The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2)

by Bryce O'Connor

“Quiet,” Raz told him without looking back, his eyes not leaving Rhen as he addressed her again. “If Tern desires a meeting with me, he can come out here. I won’t have Arrun and Lueski set a foot in this place.”

  The Doctore opened her mouth to respond, but Raz cut her off.

  “That was not an offer for negotiations,” he growled, tightening his grip on Ahna threateningly.

  There was a tense moment in which the woman took Raz in with an intensity he had yet seen. She looked less than accustomed to taking orders, but seemed to realize he wasn’t about to be moved on the subject. After a second, she finally nodded.

  “Beck.” She spoke to the officer nearest to her. “Tell the Chairman that Master Arro wishes to meet outside the Hall. And be quick about it.”

  The man took the steps two at a time before hurrying through the gloomy tunnel, the torch in his hand lighting it up like some great fire-breathing maw for a few brief seconds. Then the light vanished, and the rest of the group was left to wait, Raz never shifting from his place in front of the siblings, his eyes traveling over each of their guard one at a time. Either the men hadn’t believed the story of his little exposition at the gates earlier that day, or they somehow thought it was beyond them. They met his gaze levelly, unflinching, one after the other. It was an unfamiliar reaction, almost impressive. He wasn’t used to such defiance.

  Brave little fools, aren’t they, Ahna?

  It was a few minutes before Beck returned. The officer stopped at the top of the steps, torch held high, so that their shadows formed long trails behind them.

  “The Chairman says he will meet the atherian in the high box, but that he does not insist on the company of the Koyt brother and sister. They can wait here.”

  “Like I would let you—!” Raz began, but it was Rhen’s turn to interrupt him.

  “Master Arro will meet him,” she called up to the officer before looking back at Raz. “I will vouch for the children’s safety.”

  Raz hesitated. Ahna was still at the ready, hefted in both hands, but as he met the Doctore’s keen eyes he sensed that same honor and respect he’d made out in the woman when they’d first met around the campfire.

  “I have your word?”

  Rhen nodded.

  Raz hesitated. Then, deciding, he relaxed, tossing Ahna back over his shoulder. Turning around, he looked down at Arrun.

  “Will you be alright?”

  “Not much choice,” the boy snorted. Then he nodded. “Aye, we’ll manage till you get back. Watch your ass, though.”

  “And you watch my bag,” Raz replied over his shoulder, already heading for the stairs.

  He’d just taken his first step up when Beck blocked his way, hand on the cross guard of his sword.

  “Your weapons,” he said sharply. “You can leave them here.”

  Though he was two steps above him, the officer still had to look up a little to meet Raz’s eyes. This fact seemed to hammer in some sort of realization, because he suddenly looked much less confident in himself as Raz’s neck crest twitched and spread a fraction above his head.

  “Doctore,” Raz hissed without looking away from the man. “May I have permission to demonstrate to your men why it’s never—and I do mean never—a good idea to get in my way?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Rhen said quickly. “Beck, stand down.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” the man spat at her, clearly attempting to salvage what little composure he could.

  “You do if you want to live,” she snapped right back. “Let him keep his blades. The Chairman has his own guards already posted, and Azzeki is with him. Stand down.”

  These facts, coupled with the subtle urgency in her voice, seemed to get through to the officer. After a pause he let go of his hilt and stepped aside.

  “Smart man,” Raz growled sarcastically, brushing past him.

  He didn’t bother with a torch. Enough light was left from the town and the Moon above for him to see by just fine, even through the gloom. He crested the stairs and stepped into the tunnel, instinctively searching the shadows of the archways on either side of him.

  As he did, Raz realized that the space was, in fact, less a passage than an elongated chamber, widening outward from the entrance until the ceiling above was so high and dark even he had difficulty making it out. Life-sized sculptures of greened iron and rough bronze lined the walls every few yards, postured atop stone pedestals and depicting men and women in different combat stances holding aloft all manner of weapons and shields. Their names were etched in wooden plaques that hung below their feet, and—suddenly realizing he had no idea if the written word of the North was anything like the Southern dialects he’d grown up with—Raz took a step towards the nearest of these. The metal woman was kneeling, the bow in her arms drawn to its fullest extent at some distant target, her chest and legs strapped with light armor. The letters below her boots were slightly varied, with more accents and stresses than he was accustomed to, but with some measure of relief Raz found he had little trouble making out the words.

  Serëna Aymon, he read silently, Queen of Arrows. Retired: 613v.S.

  He paused, taking the figure in, admiring the work for a moment before moving on to the next one. It depicted a tall, lithe man in a ribbed helm, arm drawn back in preparation to launch the long javelin gripped firmly in his hand.

  Buron Heys. Death: 676v.S.

  They continued like this all the way till the end. The name, their title if they had one, and the dates they’d retired or died. Evëna Uthrah, the Ax Maiden. Garrot Gros. Sylar Kern, Retribution. One by one Raz passed the former greats of the Arena, taking them in. They filled the room with a sense of impressive intimidation, and he could understand the buzz the crowds must have felt pouring through the hall on fight days.

  He paused when he reached the last sculpture, its base barely two paces from the bottom of a steep stairway that led back up into the night. This one was strange. There was no plaque to be found, and the statue itself seemed to have been partially demolished. Where once a triumphant figure might have stood, there was nothing left but a pair of legs cut off just below the knee, revealing the hollow metal mold. The sandaled feet appeared to be crushing what looked like the skulls of a half-dozen men and women, all empty and vanquished. With no plaque there was no name, but it seemed someone—or perhaps several someones over time—had carved something into the stone at the base of the skulls. Reaching out and running a claw through the grooves, Raz made out the word.

  “Lifetaker,” he said aloud.

  He pondered what had happened to the sculpture for a moment, but shrugged the curiosity away. The chamber was fascinating, he admitted to himself, and he would have to make it a point to come back in the day to see the statues in their full glory, but he had more important things to take care of before he could satisfy any of the questions this Northern city was enticing in him. Leaving the iron heroes behind, he hurried up the stairs, hugging his furs close against the returning winds.

  The vast interior of the Arena was even more impressive than its exterior, illuminated by the Moon hanging like a lantern in the dark sky high above. Raz had emerged onto a small flat pavilion along the bottom of sloped stands built straight into the stone. Decorative arches—more than a handful falling apart under the weight of time—topped the highest seats like a great crown encircling the entire structure. Tattered banners hung between these, those that he could still make out bearing the crossed antlers and sword of Azbar. Raz could see in his mind’s eye ten thousand men and women, all on their feet, clapping or jeering or roaring their approval.

  And, directly in front of him, nothing but a heavy chain supported on iron rods blocked him from stepping off the edge of the high sloped walls that ringed a wide circular patch of uneven dark earth.

  The pit was a filthy, sodden thing. It was trampled and uneven, with patches that formed puddles of dirty water here and there. The walls were stained with muddy splatters, and there were grooves and w
hole chunks missing from the stone where blades and heavier things had smashed against them. A dozen small braziers hung on narrow chains all around the ring, snuffed now but undoubtedly ablaze for warmth and light when fights were being held. The winds abated for a moment, and suddenly Raz could taste the iron reek in the air. He wondered how much blood of how many men, women, and children could be churned up into that damp earth.

  Then he wondered how many of the streaks and handprints on the walls weren’t mud at all…

  A flicker caught his eye, and Raz looked across the pit to see bright firelight illuminating a large covered pavilion that stuck out above and over the opposite stands. Shadows flickered against the canopy, and he turned and started making his way towards the light, climbing the stands as he did. It wasn’t long before he could make out the strong smell of cooked meat, well mixed with the bouquet of fruits and warm bread. Chattering voices and laughter picked up when the winds died again for a second, and Raz even heard the sweet thrum of a lyre plying its way through the conversations.

  When he was halfway up the stands and level with the high box, Raz paused, taking in the scene. A dozen or so men were seated on lavish chairs and benches around a massive fire contained in a rectangular metal trough. Dressed in fine furs and thick clothes, they seemed to be guffawing at the antics of an oddly attired character twirling around them. He looked like one of the street performers Raz had so often encountered in his old life, all flourish, with colorfully striped pants and shoes, and a shirt that was laughably too large for his thin frame.

  The jester was dancing and boasting a story with exaggerated gestures to the tune of the lyre, but Raz drowned him out. Instead he took in the other men, noticing as he did yet another group. Beyond the light of the fire, tucked against the back wall, a solid line of guardsmen stood shoulder to shoulder, bearing silent witness to the scene. Taking a quick count, Raz tallied a minimum of ten that he could see.

  “At least someone seems to be taking us seriously,” Raz muttered, thumbing Ahna’s whitewood haft. “But I guess they couldn’t all be fools, could they?”

  As he spoke, one of the guard broke off from the wall and approached a laughing man sitting in his own great chair, a wide fur-covered throne, directly at the head of the fire. He was an atrociously fat figure, with bouncing jowls and thick fingers that sparkled with jeweled rings. His blond hair was long and well kept, giving him an almost girlish look, and he nodded when the guard bent to speak in his ear before waving him away.

  Quin Tern, Raz decided, was as unpleasant on the outside as he was likely rotten on the in.

  Satisfied, Raz started moving again. It took a minute or two more to get all the way around the ring, and he paused one last time to check that his gladius, ax, and knife were all within easy reach in case things turned sour.

  Then he stepped under the alcove, and the lyre struck a poor note before stopping dead.

  X

  NOT A SOUL moved under the firelit canopy. Only the cracking wood in the trough and the cold wind held barely at bay by the flames made a sound. Every face was turned to look at Raz, more than one of them barely masking a healthy dose of fear. He met every gaze impassively. Only when he finally saw movement in the corner of his eye did he speak.

  “Chairman.” He addressed the man he’d deduced to be Tern. “Tell your guard to keep their weapons sheathed and their hands where I can see them. I assure you, if I wanted any of you dead you’d already be so, but I’m not opposed to another demonstration if they insist on it.”

  Tern didn’t look away for a second, as though sizing Raz up to assess if there was more to him than the seven feet of muscle and steel. Raz was a little surprised to see something more than greedy gluttony in the man’s gaze. There was intelligence there, a cold edge of intellect he’d seen before.

  Tern’s blue eyes held the same cunning look about them as Ergoin Sass’ had…

  “Azzeki,” Tern finally spoke, looking around at the dark-skinned man in the shadows, whose hand had drifted down to the hilt of his thin blade. “Calm yourself. I doubt Master Arro is here to cause us any harm.”

  He turned back to Raz, indicating a wide log seat at his right hand, covered in what seemed to be wolf pelts.

  “Please. Sit.”

  Raz accepted, taking his place by the fire. He rested Ahna’s pointed tip against the stone between his feet, tucking her between his crossed arms.

  “We have terms to discuss.”

  Tern blinked. Then he started to laugh, the others joining him at once as though on cue.

  “Right to it, I see!” the man exclaimed, still chuckling, reaching out to punch Raz’s shoulder like they were old friends. “Calm down, man. Calm down. Let me introduce you to our town council first! This is Mâgus Vyn”—he indicated a thin man with a pale-blond beard in reddish furs at his left. “He owns and maintains the majority of the inns throughout our good city. And beside him is Eles Terovel, who has been—”

  “You’ll learn very quickly, Chairman, that I don’t give two shits about details that don’t pertain to me or my intent.”

  Raz let the vulgarity settle in. While he truly cared nothing for who the men were and what they’d done to buy themselves such prestigious positions, he also made it a point to read every one of their faces in the brief moment of shock his interruption provided. Most of them were true trims, timid cowards who flinched, appalled, at his words. A couple, though, were harder men, their faces darkening and their gazes sharpening.

  Surprisingly, though, Quin Tern only laughed harder.

  “So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard,” he chuckled finally. “Very well, as you clearly will not be dissuaded.” He indicated the rest of the council. “We are listening.”

  “You’ve been given my conditions?”

  “You made them hard for the poor men of my guard to forget, given how you practically beat it into them.”

  “I had a point to make.”

  “And it was well made,” Tern nodded. “As for the terms, I think we can come to an agreement. The Koyt siblings will be cleared of their remaining debt, and I will have our scribes draft up the necessary documents guaranteeing their safe passage from the town at any time they choose. In exchange I expect you will—”

  “There is one more thing I require.”

  For the first time since he’d sat down, Raz saw Tern look angry. The fat man masked his face at once, changing it into a politely curious expression, but he couldn’t completely hide the hint of frustration from his pudgy creases.

  “And what might that be?” he asked in a tone of forced courtesy.

  “The immediate release of all your pit fighters convicted of minor crimes, and further guarantee that you will cease to sentence debtors and petty criminals with what you and I both know to be nothing less than a death sentence.”

  There was the briefest moment of quiet.

  And then every man around the fire started talking at once.

  “What business of yours is it how we punish—?” the first man Tern had tried to introduce began.

  “After we offer you a chance to come to terms? Insulting, I say!” another figure, almost as fat as the Chairman, spoke up from the far corner.

  “Out! Get out! We won’t have you insulting—!”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The council fell silent at once. Tern was holding a hand up, and his voice was commanding when he spoke again, further separating him from his appearance.

  “I would like to know the reasoning for this request,” he continued. “Let him explain.”

  Raz did not like the man. He had the rank stench of luxury, a mix of sweat and sex and wine, and that nasty edge in his eyes. But, as Tern looked around at him, Raz grudgingly admitted he held some respect for the obese Chairman.

  “So please,” Tern spoke firmly. “Tell us why we would do this, Master Arro.”

  “How much have you been offered for my head?” Raz asked at once.

  Another sudden quiet.

&nbs
p; “How much?” he insisted, looking around at the other councilmen.

  “Ah… T-ten thousand Southern crowns,” the thickly bearded man on Raz’s right stuttered. “Equivalent to slightly more than twelve thousand gold of our own currency.”

  “And you’ve sent word to the fringe cities that I am in Azbar?”

  “No.”

  It was Tern who spoke this time. His many chins were resting in the palm of his hand, and he was watching Raz speak with genuine interest.

  Apparently this was not a discussion he had anticipated having.

  “We thought it best to see what you had to offer us before we made a decision,” he sighed, as though unaccustomed to this amount of honesty in a conversation. “Ten thousand crowns is a sum, admittedly, but between admission fees and gambling, the town can make near that amount in a good couple weeks through this Arena.”

  Tern waved a thick hand out at the darkened stands.

  “I am curious, though,” he continued, still watching Raz. “Did you think we’d sent birds south?”

  “No… But I think you should do so.”

  To a one, every member of the council looked blankly surprised.

  “Do so,” Raz repeated. “While the roads aren’t completely overtaken by snow. The sooner the better.”

  “Why would we do that?” asked one of the hard-faced men across the fire. He had two fingers missing from his left hand and looked like he could use the heavy ax that sat against his chair. “More importantly, why would you suggest we do that?”

  “To bring them here.”

  It was not one of the council who spoke. Instead the guard Tern had addressed earlier—Azzeki, Raz thought the Chairman had called him—stepped away from the wall into the firelight. He was tall and well built, and for the first time Raz realized he wasn’t wearing the standard colors of the Azbar guard, but rather was dressed in light leather armor that had been dyed completely black. Even the rope-bound hilt of the sword at his hip was smoke-blackened. He had dark hair and even darker skin, with pale eyes that glinted in the light as he looked down at Tern.