As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Her eyes went wide in panic.

  Raz knew, somehow, what he would find as he turned to follow her gaze. Cold ripped at him in that moment, settling into his soul to churn with the horror the dark sea was breeding within him. He twisted around, bending back to look where he knew the first mate was staring. There, in the dimming glow of a magic orb, the helm spun free, a lonely silhouette atop the stern.

  Garht Argoan was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  “NO!”

  It was Lysa who howled the word, her scream ringing with terror and desperation. She scrambled to her feet as Raz, too, fought to stand, his mind whirling.

  “Syrah!” he shouted, gaining his footing and digging claws into the slick timber. “The water! Put the lights in the water!”

  “Raz, what are you going to—?” the Priestess started to yell, trying to get up herself, but Raz cut her off.

  “DO IT!”

  Then he was off, running after Lysa.

  Rope was never lacking on any seaworthy ship. It was everywhere, curled around itself in corners and looped over handles nailed into the railings for the exact purpose of not getting swept overboard. Raz had spent the day toting line up and down the masts, so he knew exactly where to go. Even as he dashed after the first mate he snatched up a massive coil of the stuff from where it had sat in the semi-sheltered nook beneath the aft stairs, throwing it over one shoulder. He took the steps four at a time, and it was just as he reached the top, rushing to join Lysa to lean over the portside rail, that the world went dark around him. The orb that had been lingering by the helm, fading slowly, suddenly blinked out, as did every other source of Syrah’s magic on the ship. For the two seconds it took for Raz to bolt from the top of the stairs to Lysa’s side, he was blind.

  Then, just as he reached her, the ocean began to glow.

  If it had been any other moment in his life, Raz might have said that what he witnessed over the side of the ship then would have been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The sea danced before him, rising and falling in growing and shrinking swells, but it was no longer black. It roared, pounding against the hull of the Sylgid, but the mystery of it was revealed, opening up before them under the warm glow of golden white light that seemed to rise without source from below. The water flowed, still opaque in its depth and its surface textured harshly by the rain, but alight for a hundred feet before them. Even as he searched he heard the awed gasps of dozens of sailors on the deck below, their combined amazement beating out even the wind.

  There were shapes, shifting like inverse shadows in the water, illuminated from beneath. Debris floated over the surface of the ocean. Shattered oars, splinters of wood and torn cloth from the broken booms, loose and broken cargo. There were bodies, too, the floundering forms of a half-dozen men and women who had been swept from the ship by the wave, and a few more who were already unmoving. Raz forced himself to ignore them, forced himself to look away from the slighter bodies silhouetted by the light, hoping the others would be able to reach them.

  “THERE!” Lysa shouted, pointing to a spot near the center of the magic. Raz’s eyes followed her finger, desperately searching the sea. Sure enough, the shadow of a large, balding man was submerged feet below the surface. The flow drew him back and forth, whisking him up and down with the swells.

  Raz didn’t hesitate. Praying the rope was long enough, he bit down on one end, took three steps back, and hammered forward again.

  Then, planting a foot on the railing, he launched himself head-first into the sea.

  He hit the surface of the water with a mind-numbing crack, stars erupting across his vision as he plunged downward into the dull silence. The current was surprisingly warm as it churned around him, pushing him this way and that. He forced himself to open his eyes, ignoring the burn of them as he kicked himself forward, fighting to reach Argoan’s dark outline. Unfortunately, Raz had only ever been a poor swimmer. The Arros had taught him well enough as a boy, but the depths of the Garin were home to caimans and crocodiles, and his wings and smooth skin had never served him well in water. He struggled forward, praying to the Moon for help. Within fifteen seconds his chest started to ache. Before long he forced himself to kick upward, breaking the surface again and taking the rope from his mouth to gasp in a lungful of air as the howl of the storm and rain returned. Without pause, he plunged downward again, Syrah’s spell still shining to cast Argoan’s outline upward from the depths.

  The ocean toyed with him as he swam, pushing him back, then forward, sometimes drawing the captain’s form closer, then whisking it away. Still, Raz fought, resolved to battle the forces of nature itself as he drew himself through the water, struggling against the waves. With every passing second, with every inch he got closer, he feared it would be too late. He was twenty feet away. Raz could hear the dull howl of the storm. He was ten feet away. His stomach pitched as both he and the captain were dragged upward. He was five feet away. The shapes of debris flashed between them. He was a foot away. He reached out, feeling his lungs screaming for air. The claws of his hands just managed to catch the loose layers of the cotton shirt swaying about the man’s chest.

  Raz had him.

  At once he made for the surface, struggling with everything he had left to pull them both upward. He was seeing stars again, the edges of his vision going black, the endless murk of the sea pressing in all around him. It was suddenly ten times harder to move, Argoan’s bulk fighting him as much as the current. Raz could feel himself slipping, feel himself fail. Abruptly, he realized the cruel joke the Dramion had played on him. He understood that, even though he’d been allowed to reach the captain, the sea would never let him haul the man back to the ship.

  Raz knew, suddenly, that he would have to let the man go if he wanted a chance at surviving himself.

  I’m sorry, friend, he thought as the black continued to pool across his vision. May the Moon see you up into Her Stars.

  He started to loosen his grip, started to untangle his claws from the wet folds of Argoan’s loose shirt.

  Then, just as he was about to let go completely, Raz felt a sharp tug against his teeth.

  The rope was being pulled back in.

  With a surge of hope Raz snatched the captain up again. Taking hold of the line with his free hand, he spat it out and stopped fighting. At once the water began moving faster around him, whipping by as what must have been a dozen sets of hands towed them back toward the Sylgid. A moment later they broke the surface, and Raz nearly passed out from the influx of oxygen as he sucked in the most wonderful breath of air he’d ever had in his life. The sounds of the raging storm returned, the rain pounding at him almost painfully. He blinked and tried to make out where he was, but could tell only that Syrah’s magic had faded, the water around them dark and foreboding once more. His eyes stung. His head hurt, and his chest felt as though he had been stepped on by an elephant. He continued to heave in breath after breath in an attempt to fight away the heaviness of his arms and legs, the shakiness of his grip. He hacked and gasped as the wake kicked back at him, spilling seawater into his mouth.

  They reached the frigate just as Raz thought his strength would fail him. Hands grabbed at him as soon as he felt his shoulder knock against the hull, and from the clatter of wood on wood and the bleary outlines he could make out through his blurred vision, Raz realized a pair of rope ladders had been thrown over the side of the ship. He felt the captain taken from his grasp and hauled upward as voices shouted all around over the scream of the wind. He thudded and scraped against the boat, feeling the world go dark, and in some distant place he realized the tow line was sliding from his grasp. He fought not to sink, fought with all he had left to hold tighter to the rope, but to no avail. The warmth of the ocean called to him, an almost soothing song. The abuse of the rain faded as he slid beneath the surface again, salt filling his mouth once more. Inch by inch the line slipped, more as the ocean pushed him this way and that in the current. He felt the end slide against his
wrist, then his palm, then the very edge of his fingers. He was too tired to be frightened, too beaten to give much thought to his own death. He regretted only what he would leave behind, seeing a glint of white shimmer high above the surface of the water. He watched that ivory glow even as the rope slipped away completely, wondering if she would be safe without him.

  Then, with a crack and shriek of boiling water, the white exploded through the surface. Something hot and brilliant and flickering with painless ivory flames snaked downward, wrapping around his wrist. A moment later he was hauled upward again, breaking once more into the roaring wind of the storm.

  Raz’s head lolled back. He had only the time to grin stupidly up at the indistinct outline of the woman leaning over the railing above, her white hair whipping about her pale face, the fiery lash gripped tight in one hand. More forms hurried down the ladders on either side of him, and as strong hands took him under both arms, Raz had time for one last thought before he dropped into oblivion.

  Thank the Sun for that woman.

  Warmth was the first thing Raz felt as he came to. The feeling of the Sun against his face and chest, and the brush of a breeze rustling against his bare skin. At first he thought he was dreaming of the Garin again, but when he tried to open his eyes he groaned and blinked repeatedly, not anticipating the dry, stinging achiness of the attempt, nor the brightness of the day.

  “Lysa!” a familiar voice called from beside him. “Come! He’s awake.”

  Raz forced himself to squint and turn his head. Slowly, the light of the day pounding at him like a cruel headache, he made out Syrah’s form side-sitting by his right hip. Eventually her face came into focus, and the smile he tried to give her came out as a pained smirk even as he made out the sound of boots on steps. A second later, the blurred outline of the first mate approached over the Priestess’ shoulder.

  “I take it we made it through?” Raz asked, half-teasing, letting his head fall back to the wood of the ship’s deck and bringing an arm up to cover his face. “Ooooww. My eyes.”

  “Salt water will do that,” Lysa’s voice answered, sounding all-too relieved that he was back among the living. “A good rinse and a few days, and you’ll be fine.”

  Raz nodded, not moving his arm, enjoying the cool darkness of the inside of his elbow. “How long have I been out?”

  “Just a few hours,” Syrah said. “We kept you and Argoan in the captain’s quarters until the storm passed. He’s still there, but I told them the sunlight would do you good.”

  Raz tried to peek with one eye at the sky again. He caught only a glimpse of thick clouds patterning a pale blue before his eye ached, and he covered it back up. “He made it, then,” he said with a groan. “That’s good. How is he?”

  “Fine,” Lysa answered first. “Took a good hit to the head and gagged up enough of the Dramion to raise the tides after we hauled him back on board, but no lasting damage overall. He’s asleep now.”

  “Can’t blame him,” Raz muttered, suddenly realizing how heavy his body was. “I feel like I haven’t seen a bed in years.” He frowned suddenly, thinking of something else. “And the rest? I saw others, in the water. Were we able to get to them?”

  There was a moment of sad silence.

  “We managed to rescue two,” Syrah said sadly. “We tried to get ropes to the others, but the current pulled them away. We’ve been searching all night and morning but…” He felt her shudder beside him. “It’s my fault. I couldn’t hold the spell any longer. As soon as we saw you reach the captain, I had to let go. I barely had enough strength left to keep you from drowning once you made it back to the ship.”

  Raz was about to reach out to her, to comfort her and tell her that none of it was her doing, but Lysa beat him to it.

  “It is anything but your fault,” she snapped, sounding genuinely irritated. “We would have made this trip regardless of your presence. If anything, you two are the only reason we managed to save even those two, not to mention the captain or the bloody mast. A storm like that is a rare curse. We were lucky to have you on board.”

  Raz nodded in agreement, then decided it was time to get up. With a groan he lifted his arm from his face and started to push himself into a sitting position, keeping his eyes shut. At once he heard Syrah curse under her breath, then felt her slim hands on his shoulders as she helped. “She’s right,” Raz told the Priestess after he managed to steady himself, ignoring the throb of his head as he blinked at the ground. It was easier opening his eyes, this time, without the Sun glaring directly into them. “You saved a lot of lives last night, Syrah. Mine included.”

  “All our lives,” Lysa corrected. “The both of you. If the main mast had gone down, it would have taken out the foresail in that wind. We would have had to row against the wind and current back to land, and we’ve only provisions for a week or so, until our next docking. It would have meant disaster.”

  Their words seemed to help. Syrah didn’t say anything more, but Raz felt her relax beside him. Slowly he looked up, still unable to do more than squint as the glare of the new morning stabbed at his eyes again.

  They were seated on the raised bow, the Sylgid's figurehead rising up behind Raz’s back. Before him, the top-deck was a mess. Apparently no one had bothered yet with worrying about cleaning up, likely too preoccupied with the search for their missing shipmates and caring for the wounded from the previous night. The sail they’d cut down remained where it had fallen, loose and limp in a wet pile wrapped about the base of the main mast, and what was left of the lower boom splintered out in either direction ten feet above them. From his place above the deck, Raz could easily see the loose rigging flapping about overhead, as well as the dent and scrape from where the broken beam had fallen and crashed to the ship floor. A chunk was missing from the portside railing, and it looked as though a significant amount of the covered cargo hadn’t withstood the wave that had nearly capsized them.

  “We’re lucky we made it through…” Raz muttered to himself.

  Neither of the women contradicted him.

  It took a while before Raz was ready to try standing in truth. He’d been worse off, he decided as he got to his feet—thinking in particular about a time he had taken a crossbow bolt in the side—but he still felt like he’d been thrown off a building head-first. Between the desperation with which he’d fought to cut the sail free, the brutal crush of the wave, and the unplanned dive into the sea, his whole body was largely not happy with him. He limped along, using Syrah’s shoulder like a crutch, following Lysa as the first mate descended the bow steps to the waist, then down the ship toward their cabin. All around them, sailors whose names he knew and didn’t hailed him, but all Raz could do was wave and grimace in attempted cheer. The morning Sun did indeed feel good on his back—they were sailing southwest now, meaning they must have been blown off-course by the storm—but the ache in his head didn’t fade in the glare. When Lysa opened the door to their quarters and helped Syrah get him inside, he couldn’t help but feel relieved in the relative darkness of the lodgings.

  “How many did we lose last night?” he asked after they’d eased him to sit at the edge of the feather-stuffed mattress. Syrah sat down beside him, taking hold of his hand with surprising firmness.

  “Seven in all,” Lysa answered, sounding as though she had to fight to keep her voice even. “Six to the sea, but Perro fell when we were trying to free the sail.” She sighed, reaching up with one hand to rub her temples. “He died a few hours ago.”

  Raz thought of the sailor sadly, remembering the desperation in the Southerner’s voice as he’d rushed down into the rowing galley, yelling for help. He thought, too, of the others, damned to the waves. He didn’t envy them their deaths, couldn’t fathom the fear that must have drowned them as thoroughly as the sea itself. He shivered, shaking his head slightly, and Syrah’s hand tightened even more in his.

  “Poor bastards,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope the Moon was quick in claiming them.”

 
“Aye,” Lysa agreed. “They were good sailors.” She hesitated, looking at Syrah. “Would you pray for them for me? Let the Lifegiver know… Let him know they deserve to be reborn into the world?”

  If the Priestess was surprised by this request, she didn’t show it.

  “Of course,” she said with a sad smile. “Do you have their names?”

  The first mate gave them to her, and Raz felt his heart sink as he recognized nearly every one. Men and women he had sparred with, eaten and joked with in the crew’s quarters.

  Poor bastards, he repeated to himself.

  After that, Lysa left them to check on the captain. For a little while Syrah fussed over Raz, asking him how he felt and checking his wounds. His head was the worst—Raz suspected he’d managed to give himself a mild concussion when he’d dived into the water—but he’d also managed to scrape up his back, right arm, and the limb of his right wing against the barnacled hull of the ship. In the muddled ache that was his entire body he hadn't really noticed, but after the woman worked some magic over his shoulder he felt much of the hidden pain subside.