As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Then Raz’s borrowed knife slashed, parting the thick tissues along the side of the figure’s neck, and the hiss turned into a wail of agony and horror.

  After that, things changed quickly.

  The others about the room didn’t so much as blink at the dying howls of their comrade, but nor did they adjust quickly enough to Raz’s deduction of their movements. In the space of three heartbeats the gladius flashed twice more as he careened into the group with a warcry that might have shaken dust from the rafters. Before they knew it, two more of their number died, one screaming as the sword caught him across the face in a vicious slash, the other silent as the bloody dagger drove itself into his left eye. After that, though, the men realized their mistake, and instantly the pattern of their approach shifted. Within seconds Raz was hard-pressed once again, fighting off the converging attacks of what he believed to be three left standing.

  As they collapsed on him all at once, Raz decided it was time to make his exit. Kicking splintered wood from the escritoire up into the face of one of the men, he darted forward and bulled him over, knocking him out of the way.

  With two bounding steps, he tucked and leapt bodily out the still-open window.

  The fall was brief. Without time to get his wings out to slow himself down, Raz landed hard in the alley below, rolling to his feet and nearly slamming into the far wall as he stumbled over the still-groaning form of the man he’d shoulder-checked off the sill. When he managed to steady himself he stood, expecting to find the side-street empty or—horribly—a group of shadowy figures standing with dripping blades over Syrah’s limp body.

  Instead, Raz gaped as he discovered he was standing at the center of a world on fire.

  It was a battlefield. One end of the alley—to Raz’s left and toward the back of the temple—was smoking, charred lines of what could only be expended magic etched into the ground and walls on either side. Around him, the sorcery still burned—if faintly—webbing everything with streaking lines of white flames, like lightning branded across the stone. To his right, at the far end of the alley, a literal wall of fire rose up two stories, extending from building to building, completely blocking that end of the way.

  It was against this barrier of magic, pushed so hard that her back was almost touching the flames, that Syrah was making her final stand.

  For a single breath, Raz couldn’t move as he took her in. Despite the half-dozen or so figures that pressed her, he stared in utter amazement at the Priestess, seeing the woman for the first time in what could only be her true element. He had witnessed what he thought to be incredible spellwork before, had seen Carro al’Dor holding a ring of flames about himself and Talo as they’d fought off wolves in the Arocklen Woods. Back then, Raz had been impressed. Now, though, he recalled he’d been told more than once that Carro had never been one for fighting.

  Now, taking in Syrah Brahnt as her robes and hair whirled about her, caught in the rising heat of her own fire, he truly understood what a mastery of battle magic must look like.

  Three men were pinned ten feet up against the walls, two to Syrah’s right and one to the left, their hands and feet fettered to the timber and granite by the same ivory fire she’d used against the mercenaries on the road to Ystréd. Two more lay motionless at her feet, the flames eating at their darkened tunics, obviously fallen victim to the hard steel of the staff she held before her in a defensive position. Another pair were slumped and scattered between Raz and the far end of the alley, blasted into unconsciousness by what could only have been stunning spells. It was an impressive sight, and for a moment Raz debated whether the woman needed any help at all, or if he would do better waiting for the assassins undoubtedly already chasing him out the window.

  Even as he thought this, though, the flames around him flickered, and one of the figures tumbled free of the wall, the magical ropes binding him there failing. Syrah herself staggered, clearly exhausted.

  In an instant, Raz was nothing more than a flash of scale and cloth, blades shining in the arcane glow roaring all about him.

  Syrah was nearing the very end of her limits.

  Even as she realized this she felt her grip on the magics slip, and all about her the flames faltered and guttered briefly. The wall of fire at her back, conjured to keep the assassins from taking her from behind, shrank somewhat, reaching only halfway up the second story, and one of the men she’d managed to trap against the wall above their heads dropped to the alley floor as his bonds gave way.

  Shit, she thought to herself, her staff heavy in her hands as she held it at the ready before her, gaze flicking from one set of veiled grey eyes to the other. Not good.

  She’d leapt from the window as soon as the door of their room had opened, following Raz’s command. She would likely have broken an ankle were it not for the small amount of magic she’d been able to push into her legs, strengthening them. She’d rolled clear, anticipating—or maybe just praying—that Raz would be right behind her.

  Instead, she’d come up right in front of a tall, thin man, his entire body wrapped in dark grey-and-black clothes.

  Syrah hadn't hesitated, her hand moving even before she saw the sword he held at his side. She’d blasted him with a stunning spell at point-blank range, the force of the magic throwing him back into the wall. After that, she’d bolted left for the back of the temple, hoping to reach Gale and Nymara.

  She hadn't been quick enough.

  More shadows had fallen in around her, dropping from the roof and windows of the temple to cut off her escape, and from there on it had been a battle for her life. They’d pressed her back in rapid succession, moving about her like ebony liquid, doing their best to get beside or behind her. Syrah had managed to keep them at bay only barely, her staff and free hand working faster than she’d ever thought herself capable of to weave the steel and spells into a defense the assassins had never quite managed to penetrate completely. Still, their assault kept her constantly retreating, one step after the other, and it wasn’t long before the white of her robes was stained with red, blood seeping from slashes and jabs in the cloth that she hadn't quite managed to escape. Sweat dripped down her ruined face, and her breath came in ragged heaves as her legs and arms became heavier and heavier under the toll the magic took on her body.

  Now she’d been pressed to the very opposite end of the alley, and there was nowhere left to run. She knew that if she was forced back any further, into the openness of the dark street, she would be done for. The men before her were professionals, cold-eyed killers, and the silent understanding with which they moved about one another made it clear they were good at their work. She had no doubt there were at least one or two already lying in wait beyond the mouth of the alley, patient in their anticipation that she would be forced into their expecting blades. Like a cornered animal Syrah now fought in desperation, putting every ounce of energy that remained to her into the magics, the one true advantage she had at her disposal, the one reason she wasn’t already lying dead at their feet.

  Suddenly, one of the assassins lanced forward, clearly trying to take advantage of her fatigue. Adrenaline surged through Syrah, and she managed to deflect the lunging blade away with one end of her staff, then slam the other end into the man’s side, sending him flying. In the same moment, though, another had darted forward to flank her, ignoring the flames that had eaten away his shoes and the bottom of his pants with professional disinterest, his own knife striking up at her neck. Syrah twisted and punched out, the blasting force that erupted from her fist blowing the man back ten feet over the heads of his comrades.

  After that, though, she knew she didn’t have long. Syrah tripped back, barely managing to stay on her feet, struggling to focus and draw some magic into herself to refresh her exhausted body. It worked a little, a measure of strength pulsing back into her aching limbs and her head clearing, but the barrier behind her shrank yet again, and a second man fell free of the wall.

  Shit, Syrah thought again, watching the figures
before her take a collective step forward.

  And then, from the back of the group, somebody screamed.

  There was the shearing sound of steel through muscle and bone, and Syrah blinked as a spray of blood streaked across the wall to her right, smoking where it made contact with her flames. Immediately following this there was a crack of some limb or another breaking, and another man howled in pain, then went silent. As one, the assassins before her hesitated, several glancing back to see what was happening at their rear.

  That was when Syrah saw him, a demon of fire and blades, his towering form and great wings outlined against the white glow of her magic, his sword and the stolen knife screeching as they moved like a wind storm about his body.

  Raz had charged right into the assassins’ rear line, crashing into them with such savagery and power he might have been the incarnation of war itself.

  Making a split-second decision, Syrah allowed the wall at her back to dissipate, drawing the magic back into herself and focusing it throughout her body. Instantly she felt refreshed, and took advantage of the sudden distraction of the men before her to whirl and meet the attack she knew would come. Two shadows leapt at her from the street, just as she’d expected. Where they had anticipated to find a beaten and defeated woman, however, they instead came face-to-face with a fiery-eyed Priestess of Laor, brimming with power. They were practically in midair, in fact, when Syrah’s lash took one about the waist and whipped him sideways, smashing him into his partner so that both men went careening violently into the temple garden.

  By the time she turned around again, Raz had cut his way to her.

  “With me!” he growled, already whirling to face their opponents again.

  Without hesitating, Syrah followed him right back into the fight.

  Together they pressed through the men still standing, watching their step as they navigated the carnage Raz had left in his wake. Syrah fought hard to ignore the smell of blood and smoke and burning cloth as they moved, Raz forging their way forward, she watching their backs. Eventually they were in the middle of the alley again, pinned on either side as they each fought four men, Raz snarling and parrying and lashing out with blades and claws and teeth and tail, Syrah focusing what magic she had left into whips and stunning spells and blasts of fiery heat that sent her opponents staggering. For several long minutes they battled on, his back pressed to hers, each trusting the other with their life. Despite their being penned in, the advantage had turned. There were no dark corners left for the assassins to hide in, no openings for them to attack from the sides or back. Steel cleaved through skin and flesh. Magic rocked the air. Screams filled the night. Light flashed across the sky. Raz and Syrah ignored the wounds they suffered, ignored the blood splattering against the stone around them when they swung sword and knife and staff, roaring in defiance. Nothing existed in that moment but the shapes of the men before them and the feel of their bodies moving together, reassuring each the other still lived.

  More fell before them, dead at Raz’s feet and unconscious at Syrah’s. Before long, the four they each battled became three, then two, and finally one. When this happened, the pair of assassins left standing seemed at last to come to terms with the fact that they were well and truly outmatched. The one before Syrah, his curved saber held overhead like the hovering tail of a scorpion, made a chirping sound like a cricket in the night, and in a flash both men were retreating, vanishing back into the shadows at either end of the alley before Raz or Syrah had a chance to realize they were running. At once Raz began to follow, a hungry, animal-like snarl building in his throat, but as his body left hers Syrah reached back with her free hand and caught his arm, restraining him.

  “No, Raz,” she said over the snapping of the fires that still burned all around them, her eyes not leaving the mouth of the alley where her opponent had vanished. “Leave him.”

  She felt the muscle beneath her fingers spasm, then relax, and Raz didn’t make to step any further away.

  When she let go of him, her hand came away wet and dark with blood.

  Syrah didn’t know how long they stayed like that, standing together among the white flames of Laor. It felt like hours, though in truth it couldn’t have been more than half-a-minute. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Each listened and watched, their eyes flicking to every twist in the light, their bodies flinching toward any sound they could make out above the fire. They did not trust the night, did not trust the darkness beyond the glow of the flames. For that brief period the blackness of the evening was alive around them, writhing with invisible shapes and the glint of curved blades.

  Eventually, though, Syrah forced herself to believe that the fight was over, and the fires all about her shimmered and winked out as she collapsed to the alley floor.

  “Laor’s mercy,” she croaked, sucking in ragged breaths of cool air, staring wide-eyed at the ground as her body began to shake violently. “Laor’s fucking mercy.”

  Behind her she felt Raz stagger, and when he spoke it was in a shaking, rasping voice that told her all too well that he, too, had about reached his limit.

  “Syrah,” he said between gasps as he fought to catch his breath. “Syrah, we have to go. We have to go!”

  At first, Syrah barely heard him. She understood, from some distant part of her own mind, that she was going into shock. She’d fought before, true, even fought for her life, but never had she faced something so cold, so empty and vicious as the hunger she’d seen in the grey eyes of the shadow men. She stared, unable to move, gaping at the splotches of her own blood dripping down from her body, arms, and hair.

  “By the Lifegiver,” she heard herself mumble over and over again. “By the Lifegiver. By the Lifegiver. By the—”

  “Syrah! Get UP!”

  Raz’s voice, this time so desperate it was almost anguished, finally managed to cut through the fog. She blinked and looked around at him slowly. He was standing, one shoulder pressed against the wall to her left, still breathing hard. He still had his blades, the gladius and the borrowed knife he had saved her from, but barely. They hung loose at his sides, both sheened crimson in the moonlight, and looked to be trembling as he tried to hold on to them.

  “Get up!” he was yelling again. “Please! Get up!”

  The sight of him, bloody and battle-worn and screaming at her as though their lives depended on it, was all she needed to shake herself free. Slowly, feeling like her entire body was on fire, Syrah planted her staff and forced herself onto her feet, her bloodied, sweating palms slipping against the steel.

  “Can you walk?” Raz asked her, slightly calmer now that she was standing.

  Syrah took a moment, forcing her legs to take her weight, then nodded.

  “Good,” Raz said, grimacing and spasming in pain. “That’s good. The horses. We have to get to the stables.”

  For the first time, the sounds of the world rushed back to Syrah. Where before the fight there had been nothing but the wind rustling through trees and across rooftops, she heard now the shouts of men and women in the homes and buildings all about them, heard the thunder of approaching hooves in the distance. Behind her, Syrah made out the noises of Gale and Nymara screaming and whinnying in fear, the smell of death and fire likely driving them half-mad in their pens.

  From the temple, though, came not a sound.

  “The Laorin!” she gasped, stumbling as she took a shaking step toward the street, intent on the front door of the building. “Tana! Kerren! We have to—!”

  “We can’t, Syrah!” Raz said with a groan. “There’s nothing we can do! They’re gone! We have to go!”

  Syrah meant to keep walking, wanted to keep walking, but some part of her made her stop. The old her wanted to run, wanted to ignore the fatigue of her body and the fragility of her mind and rush for the temple, calling the names of the men and women she had come to know. That part wanted to scream for the approaching city guard, wanted to beg the help of the people shouting to each other from the windows.

&nb
sp; But she became aware, in that moment, of a harder part of herself, a colder, calmer portion of her own conscience. It had been there for some time now, she realized. It had lingered in the corners of her mind, waiting for the moment it would be needed.

  It was a fragment left to her, a shard of the world she had been abandoned to in the days after a blade had claimed her right eye.

  No, this part spoke within her mind in a hard, dead voice. They are gone. You cannot help them.

  And she knew it to be true. No light shimmered into life in the temple rooms. There came no slamming of doors as Priests and Priestesses came pouring out from the front and back of the temple, seeking to lend a hand or treat the injured. The assassins, it seemed, had been thorough in their work, purging any who might have been able to come to her and Raz’s aid.

  They are gone, the voice said again. You cannot help them.

  Syrah allowed one racking, tearless sob to take her, trembling through her body like a blow as she gasped, understanding what had been lost on this night. She stood for half a moment more, gazing at nothing and everything, allowing the realization to grip her.