. They took you to an acquaintance of mine, a hack named Sven. Terrible physician, but a decent man overall, and he owed me a few favors given the number of times I’ve come to the rescue for him when he’s botched up. When he saw you he found a way to let me know you were in the city.”

  “Why?” Raz asked, still confused. “How did he know that—?”