In the end, the only thing he didn’t tell her was his true reason for wanting to stay put:
Raz was tired of running.
It had been very nearly a full year now since he’d been forced to flee Miropa, forced to leave the fringe cities—and the South as a whole—behind. Apart from the weeks he’d spent openly defying the Mahsadën in the Azbar Arena, it could be argued he had been hiding ever since, always running from the shadows that followed him wherever he went, lurking hungrily at his back. Even the months he’d spent with Syrah in the Citadel had often felt to Raz as though he were cowering behind the walls of the great keep, secluding himself from the world where it was safe and warm and dry. He’d enjoyed his time there, of course, enjoyed the company of what friends he’d made and the opportunity he and Syrah had had to learn about each other. It had distracted him enough to keep him away from the hint of madness that seemed to so often scrape at the borders of his mind, like a voice screaming in the far-off distance. The walls of the Citadel, so cramped and so small. The milling of the faithful crowding the great hall and corridors at the busiest times of the day. The ever-present feeling that something waited for him, beyond the confines of the stone. The Mahsadën, the council of Azbar, the enemies he’d made among the tribes of the mountain men who had not so calmly gathered beneath the banner of Carro al’Dor. It was a madness that had nagged at him, whispering in his ear even as he sat by Syrah’s bed while she slept, forcing its way through his concentration during his exercises in the Citadel’s practice chambers, slinking into his thoughts as he’d prepared for their departure.
And the longer it had ground at his mind, the more Raz realized it would hound him until the day the shadows no longer nipped at his heels.
He was tired of running.
They passed two more parties later that same day, and both times Raz was greeted with similar reactions to the one the farmer had given him. A messenger on horseback nearly lamed his animal as he pulled it up short to gape at the Monster of Karth, and a few hours later a mother on foot shooed her two children as far off the road as they could get, watching Raz and Syrah pass with wide, terrified eyes. Syrah did her best to put these strangers at ease each time, smiling brightly and blessing them in the name of the Lifegiver, but it did little more than earn a perplexed blink from the rider and a scowl from the woman.
The following morning, things only worsened. Ystréd was close now, Syrah told him, gauging they were likely to arrive in the early-afternoon of the following day. This was mostly a relief after nearly three weeks ahorse, but as they approached the valley town the road became steadily busier and more well-traveled. Before noon they’d passed a half-dozen different groups, some farmers or farm hands, some families coming to and from the city, and even a patrol of soldiers and lightly-armored scouts bearing Ystréd’s colors. This last party had made Syrah nervous, Raz could tell, because she’d glowered at them as they’d gone by, returning the glares and stares not a few among their number gave the pair of them. He’d chuckled to himself, pleased to see the spark in the woman’s eye, though he didn’t tell her he’d heard some of the soldiers mumbling about the price on his head once they’d thought they were out of earshot.
In the end, though, the men had kept to their north-bound route, and Raz let them go in peace.
Their first bit of true trouble came later in the day, well after the Sun had passed its zenith in the bright sky. They’d been discussing their plans after Ystréd, thinking perhaps of making for what was left of Harond and Metcaf along the Vietalis Ranges far northwest of them. Syrah had many contacts there from her time spent working with the mountain tribes—though if any still lived after Gûlraht Baoill’s sacking of the towns was up for debate—and they both had little doubt Raz could find work of one kind or another among the efforts to rebuild that were bound to be going on now summer had come. Raz was busy staring off over the Plains, wondering if he would be allowed to get by as nothing more than a simple laborer, when Syrah’s lowered voice brought him back to the present.
“Raz. Ahead.”
Slowly, without looking away from the Western horizon, Raz reached up and pulled the white hood of his mantle over his head. This done, he casually faced forward, careful to give no indication that Syrah had given him warning.
They were six in all, he saw, four men and a pair of women, their mismatched chargers plodding along at a slow, lazy pace in the same direction Raz and Syrah were headed. Even with their backs to them Raz could tell they were a rugged lot, their leather jerkins worn and sweat-stained, the bare skin of their arms and necks streaked with dirt and grime. Pieces of plate and chainmail hung from their saddles, too hot and heavy to wear while riding under the glare of the Sun, and light gleamed off the pommels of swords sheathed over shoulders, the steel shafts of a couple of maces, and the bare blades of a twin-headed battle-axe one man kept across his lap.
Syrah and Raz were approaching them too quickly, he realized, and he put a hand out, gently gesturing her to slow down. Soon they were trudging along at pace with the group, some fifty yards behind them, and Raz wrinkled his snout as he made out the distinctly unpleasant reek of too many bodies left unwashed for too many days.
“Do you think they’ll let us by?” Syrah asked him under her breath.
Raz narrowed his eyes, trying to make out anything else he could about the rough-looking band. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, listening as the woman furthest to the left broke out in a roar of hard laughter, apparently amused by some lewd joke one of the men had made. “Maybe, but they’re well-armed and not bearing any colors I can make out.”
“Mercenaries,” Syrah said, reading his mind. “If they’re making south then they might have broken off from the forces Drangstek and Stullens sent to assist the northern valley towns before the freeze.”
Raz nodded. This wasn’t the first group they’d passed who’d looked as though they, too, were making for Ystréd, but all the others had been families and individuals of little note. This was different. This was a road-hardened lot, dirty and unkempt, but their weapons gleamed clean and their horses looked to be well cared for, the sorts of things soldiers on the march put first, priorities for men and women who were always ready for a fight. A few lice and muddy boots could be ignored, but a rusted blade could get stuck in its sheath, and a sick horse was no good in a charge or retreat.
Still, Raz thought with some impatience as he felt the sluggish clop of Gale’s hooves beneath him, at this rate we’d make better time crawling to the city.
He glanced back to the Plains, considering once again the option of taking to the hills, if only for the few minutes they would need to get around the group. As they’d traveled further and further south, though, the rolling of the land had subsided substantially, and what had once been great waves of green grass were now more calm swells of a settling sea. Short of waiting till nightfall, Raz thought they would have a hard time masking their presence by going around the mercenaries, and he had little doubt the group would grow suspicious if they caught sight of a pair of riders obviously going out of their way to get around them.
In the end, he decided on a different gamble.
“We’ll pass them,” he said, pulling his tail under the folds of his mantle and tucking in his wings before making sure the hood was low over his face. “Stay on my right. We move quick, but not too quick. Try to look like we have somewhere to be, but not that we’re trying to outrun them.”
Syrah nodded, and Raz watched her hand stray, almost subconsciously, down to her staff, still strapped to Nymara’s side. When she was sure the weapon was still there, Syrah pulled the mare back, then around Gale, urging her up until she was even with Raz’s right side.
“Ready?” Raz asked her.
Syrah’s gave a small jerk of her head. “When you are.”
Raz couldn’t help grinning slightly at the firmness of her voice. Then he put his heels into Gale’s sides, clucking the stallion into a quick trot.
/> They passed the group as intended, Syrah keeping carefully to his side. The stench of the sellswords was powerful as they went by, and Raz couldn’t help but think that he would be—at the very least—pleased to be upwind of the party. His silks blew about him a little more than he would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about it in the moment. He could only pray the men and women hadn't caught a glimpse of his wings or tail.
They rode like that for several minutes, pressing Gale and Nymara a little faster once they were sure they were well out of sight. After a quarter hour or so, Raz motioned that he thought they were clear, and he and Syrah pulled the animals back, slowing them down until they cantered once again along the road.
“Anything?” Syrah asked him when they’d found a steady pace, watching Raz pull his hood down again and spread his spined ears.
It wasn’t long before he shook his head. “Nothing, at least for the time being. We should keep moving, though. I think we were convincing, but there’s no telling if they noticed me or not.”
Syrah glanced up at the Sun. “We still have a good few hours of light. It shouldn’t be too hard to get far enough ahead if they keep at their slower pace.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’” Raz grumbled, still listening. The wind was making it hard for him to hear anything other than Syrah and the huffing breath of the horses.
“Well, the other option is to sit here and wait for them to catch up,” Syrah said with a sarcastic half-smile. “Maybe you can ask them politely if I made a decent decoy.”
“Oh, I’m sure the men were distracted plenty,” Raz retorted with a laugh. “The women, on the other hand…”
“It’s poor manners to assume,” Syrah responded with an offended sniff. “You might be surprised by people’s inclinations.” She gave him a flirting, wicked smile. “Even those closest to you.”
That brought Raz up short, a strange sort of warmth twisting his stomach.
“Wait…” he started, finding himself tripping over his words. “Hold on…”
In answer, Syrah only gave him the same half-alluring, half-teasing smile, then laughed and pushed Nymara once more into a slow gallop, pulling away from Raz and Gale.
“Oh, this is a story I need to hear,” Raz muttered to himself, and a moment later he and the stallion were in hot pursuit, the beat of Gale’s run doing much to hide the faintest sound of hoof-beats along the road behind them.
SNEAK PEEK: CHAPTER 5
“Damn.”
Syrah looked to Raz, brow knit in concern.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in a worried voice. “Are they coming?”
Raz raised a finger to his lips, and the woman fell quiet. He was listening again, trying to make out if the sound of horses, driven hard along the road at their back, could be anyone else. It had been several hours since they’d galloped by the mercenaries, and he’d relaxed as the Sun had started to dip over the horizon to their right, the clear blue of the day turning steadily to a somber orange. He hoped, for a moment, that perhaps the riders coming up behind them were more messengers, or even the scouts sent back to report for the patrol of Ystréd soldiers they’d crossed earlier in the day.
When he made out the distinct sound of several voices urging their mounts on, though, reverberating over the hoof-beats and the clink of armor plating, Raz suspected his hope was vain.
“It’s them,” he said quickly, pulling Gale up short. The stallion snorted, kicking up dirt as he stomped in protest of the abrupt stop.
“But—” Syrah started, obviously as confused by Raz’s sudden halt as the horse was. “Wait. What are you doing? We need to run!”
No, a harsh voice snarled inside Raz’s head. No more running.
“It’ll be night within half-an-hour,” Raz said hurriedly, reaching down to pull Ahna free from where she was strapped beneath his left leg. “We can’t risk running the horses hard in the dark, and even if we did, their chargers would run Nymara down before long.”
“I can light the path!” Syrah exclaimed in a huff. “I can give us as much light as we need!”
“And they’re likely to have torches,” Raz countered, pulling Gale around, the dviassegai held in one hand at his side. “Even if they don’t, they might risk the night. Last I heard, there’s enough gold on my head to buy them each a dozen war-horses and then some.” He looked back at her. “Go. I’ll catch up to you when I finish here.”
In retrospect, Raz thought he should have known better than to say those words. A shadow passed over Syrah’s face like a storm cloud, and all at once the tension and worry vanished from her features. In their place, something very much like anger lingered, lighting a fire in her eye.
“Like I would leave you,” she sniffed sourly, and she, too, pulled Nymara around, drawing her staff free of its straps and guiding the horse over to stand beside and slightly behind Raz. “Just do me a favor: try not to kill them all.”
If it had been any other person, Raz would have laughed. As it was, however, the words were more perplexing than anything, and he looked at her curiously. Syrah’s face was set, her eye on a bend in the road some hundred yards north of them. He thought about voicing his concerns, but before he could put the question together the sound of the approaching riders rang clear, and one after the other the group came around the hill.
They were a far different-looking lot than the rag-tag bunch they’d seemed earlier in the afternoon, and at once Raz saw why it had taken them so long to catch up. Whereas a few hours ago their armor had hung uselessly from their saddles, the mercenaries were now collectively attired in full gear, some with heavy plate and round-helms, others with leather over chain and scale-mail shirts. At their head, one of the women led the band, her brown hair cropped short about her ears, revealing an ugly scar that split around her right eye and cleaved though her cheek. For a moment Raz was reminded of an old friend, the Doctore of the Azbar Arena, but whereas Alyssa Rhen’s eyes were a bright, sharp green, this woman’s were a dull, damp brown, hungry in the pursuit.
Hungry, that is, until they found Raz and Syrah waiting for them in the center of the road.
At once, something strange came over the group, something which Raz couldn’t explain. As expected, blades and maces and axes were drawn immediately, the woman at the forefront of the party pulling a long bastard sword free from where it had been sheathed at her knee. After this, however, Raz had presumed the mercenaries would attempt to ride them down, using the momentum of their charge to great advantage.
Instead, however, the woman in front yelled “Whoah!” pulling back on the reins of her mount. At once the steed, a grey stallion splotched with white, slid to a halt, snorting as rocks and tufts of grass came loose under its shoes. At the woman’s back, the other riders did the same, some of their horses whinnying in surprise as they were brought up short, then settling and stomping nervously.
They were less than fifty feet away now. Raz could see the details of their faces, read their stunned expressions and hear the words passed to one another in hissing whispers. It took him aback, catching those hints of their sudden conversation.
“Arro,” one man was saying to his companion, his voice strained.
“Monster,” another said, apparently to no one in particular.
“Dragon,” breathed the second woman, seated in the center of the group.
It took several seconds for Raz to make sense of their apparent surprise. When he did, however, his body stiffened, his arms flexing in a spasm of concerned realization.
“Syrah,” he hissed, and from the corner of his vision he saw the Priestess glance at him, “stay here. Don’t move.”
He could almost hear the woman’s teeth grind in annoyance. “I told you,” she said in a frustrated voice. “I’m not going to leave y—”
“They’re not here for me,” Raz told her sharply, not taking his eyes off the mercenaries, who still hadn't moved from their place up the path. “Please. Do as I say.”
That caught Syr
ah’s attention.
“What do you mean, ‘they’re not here for—'?”
“Dragon!”
Syrah’s question was cut off by the shouted hail. As Raz looked on, the group’s leader guided her horse forward one step at a time, like she was unsure of the approach. It was she who had spoken, and her dim brown eyes watched him expectantly.
“I see you know who I am,” Raz called coolly back as Gale hooved at the ground in annoyance, not appreciating the uninvited approach of the sellsword’s charger. “It’s impolite not to introduce oneself in such circumstances.”
The woman blinked, then smirked. It was a hard, almost cruel smile.
Raz didn’t like it one bit.
“My apologies,” she said in a scornful tone, halting her horse when she was some twenty feet away. “You can call me Thera, if it pleases you. My friends and I are known as—”
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 139
