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

by Bryce O'Connor

  Then let’s give them a dragon.

  Somersaulting sideways, his clawed hand getting a good grip against the cleared ground, Raz launched himself back again, well away from the twelve left. As they began to turn on him, starting to rush him as a group, Raz reached up and threw back the hood of his robes. Cold air bit at his reptilian features, a mild wind chilling his black snout and white teeth. Still, taking a lunging step forward—like the warning feign of a snake—Raz flared his neck crest up over his head, spread his ears to their extent, and let loose a thundering, howling scream that seemed to shake the very earth beneath his feet.

  The sound crashed over the mountain men like one of the Laorin’s blasting spells. Many had stumbled when he’d revealed his face, howling in fear at the sight. As the rumbling cry hit them, like the defiant roar of some terrifying animal, to a one they hesitated, blood rushing from already pale faces. Leaping on the opportunity, Raz lunged at the closest man, smashing aside a desperate, terrified swing of the man’s ax and cutting him down with a vicious two-handed upward slash.

  Then he heard the clop of hooves on stone, and help arrived in a flash of magic.

  Raz had just whirled to face his next opponent, bloody gladius raised high, when white fire erupted outward from the ground at his feet. It bloomed in an imperfect wedge before him, racing across the stone to lick at boots and furs, singeing hair and catching on cloth where it could. At once the remaining mountain men began to yell in fear, screaming again about the “Dahgün! Dahgün!”

  Over the crackle of the white flames, Raz heard the clang of steel hitting stone. Almost immediately there was another clang, then another, and through the shimmer of the magic Raz watched as the men began to fall back, empty hands raised against the sudden, crushing heat. In their delirium the men of the tribes didn’t have a prayer against this last great proof of power. With pitching wails of fear that echoed upwards, reverberating against the slopes of the mountains, the path’s sentries ran, scrambling in all directions through the snow, desperate to get away from Raz and the mocking bite of the flames.

  It was only after the last of them was finally gone, sprinting back into the cover of the Woods, that Raz looked over his shoulder.

  Carro was still atop Gale, right hand outstretched as he held the spell, left awkwardly wrapped about the stallion’s reins despite being slung across his chest. He looked strained and pale, shifting with the horse at the edge of the cleared stone. Raz had been so preoccupied with the fight that he hadn't kept track of the Priest, more concerned with the archers and keeping himself in one piece.

  The mountain men, however, seemed to have done the same, and Carro had taken full advantage, slinking close enough to be of assistance.

  Raz grinned at him, flicking his gladius free of most of the blood as he turned. “Couldn’t have asked for better timing.”

  “I thought you could use the help,” Carro grumbled back, letting his hand drop. At once, the fires dissipated in fading crackles. “Didn't think it would work that well, though.”

  “They were calling me ‘dahgün,’” Raz said with a shrug. “I think you just helped prove a point, in their eyes.”

  “Ah,” Carro said in understanding. “Well if they thought you were suddenly breathing fire, that’ll certainly do it. They’re a superstitious people. I doubt they have any more of an idea of what true dragons might have looked like than we do.”

  “Apparently wings, teeth, and claws were the only obligatory requirements,” Raz replied, turning back to examine the aftermath of the sentries’ retreat.

  While the Priest’s magic hadn't done more than scorch the armor of the dead, it had left the ground cracked and charred. Smoke wisped upwards from burned grass that had been hiding beneath what ice and snow the mountain men hadn't been able to clear, and steam rose from blackened stone slats that marked the start of the stairs. Atop one of these, the war ax lay innocently, awaiting its retrieval. Raz hurried over to pluck it from the ground, stowing it in its customary loop at his hip before sheathing the gladius over his shoulder.

  He’d clean the rest of the blood off later.

  “We need to get moving,” Carro said, as though echoing Raz’s thoughts. “Those men will be back with reinforcements inside of ten minutes.”

  “Less, probably.” Raz looked up the imposing streak of white and grey against the mountain face that was the snow-covered stairway. “But you’re right. Will you be able to manage on Gale?”

  “Not a good idea.”

  There was a thump, and Raz turned to see that the Priest had slid himself—somewhat clumsily given his one working arm—out of the saddle. He, too, was eyeing the stairway.

  “Better to go on foot,” Carro continued, leading Gale over. “The path is only going to become more treacherous as we get higher.”

  “Can we lead him up?” Raz asked in concern, taking the stallion’s reins as Carro struggled to slide his staff free from where it lay strapped atop Ahna.

  Carro nodded. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll manage. Mind you I haven’t got a clue how in Laor’s name we’ll get him back down, but it’s either we take him or we leave him.”

  “We take him,” Raz said without hesitating, stroking the stallion’s muzzle absently as he eyed the path again.

  “Aye, I thought you’d say that,” Carro said with half a smile. Then he frowned, looking around at the scattered dead that littered the blackened ground, their forms already frosted with wind-blown snow.

  “Can I…” he started uneasily. “Can I have a moment…? To send them off?”

  Raz paused, looking over his shoulder at the still line of the Woods that encircled them.

  Then he nodded.

  “Pray quickly, Priest,” he said, reaching out to grip the man’s shoulder briefly before starting for the steps, Gale in tow. “Time is not on our side.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “It is the opinion of many a learned man that the Laorin’s magical ‘gifts’—whom the faith believe to this day were granted to their founding members by their benevolent Lifegiver—would be more aptly classified as a sort of unorthodox art. Their abilities, while limited, are varied and adaptable, allowing the use of the base, simpler spells to be worked and molded into more complex creations. One such scholar—the famed author Agor Kehn—claims to have been fortunate enough to observe this phenomenon while traveling along the Northern roads, doing research for a book. Caught in a summer storm, Kehn asserts to have stumbled across a wandering Priest who offered to conjure up a ward to shield them both from the rain and wind. In great detail Kehn would later put to ink a description of watching in amazement as the man twisted magics of warmth and protection about a ‘messenger spell,’ encasing them in a comfortable shell that would warn the Priest if anyone should disturb them while they slept. Kehn would go on, some time later, to make comment on this experience, finishing his retelling with a literary flourish in which he compared the Priest’s spellwork as ‘akin to a master painter’s combination of essential colors into a creation of endless magnificence…’”

  —Legends Beyond the Border, by Zyryl Vahs

  The first ward triggered silently, alerting Priest Elber just as he was seating himself along one of the long benches that adorned the great hall’s leftmost table. The magic pulsed and ran over his skin like a shiver, tingling up his arms and into his back. He froze, almost dropping the sparse plate of seared venison, salted potatoes, and toasted grains that were the paltry rations of the midday meal. His appetite—ignored well past noon as he’d diligently made his daily exam of the spells that surrounded the Citadel—was suddenly forgotten. He shot up straight again, looking about for Benala Forn, whom he was sure he’d seen upon first entering the hall.

  Sure enough, the old Priestess was there, clambering to her feet two tables over even as her eyes met his, wrinkled face tight and pale.

  She sensed it too.

  And the woman wasn’t the only one. Throughout the rows of late lunchers, several among
the faithful had stiffened suddenly, jolting up from their meals or away from conversations. Elber recognized them as a scattering of the Priests and Priestesses he and Forn had selected to help them craft the wards, after Jofrey had put them in charge of the Citadel’s first lines of defense.

  “Damn…” Elber cursed under his breath.

  Then he dropped his plate roughly onto the table, ignoring it as much of the food bounced and spilled onto the roughened wood, and took a rapid path through the diners back towards the hall’s wide entrance.

  “Did you feel it?” Forn asked him, her wise, kindly voice sounding uncommonly edged with what might have been fear.

  Elber nodded. “I did. Let’s hope Jofrey is in Talo’s quarters. He’ll want to know something is coming up the path…”

  Jofrey, lamentably, was not in the High Priest’s quarters, nor was he in his own smaller chambers when they went looking there. Eventually a young Priestess was able to tell them that she had seen him in the library, tucked away in a secluded corner that the other men, women, and children had been giving a wide berth all morning.

  They’d thanked her, then hurried off.

  Five minutes later they reached the huge, ornately crafted door of the library, its layered wood paneling overlapping and tucking into itself to form a maze of fascinating, abstract geometries. Elber and Forn didn’t look up as they entered the expansive room that formed what was arguably the single greatest marvel in the entirety of the Citadel. Both council members had spent more decades serving Laor within the walls of Cyurgi’ Di than either cared to count, and so the awe that struck all newly indoctrinated when entering the vaulted chambers had long since worn away. There had been a time, perhaps, when Elber and Forn had felt the warm, blossoming magnificence of the place, radiating about them from the thousand upon thousands of cloth and leather-bound texts that sat patiently on ring after ring of ancient bookcases. Perhaps then they might even have been tempted to raise their eyes skyward to the incredible painted murals of the faith’s history that adorned the domed ceiling, or inward to the great raised grate through which the fiery glow of the temple’s furnaces could be seen a dozen floors below.

  As it was, though, Elber and Forn saw none of this, each scanning one side of the library only for a sign of Jofrey al’Sen. It took them a minute, but eventually Forn caught sight of him—indeed seated behind a narrow student’s desk in a far corner of the room—and she tugged on Elber’s sleeve, indicating the interim High Priest with a silent jerk of her head.

  Quickly, they hurried over.

  They were ten feet away when Jofrey seemed to take notice. He began to look up, a scowl darkening his aged face.

  “If it’s not important,” he started crossly, “I’d very much prefer not to be bothered right n—”

  He cut himself short, seeing who it was that was interrupting what looked to be a very thorough study of any book within the library that might make mention of the mountain clans. As he and Forn came to a stop to hover over the narrow desk and its occupant, Elber saw copies of such tomes as Cultural Clashes of the Common Age and A Study of Mythos: the North. The text Jofrey was now perusing, in fact, looked to be the fragile, two-hundred-year-old journal of Priest Gálos Br’hest, a former chieftain of a small Saragrias tribe whose remnants had been rapidly swallowed by the larger clans after Br’hest’s voluntary conversion to the Laorin way.

  Elber allowed himself a moment to pity Jofrey. After no news of Syrah’s condition in over a week, most of the council assumed her dead. Jofrey, however, had refused to give up on the woman, and spent every moment of what little spare time was afforded to him collecting any scrap of information he could on the tribes, hoping to find an avenue of negotiation.

  As far as he knew, Elber did not believe the man had had any success.

  And we have bigger things to worry about, now.

  “The first ward has been breached,” Forn said quietly, not waiting for Jofrey to question why it was they had sought him out. “Elber and I were both alerted.”

  Elber nodded in confirmation. “Several of the men and women we recruited to assist us in the spellwork seemed to have experienced the same warning,” he said in a low tone. “I’m sure Jerrom will say the same, if we can find him.”

  For a few seconds Jofrey’s strained face became suddenly tighter, the implications of this information bearing down on him all at once. Quickly, though, he composed himself, closing Gálos Br’hest’s journal with a snap and pushing himself to his feet. Waving a hand to catch the attention of a passing library attendant, he gestured the acolyte over.

  “Have these brought to the High Priest’s quarters,” Jofrey told the girl, indicating the journal and a half-dozen other books piled to one side of the desk. “I will complete my perusal of them there. The rest can be returned to their shelves, if you please.”

  The acolyte bobbed her head once, moving to obey even as Jofrey indicated for Elber and Forn to follow him. He started for the library door immediately, cutting through the shelves and readers with long, quick strides. As they made it into the hall, Jofrey didn’t stop walking.

  He did, however, give the pair behind him a glance over his shoulder.

  “Explain.”

  “It happened about twenty minutes ago,” Forn began at once. “The first ward extends as close to the base of the stairs as we could manage. The edge that crosses the path is about an hour up from the bottom of the mountains.”

  “And someone triggered it?” Jofrey asked, eyes set resolutely forward as they continued through the Citadel halls. “Do we know who? Or how many?”

  Men and women of all ranks and studies moved out of their way as the three of them hurried by, pulling aside children and the unwary to leave the way unhindered for the interim High Priest and the council members.

  “No,” Elber answered with a shake of his head. “The ward is far overextended as is. We can’t even tell you if it was broken along the stairway, at least for the time being. It’s the first line of the defense, a warning toll. If something is indeed coming up the mountain path it’s going to be a while before we know what.”

  “How long?”

  “Assuming it takes them the usual half-day or so to climb, several hours,” Forn replied. “Likely more, as the steps are well-choked by snow. The second ward extends halfway down the stairs. The third is halfway again to that.”

  “And they’ll be able to tell us from where they’re coming?” Jofrey asked, leading them around a sharp turn down the incline of a long ramp, their shadows flickering against the wall to their left, cast by the scattered blue and white candles set in small alcoves in the stone to their right.

  “Yes, the second will tell us from where,” Elber said in agreement. “The third what, and how many. There are a fourth and fifth, layered over one another along the very top of the stairs. They’ll blind anyone who steps onto the outer courtyard beyond the gate, and set fire to the stone. We crafted the spells carefully. The magics will burn through leather and fur and scald the skin. Anyone would be fool to brave the flames.”

  Jofrey waved the details aside.

  “The outer wards,” he said with the air of a man fixed on a single problem. “I think it’s safe to assume that the snows will slow anyone witless enough to make the ascent. That means we can’t expect to glean any more information until after sunset, and that’s if they push through the night.”

  “That would be imprudent,” Elber said thoughtfully. “Traveling by torchlight would be beyond dangerous this time of year. Footing is already precarious without reflections on the ice, not to mention the risk of the flames going out if there’s a strong enough wind.”

  “Agreed,” Jofrey said with a nod as the hall opened up into a larger corridor they all recognized. “All the same, we shouldn’t assume anything. If the tribes are making a play they would want to move fast. They aren’t aware we know they’re coming, and the risk of a few dozen lost to the mountain may seem worth the advantage of surprise. If th
e Kayle is sending an offensive force he will likely march them straight, without pause.”

  “Why would he attack, though?” Forn asked. “He has us trapped. All he has to do is stay put along the base of the path.”

  Jofrey frowned. “I don’t know. Baoill seems more than patient enough to wait out our stores, but there might be other factors at play. The most obvious reason I can think of is that he doesn’t want to give the other valley towns time to form an alliance. I imagine he ideally wants to push south as soon as possible. Laor knows if that’s even the entirety of his army down there. It might just be a contingent, tasked specifically with ensuring we stayed holed up.”

  “All the more reason not to press,” Forn kept on. “They risk losing their advantage, trapped on the path.”

  “Unless they don’t stick to the stairs…” Elber said darkly. “They’re mountain men. The slopes are their homes. Just because we don’t have a prayer of managing the mountain faces doesn’t mean they can’t.”