As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Distracted as they were, Ahna made quick work of the two, adding their bodies to the dead.

  A set of steep steps led down into the belly of the ship, and another Percian met Raz at the base, charging him with a lowered spear. Raz sidestepped and took hold of the weapon’s end with his free hand, smashing Ahna’s haft up into the pirate’s nose. There was a crunch as shattered bone was driven into the man’s brain, and Raz pulled the spear free as the body fell convulsing over the steps. Twirling the weapon about, he hefted it over his shoulder as he heard the thumping of yet another set of boots. A fourth figure appeared in the doorway some ten feet in front of the stairs, rushing through just in time to take the borrowed spear squarely in the chest. When Raz was sure he could make out no one else running to meet him, he moved forward to step over the body.

  A second later he found himself in the rowing galley, and he almost choked as he took in the scene before him.

  The space was much the same as the Sylgid’s, but a good deal smaller. Bloody water could be made out through a dozen oar-holes, and a raised walkway bisected the compartment, leading to yet another doorway at the back of the space. On either side of it, bolted into the floor, two cylindrical iron cages stood empty, about six feet tall by four feet wide. Overhead, a trio of oil lanterns, dark now in the light of day, swung from hooks in the ceiling, and at Raz’s feet a single large, animal-skin drum lay abandoned, as though one of the men he’d just butchered might have been standing over it a moment before. The sticks were nowhere in sight.

  Likely they had rolled away, dropping into the sunken rows that lined each side of the hull, disappearing among the shackled feet of two-dozen of the most miserable souls Raz had ever seen.

  The slaves sat in pairs, two to a seat, twelve to a row. It wasn’t their bodies that nearly brought Raz to his knees, looking over them. If anything, they looked almost healthy, lean and muscled, as though their masters had wanted them strong enough to handle the oars all day and night if need be. They were men, all, of varying ages, but each sporting thick arms and weathered, callused hands. Their garb was plain and minimal, often nothing more than a simple set of cloth shorts and rough, sleeveless shirts, but the clothes looked as though they’d never once been washed, and every figure he could see was barefooted.

  But it was their eyes—in every gaze that stared up at him in unfathomable silence—that made Raz rasp out a harrowed sob of misery and relief.

  They were not the eyes of dead men, per se. Rather, they were the eyes of men who wished to die, but had never been given leave by the gods to do so. They watched him, empty and hollow except for a gleam that looked to reflect every emotion Raz himself was feeling in that moment, like more than a score of mirrors shining with pain, desperation, and even hope. His breath grew shallow as he looked them over, his body shivering. There weren’t any atherian among them—a fact he wasn’t sure if he was grateful for or not—but aside from that there couldn’t have been a greater variety of men in any given place in the world. To his surprise, nearly a third of them were Percian themselves, their dark skin marked and blemished with dozens of pale scars, most bearing geometric and spiraling tattoos across their chests and shoulders in symbols Raz didn’t recognize. There were Southerners, desert and city-born both, all with marred, tanned skin. There were blond-headed Northerners, including one hulking figure at the back who had to have mountain clan blood in him. There were West Islers, with their straight black hair and narrow eyes, and Imperialist, their dark curls dirty and lank over their faces and their olive skin weathered by the sea. Raz even thought a few of the figures, scattered here and there, might have been of the Seven Cities, with lighter hair and somber eyes over heavy beards.

  Each of them, though—every single one—shared the same empty blankness in their gaze, like none truly dared believe there might be hope standing before them.

  Raz did his best to shake himself free of the wash of emotions that were threatening to drown him, but his voice still quavered as he spoke.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked them simply.

  For a long time, no one moved. Nothing could be heard over the creak of the boat and the coursing of the water outside, mixing with the ring of swords and shouting of the battle still raging aboard the Sylgid above.

  Then several of them nodded slowly.

  “Are there more?” Raz continued, waving behind him at the bloody bodies on the floor.

  Again, no one answered. The silence extended so long he began to dread that the men before him might not be able to speak.

  Finally, though, from the aisle in the middle of the portside rows, a single voice rose, ragged and harsh, as though it hadn't been used in many years.

  “Three. In the crew quarters. They heard you coming.”

  Raz studied the man. He was one of the Percian, and looked older than most of the others. His roughly-cropped black hair was strained with grey, and his face was crinkled like hardened leather. He seemed—given the odd combination of his apparent years and the broadness of his muscled shoulders—rather like an aged general who still preferred to lead his troops into battle, and there was a strength to his eyes that was lacking in those of the others.

  Will, Raz thought he recognized, meeting the man’s gaze.

  “Three,” he repeated. “You’re sure?”

  The slave nodded.

  “And the keys?”

  At that, there was a shiver among the group. Not a single voice spoke, not even the Percian’s, but every single eye dropped to look past Raz’s feet. He turned, finding the prone form of the pirate he had speared through the chest, his body spread-eagled with the haft of the weapon sticking out of his sternum like a flagpole.

  Raz glanced back around, his eyes on the distant door behind which the last three lay in wait.

  “Is there one among you whom you all trust?” he asked the slaves.

  Again, no one answered. Despite this, after a few seconds heads started to turn. Their mute fear held, but soon nearly every face had shifted, some looking over shoulders, others staring at the back of the man’s head, singling him out.

  Could have guessed that, Raz said, his eyes settling on the old Percian again.

  Then he eased himself to one knee, patting the dead pirate down until he heard the jingle of metal, and he drew a simple iron ring from his pocket from which dangled a trio of rusty keys.

  Raz moved quickly between the slaves, toward the end of the boat. He could feel their eyes on him, feel the hunger with which they watched those keys pass. When he stopped beside the Percian, he looked down at him.

  “What’s your name, old man?”

  At the question, the slave started and stared up at him, like this was a question he never expected to be asked. Eventually he opened his mouth to answer, his silvered beard scraggly about his chin and cheeks, but no words came. For a while he seemed pained, as though he couldn’t remember the answer.

  Then, with a twitch of his lips that spoke of a pleasant memory pulled from somewhere far, far away, it came back to him.

  “Akelo,” he croaked in answer, like the syllables were hard to get out. “Akelo Aseni.”

  Raz nodded in greeting.

  “Well then, Akelo,” he said, holding out the keys to the dark-skinned man and looking back to the door at the far end of the galley. “Shall I kill them, or would you rather I leave them to you and your men?”

  CHAPTER 29

  “There is a trope so commonly used in literature and poetry, always some variation of ‘there is nothing more dangerous than a cornered animal.’ I cannot help but glean some grim amusement from this, for I often wonder if the authors of these clichés have ever in their life witnessed the far more frightening sight of a cornered man…”

  —the Lifetaker

  Syrah was feeling hard-pressed by the time Raz showed up with help.

  For nearly twenty minutes she and Argoan had been battling along the starboard side of the Sylgid, sometimes fighting to press the pirates ba
ck off the ship, sometimes simply battling for their lives. They’d done well so far, in her opinion. The captain himself stood like a wall, his hammer flashing left and right, striking down anyone fool enough to step within reach. His crew had managed to cut loose many of the grappling hooks lashing the frigate to the enemy, as well as topple one of the four heavy gangplanks into the sea, and Syrah had managed to blast another to ash. For a time, the battle had been even.

  Eventually, however, they’d started to lose ground.

  The Percian who managed to cross over began pressing them back, pushing them into the openness of the Sylgid’s deck as others poured in behind their comrades. In a matter of minutes the fight turned, shifting away from an attempt to keep the pirates from boarding into an all-out battle for the Sylgid herself. Syrah moved like a demoness about the ship, summoning spells and striking out with her staff wherever she found the opportunity. She silently thanked Raz a dozen different times for the practice he had put in with her and the rest of the crew over the last months. She’d been good before, she knew, a capable fighter, but now she could feel the difference in her encounters, could witness the lessons he had worked into her body revealing themselves subtly, but to great effect. She never stopped moving, never stood in one place longer than she needed to. She became more than a single warrior in the battle, her constant shifting allowing her to cast her magic in a hundred different ways as she tried to keep the tide of battle even. For a while, she did well for herself. Runes blasted under the pirates’ feet. Stunning spells streaked through the confusion to knock men unconscious. Lashes flicked out to tie victims to the railings and masts and tangle them in the ratlines.

  But, eventually, it dawned on Syrah that they were losing.

  They caught a brief reprieve when Lysa—who’d gone after Raz when no one had seen him for several minutes—returned with her party. For several minutes the fight was at a standstill again, but they’d already lost so much ground that the first mate’s arrival only delayed the inevitable. Now Syrah, Argoan, and Lysa were being borne down on, forced beyond the mid-point of the ship, past the masts. A few more yards and they would be fighting with their backs against the portside banister, the pirates having claimed most of the Sylgid.

  And then, with a thunder of clawed feet and a war-cry that rang clear over the sounds of fighting, Raz careened out of the smoke at their backs, launching himself over their heads and into the melee, plunging right through the ranks of the pressing Percian. Syrah would have laughed for joy, relieved that he was alive and fighting, but several thuds told her others were crossing over from the ship at their backs. She whirled, concerned that enemy reinforcements were coming from behind, but what she saw instead confused and mystified her.

  A large group of heavyset men, all ragged and wild-eyed and dressed in a filthy assortment of worn garments, were following Raz off the gangplank onto the Sylgid. They had a haunted look, each casting about as though they hadn't seen the light of day in a long time, and in their hands they clutched such a mismatch of bloodstained weapons they might have come from the very pirates Syrah was fending off now. Their clothes, too, were bloody, splattered and stained, and many of their hands were dyed red. Seeing this, Syrah noticed another common mark among them, something that made her catch her breath in sad surprise.

  Scarred rings, thick and old, banded each of the men’s wrists and ankles.

  She made the connection just as the small army of slaves roared and charged after Raz into the fight, fearless despite their utter lack of armor, desperate in their savage, furious slashes and strikes.

  After that, the battle was won. Syrah and the crew fought on, but they could just as well have stood back and watched the slaughter unfold without them. The Dragon revealed himself in all his horrifying glory, Ahna screaming through the air as he darted about the deck like black lightning, an axe Syrah had never seen flashing in his other hand. The slaves, too, fought like wild animals, several falling with howls and wails, but most simply refusing to die as they battled with such vicious savagery that the Percian seemed utterly outmatched by the sheer will of the men assaulting them. Within a few minutes the pirates had been pressed back, and soon after there were yells to retreat. The men who hadn't fallen to Raz or his unexpected army scrambled and fought to be clear of the Sylgid, several falling with shrill screams of terror into the Dramion as the two remaining gangplanks suddenly became overrun in the flight. The grappling lines went slack, released or cut from the enemy’s side, and with a groan the planks themselves tumbled into the water, abandoned as the ship began to pull away.

  For one terrifying second, Syrah knew Raz was going to leap the growing gap onto the deck of the retreating ship. He almost managed it, his head snapping around from the last lingering skirmishes as he heard the boat pull away. He began to run, his clawed feet pounding over the body-strewn deck, and he was barely three yards from the starboard rail when Syrah screamed his name.

  “RAZ! NO!”

  The atherian stumbled, like he’d tripped over something that wasn’t there. He managed to stop himself slamming into the banister only by catching hold of the main ratlines over his head, coming to such a sharp halt Syrah thought she saw splinters fly from beneath his talons. He didn’t look back at her, though. Instead, Raz roared as he watched the ship flee, the sound ringing out over the ocean half-furiously, half-despairingly.

  Then the vessel pulled away, and the atherian crumpled, half-sitting, to the deck.

  “VICTORY!”

  It was Garht Argoan who raised the cheer, bellowing in a booming voice as he thrust his gory hammer into the air, his bearded face and leather-clad body wet with blood and dust from the smoke. In response, the survivors of the Sylgid echoed the hurrah, their combined voices booming out in triumph. Sunlight glinted across the ship, reflected a thousand times against blades raised and waved about in the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

  Syrah heard none of it.

  “Raz!” she said desperately, running to him and stumbling to her knees at his side, her staff rolling away uncaringly to settle against the rail. “Raz! Look at me!”

  He was a bloody sight. Only once before had she ever witnessed him in such a terrifying state, on the night he’d rescued her from the clutches of Kareth Grahst. On that occasion, though, there had at least been a light behind his eyes. Now, as his gaze turned to meet hers, she saw the dimness there, the dead coolness of the Monster.

  “Raz!” she yelled, shaking him. “Come back!”

  The man gave a shudder, blinked once, and seemed to return to himself.

  “Syrah,” he groaned by way of greeting, giving her a lopsided smile. “Careful. You’re going to get your robes bloody.”

  Unable to help herself, Syrah choked back a small sob, then threw her arms around his neck, almost toppling them both.

  When he’d found his balance again, Raz chuckled. “Guess you don’t care.” Gently, he forced himself free of the embrace, pushing her back to hold at arm’s length. His gold eyes looked her up and down. “Wish you hadn't done that, though. Now I can’t tell. Is any of this yours?”

  Syrah looked down at herself. Indeed, the white robes of her faith were now covered in red, patterned crudely in the same manner of Raz’s armor.

  She gave a short, gasping laugh, shaking her head. “No, none of it.” Now it was her turn to take him in, feeling worry rear up inside her. “What about you?” she asked, reaching out to wipe some of the blood from his chest and face. “You look ghastly. Are you hurt?”

  Raz shook his head, bemused. “Believe it or not, I don’t think so. I might have made it out without a scratch, this time.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said firmly, getting to her feet. “Stand up, let me see.”

  Raz grumbled, but did as he was told, pushing himself up with a groan before turning unsteadily for her, Ahna still held in one hand, the odd axe in the other. Sure enough, apart from one or two shallow lacerations across his back and the exposed part of his right ar
m, there was nothing, and Syrah sighed in relief.

  “Better than usual,” she admitted grudgingly, pulling him around to face her again. “You’re still a mess, though. Let’s clean you up and—”

  “Arro.”

  A stranger’s voice cut across their conversation, and Syrah turned to find herself facing one of the slaves who’d followed Raz off the brigantine that had attempted to board their portside. He was a tall, muscular Percian, his dark skin scarred and leathery, and he looked to be of a surprising age. He might have seen fifty summers for all Syrah knew, but it was difficult to tell. She’d seen many slaves in her time working with the tribes of the Vietalis. After years of hard labor, it could be hard to judge their age merely by their appearance.