As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Another grunt, then another question. “And your horse?” the man asked, though he sounded less skeptical.

  Akelo grimaced. “Hyenas. Not a week out. Left this poor bastard—” he shook Aleem in his grip, as though to remind the sentry why they were there “—to carry everything.”

  The soldier on the other side of the door chuckled at that. “Not much point in them otherwise, is there? You work in the kitchens, slave?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Aleem answered at once, choking on his words. His eyes fell and his face flushed, and Raz’s grip tightened around Ahna and his gladius. He hated to put one of his men through this, after the life they’d already had to lead.

  The sentry grunted for a third time. The was a shift of feet, followed by the sound of metal on metal as he slid the slot back into place. Then, with a quiet clunk of some lock or lever being lifted, the door swung inward.

  “Give him here,” the soldier said, extending an arm toward Aleem. “Then I recommend you take your men back to your barracks, Captain. I wasn’t jesting when I said they’ve made a call for all hands. You’re lucky I was even here to—URK!”

  Raz slipped along the wall and into the arch of the doorway, sinking the gladius up to its hilt in the man’s stomach, shoving upward. He barely glanced at the soldier even as the blade cut through diaphragm, heart, and lung, ending his life with nothing more than a pained gasp. Raz was already moving through the door, bringing the spasming body with him before it could bleed out over the road. The others poured in behind him, weapons out and ready for a fight. The courtyard they found themselves in was a small thing, an uneven triangle of grass and stone wedged between two walls of one of the palace’s outer structures. Along the left-most of these, a trio of short steps led up to a plain wooden door set into the stone, far less ornate that the bronze one they’d just come through.

  The only people waiting for them, though, were a pair of thin women in ragged, grimy smocks, startled eyes taking the band in from above matching clothes wrapped over the lower halves of their faces.

  It was a sad, pathetic scene. The two slaves stood, frozen, on either side of a narrow, half-filled cart that must just have fit through the door at Raz’s back. Each woman was ankle-deep in a massive pile of half-eaten and rotting food and refuse built up against the wall of the palace proper, each wielding a worn wooden shovel they looked to have been using to haul the rubbish into the cart. Raz took them in as his men cursed and muttered behind him, some at the state of the two filthy women, some at the renewed stench of the waste heap.

  If even a day before someone had suggested that Aleem—Aleem, their kitchen-hand-turned-cook—would be the key to infiltrating the Tash’s palace, Raz would have questioned that person’s sanity. When the man had told them about the rubbish door, though, Raz had been one of many to outright gape at the former slave, as stunned by the simplicity of the idea as he was by the ridiculousness of the notion. It made sense, of course. The Tash’s palace was obviously home to hundreds—maybe even thousands—of people. Diplomats. Soldiers. Servants. Slaves. The functioning sewer system of Karesh Syl was a wonder all to itself, but one couldn’t simply toss the remnants of one’s meal down the privy. Of course the kitchens would have to have a way to rid themselves of leftovers and spoiled food. Of course there would be a place for the slaves to toss whatever rubbish might otherwise accumulate in such a bustling place. From where he stood, Raz could make out the broken leg of a finely carved chair sticking out from a small pile of moldy apples, the leather sole of some worn shoe, and the torn remnants of what might have been old bedsheets or curtains under a heap of plucked poultry feathers. Best of all, of course the Tash would want such a system out of the way and out of sight—not to mention out of scent. His city was blessed, after all. He himself was ordained by the Twins. How could the majesty of its inner quarters ever be tainted by such mundane difficulties as wasted scraps and junk? Raz almost felt sorry for the unfortunate nobles who’d settled in the homes closest to the bronze door Akelo was now closing behind them.

  Doing his best not to breathe through his nose, Raz lowered his weapons and stood straight, trying to look as unthreatening as possible as he faced the two women whose labors they had clearly interrupted.

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

  It took a moment to get a response, and even then only one of the pair managed to nod, the motion jerky and small as both of them continued to stare, clearly having difficulty believing their eyes.

  “Then you understand what I’ve come to do?” he continued, taking a step forward, relieved when neither woman made to flinch away or scream in alarm.

  Again, a simple, spasmed nod.

  “Can you help us?”

  Raz worried the request was too much, worried that he was going to push the slaves too far. Indeed, as he thought this, he saw their eyes shift from him to over his shoulder, much of their surprise souring into uncertain agitation.

  Glancing around, it didn’t take him long to realize what they were looking at.

  “Akelo,” he asked, getting the old man’s attention from among his other kuja, “show them your wrist, will you?”

  Fortunately, the Percian seemed to understand where his head was at. Without pause he fumbled for a moment with the lacings of the white leathers around his forearm of his sword hand, then tugged the soldier’s armor off to reveal his bare skin. There was a sharp inhalation of understanding from the two women when they saw the scar there, the broad swath of knotted flesh where shackles had so often chained the man to his oars. As Raz looked back at the slaves, he was certain there was a new hope dawning there in their wide eyes.

  Sure enough, while the woman on the right still seemed hesitant, the one who’d nodded spoke up almost at once.

  “There’s only Overseer Jareen today.” Her words were slurred as she looked at Raz, voice heavy with the accents of the Southern slums. “The other two were called away, but they ain’t tellin’ us why.”

  “The Tash is desperate,” Syrah said, coming to stand beside Raz and giving the women one of her encouraging smiles as she spoke. “The outer ring is in rebellion, and the fighting threatens to spread if it’s not contained.”

  The slaves looked at each other, their partially-hidden expressions seeming half-amazed, half-dubious.

  “They’re… They’re rebelling?” the woman on the right finally spoke, gripping the haft of her shovel so tightly it shook. “They’re fighting?”

  “For their freedom, yes,” Syrah answered with a nod. “They must. All we could do was give them the chance, which is all we ask of you.”

  The slaves exchanged one last glance.

  When they looked around, their faces were set, and the woman on the left reached up to pull away the mask from her face as she stepped off the rubbish pile. Her tanned face was so dirty the cloth cut a clean patch around her nose and mouth.

  “Yleke has the keys to the door,” she said to Raz, frowning down at the dead soldier on the ground beside him like she wasn’t much bothered by his demise. “Jareen will be sittin’ at the overseers’ desk to the left side of the door, unless he’s up hasslin’ one a’ the cooks or kitchen hands.” She looked to Aleem, still standing in his slave’s uniform over by the palace wall, but continued to speak to Raz. “Do you know your way from there?”

  “There are those among us who do,” Raz answered with a grateful nod. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “The… The Tash will be preparing to take audiences, at this time,” the second woman piped up in a squeak, though she didn’t brave leaving the heap as she kept ahold of her shovel. “In the court halls. He’s likely to have his Hands with him, a-as well as their royal details.”

  Raz frowned at that, turning to Akelo, who was lacing his bracer back around his arm again. “The Hands,” he muttered, trying to remember what the man had told him. “The voices of the Twins, or something?”

  “The most powerful men in the city, behind the Tas
h himself,” the Percian said with a nod, tugging the final knots in the armor tight. “There are two, his First and Second.”

  “And their retinues,” Syrah added with a thoughtful frown, looking up at Raz. “I get the feeling this isn’t going to be easy…”

  “A lot of the palace guard weren’t at their posts this mornin’,” the Southerner offered up hopefully. “Maybe called away ta’ the outer city?”

  “There’s some good news…” someone whispered excitedly from behind them, and Raz heard Hur grunt in agreement.

  “It helps,” Raz answered with a grim smile at the woman, feeling that the Sun might just be shining favorably on them this day. He caught Erom’s eye and indicated the dead soldier beside him with a nod. As the borderer hurried forward to bend down and search the man’s uniform, Raz turned back to the two slaves. “You have our thanks. Now… If you’re amenable, I have a last favor to ask of you…”

  Despite the early hours of the post, Jareen Ysente had never disliked his position of overseer in the Tash’s kitchens. It was a comfortable, easy detail—at least in comparison to some of the other assignments his commanders could have given him—and any problems with the food or service were almost always placed on the heads of the cooks and hands themselves. On a typical day, he, Arren, and Zeuni spent most of their time playing dice on the small desk they shared along the south wall of the kitchens, positioned by the back door to monitor the comings and goings as slaves came and went with scraps for the rubbish pile. Occasionally one of the three got up to do a round, or brought out their cudgel when a dish was spilled or some meal or another was ruined in one of the dozen cooking hearths cut into the walls around them. Ordinarily it was lazy work, stressful only when Captain Nalym decided to make one of his irritating “surprise inspections.”

  Today, though, Arren and Zeuni had been called away to assist with one of the slave rebellions that occasionally troubled the outer city, and Jareen had found himself suddenly burdened with a bit more than he was accustomed to.

  Since before dawn, the slaves of the kitchen had been tense, distracted even. Half of the bread the palace broke its fast with had come out of the kilns burned, someone had added salt instead of sugar to one of the porridge vats, and the cooks had outright forgotten to send the First Hand his morning tea. Jareen had very unusually been on his feet from the moment the kitchens had begun their prep, spending the last two hours yelling and banging his cudgel on the pots and pans that hung from long hooks in the wood and stone ceiling overhead, sweating in the heat of the cooking fires as he hurried about, ensuring no other mistakes were made. By the time he felt comfortable finally returning to his desk, he’d cuffed a dozen different serving boys and girls, threatened violence on several of the hands, and outright sunk his fist into the gut of one cook who’d muttered something under his breath as he’d passed.

  Jareen hadn't actually made out the insult, be he’d gotten the gist of the slave’s irritated tone.

  Now, though, things finally seemed under control. With a huff of relief, Jareen weaved his way through the cutting tables and chopping blocks, splitting a swath through the workers who stepped smartly around him out of habit. The sounds of the kitchen rang clear around him as he walked, echoing over the shouts as orders for meals arrived from the palace above and requests for ingredients or dishes were yelled out from every corner of the wide room. More pleasant were the smells: the rich aroma of the yeast in the baking bread, the sweet scent of cinnamon and lavender, the delicious perfume of bacon being seared in the hearth off to his left. Jareen had just started enjoying the hint of pepper and garlic-stuffed beef whispering through the swath as someone began carving slabs for the midday meals, when an altogether less-enticing stench ruined the experience.

  Jareen grimaced in disgust, seeing the two women waiting for him by his desk, standing in the arch of the little hall that led back to the courtyard where they usually toiled. Their ratty clothes were stained and discolored from their unappetizing work, and their feet and chains were so filthy it made him nauseous seeing them in his kitchen. Noting that the two slaves were unattended—Yleke, as usual, apparently nowhere to be seen—a spark of disapproval flared up in Jareen, and he made a line straight for the filthy pair. As he approached, he noted they’d left the back door of the kitchens—set into a side wall of the hall at their backs—open wide behind them, and his annoyance sparked into true anger.

  “Sun burn you, women!” he snarled, marching right up to the pair and shoving his cudgel under their noses. “What in the blazes are you thinking, leaving that damn door open? Close it! Before your stench fouls the Tash’s meal!”

  “Sir, Master Yleke told us to come get you,” one of the slaves, a Southerner, said hurriedly, bobbing her head apologetically. “He says there’s a woman at the back gate who’s refusin’ to go away. Wants to be let in.”

  Jareen frowned at that. “A woman? What kind of woman?”

  “He didn’t say too much,” the slave answered, and he almost thought she glanced nervously at her companion. “Just told us she had a white hood on and white hair. He just wanted us to—”

  “What?” Jareen demanded, cutting her off as the woman’s words sent a shiver up his back. “White hair? He said ‘white hair’?”

  “Aye, sir!” the other of the two squeaked nervously. “A-and white robes!”

  For half a moment, Jareen stared at the two women, dumbfounded.

  Then he rushed through them, shoving his way through the pair and hastening down the hall toward the door.

  It can’t be, he thought to himself as he rushed for the faint light of the morning outside. Even that basic description was enough to set his heart to hammering. It had been drilled into him and his brothers-in-arms in the palace barracks every day for the last several weeks, almost as thoroughly as the details of Raz i’Syul Arro himself.

  Syrah Brahnt.

  Jareen’s mind flitted over the wonders it would do to his life if he and Yleke managed to capture the Northerner, Arro’s woman, the one he’d heard called “the White Witch.” It might not be as great a prize as the Dragon, but the overseer couldn’t help but imagine the Tash would still consider the delivery of Brahnt, bound and chained, a great victory, especially if palace interrogators managed to drag the lizard’s location from her. Grinning like a schoolboy who’d been offered a sweet, Jareen half-ran for the door.

  He didn’t even make it out into the courtyard.

  As he was about to cross through the open entrance and down the steps to the food-strewn grass, Jareen was forced to stumble to a halt, cursing. There, in a half-circle about the base of the stairs, the strangest collaboration of individuals he had ever seen was looking up at him, a fair number of them smirking in something like amusement. Jareen had half-a-second to blink and take them in, noting the group of four or five soldiers—or men dressed like soldiers, at least—the eclectic collection of worn leathers and iron armor of the other men, and the single atherian female standing near their center, slightly behind a tall woman in white robes, a long steel staff held in one hand. The overseer gaped at the Witch, tripping over his shout of alarm as his free hand fumbled for the whip on his belt.

  Just as his fingers wrapped around the handle of the thing, a presence materialized behind him, stepping out from where it had been hiding behind the door at his side, leaning down to hiss in his ear.

  “No more of that, soldier. Never again.”

  In the next moment, the whip was torn from Jareen’s belt, and a massive kick thrust him forward, sending him tumbling down the stairs with a yell. He landed hard, losing his cudgel as he did, tripping over his own feet to fall awkwardly at the feet of Syrah Brahnt. His head struck the earth, and he saw stars, groaning as he settled onto his back, looking skyward. Standing over him, the Witch looked impassively down, and he saw with a muddled thrill of fear that she held what looked like a twinkling spark of white fire in her free hand. He had just enough time to cast desperately around for help, just enoug
h time to catch a glimpse of the massive figure still standing in the doorway to the kitchens, when there was a brilliant flash of light.

  The last thought Jareen had, before he was dropped into the black depth of unconsciousness, was to wonder how far he could get from the city before someone realized he had been the one to let the Dragon of the North and his men into the palace without so much as a fight.

  CHAPTER 52

  “There are fewer accounts than I would have liked of the fall of the palace of Karesh Syl. Even those I have managed to scrounge up are brief and without detail. It is as if those who survived had little wish to dwell on—or even recall at all—whatever it was they witnessed that day…”

  —The Fall of Ancient Perce, author unknown

  The Tash’s palace was as much a wonder within as it was without. The kitchens themselves had been low and cramped, packed with slaves who gaped silently at Raz and the others as they followed Aleem through the chamber and up a wide set of steps, but once they’d made the palace proper Raz was hard-pressed not to stop and gawk every few seconds at some incredible sight they passed as they hurried through the cavernous halls of the place. The palace seemed to have no understanding of enclosed space, even as Aleem led them north, into the heart of the Tash’s home. Almost every hall generally had one side that comprised of columned archways, looking out onto open-air cloisters decorated with fountains and greenery crossed by the bent shadows of the palm trees sprouting from every corner. Even the walls that did exist were light and airy, as often made of perforated brass and copper as they were of polished stone, repeating shapes decoratively cut into them so that the rooms within were hardly hidden from view. Sculptures rose from pedestals on every corner they took, towering upward so that their carved heads almost touched the vaulted, painted ceilings above, each as beautiful and meticulously crafted as the magnificent murals they’d seen on the palace walls outside. The Sun was still low in the sky, but the shadows of the place did little to mar the spacious wonder of it all. Raz couldn’t help but draw comparisons to Cyurgi ‘Di, trying to imagine what a group like the Laorin could have done with such a magnificent residence, if they’d been given the chance.