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

by Bryce O'Connor

  A collective shiver passed through all three of them at that thought, each imagining the disaster of the Citadel surrounded, encircled by ten thousand campfires scattered among the cliffs.

  “It’s a moot point,” Forn said eventually. “There’s nothing we can do either way. In a few hours we’ll know what’s coming, and from where. All we can do is wait.”

  “No,” Jofrey disagreed. “That’s not all we can do.”

  He stopped them, at last, in front of a large, well-known archway. Every acolyte, for as long it took for them to be granted their staffs, spent a portion of every waking day within the honeycomb of halls and rooms beyond.

  The practice chambers of Cyurgi’ Di, after all, were where every future Priest and Priestess came to understand the dangers of the world, and learned to defend themselves accordingly with every advantage at their disposal.

  Without another word Jofrey turned and stepped under the archway, hastening down the main hallway as Elber and Forn followed dutifully behind. To their left and right, doors and other vaulted openings entered onto rooms of various shapes and sizes, some full of practicing acolytes under the watchful eye of older instructors, some with a scattering of Priests and Priestesses busy keeping their skills sharp, and some dark and empty. Quickly the maze of spaces filled with the sounds of mock battle, shouted directions mixing with the booms and cracks of magic and the clang of steel on steel. Heat expelled itself from rooms here and there, following flashes of white that flared like thunderless lightning. There was the crunch of breaking wood, and Elber caught a glimpse of a group of students practicing shaping their gifts into forceful discharges, using the created spells to throw the abused forms of straw and timber dummies across the floor, sometimes smashing them against the far wall.

  “Too much force, Ela,” he heard an instructor say kindly as they passed. “You’ll kill someone with a blast like that.”

  After a minute or so of winding their way in and about the chambers, peeking through every door they came across, Jofrey finally stopped. Together the three stood outside the entrance to a massive arched space, the ceiling and walls illuminated by a trio of simple hanging braziers that were suspended in a staggered pattern from the timber beaming. Below these, evenly spaced over the wide stone floor, a dozen or so pairs of men and women were sparring, apparently alternating between using their staffs and choosing from a multitude of dulled iron replicas that had been forged in the image of the weapons all Laorin might eventually face out in the violent world of man. They wielded them in practiced engagements, reviewing well-learned techniques and strategies of defense against the various instruments of war, combining unarmed combat, the steel staffs, and imitated motions of spellcasting to feign the disarming and incapacitation of their opponents. Along the walls, shouting encouragements and feedback, several instructors in sleeveless cloth tunics paced back and forth, their gazes shifting from pair to pair.

  It was towards one of these men that Jofrey moved, signaling Elber and Forn to stay put. As they waited patiently, watching some of the sparrers look up in surprise at the appearance of the interim High Priest, Elber thought he saw one of the other instructors staring in their direction.

  He turned to meet the man’s gaze, but Reyn Hartlet looked away quickly, returning to his work.

  Half a minute later Jofrey returned, Cullen Brern in tow. The Citadel’s master-at-arms looked as though the last ten-day had not been easy on him. There were bags under his eyes, and his usually rigid form seemed oddly diminished, as though exhaustion were pulling him down into a slouch.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Elber and Forn. “Jofrey says the first ward was triggered?”

  As one the two nodded, and Elber let Forn relay once again what they had already told Jofrey.

  “Lifegiver’s saggy fucking balls,” Brern swore, reaching up to wipe a sweating brow with the back of one hand as he stared at the floor, taking in this new information. “This could be bad. If the Kayle is pushing for the Citadel…”

  “We don’t know what he’s doing,” Jofrey said firmly. “We shouldn’t assume a full assault without more information. It could be a scouting party, or even envoys.”

  “Is there a chance it might be Talo and Carro?” the master-at-arms asked. “Maybe they snuck past Baoill’s camp, somehow?”

  That struck Elber. It was a thought he hadn't given the slightest consideration.

  Jofrey, though, shook his head.

  “We’ve discussed this. If Talo saw the predicament the Citadel is in, I can’t imagine he would be so foolish as to try and sneak past the Kayle’s forces just to join us in this mess. He alone has the clout right now to get us the assistance we need from the towns. It’s my genuine hope that Talo is already on his way back to Ystréd as we speak, and hopefully working on a plan that doesn’t end in our starvation come the summer months.”

  There was a momentary silence, which no one dared fill with the doubts that flashed across each of their minds.

  “Then the Kayle’s men it is,” Brern said with a sigh. “What are our options?”

  “I suggested we wait,” Forn offered tentatively. “The second ward will tell us if something is approaching from the path, as I said. Jofrey seems to have a different idea, though…”

  Jofrey nodded. “I’m not sure we can afford to be patient, given our predicament. The highest wards offer us some passive defense, but it’s limited, and the magics will drain quickly if Baoill keeps pushing forward.” He looked at Brern. “My thought is that we could use something else to a much greater advantage: the path itself.”

  To Elber’s mild amusement, the master-at-arms didn’t look the least bit surprised by this suggestion.

  “Aye, I’ve had the same notion, of late,” the man said, looking pensive. “The rules of engagement against a foe that is larger and more powerful than you are simple. First: run. Avoid the fight. Failing this: limit the opponent’s movement and ability to use their greater strength to their advantage. Similar tactics apply to the concept of great numbers, rather than greater strength.”

  “Trap them along the path,” Elber said, catching on. “Make it impossible for them to use the sheer mass of the army against us.”

  “Precisely,” Brern said as Jofrey nodded to him, indicating he should continue the explanation. “It wouldn’t take much to push them back, truth be told. Even less to stall them. There are half-a-hundred positions along the steps where twenty unassuming soldiers could arguable hold off ten times their number just by using the high ground to their advantage. Priests and Priestesses wielding magic… A handful would do.” He frowned suddenly. “It wouldn’t last forever, mind. As far as the tribes go, I doubt they’d be as hard-pressed as we are to handle the mountains if they have to.”

  “We had the same thought,” Jofrey said quickly. “We don’t like it, but forcing the Kayle’s men to manage and attack from rougher terrain is a victory in and of itself when compared to simply allowing them to flood the courtyard from the stairs, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Brern agreed, bushy eyebrows rising in realization. “Quite a win, in fact. Forcing them into the cliffs would have a hefty impact on morale, I imagine. Even if they’re accustomed to it, I can’t believe the mountain men would prefer to lay their siege among the storm and rocks compared to the relative shelter of the Arocklen and the ease of the mountain path.”

  “So we do what?” Forn asked, seemingly a little lost. “Attack them before they attack us?”

  “Something like that…” Jofrey paused, thinking. “I don’t think there’s any need to prepare a full assault just yet. Still, assuming your ward was indeed triggered along the path, it would be better to inform ourselves as soon as possible, rather than wait for the other spells to go off. Ideally we could send a group small enough to move undetected, but large enough to provide the firepower necessary to slow down any assault.”

  “A dozen would do it,” Brern said gruffly, crossing his arms and jerking his head over his s
houlder into the room Jofrey had pulled them out of. “And I could have them ready in the matter of a quarter-hour.”

  “Good,” Jofrey said. “Then take what you need. If someone is coming up the path, find them. If it’s an envoy, or a parley group, relay it to us with a messenger spell and return. Leave them be. If the Kayle is attacking, inform us the same way, and we will send reinforcements with all haste.”

  Brern nodded his head briefly.

  “I’ll make a call for volunteers right away,” he said, letting his arms fall and making to turn back into the practice chamber. “I can’t imagine it will take long to—”

  “I volunteer,” a young man’s voice interrupted him, and Reyn Hartlet stepped out from around the corner of the wall behind which he had snuck, undetected, to eavesdrop.

  “Dammit, Reyn!” Brern yelped, startling involuntarily. The younger Priest had stepped directly into his path. “That’s the second time you’ve barged in on—!”

  “Let him be, Brern.”

  Jofrey’s voice was firm, his eyes on his former student. The master-at-arms fell silent at once.

  “Reyn,” he said—too gently, in Elber’s opinion—, “I won’t have you turning this into some witch hunt. This is a discreet mission, we’re speaking of. Combat is a last resort. Do you understand?”

  Reyn’s posture stiffened, but he nodded.

  “I understand,” he said, his voice hard. “I still volunteer.”

  “Then it’s up to your superior,” Jofrey replied, looking to Brern again. “Assuming he’s willing to take the command, of course.”

  “Like it crossed my mind not to,” the master-at-arms snorted, his eyes still on Reyn. “But aye, I’ll have him. He’s a hardheaded fool, sometimes, but there’s no better fighter. I might just need him, if things go bad.”

  He stepped forward suddenly, bringing himself nose to nose with the younger man. Both stood tall, within an inch of each other, but Brern’s heavy brown beard and broader shoulders won out against Reyn’s clean-shaven good looks and muscled build.

  “You hear that, Hartlet?” he breathed into the Priest’s face. “I’m giving you a chance to show us all you can control yourself. Think you can manage it, for once?”

  Reyn’s face stayed tense, but he nodded at once.

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “I swear it.”

  “Good,” Brern said. “Then make yourself useful—” he jerked his head to indicate the other pairs still sparring behind the Priest “—and start gathering the rest. I want another ten. The best you can find.”

  Reyn nodded again, looking a little relieved to have been accepted. He was about to turn back, moving to follow Brern’s instructions, when he paused.

  Looking back, he gave the four of them a brief, rigid bow, eyes on one in particular.

  “Thank you, Jofrey,” he said to his former Priest-Mentor.

  Then he was off, booming voice already calling for a halt to the mock combat and requesting that all eyes fall on him.

  “Sure that was a good idea?” Elber asked Jofrey and Brern as they watched the thirty Priests and Priestesses start to migrate towards Reyn Hartlet, now standing along one wall. “He’s been hot-headed ever since Syrah was killed.”

  Jofrey stiffened at the comment, but made no reply. The master-at-arms, though, scratched at his beard.

  “He’s a good lad,” he said. “He’s just got nowhere to put the anger. Letting him out of these damn halls for a night will do him a world of good.”

  No one said anything to that, but as Brern stepped back into the chamber, moving to add his voice to Reyn’s, Elber thought he heard the aging Priest add a grumbled “Hopefully…” under his breath.

  CHAPTER 26

  “When you pause to think about it, there is really no greater madness in the world than the Citadel path. Six thousand crafted steps, twisting their way up the sheer sides of the Saragrias Ranges? What sort of devil possessed the maniac who looked at that mountain and thought ‘Hmm… Yes. This looks like an excellent spot for a stairway’?”

  —Talo Brahnt, after a few too many drinks

  Damn these stairs!

  Raz—though he would never say so aloud—prided himself on his physique. On the one hand his body was the tool by which he plied his trade, the one instrument he would never be able to do without. On the other, his lithe frame, strength, and speed made up much of the thread from which his infamy had been spun, woven into the subliminal fright behind every mention of the Monster of Karth, the Scourge of the South. It was a legend that had won him a solitude he had enjoyed for so many years, a peace and quietness he had started to miss again after the deaths of Lueski and Arrun.

  At the moment, though, Raz himself felt his own understanding of that legend tatter and fray, imagining what he looked like now.

  He was hanging onto Ahna. Not resting on. Not helping himself with. Hanging. With both hands he clung to her haft, feeling his arms burn every time he wrenched her pointed tip out of the packed snow to plunge it back in one or two steps ahead of him. His legs were long past such pain, the thick, bone-deep ache of fatigue having dissipated into resolute, sluggish numbness around the third hour of their ascent. His breath came in heaving billows, his lungs screaming from a combination of the thinning atmosphere and icy temperature of the air that was only getting colder as they climbed. This, however, was the one thing that didn’t bother Raz. He welcomed the chill that filled his chest with every gasped inhalation, cooling him from the inside out. Despite the frigid winter evening, for once Raz was boiling beneath his furs, burning up as his body worked to carry him along the stairs step by step by step.

  Never again, he thought to himself, looking up to see where Carro had gotten off to. Never, EVER, again.

  The old Priest was, as always, well ahead of him. Almost from the moment they had started their climb the man had fallen into a sad, sullen silence, and Raz had given him his space. It was the first time since the previous night Carro had had any opportunity to be alone with his wandering mind, and Raz rather thought the man could use some time to himself.

  He’s alone, Raz thought sadly as he lifted Ahna yet again from the snow and shoved her back down again on the next step. That’s a feeling we know well, isn’t it, sis?

  The thought of Talo’s death had dredged up other memories with it, and Raz had taken his own time to let the darkness of the last few weeks sink in just a little bit, just enough to allow himself to feel what he knew needed to be felt. He remembered the horror of Arrun’s head as Quin Tern kicked it over the frosted pit floor of the Arena. He remembered watching Lueski’s mind crumble in silence as she looked down on what was left of her brother, watching her reach up and slice her own throat on the blade already held to her neck.

  As he remembered holding her, cradling her small hands against his chest while she died miserably in his arms, the little girl’s last words echoed up through his memories, as though the gusting mountain wind had carried it from the emptiness that extended infinitely outward, grey and subdued, to Raz’s left.

  “I’ll miss you,” she had said, just before grabbing for the blade.

  I miss you too, Raz thought sadly, feeling the scrabbling claws of sorrow dig in and pull his heart towards the ground.

  Raz turned the feeling into anger, though, and used it to fuel the endless upward climb long after his body had had enough. He drew from the rage, pulling from it like water miraculously drawn from a well that had long since gone dry.

  And so went their ascent, for the larger part of four hours, until the dim light of the Sun began to fade. Carro led the way, guiding Gale along by reins clutched in the hand slung across his chest, the steel staff in the other feeling about the snow and stone for good footing. Raz followed behind, simultaneously cursing the ache and fatigue of a body unaccustomed to this particular sort of strain and basking in the wallowing, pensive freedom the climb allowed him. The going was slow, but neither man complained, content in their own thoughts and in their own compan
y. They might have found each other to be surprisingly pleasant company—especially since the tragedy of the previous night—but neither was upset to have some time to themselves.

  Despite this, Raz was more than a little relieved when he looked up to see Carro waving to him with his staff from above a bend in the path, thirty feet off and a dozen feet above his head. The Priest seemed to be shouting something, but as the winds whipped back and forth through Raz’s steel and furs even he couldn’t make out the words.

  “Hold on!” he shouted back, motioning that he was on his way. “I’m coming!”

  A minute or two later Raz had managed a rapid double turn in the path, catching up to the Priest, who stood overlooking the great plummet that dropped away before them. The world far below was a dim wash of green and white, the Arocklen spreading out across the earth beneath a layer of mists and low-hanging clouds, darkening quickly in the fading hour.