As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  As Yseri responded with a barbed comment about the irony of the man’s familial concerns, Ekene motioned to Naizer. Even if his Second had been on the verge of dozing off, he was not brazen enough to ignore the instruction. With a muttered grumble he pushed himself from his seat and started down the steps, cutting across Yseri and Tyre’s squabble. Ekene followed the man carefully, curiosity rising as Osana stood on her tiptoes to whisper into the Hand’s ear.

  “Honored First.” Vashül Tyre enunciated the word like he wished for nothing more than the ability to replace it with a much more poignant descriptor. “Such erosion of our profits is something we cannot stand for. For these prices, we would be better off driving our merchandise the extra leagues to the Seven Cities.”

  “Then do so,” Yseri said with a careless wave, sitting back in his chair. “Do not dupe yourself into thinking you will be missed. Where you stand today, tomorrow another will take your place. You are utterly—”

  “What?”

  Naizer’s barked demand cut across the argument, jolting everyone into silence. If the Second noticed he had interrupted anything, though, he didn’t care, still bent to listen to what Osana had to say. When the slave was done, he dismissed her with a snap of his fingers even as he turned and stormed up the stairs. She scurried off at once, almost running, clearly not keen to stay and see what consequences her news would bring about.

  “Guards! Escort our visitors out!” the Second shouted, not looking back as he climbed. “Now!”

  “What?” Tyre demanded furiously, taking a step forward. “You can’t just—?”

  “Guards,” Ekene said coolly, choking off the man’s words. “As Naizer says. We will finish the audience at a later time.”

  As he spoke, his eyes never left the Hand’s.

  There were angry mutterings of discontent while the five guests were led toward the great double-doors at the back of the chamber, but not even Tyre had it in him to argue with the Tash himself. The guards pressed them like a military line, shields held before them, right hands on their swords as if to say “Move, or else.”

  After the doors slammed closed behind them with a groaning boom, Naizer spoke.

  “Raz i’Syul Arro was discovered aboard the smuggler’s ship, as our Southern friends informed us. There was a battle. Two vessels from the eastern coastal villages coordinated their assault on the Sylgid.”

  “‘Eastern coastal villages,’” the Tash repeated with a snort. “Such a polite way to say ‘pirates.’ And? Do they have him?”

  “No.” The Second shook his head. “They were both overcome. One ship escaped, losing more than a quarter of its men, and the other was captured entirely. Apparently, rumor has it Arro butchered the entire crew single-handed.”

  A chill settled over the three of them.

  “Are you honestly surprised?”

  Like a splotch of darkness detaching itself from the shadows behind the Tash’s throne, Azzeki Koro stepped into view. His black eyes were on Naizer, and they twinkled with reserved amusement.

  “I could have told you not to put your faith in the coastal villages,” he said, and as disciplined as the man might have been, Ekene detected the slightest hint of smugness in his tone. “I have said before that you must not underestimate him. There is a reason they call him ‘Monster.’”

  “Foolish stories for foolish men,” Naizer hissed in what he likely thought was a dignified tone, but came out only as squeamish denial. “If the lizard escaped, then he must have had assistance. The woman, Brahnt, perhaps.”

  Koro’s eyes lost their glimmer, and he looked suddenly annoyed as his gaze moved between the three men. “How much proof will you need before you come to terms with the fact that Arro is nothing like the atherian you keep chained in the camps below us? I have seen what he can do, witnessed it for myself. You need to face this head-on, or risk greater troubles coming to pass.”

  “Indeed.” Ekene raised a hand as he spoke, ending his Second’s spluttered attempt at a retort. “This news is troubling, to say the least. Regardless of the circumstances, Arro’s victory does not bode well.” He dropped his arm to look at Koro directly. “A full crew all his own, she said…? I’m partial to believing it. If it turns out the atherian does have help beyond his ‘Priestess’…”

  “It spells trouble,” Yseri offered with a nod of agreement, contemplating the facts himself. “Alone, he and Brahnt pose less of a threat.”

  Azzeki Koro’s lip curled. “You cannot think like that,” he said to the First. “My last master carried that frame of mind, and he was as sharp as you, Suro. Do you know what Arro did with him?”

  “Left him to die by the Northern freeze,” Yseri said with a tilt of his head. “I am familiar with the story, Koro, but you misunderstand. I agree that Arro is a problem. I was merely commenting that it would be easier to deal with him and the woman alone than if they have garnered supporters.”

  “Precisely.” Ekene’s gnarled fingers ran through his beard as he spoke. “In fact, I would say this gives me cause to rethink your other concerns as well, Koro…”

  Still standing before the three of them, Naizer scowled. “What? That the lizard will come here? Why would he? What would he gain from such a suicidal act?”

  “Much and more,” Ekene said slowly, considering. Every day since they’d learned of Arro’s imminent arrival, the Third had been whispering in his ear that they needed to prepare, needed to be ready. The Tash had brushed the warnings aside, allowing Koro to take his Southerners and check the city’s defense purely in an attempt to appease the man.

  Now, though…

  An entire crew? Ekene thought. Single-handed?

  “There is much to be gained,” the Tash said again, deciding to voice his thoughts. “Even if the likelihood of success is small, he may seek to repeat his feat in Miropa. It would certainly have a greater effect here…”

  Naizer paled at that. “Repeat his feat?” he asked hesitantly. “You don’t mean—?”

  “That Arro would attempt to come for us,” Yseri finished for the man, catching on to the concept, staring at the banners on the columns above as he thought. “Yes… that would certainly have an impact.” He looked around at Naizer. “‘Cut the head off, and the body dies,’ as they say in the South. He succeeded in Miropa.”

  “To an extent,” the Tash corrected, still tugging at his beard. “The Mahsadën have recovered. This ‘Adrion Blaeth’ seems like a formidable leader, to say the least.”

  “Karesh Syl has no such protections.” Azzeki pressed his advantage. “Arro may see taking your heads as a chance to correct past failures.”

  “Our heads,” Ekene corrected him absently, still mulling over everything. “But something like that, yes…”

  For several seconds, they were silent, the three Hands watching the Tash expectantly.

  When he came to a decision, Ekene looked to Yseri.

  “Tell the Lord General I want staggered patrols along every eastern road,” he ordered the First Hand sharply. “On foot, five men each. Tell him I want every troop provided with a slave, and one good rider with a fast horse.”

  “Five?” Naizer asked incredulously even as Yseri nodded and hoisted himself to his feet. “You think five men is enough? If these rumors are true—and I’m not saying they are—” he glared pointedly at Koro “—then I don’t see how five will be a match for Arro.”

  “They don’t need to be,” the First Hand said, patting the wrinkles out of his robes around his paunch. “But if he’s distracted, four should be enough to slow him down, at the very least.”

  “F-four?” Naizer nodded, clearly bewildered. “I… I don’t understand.”

  “Which is why you are trusted with the bulk of the coffers, and not the might of the army, honored Second,” Yseri said with a smirk toward the man. Then he gave Koro a grudging nod before bowing low to Ekene. “It will be seen to, Great Tash.”

  Ekene watched the man descend the dais. The First was nearly halfway acr
oss the court floor when he stopped abruptly and turned around.

  “The ship,” he called back, as though struck by a thought. “I don’t recall the name…”

  “The Sylgid,” Azzeki Koro offered. “Given the time it would have taken for this news to reach us, chances are it’s made berth in one of the smugglers' hideaways along the southern coasts already. Likely the Horn, or Dead Man’s Haunt.”

  “The Sylgid,” Ekene muttered, rolling the strange name over his tongue and frowning. “Yes… I’d forgotten about that little matter…”

  “Would you pass judgment on it?” Yseri called from his place in the middle of the chamber. “For crimes against your throne?”

  Ekene thought on that a moment.

  When he answered, he barely managed to hide the satisfied smile that threatened to creep across his face.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 35

  “The documented methods for punishing escaped and runaway slaves in the mid-era v.S. are among some of the most barbaric treatments of man by man I have ever encountered. It pains me now, outlining the chapters of the texts I will use to spread these findings to the masses, for in my desire to educate the modern world on the horrors of old, I know in my heart of hearts that out there, somewhere, I will be feeding not a few sickened minds…”

  —notes by unknown author of Commonalities of Ancient & Modern Society

  The fact that Aleem Osero had no idea what he was doing in the middle of the savannah utterly terrified him.

  There was a rhythm, typically, to a slave’s life, a repetition to the days and months and years. Aleem himself had been a serving hand in the Tash’s kitchens for nearly a decade now, tasked with delivering the extravagant meals prepared by the cooks for Ekene Okonso and his guests. Overall, it was not the worst assignment to have within the palace. Aleem knew of a pair of women whose sole responsibility was hauling the palace’s refuse and waste out of the city, and slaves died all the time in the menagerie, mauled by half-starved tigers or trampled under the feet of the terrified rhinoceros His Greatness kept for his personal entertainment. In comparison, the kitchens were tame, the slaves who worked there only punished when something went wrong with the food, or the dishes were spilled. When he’d first started, Aleem had been beaten almost daily, but he learned fast how best to serve and who to be wary of. Nine years later, he was hardly ever struck, much less thrashed outright. He’d started to consider himself of some value, an experienced hand. In fact, for the last few weeks he’d been building up the courage to ask the overseer for the right to be made cook.

  Then his world was turned upside down. Soldiers had descended into the kitchens, grabbing him and a handful of others seemingly at random. In a few short hours Aleem and another thirty or so slaves from all about the palace had been outfitted with heavy packs stuffed with provisions and supplies for a long journey. They were offered no explanation as their ankles were cuffed and chained, like they were newly-bought and might still have dreams of escape.

  A little over a week later, Aleem was shuffling along the east-bound roads of the wild planes of Perce, trailing behind the five-man patrol he had been assigned to, sweat dampening the rumpled cloth of the stained kitchen tunic he hadn't even been allowed to change out of.

  Under other circumstances, the slave thought he might have been thrilled for the chance to travel beyond the walls of Karesh Syl. The savannah was a wonder to behold in its own right, a sprawling sweep of endless prairies flatter than the surface of a still lake. Elbow- and shoulder-high grasses of green and gold swayed on either side of the relatively cleared path that was the winding road, shimmering in the slightest breeze so that the scene all around them undulated, inhaling and exhaling like a living thing. Here and there acacias rose above the plains, a dozen bare branches reaching some fifteen feet in the air to hold up a thick canopy of leaves that were far out of reach of any but the tallest grazers. More impressive still, every now and then they would pass through the shade cast by towering baobabs, massive trunks so wide it was said the trees were the legs of long-lost giants who’d roamed the world before the Sun and Moon had been born to the heavens. Animals of all kinds thrived in the lushness of the savannah, any of them far more majestic than the poor specimens the Tash kept in his enclosures. Elephants migrated across the grasslands in herds of ten and more, giving the patrol a wide berth. Giraffes were often seen in pairs or small groups, sometimes with calves among them, and they paid about as much attention to Aleem and the soldiers as they might the tickbirds that leapt along their backs and heads.

  More exciting still—and far more terrifying—predators stalked the grasses, sometimes made distinct only by the faint shadow of their passing against the waving surface of the plains. Hyenas and packs of wild dogs could be heard in the night, yipping and snarling as they shared in their kills. Leopards lounged lazily in the lowest branches of the trees, sometimes sleeping the day away, other times glowering at the men as they passed, clawed paws resting protectively on whatever game they’d downed and dragged up into their perches. Once, the soldiers had even been forced to draw swords and put tinder to flint, lighting several torches they kept for night-traveling and surrounding the troop's one horse defensively.

  The lioness that had come too near, baring teeth at them from the edge of the road as she decided whether or not they were worth the trouble, eventually slunk back into the swaying stalks of the prairie.

  Yes, perhaps under different circumstances, Aleem would have enjoyed this trek.

  As it was, though, he felt only fear.

  They were selling him off to the eastern villages as punishment. It was the only explanation he could come up with. Somewhere, somehow, he had offended the Tash or one of his visitors beyond forgiveness. The overseers never—or rather very rarely—killed the slaves they were responsible for. “The dead have no value” was a common phrase among such men, after all. Instead, slaves whom the Tash no longer wanted in his sight were sold off, forced out of the relative comforts of the palace. Usually they were traded at auction in the city markets, where wealthy farmers would buy them as laborers to be put to work, or merchants would purchase them with the intention of using them as pack animals. Sometimes slaves would even be snatched up by the local brothels, which was a fate no one envied. In the worst cases, however, the Tash had been known to send the slaves who had displeased him most greatly to the gambling pits, or to exist as fodder for the pirates.

  Given the choice, Aleem would rather have been thrown to the wild animals of the pit and been done with it.

  The very thought of the coast made Aleem shudder, the cooking pots hanging from the side of his pack clinking as he did. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself chained to an oar, forced to row day-in and day-out until his mind and body broke. Helplessly, he looked down at his hands. Where many slaves had calluses and scars from hard labor and a difficult life, Aleem’s fingers were smooth. His nails had even been manicured weekly, so as not to offend the Tash while serving, though now they were scraped and filthy.

  He would not fare well to this change, he knew.

  He’d tried, for the last nine days, to keep his spirits up as much as he could. The men he’d been assigned to were a calm lot, as far as soldiers went, and left him largely alone apart from the occasional snap from the sergeant—Rafik—to keep up. They appeared almost grateful, in fact, when it was discovered Aleem’s only real value as a field slave came in the form of cooking, the five members of the patrol gobbling up the porridges and stews he made out of their provisions like they’d never had anything so good on the road. It made him hopeful, wondering if perhaps one of them might recommend him to his buyer as a ship’s chef, rather than an oarsman.

  Things changed, though, when the others came into view.

  “Halt,” Rafik commanded over his shoulder, bringing everyone to a short stop. It was early morning, the Sun glaring into their eyes from its low position in the eastern sky, making it hard to see. Raising a hand to shade his fa
ce, Aleem managed to make out a surprisingly large group approaching them along the road, travelling in the opposite direction. The caravan looked to be led by four soldiers in the spiked helms and the white-and-gold colors of Karesh Syl, two on horseback on either side of what appeared to be a young woman whose face was covered by a veil of purity, the other two on foot as they carried tower shields depicting the crossed spears of the city. Behind them, a wide, dual-axle cart rumbled along, towed by a short-haired ox. It was flanked by another eight men in mismatched leather-and-iron armor, a couple of whom were driving the animal forward with narrow switches. What Aleem thought must have been some sort of cylindrical cage with a domed top looked to have been bolted into the bed of the cart, but it was hard to tell. The enclosure—distinct only by the pattern of narrow bars—had been hidden from view by a large sheet of cloth hung over its entirety.