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

by Bryce O'Connor

  At this, Gûlraht began to laugh. It was a heavy, fierce laugh, thick with amusement at the man’s offered prospects. Truth be told, Gûlraht was impressed. Had this stranger been one of his own men, he didn’t know whether he would have sought to flay him for his cheek or promote him for his gall.

  “No,” he finally said, looking back down and hefting his great ax with one arm, thrusting it forward, under the man’s nose. “No parley. No seek terms. Your time you waste, and mine. Declare yourself, and end foolishness of yours.”

  “I AM A MAN WHO WOULD SEEK TO CHALLENGE YOU, GÛLRAHT BAOILL, IN FORMAL COMBAT!”

  The words, shouted out in perfect, practiced mountain tongue, rang clear over the wind, echoing across the mountainside. Though the army around them and in the distance might not have made it out as they marched, the challenge was audible enough to Gûlraht, his generals, and the entourage that had followed behind them. In an instant the rumbling of a hundred voices could be heard, building up second by second as more and more men caught and spread the words. Behind him the Kayle made out Agor and Erek snort in derision, and Rako gasp in surprise.

  Gûlraht, though, only grinned.

  It was as he had suspected, and his heart quickened with excitement.

  “Arrogant dog!” Agor’s voice suddenly shouted out from behind him, apparently meant for the grey-robed man. “Is this your plan? You have been blinded by your own hope. Only a man of the clans may call for a—!”

  Agor’s voice faltered and cut short as the stranger reached up with his one hand and pulled free the cloth about his mouth. As it flew off, whipped away by the wind, he reached up and pulled down his hood.

  Gûlraht felt his heart sing.

  He saw now the extent of the scar. It extended without end, a perfect X over the man’s right eye, marring his skin in an almost surreal fashion. He looked to be of an age, older than Agor but not quite of Rako’s years, and there was a graveness to his face that spoke of sadness, will, and an understanding of the cruel realities of life. Gûlraht, though, registered all of this in an instant, his attention fixed more on the other details, the ones that made him want to roar in pleasure.

  Blond, braided hair danced wildly about the man’s head, wooden beads clacking together and metal rings glinting in the dim glare of the sun through the thick clouds above. His beard whipped about, plated and decorated in similar fashion, his mouth a tight line behind the yellowed hairs.

  Were it not for the robes, the stranger could have practically counted himself among the ranks of the Kayle’s armies and none would have been the wiser.

  “I am Carro al’Dor, of clan blood by my father’s seed,” the man said once more in the rehearsed tongue of the tribes, still loud enough for all nearby to hear. “I am as much a son of the Stone Gods as any of you might claim to be. I therefore claim my birthright and challenge you, Gûlraht Baoill, to formal combat.”

  The rumbling of men’s raised voices redoubled as Carro al’Dor’s claims were repeated again and again and again, passed back and upwards through the ranks pouring about the Citadel. Gûlraht knew, even if he had wanted to, that it was too late to refuse now, and he took a moment to appreciate how well this robed stranger had played the game, forcing his hand. The challenge had been made, and whether or not al’Dor’s declarations were true or merely some last-ditch effort to grant the Laorin even the barest sliver of hope, it didn’t matter.

  If Gûlraht refused on grounds he could not disprove, he would shame himself.

  And more importantly, the Kayle thought, meeting the man’s queer, scarred eyes levelly, here is an opportunity to break the Laorin’s spirit in an instant…

  “I accept your challenge, Carro al’Dor of clan blood, and will grant you the duel you seek.”

  And like that, the deed was done. A stillness settled over the mountain, spreading like water poured over dry stone. The Kayle of the tribes had acknowledged this strange man’s claim, and had accepted the challenge

  Carro al’Dor inclined his head.

  Then for the first time, he asked something Gûlraht had not anticipated.

  “Will you be selecting a champion, Kayle of the tribes?”

  Gûlraht stared at him for several seconds, finding himself somewhere between infuriated and amused. al’Dor had the right to the question, of course, but any who had ever seen Gûlraht Baoill stand beside even the next greatest of his warriors would have known it was a foolish inquiry.

  Gûlraht was about to laugh and mock the man—had even opened his mouth to retort—when he paused, realizing what the man was after.

  Right then, Gûlraht’s excitement became almost intolerable. He had assumed this man before him, who stood tall and strong despite his age and apparent injuries, would be the one he would fight. He didn’t dress in the manner of a Priest, so perhaps he was precluded from the ridiculous rule the Laorin held regarding the taking of a life. If he was skilled in wielding the black powers of their corrupt deity, then he might just prove a worthy opponent, one whose death would garner great glory for both Gûlraht and the Gods. Gûlraht had never had the chance to battle magic before, and the sweet taste of the opportunity was almost palpable.

  But if there was a stronger warrior among the false-prophets that the faith would allow to fight…

  And then, all of a sudden, Gûlraht felt a dead hope flame up within him. A word came to his mind, one that had spread like fire throughout his men, whispered in hushed tones or else only spoken of around the evening fires, in the comforting presence of companions. He could barely contain himself as he finally answered al’Dor.

  “No champion will I claim, old man,” he said, smiling widely and bending down until he was practically nose-to-nose with the former Priest. “And you?”

  al’Dor did not move for a long time. He didn’t flinch away from Gûlraht’s gaze—though it looked as though he might want to—nor did he speak. After several seconds, though, he took a step back, then another, then turned and made his slow return towards the group near the mouth of the Citadel, his boots leaving distinct prints in the thin layer of snow that had gathered in the time they had been speaking.

  Then, as al’Dor joined the ranks of the Laorin, a different figure rose, stepping out from where it had been hidden behind the White Witch, and began to move towards the Kayle.

  It seemed, in that moment, that the drums themselves faltered in fear.

  Gûlraht didn’t hear the hissed gasps of shock and awe from the men behind as he watched the creature approach, nor did he make out Erek’s curse or Rako’s hasty prayer to Them of Stone. He watched, through a veil of bloodlust and excitement, as the thing left clawed prints, moving parallel to the path Carro al’Dor had taken back to the Laorin.

  Only when it stood not ten feet in front of him did Gûlraht finally make out some of the mumblings going on in the group behind him. His heart felt as though it skipped a beat every time he caught the word he had so desperately hoped for, repeated again and again as it chased itself through his army.

  “Dahgün,” came the whispers.

  Dragon.

  In all his life, Raz had never imagined he would have to look up to a man. It was a foreign concept to him, a thought that he’d never so much as paused to contemplate. If someone had asked him that morning to consider it, he suspected he might have laughed at the idea.

  Now, though, Raz found no humor in the notion.

  Gûlraht Baoill, Kayle of the mountain tribes, might have done better to consider himself more giant than man. He stood well over seven feet tall, the top of his head some inches above Raz’s, and his shoulders and hips were half-again as broad. His arms, their top halves bare to the storm that was building steadily around them in gusts and heavy flurries of snow, were as thick as a large man’s thighs, the muscles beneath their weathered skin bunching like rolling, vein-covered boulders. His legs, planted slightly on either side of him in a confident stance, looked more like the trunks of trees than limbs. Hardened leather settled about his fo
rm in thick iron-studded plates, and grey and black fur tufted about his neck, shoulders, gauntlets, and boots. The heavy brown pelt of what appeared to be some kind of bear was thrown about his shoulders, and in his right hand the Kayle held a massive double-headed great ax that looked to be of a weight comparable to Ahna’s. He bore no other weapons, but there was an air about the way Gûlraht Baoill held that ax that said all too well he’d never had need of any other blade.

  It was the same sort of deadly confidence with which Raz carried the dviassegai, slung over his right shoulder.

  This man, Raz thought with a silent thrill of realization and anticipation, might just be the death of me.

  In kind, he had the impression, as he stopped less than a dozen feet before the Kayle and took in the odd, excited expression on the massive man’s face, that Baoill was having the exact same notion.

  They squared off with each other then, both silent and both staring, each taking in all there was to behold about the other. For almost half a minute there seemed to be a holding of all breaths, during which they acknowledged one another as something more than the lesser men all about them, and respected each other for it.

  Gûlraht Baoill broke the silence first.

  “You speak, beast?”

  Raz narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “I speak, Kayle of the clans,” he said, growling over the wind. “As well as any man you have cause to discourse with.”

  The Kayle looked surprised at that. “Hard to believe, it is then, that you are creature of sorcery…”

  Raz snorted. “Is that what you’ve been told?” He eyed the men behind Baoill. “That I’m some summoned thing brought down on your heads by the Laorin?”

  “Is, yes,” the Kayle responded, surprising Raz. “‘Demon’ and ‘dragon’ you are called among men of mine. They tell stories, how you have been birthed of snow and shadow, how bear you such strength and speed only witchcraft could carry you to life.” He smiled at this, his blue eyes growing hungry beneath the thick, beaded brown hair lashing about his face. “Hope, I admit I do, that you prove them wrong.”

  Raz said nothing, taking in the man a while longer, pondering him. After a time he reached up and put a steel claw against his cheek, one of the few places not covered in leather or fur or steel.

  Then he drew the razor edge across his skin, splitting the thick scales before flicking the blood out to pattern the snowy stone between them with splattered red.

  “I am of flesh and bone, as you are,” Raz snarled at the Kayle, whose eyes had fallen to watch the blood freeze. “I am born of sand and Sun, not sorcery and spellwork. Your men died by a living hand. They were not slain by a conjured blade. They took something from someone I care for, so I took something from them.”

  At this, the Kayle grinned. It was an ugly look, twisting his shaggy, cruel face.

  “Blood for blood,” he chuckled darkly. “Done well among my kind you would have, dragon, had you been born to the tribes.”

  “To be molded by cruel gods into an even crueler man?” Raz retorted, bringing Ahna down slowly from his shoulder as he saw the minute flexing in the man’s ax-hand. “I’ll take my chances with the foolish peace of gentler divinities.”

  “Long way seeking death, you’ve come,” Baoill said even as he undid the fastenings of his bearskin, letting it fall to the ground before settling into an aggressive stance. “If make it you do to the halls of Them of Stone, will have you tell me such a story, I think.”

  “If I make it,” Raz agreed, taking Ahna in both hands. “In the meantime, save me a seat.”

  The Kayle grinned at that, the look one of such utter, ravenous hunger it shot a shiver down Raz’s spine.

  A man came forward then, one of the Kayle’s generals by the look of him, moving around his master to stand between and beside Raz and Baoill as they faced off. He was older than Baoill by some years, his black hair streaked with silver and grey that patterned well with the shine of gold rings and baubles braided into it. For a second the Sigûrth eyed Raz, then turned to Baoill.

  “Al’Kayle,” he spoke in hushed tones, addressing the massive man in the guttural tongue of their people, clearly questioning the situation, “dü sen—?”

  “Agor,” the Kayle responded harshly, cutting the newcomer off. “Sted.”

  Despite the difference in languages, Raz understood this last statement clearly, as it had been given not as reply, but as a command.

  Agor, the Kayle had said, speaking to the man. Enough.

  And the Sigûrth did as ordered, turning to face them equally again.

  “Sen ül Karyn-Des!” he bellowed, raising his arms to either side, his voice echoing over the mountains as the wind faded momentarily. “Da brán ed brûn, dü’vren ist micht!” He looked to Baoill.

  “Da brán ed brûn,” the Kale responded, inclining his head reverently.

  Agor—if that was indeed the man’s name—turned to Raz.

  “Under eyes of Stone Gods,” he repeated in broken, accented Common. “By blood and bone, this challenge yours will be met.” He paused, watching Raz meaningfully.

  Raz had an idea of what was expected of him.

  “By blood and bone,” he repeated, hoping he had caught the translation correctly as he inclined his head respectfully, if not as deeply as the Kayle.

  The general gave him what could almost have been an approving look. He then turned from the pair, facing the mountains beyond and around, where Raz realized Baoill’s armies had come to stand still, like a monster suddenly frozen and holding its breath. Agor began to shout in his native language, and Raz didn’t bother trying to understand what the man said. He suspected it to be part of the ritual, perhaps the announcement of titles or the stakes of the fight. Whatever the reason, his eyes never left the Kayle’s for the full minute Agor yelled himself hoarse to the men of their army.

  The Kayle, too, never looked away.

  At last Agor turned back to them. With only a short pause, he raised a hand, like the starter at a horse race.

  Then the hand fell, and whatever words the man shouted to commence the duel was lost to the winds as Gûlraht Baoill launched himself forward with a howling war cry, and Raz lunged to meet him.

  CHAPTER 51

  If Raz had had any lingering illusions about the balance of the fight, they were whisked away in the first handful of engagements. He had expected his first impressions to be of the man’s strength, of the power of his blows and the firmness of his parries and blocks. He had expected Baoill to bull into him, to use his mass and size to his advantage. In the end, the Kayle did exactly this.

  But not before Raz gained the abrupt—and painful—knowledge that, above all else, Gûlraht Baoill was fast.

  It was as though the great ax he alternated between wielding in one and two hands weighed nothing more than a child’s toy hatchet. It blurred about the man, slashing this way and that as the pair of them danced over the courtyard ground, the snow crunching beneath their feet as they moved. By the time they separated for the first time, Raz had almost lost a limb on three separate occasions, was bleeding from a shallow gash where razored iron had cleaved through the leather wrappings about his thigh, and was half-nursing his left shoulder where the ax had left a sizeable dent in his steel pauldron. Gûlraht, too, was hurting, blood welling out of a narrow puncture in his left bicep, his lip swollen where Ahna’s wooden haft had caught him a blow across the face, and his chest plate askew from when her blades had severed the strapping holding them in place over one of the man’s shoulders. Both men’s breaths billowed out, hovering like smoke about their faces as they edged a rough circle around each other, eyes flicking this way and that looking for an opening. From above the wind Raz just made out the roar of the Kayle’s army, soldiers cheering on their lord, as well as the nearer shouts and bellows of the Laorin.

  From their enthusiasm, it sounded as though neither group had come to the understanding Raz—and he was quite sure Baoill—already possessed.

>   They were evenly matched.

  For the first time in many years, something happened to Raz, then. As fear bubbled up within him, taking hold in the subtle way it does in brave men, something else rose as well. It was an alien feeling at first, a twisted sort of rush that was less than bliss but more than excitement.

  He was enjoying the fight.

  And with that understanding, Raz leapt at Baoill, Ahna coming around in a massive two-handed sweep from the side, aiming to take the man in the ribs as her master’s face creased into a terrible, serpentine smile.

  Baoill leapt clear of the blow, then forward again, raining strikes with his ax down on Raz’s head and shoulders. Raz dodged and darted, blocking some and even punching one out of the way that cut too close to his collarbone. He moved back all the while, trying to lengthen the gap between him and the Kayle and get to a place where he could use Ahna’s length to her full advantage. When he managed it, he put the dviassegai to rapid use, and suddenly it was Baoill who was on the defensive, the man cursing and grunting with every reverse step he was forced to take.