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

by Bryce O'Connor

  “You’re Hartlet, right?”

  Reyn startled as the atherian said his name.

  “Y-yes,” he stammered, feeling a fool for not having introduced himself. “I’m sorry for my behavior on the pass. I wasn’t in my right mind. I—”

  “Are you going to let me out of here, Hartlet?”

  The question came in the same cold way, with the same hard conviction. Suddenly, Reyn was all too aware of what he was doing, what he was about to do. All at once it came to the forefront, closing in. As he looked into those golden eyes, seeing the bloody intent lingering behind them, he understood what it was he was about to release onto the world.

  Reyn opened his mouth to speak, unsure, exactly, of what he was going to say.

  He never saw the glint of the magic, nor flash of light as the stun spell streaked out of the darkness from the end of the hall by the stairs, catching him in the side.

  Raz watched with ever-building confusion as Reyn Hartlet tumbled out of view. He’d seen the glimmer, recognized the casting, but hadn't even had a moment to give warning before the spell struck the Priest in the ribs. The young man’s eyes had rolled up into his head, leaving him suspended like that for two solid seconds in front of the door.

  Then he’d fallen sideways, out of view.

  “Hartlet!” Raz shouted in half-desperation, half-concern, grabbing the peephole with both hands and shaking the door. “Hartlet!”

  “Quiet, Raz!”

  Instantly Raz shut up, the familiar voice strangling his cries.

  There was the muffled rustle of footsteps, and Raz watched the slide of the shadows as someone made their way quickly down the hall. The steps got louder and louder, and eventually a man came into view, peering through the door at him.

  This time the face did indeed belong to Carro al’Dor.

  “Carro,” Raz hissed, still holding onto the hole. “What’s going on? What did you do to Hartlet?”

  “Stopped him from destroying his life,” Carro grumbled, taking a step back and examining the door. “They would have cast him out, if he’d managed to free you. He would have had nothing.”

  Raz paused at that.

  “Then what are you doing?” he asked slowly, watching the Priest take in the door from the hall.

  In the semi-darkness of the subdued torchlight, an ordinary man might not have seen the shift in Carro’s face at the question. The grief, so plain to Raz’s sharp eyes, might have gone unnoticed in the shadows, a twisted exposure of the raw pain that Raz had only seen glimpses of over the last few days.

  “I’ve already lost everything,” the Priest said quietly, his eyes settling on the center of the door. “Now get back.”

  Raz made no argument, and retreated several steps as Carro gathered light into his good hand.

  Carro, it turned out, was much more efficient at undoing wards than Reyn Hartlet. Raz watched in silent wonderment as blinding white flashed in scattered patterns through the open slot, listening to the Priest’s muttered incantations and occasional curses. Within a half a minute the dull thrum of the magic had faded beyond perception, and not long after Raz made out the creak of wood and metal as the door settled on its own weight.

  Then there was a final blast of magic, and the entire thing wrenched open, the heavy latch tearing a chunk out of the wall and scattering stone across the floor.

  After the dust had settled, Raz picked his way quickly over the rubble and out into the hall. Carro had already moved away, further down the corridor to the cell next to Raz’s, and was gathering some spell into his right hand once more.

  “What are you doing?” Raz asked, starting towards him.

  Carro stopped him with a brief shake of his head. “Stay back,” the Priest said. “As much as I’m loath to admit it right now, Jofrey isn’t a fool. He elected to keep your things close by, in case they were needed.”

  And with that, he blasted open the second door.

  As Carro clambered over the ruined iron and wood, disappearing into the room, Raz looked back around, down the hall. He took in the two unconscious men nearer the dungeon stairs, then Reyn Hartlet, passed out beside the broken opening of Raz’s cell.

  “Did you do all this?” Raz said, impressed, turning back as Carro reemerged, struggling to drag a familiar, massive cloth traveling bag behind him with his good hand. It clinked with the sound of steel on steel as he pulled it over the crumbled stone and broken timber slats.

  “No,” Carro said with a queasy frown, not looking towards the men he knew Raz was speaking of as he heaved the bag into the center of the hall. “It took me long enough to build up the courage to stun Reyn, much less the other two. He’s a cretin, but I can’t say I don’t appreciate his idiocy. I figured the council would have a guard on you, and I’m honestly not sure what I would have done if Reyn hadn't taken care of them first.”

  Raz snorted, amused at Carro’s continued distaste for violence, given the situation. Then he frowned down at the form of Reyn Hartlet.

  “Why did he come?” he asked.

  It took a while for Carro to respond, and eventually Raz looked around at him, assuming the man hadn't heard him. He found Carro looking at him oddly, though, and when their eyes met the Priest sighed.

  “Because,” he said slowly, “he’s in love with Syrah.”

  That took Raz by surprise, and he looked at the Priest more sharply. “He’s in love with her?”

  “Raz,” Carro said with exasperation, waving his hand at the bulging sack of gear at his feet, “I will be happy to fill you in on every ounce of gossip and drama that floods these halls on a daily basis, but not now! Please! We have to move!”

  The desperation in the man’s voice made it clear that it would have to be a story for another time, and Raz hurried over to him.

  “Where is Ahna?” he asked, noting the distant protruding shape of a sword hilt in the cloth.

  Carro waved into the room. “In there. You know full well she’s too heavy for me, even if I did have both hands.”

  Raz ducked into the cell at once, stepping over the broken door. It didn’t take him long to find the dviassegai, propped up against one of yet another series of tall, food-laden shelves, and he hefted her up quickly before returning back out into the hall.

  As he did he made out the sound of running feet, far off in the distance, echoing louder and louder towards them through the tunnels of the Citadel.

  “Someone’s coming,” he growled, snatching up the bag of gear and tossing it over his left shoulder.

  Carro blanched, but turned at once and started hurrying down the corridor, towards the opposite end from the stairs.

  “Dammit, Hartlet!” Raz heard the Priest curse as he made chase, following on the man’s heels. “They must have figured out what he was about.”

  “What are we going to do?” Raz asked, catching up to the Priest quickly despite the added weight of Ahna and his gear, the claws of his feet clacking against the slate floor beneath him. “Where are we going?”

  “Up,” Carro said, pointing ahead. “There are stairs that will lead us out onto the battlements.”

  Raz thought that peculiar, but as he followed the Priest’s finger he indeed saw a narrow archway set into the far wall, framing the bottom of a thin spiral staircase. As they got closer Raz made to let Carro lead, but the man pushed him forward.

  “Go,” he said, slowing as they reached the arch. “All the way to the top. Wait for me there.”

  Raz was about to argue when Carro started moving his right hand through the air, tracing out a series of complex runes in the space around them, crafting lines of colorless fire that hung, suspended by nothing.

  He’s slowing them down, he realized, watching as the symbols drifted swiftly to latch onto the walls on either side of them, burning themselves into the stone.

  “Raz!” Carro cried. “Go!”

  And he did just that, taking the short steps three at a time, his powerful legs carrying him up and up and up. For almost t
wo minutes he climbed, each passing moment making him realize with a mix of awe and shock just how far down he must have been sequestered. Beyond that, there was something odd about the air as he ascended. Whereas one would ordinarily think it would get warmer as one rose from the bowels of the mountains, the temperature seemed to be dropping the higher he went. By the time Raz finally reached the top, arriving on a wide landing accented only by a heavy iron door along the right wall, he could see his breath again, watch it billowing out around his snout.

  He didn’t give himself time to start worrying about the cold.

  Dropping the pack to the ground, Raz tore it open with the claws of one hand even as he leaned Ahna against the closest wall with the other. His things spilled out onto the worn floor in front of the door, his armor clattering about his feet and his gladius and ax tumbling out in a single bundle, wrapped in the heavy fur cloak the Laorin of Ystréd had gifted him almost a month ago now. With practiced efficiency Raz donned his gear, picking through the mess and strapping Allihmad Jerr’s hammered steel into place over his body. By the time Carro joined him, huffing as he staggered up the last of the steps, Raz was in full armor. With a flourish he threw the cloak over his shoulders, feeling the warm weight of it settle about him.

  The Monster of Karth stood tall once more, gladius slung over his back, ax on his hip, and Ahna lifted onto one shoulder by hands clad in familiar steel gauntlets.

  “Outside,” Carro said quickly, pressing Raz towards the iron door, not even pausing as he reached the landing. “Hurry. Hurry. The runes won’t deter them for long.”

  Raz did as he was told, reaching out to lift the cumbersome latch that locked the door shut from the inside. He had to put a shoulder into the metal before it budged, but after a few seconds the whole thing shifted with a screeching whine of rusted hinges and Raz—straining with every fiber he had—pressed it open for what must have been the first time in over a hundred years.

  As they spilled out into the night onto some part of slick, icy ramparts, the wind and snow resumed the relentless barrage that had hounded Raz and Carro all the way up the mountain pass not a day before. Instead of cursing the storm, though, Raz smiled into it, spreading his ears and wings into the blizzard, welcoming the freedom of the open air.

  Then he looked around, and realized where they stood.

  The door had led them out onto the wide ruins of some ancient stage of iron and dark marble, all remnants of wooden supports and flooring having long rotted to dust. They were some fifty feet above the courtyard, standing in a solid wash of snow that reached even Raz’s knees, but despite this the skeleton of the long-forsaken contraptions loomed like cruel fingers closing up and over them through the dark. Immediately Raz understood why there were stairs at the end of the dungeon, and why the door he had just forced open seemed to have been shut for the entirety of several generations. The Laorin, after all, could make use of empty cells and the dark gloom of the prison.

  But the faith would never have had need of gallows.

  Abruptly, the weight of what Carro had done fell over Raz, heavy and terrible, and he turned to look at the man who stood behind him in the snow. The Priest, too, was staring up at the metal and stone scaffolds above them. There was no sign of regret on his bearded face, however. No sign of shame or self-hate.

  Rather, it seemed something like a smile played on the man’s lips, as he looked up at the haunting reminders of what his beloved Citadel had once been.

  “Carro…” Raz started, taking half-a-step towards the man, unsure of what to say.

  The Priest brought his eyes down to him, and Raz saw that he was indeed smiling. At the same time, he saw the glint of tears track against the man’s flushed cheeks, illuminated by the dull hint of the Moon through the clouds above.

  When he spoke, though, Carro’s voice rose above the wind like the words of a man suddenly set free.

  “Go, Raz. Bring her back to us.”

  Raz stood there, looking down at the man. He took in Carro’s face, recognizing the sacrifice the Priest was making, understanding what he had just given up, and what he had given it up for.

  Then he nodded, turned, and ran along ramparts, heading for the outline of the stairs he could see some hundred feet off, leading down into the courtyard below.

  Tell her to hold on, he prayed to Her Stars as he moved. Tell her I’m coming.

  When Jofrey barreled up the last steps of the Dead Man’s Climb, he found the Last Door thrown wide, its rusted hinges flaking and cracked under a force he knew only magic or the atherian could have provided. His blood chilled at the sight of the great iron thing, shifted from its position for the first time since the Laorin had settled Cyurgi’ Di, vowing the Citadel would never again suffer witness to such willing disrespect of Laor’s gifts.

  And now it lay open, symbolic of the betrayal of the man who stood quietly waiting just inside.

  “Carro…” Jofrey said in a stunned voice, putting a hand out behind him to stop Cullen and Kallet Brern, Priest Elber, and the group of other Priests and Priestesses who had followed once they’d managed to break the rune traps laid out at the bottom of the stairs. “Carro… What have you done?”

  Carro al’Dor stood silent for a long time, staring out into the wind and snow of the stormy winter night. When he finally moved, he turned to smile sadly at his old friend.

  Jofrey saw the lines the tears had traced on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Jofrey,” Carro said, his voice shaking. “I… I couldn’t lose them both.”

  Jofrey said nothing, stepping forward carefully to stand beside the aging Priest, joining him in the frame of the Last Door. He, too, looked out into the blizzard, noting the clawed tracks leading out and away through the gibbets, across the ramparts.

  “Carro… Petrük will demand your head for this,” he said, his eyes not leaving the last sign Raz i’Syul Arro had left as he escaped. “I won’t be able to protect you…”

  “And I won’t ask you to,” Carro said, his voice more firm now. “I’ve broken our only decree, Jofrey. I know the law.”

  “And Reyn?” Jofrey asked in a hushed tone, stepping closer and looking at the Priest again, afraid of the answer. “Did he help you? We found him downst—”

  “Reyn Hartlet had no part in this,” Carro said loudly, so that the councilmen and group hovering along the top of the stair behind Jofrey could hear. “This was my doing, and mine alone.” Then, in a softer voice, he added: “I stopped him before he could undo your ward. He violated no law, whatever his intentions might have been.”

  Jofrey felt himself sag in relief. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to sentence his former student to be Broken.

  It would be hard enough to do once…

  “Carro, will you come with us?” he asked gently.

  Carro nodded, but didn’t move away from the door. For several seconds more he continued to stare out into the night.

  “Do you think he’ll manage it?” he asked suddenly. “Do you think he’ll reach her?”

  Jofrey didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked back out through the now open Last Door, looking again at the clawed footprints, their outlines already dulled by the ever-falling snow. He hadn't told the council what he knew of the atherian, what Talo Brahnt had told him of the boy Syrah had met, so many years ago. He recalled vividly the images his mind had conjured up as Talo had described what Syrah had witnessed, had told him of the bloody spectacle Raz i’Syul Arro had produced in just a few short seconds.

  And as he thought of it now, all he could do was pray the Lifegiver would keep as many of the mountain men out of the atherian’s path as possible.

  “If anyone can manage it, he’s the one, my friend,” Jofrey said, stepping forward and taking Carro’s arm lightly. “Now come on. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “When the Scourge fought for himself, he was a terror. He made a bloody mess of anything that came within reach, eviscerating and bu
tchering all that threatened him and his own. When he fought for the woman, though, he became something more. There was a feeling about the way he moved, the way he battled. It was as though the sword had evolved, become more shield than blade. When the Scourge fought for her, he became the wall between she and the rest of the world. His dance spoke the simple truth, told all who wanted to chance their luck one absolute fact: no one would ever touch her again.”

  —Born of the Dahgün Bone, author unknown

  It was as though the Moon herself had blessed his descent.

  Like the gods had heard his prayers, heard his pleas and understood his need for haste, the storm quailed within twenty minutes of Raz’s clambering start down the pass. At first it was the snows that abated, clearing his view and making it easier to skirt the loose stone and leap over the icy patches. Then it was the wind’s turn to die, stilling to a bare breeze that Raz hardly felt as he dropped from one section of the path to the next, ten, twenty, thirty feet at a time, wings spread wide to slow his falls.