As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Once again, Syrah came to his rescue.

  Leaning over in her saddle, the Priestess reached up and took his face gently in one hand. With deliberate care she forced him to look away from the fields, forced him to turn and meet her masked gaze. He couldn’t see her eye through the veil, but her voice was warm and tender, drawing him back from the edge he was toeing.

  “Talo would have reminded you of the greater need, Raz,” she told him. “Carro, too, if he were here. You’re not abandoning them. You’re just asking them to make a small sacrifice.”

  For several seconds more, Raz stared into the white silk veil, feeling as though the depth of it were drawing him up, pulling him back from the red-tinged world of his own rage.

  Eventually, he let go of Ahna’s haft, allowing the dviassegai to settle against Gale’s side once more.

  They returned to the main group at a casual trot, not wanting to raise any more concerns from the overseers who were still watching them curiously from the distant fields. When they rejoined the men, Raz handed Gale over to Hur, telling the mute mountain man to saddle up as Erom did the same with Nymara. After that, Raz gave quiet orders to Cyper, who spent the next several minutes moving about the ranks, organizing the men and warning them of the scene ahead.

  Together, they passed the fields several minutes later, an inconsequential group of traveling mercenaries to any outside eyes, any trace of Raz and Syrah lost in the middle of the group and their remaining horses.

  Karan Brightneck felt the presence pass unsubstantiated, ethereal as the shadow of a cloud drifting over the Sun above.

  No… that wasn’t true. Rather, it was more the opposite, like a moment of warmth and light breaking through the heavens on a cold, stormy day. The feeling was anything but dark, anything but cold. For no apparent reason, the sensation passed over Karan and left her scales tingling inexplicably.

  She should have known better than to pause in her work, should have known better than to straighten and look around, searching for the source of the mysterious notion that something was calling to her, as subtle as the passing of a breeze. Slowly she scanned the field around her, ignoring the bent and working forms of the other atherian, as well as the masters loitering about by the tool shed, playing a game of dice in the shade.

  She found nothing out of the ordinary.

  To the east, several carrion birds were circling, marking the spot where some poor beast had met—or was actively meeting—its end. On the road to the south, an unimpressive party of mercenaries and soldiers was towing a cart along west, making for Karesh Syl. Further beyond them, Karan made out the ambling outline of a small herd of elephants, headed for one watering hole or another.

  No, nothing stood out as an explanation for her strange feeling.

  “OI!”

  Karan jumped, the icy realization that she had been standing still for almost half-a-minute shooting up her spine like a cold blade. Quickly she bent double again, rushing to pull up the carrots around her clawed feet in an attempt to look like nothing was amiss.

  The master wasn’t fooled.

  CRACK!

  Karan barely muffled her scream as the whip lashed across her back, the pain of the blow causing her to stumble forward several feet. There was a second sound of shearing air, and this time she couldn’t stop the shriek as she was thrashed for a second time, the braided leather catching her half-across her neck and face, missing her left eye by inches. She tripped and fell to the earthy field, basket tumbling from her arm, curling up around herself and covering her head with her hands as the thump of boots approached.

  “What in the Sun’s name do you think you’re doing, scaly?” a man’s hard voice breathed down on her. “I should flog you within an inch of your miserable, pathetic life. Now get up!”

  Karan didn’t hesitate, ignoring the pain across her cheek, neck, and back as she scrambled onto her feet to stand before the slave driver. She didn’t recognize the man—a fortunate thing, given the overseers that were well known weren’t often renowned for their kindness—and made sure not to meet his gaze even though she stood at least two inches taller than him.

  “Pick them up,” the Percian growled, pointing with the handle of his whip at the basket of spilled carrots lying in the row between them. “Get back to work. Half rations tonight, for all!”

  He shouted this last announcement to the field, looking around at the rest of the atherian, as though daring someone to raise a word of protest. Not a single slave uttered so much as a sound. They all knew better, all knew that to voice their disappointment and anger would only land them their own lashes, as well as a full week of half-rations. Still, many of the lizard-kind at least had the backbone to glare.

  Not all of them, though, were staring at the master.

  Karan swallowed in nervous fear as she briefly met Brahen’s cold golden eyes, narrowed in displeasure. She knew, without a doubt, that at the very least she herself wouldn’t be eating dinner at all that night, her already-cut ration of meat most likely forfeit.

  It wasn’t just the masters who could be cruel, after all.

  And yet, despite all this pressing down on her, as the Percian moved away Karan couldn’t help but give one quick glance around, searching a final time for any sign of the presence she’d felt, even a hint as to what the sensation had meant. Still finding nothing—and with many of her fellow slaves still watching her angrily—Karan gave up, returning to her labors and thinking wistfully of the supper she’d sacrificed for no apparent reason.

  In the sky above, framed a layer of thin clouds, the Sun gazed down on her, as steady and strong and full of hope as He could be cruel and unforgiving.

  CHAPTER 38

  “To live and to die at His whim. To serve and to submit to His will. To defend and to protect by His word.”

  —excerpt of conscription pledge, Karesh Syl, c. 720 v.S.

  Caysus Eboha was having a very, very long day. His morning had been bad enough: arriving late to roll-call, then realizing he’d left his helmet in the barracks, then vomiting into the horse trough during the post-call drills. But then, as punishment for all that, he’d been assigned afternoon sentry duty on the eastern gate. Now, as the shadow of the city wall stretched inch by inch over the road and savannah before him, Caysus was busy sweating in his uniform and trying not to be sick again, swearing up and down and praying to every god he had ever worshiped—or heard of, for that matter—to give him the strength never to visit the Lion’s Paw Tavern ever again.

  To be fair, Caysus knew he had gotten off relatively easy. If his captain had truly wanted to teach him a lesson, he would have assigned him duty at the north or west gates, which were a damned nightmare this time of day. There were always hundreds of comers and goers to and from the city, arriving or leaving from and for the South or the Seven Cities respectively, not to mention the frequent messengers, ambassadors, and bureaucrats that required special attention and vetting. At the east gate, traffic was generally much slower, the visitors they received largely limited to farmers, hunters, delegates from the grassland tribes and villages, or emissaries and traders from the pirates along the coast. It was tedious work, checking trade permits, searching carts for contraband, and keeping the crowd in check when tensions grew strained, but it was easy.

  Or would have been, were it not for Dulan Yazir.

  Yazir was, like every other commander of the four city gates, technically a general in the Tash’s army. Too old to be of any real use but possessing too many friends in the higher ranks to really be put to pasture, the aged officer should have been taking advantage of his leisurely post, enjoying the advantages it offered. Caysus knew for a fact that Saresh, the general in charge of the north gate, padded his pockets with bribes and gifts from the Mahsadën envoys in exchange for overlooking the fifteen-head limit slavers were generally held to per entry. To the west, Erras Panya had enough sense to almost never actually show up to his post, entrusting such menial work as monitoring the comings and goings
from the gate to lesser officers and foot soldiers. Caysus sighed, allowing himself a brief moment of fancying the idea of Dulan Yazir taking such a lax approach to his duties.

  Unfortunately, the general of the east gate was the sort of good soldier his subordinates jested most likely slept under a crossed-spears banner of the city with his sword laid out lovingly in the bed beside him. He was rigid and utterly unrelenting, holding the soldiers under his daily command to the minutia of military expectations, from posture to procession. The man had a single vice—the city brothels—but the whorehouses were frequented as often by diplomats, advisors, and even the Hands of the Tash himself as they were by the common rabble.

  In essence, his penchant for prostitutes wasn’t much of a stain on Dulan Yazir’s sterling reputation.

  “Single file!” the general roared, pacing up and down the growing number of arrivals, lining up one after the other along the road that led out from the gate. He walked with a stoically erect bearing—or as erect as a man his age was capable of—his braided grey hair neatly bunched in a single plait along the base of his helmet. The only time he unclasped his hands from behind his back was when he needed to shove some unruly individual into place, or point to the back of the line where he sent anyone who gave him lip. When he was sure the man wasn’t looking, Caysus rolled his eyes.

  “How long, do you think,” he muttered under his breath, squinting as the fading daylight made his head throb, “before the Moon sees fit to pull our good general up into her embrace?”

  At his right, his watch-partner chuckled dryly. Caysus didn’t consider Habib a friend, per se. They were part of different cohorts, and therefore were the type of acquaintances who only crossed paths when their assignments happened to line up, but the man was pleasant enough, and always happy to joke at a superior’s expense. Caysus had counted himself fortunate when he’d realized they’d be partnered for the afternoon.

  It made the time go by a little faster, at least.

  “Pray it’s sooner rather than later,” Habib responded under his breath, briefly releasing the hilt of his sword to scratch at the straps that bound his hefted shield to his left arm. “Rumor has it General Ima has started ‘compensating’ some of his men for their services.”

  Caysus groaned jealously. It was an open secret that Zale Ima, commander of the south gate, had long used the benefits of his post to run a fairly lucrative smuggling operation. All turned a blind eye—a general who happened to be the older brother of the Tash’s Second Hand was largely untouchable, after all—and if the man had started slipping some of his profits down the ranks…

  Caysus licked his lips unconsciously, thinking momentarily of how many pints a single bribe from Ima would afford him.

  Then the image made his stomach lurch, and he pushed the thought away.

  “You’d think, after sixty-something years under the Tash’s boot, he would have learned to bend a little,” he muttered, watching Yazir continue his ceaseless pacing up and down the line. “Maybe someone should clue him in that being an officer of the watch isn’t the ‘great honor’ he was probably told it was when they kicked him out of the main army.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Habib said with mock sadness. “The poor man wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’d probably drop dead then and there of a broken heart.”

  Both of them snorted at that, not altogether upset with the image.

  Most unfortunately, Caysus hadn't yet had time to compose his face completely when Yazir’s eyes happened to fall on him.

  Oh, shit.

  In textbook fashion, the general detached himself from his amusement of bullying the men and women of the line and made right for Caysus and Habib. Caysus felt his heart hammer in his chest as they instinctively straightened, trying to appear as much a pair of perfect soldiers as they were capable of.

  Yazir, of course, didn’t buy it for a moment.

  “Something funny, you two?” the old general asked sarcastically as he came to stand before them, hands still clasped behind his back, posture still rigid. He gave off an air of pride and patriotism that might have been impressive, except that age had withered away his height so drastically that the man was looking up at Caysus and Habib from a fairly significant discrepancy. His hard brown eyes, though, were edged with disapproval, and neither of the men were fool enough to be smart in response.

  “No, General,” they said together, eyes over Yazir’s helmet. Caysus ignored the throb in his head, forcing himself to stare dutifully off into the distance. A five-man patrol galloped by on horseback—a rare occurrence they had been seeing more and more of over the last couple weeks—and Caysus barely controlled a grimace of annoyance as he saw them slow and glance in his direction, likely enjoying the free entertainment of seeing him berated.

  “Oh, is that so?” Yazir was asking, looking from Caysus to Habib and back again. “Strange… I could have sworn I heard you two laughing behind my back. Care to share the joke?”

  Neither men said anything, Caysus keeping his eyes resolutely forward even as the lingering patrol finally galloped off.

  “Let me rephrase,” the general said in a flat voice. “You will share the joke, or I’ll have it made known to your captains that you were inattentive at your posts. Is flogging still the punishment for failed duty in your toothless generation?”

  Caysus clenched his teeth. This was the exact reason Dulan Yazir was so thoroughly disliked among the ranks. Not only was there little doubt he would indeed inform their cohort officers of the transgressions, but he would make sure the punishments—otherwise rarely actually enforced—were carried out to their extent. Caysus was just about to tell the general where he could stick his smugness, content enough to go all in if he was going to be whipped anyway, when Habib saved the day.

  Or tried to, at least.

  “Caysus was merely informing me of a rumor, sir,” the man said quickly. “Apparently the Silver Grasses purchased a number of new girls at auction this morning. We were discussing making our way there after watch’s end this evening.”

  Brilliant, Caysus thought with relief, seeing the look on Yazir’s face shift ever so slightly. The man was as much a lecherous lout as he was a good soldier. If he thought the Silver Grasses—one of the most well-respected brothels in the pleasure districts of the inner city—had fresh whores, it might just save them some of his displeasure…

  Sadly, Habib’s plan worked too well.

  “Is that so?” The general’s question was slow and contemplative, and something like a smirk played at his thin, mottled lips. “Well, I would certainly hate to deprive you both of your chance to take advantage of such good news. Still—” he leered in truth now “—it’s really for the best if you let better men break in the merchandise beforehand. For your benefit, of course.” He pulled a hand out from behind his back, holding up two fingers. “Evening watch,” he said with a loathsome chuckle. “Tonight, and tomorrow. The both of you.”

  Habib began to splutter and protest, and Caysus felt his face flush in anger. Evening and night watches, after the gates had been shut and barred for the day, were traditionally left to new recruits and useless soldiers who couldn’t be trusted with more sensitive or complicated assignments. Karesh Syl had treaties and trading routes with both the Mahsadën of the South and the rulers of the Seven Cities, the two closest concerning powers. No one gained from attacking them, not even Karesh Nan to the south, given the fortifications that made the metropolis more fortress-kingdom than city-state. As a result, evening watch was left to a bare unit of eight men. Compared to the two-dozen soldiers standing about the gate now, partnered off in twelve pairs at the ready for anything during one of the busiest times of daily traffic, standing sentry after dark was lonely, cold, and unfathomably boring.

  And Yazir had just tasked them with two days of it.

  “Next time,” Caysus told Habib in an angry whisper after the general finally walked away. “Remind me to find out if he stands so upright after I fit my
shield down his throat.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “They say the Twins' greatest source of entertainment is man’s foolish preoccupation with ‘plans’…”

  —Jarden Arro, Champion of the Arro clan

  The expectation had been for Akelo and the others to return before nightfall. Therefore, when the sun began to set without any sign of them, embellishing the now-distinct outline of the tapering towers of Karesh Syl against a fiery dusk, Raz began to worry. They’d kept to the road all day, in the end, moving at a slow, ambling pace that served to slip by the overseers of the slave-worked fields they kept passing without arousing suspicion.