The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 11

  “Please,” Carro laughed. “You think I need to be able to see you smiling to know when something is amusing you? Go on. What is it?”

  “Not amusing,” Talo told him, pulling his horse up side-by-side. “Just… It goes by fast, doesn’t it?”

  “What does? This little quest of ours?”

  “No, no,” Talo chuckled, waving a hand out at the horizon. “Time. Life. The years… It’s there, and then it begins to pass you by just as you start to figure out what you’re supposed to do with it.”

  “Oh.”

  Carro turned away from him. He, too, took in the Dehn, and for a second looked like he was lost in his own memories.

  “It does.” He nodded after a moment. “I remember the first time I came through this way. My mother finally got tired of seeing my father’s reflection in my face. I must have been six or seven, I can’t remember. She didn’t tell me where we were going.”

  “A sad story with a happy ending.”

  “True enough.” Carro nodded again.

  They rode on in silence for a few minutes, lost in the past, letting the horses wander a little off the road to graze.

  “I remember bringing Syrah through this way,” Talo said after a while, reaching down to pluck a purple flower that was swaying above the grass. “When her parents first gave her to the faith. She fought me tooth and nail all the way from Stullens until we got here. It was the end of the freeze, but still the trip was as horrible as you can imagine. She was miserable, and I wasn’t much better off. Here, though, we got lucky. A few days of no storms and calm winds. Have you seen the Dehn under snow?”

  Carro shook his head.

  “You can’t imagine it.” Talo held the flower up to look at it. It was frost-tipped in the cold. “There is no end to the white. It was like walking across a new world that had never been touched. We were the only ones for miles and miles.”

  He opened his hand and let the flower be picked up and whisked away by the wind.

  “Who knew what she’d become?” he said softly.

  “I’m sure you did,” Carro told him, and Talo could tell he was smiling. “You know best that great people can come from unexpected places.”

  Talo snorted, pulling his horse back onto the road. They crossed a narrow stone bridge suspended over a shallow river that was already icing along its borders.

  “I found Laor in the pit. I didn’t have him thrown upon me.”

  “Still, you weren’t born into the Priesthood, like most of the others. Take Valaria Petrük. She claims her family has been among the Cyurgi’ Di’s residents since it was taken over by the faith and she’s—in your own words, mind you—a ‘venomous cow.’ So why would you assume Syrah would have been any different from you?”

  “If you’d seen how hard she fought me up until these plains, you’d have wondered the same thing,” Talo chuckled. “I swear I thought that girl had gladiator blood in her. Did I ever tell you about how she almost ran away from me in the forests between Drangstek and the Fehlons?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Carro laughed. “But that’s a story I have to hear.”

  “Well,” Talo began, remembering back, “she’d been fighting me all day, and it had been raining nonstop, so I was in no mood. I was seriously considering tying her to the bags, but then…”

  As he told the story, elaborating to Carro how a young Syrah had daringly escaped from him by climbing a tree and hiding in an old owl hole for a night, Talo remembered other things. Looking out over the Dehn as they trotted along the crest of a particularly high hill, he remembered his own first trip across the plains.

  And he remembered, for the first time in years, that feeling of starting over. Of walking into a new life.

  It does go by fast…

  They made excellent time, just as they’d hoped, but it was still an hour or two after nightfall when they rode into Ystréd. A larger village whose low wall cut up and down the hillsides, the town was dark and quiet as they passed beneath its only gate, heading for an old inn frequented by the traveling faith in too much of a hurry to claim lodging at the local temple. The Red Bear was bright in the night, raucous laughter and the comfortable clatter of dinner plates and flagons on wood rolling from the open doorway.

  Talo and Carro dismounted, tying their mounts to a nearby post before shouldering their travel sacks and making for the warmth inside. The inn was a simple two-story structure, the rooms on the top floor while the ground level was taken up by a high-ceilinged common area and bar. Torches, candles, and a large hearth fire in the right wall filled the place with cozy light and heat, and a number of patrons were scattered around three long tables perpendicular to the door. A few more were seated at the counter, behind which a barkeep was cleaning dirty glasses with a worn rag, laughing and talking with a big man swaddled in old furs.

  It was this man who noticed the Priests first, and the surprise on his face must have caught the attention of the barkeep, because he too looked around. It didn’t take long before the entire common room quieted down, most faces turning towards them as Talo and Carro started for the bar.

  Laorin weren’t uncommon in the North, but it was still a rare sight to see two Priests, staffs in hand, come strolling into the local tavern.

  “Peace, friends,” Talo said loudly, pulling the scarf down off his face and raising a hand as he laughed. “Return to your drinks. We aren’t spreading the word today.”

  A few of the patrons chuckled, then turned back to their own business.

  “Get you something, sirs?” the barkeep asked, putting down his glass as Talo and Carro took a seat just down from the man in old furs. “Mead? Frostberry wine?”

  “Wine for me,” Carro told him, reaching into his pack for a few coppers to pay.

  “And me,” Talo said, doing the same. “And two plates of whatever you have that’s hot.”

  The barman nodded, disappearing through a narrow door in the back corner. He reappeared shortly after, skillfully balancing a pair of dented plates steaming full of what looked like beef stew, and two large goblets filled to the brim.

  “I assume you’ll be headed for the mountains?” he asked, placing their dinners before them. Talo, already reaching for the wine, let Carro answer.

  “Coming from, actually.” He accepted a wooden spoon as it was handed to him. “You haven’t heard word about the weather south, have you? We’re hoping to make Azbar within the week.”

  “Azbar?” a brusque voice asked suddenly. “You two lookin’ ta’ see the fights? Ain’t you lot banned from tha’ sort a’ thing?”

  Both Priests turned to look at the big man down the counter from them. He was an older fellow, maybe a few years younger than either of them, but his furs were well used and dirty, as was the leather pommel of the longsword strapped at his hip. He was eyeing them curiously.

  “Name’s Abyn,” he said gruffly, extending a hand over the empty chair between them. Talo shook it briefly. The man’s palm was calloused from what could only have been years at the sword.

  “Beg pardon me manners, jumpin’ in like tha’, but Solva and me”—Abyn indicated the barkeep—“were just chattin’ ’bout the news.”

  “We’re banned from partaking, yes, but not from watching,” Talo said calculatingly, putting his wine down. “We heard Azbar had opened up its Arena again, and wanted to see for ourselves what the fuss was all about.”

  He could tell Carro was about to say something in surprise—he was, after all, not the least bit interested in seeing the fights—but nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

  Something the man had said had piqued Talo’s curiosity. News? What news? What had Quin Tern come up with now that could spark muttered conversations in tiny pubs hundreds of miles from Azbar itself?

  “Aye,” Abyn nodded solemnly. “S’not just a few who are curious, I ’spose. Ten thousand Southern crowns ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at.”

  “Ten thousand crowns?” Carro asked.

  It was the barman,
Solva, who responded.

  “Bounty that’s been promised, along with a victor’s purse, to whoever can slay the new champion.” He picked up another glass and eyed it disapprovingly. “Rassiyul, Rassisule, or something like that.”

  “Wha—? Raz i’Syul?”

  The barkeep blinked in surprise at Talo’s sudden outburst, as did Abyn.

  “Aye,” he said, shifting over to sit beside the Priests and leaning in. “Ya’ heard of him, have ya’? Scourge a’ the South, they’re callin’ him now. They say he killed a thousand men and butchered the slave rings in Miropa ‘afore they chased him northward. There’s a price on his head, and it sounds like Azbar sent birds out to anyplace that might have a man what wants to try his luck at claiming it.”

  Talo was stunned. He sat in shocked silence, staring at nothing as Carro looked between him and the other men.

  “Raz i’Syul?” he asked, confused. “Who is he? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Southern sarydâ, apparently,” the barman told him. “Desert mercenary. Word is he’s the only atherian to have made a name for himself in civilized culture. I’ve had all kinds coming in and out for the last day or so, trying to beat the snows to get to Azbar. Some to fight, and more to watch the fights.”

  “Atherian?” Carro looked shocked. “Lizard-folk? I thought they were beast-men, that they didn’t even venture into man-made cities.”

  “Raz i’Syul did.”

  They all turned to look at Talo. While he was still staring emptily at his stew, he seemed to have regained the ability to speak.

  “He was taken in by one of the nomadic trading families, back when the caravans still crossed the desert.” It was easy information. All he had to do was repeat the facts he’d come across all those years ago. “He was raised by the Arros, one of the largest families, and learned the Common tongue, not to the mention the desert culture. A talented fighter, but I’d heard he was a good man… I thought he was a good man…”

  His words trailed off for a moment, but suddenly he looked up at Solva.

  “He came this far north?” he demanded. “You’re sure? The slave rings are hunting him?”

  “The Mahsadën themselves, the word is,” the barkeep nodded. “You seem to know a lot about him, Priest…”

  “A gladiator,” Talo muttered under his breath, ignoring the comment. “What madness possessed him to do that…?”

  “Talo, what—?” Carro began to ask, sounding thoroughly confused, but Talo stopped him with a hand.

  “A room,” he said abruptly to Solva, pulling a silver piece from his pack and tossing it onto the counter. “And please have the rest of our meal brought up to us.”

  The barkeep blinked in surprise, but reached into the pocket of his apron to pull out a long copper key.

  “Second door on your right up the stairs,” he said, holding it out. “But what about—?”

  “Thank you,” Talo cut him off, snatching the key from the man’s hand and giving Carro a significant look. At once Carro jumped off his seat, grabbing his own gear.

  “Pleasure meeting you both, have a lovely evening!” he said hurriedly to the two men, rushing to follow Talo up the stairway and leaving the bewildered pair at the bar.

  When they were upstairs, Talo unlocked and opened their room door at once, closing it quickly behind them. It was a small space, barely wide enough to fit the two beds that largely filled it. Ignoring it all, though, Carro whirled on his partner.

  “Talo, what in the Lifegiver’s name was that all about?” he demanded. “Who is Raz i’Syul?”

  Talo looked up at him. “Do you remember, six or seven years ago, the mission Syrah and I took with Jofrey and Reyn Hartlet? The one that took us south?”

  “You came back early,” Carro nodded, but he sounded suddenly suspicious. “Syrah was mugged, or something like that. You felt the town you were in was unsafe.”

  “That’s not exactly how it—That’s not what happened. Carro… Raz i’Syul Arro is the only reason Syrah made it out of that city alive.”

  XII

  “I cannot aptly describe the feeling in the air these last two weeks. Word has spread. People are whispering in the streets. Places amongst the stands in the Arena are always valued highly, but not since I was matched with the Lifetaker have I known every single seat to be sold off in advance. The stories they say about him… I’d heard a few obviously, before they sent me out to meet him in the woods. But what I’ve been told since then, what larger truths seem to be mixed in with the rumors and tall tales… I can’t help but wonder what kind of beast we’ve let into our home…”

  —PRIVATE JOURNAL OF ALYSSA RHEN

  RAZ WAS cold. Raz was wet. Raz was so muddy he doubted he looked like much more than a shapely pile of filth with eyes.

  But Raz, unlike his opponents, was at the very least standing on his own two feet.

  “Come on, then,” he growled, circling the collapsed brothers as they struggled to free themselves of the icy muck and each other. “You call yourselves fighters? Maybe I should consider asking your Doctore if she’ll let me take on the next group unarmed and blindfolded.”

  It was meant to taunt the two gladiators.

  It worked like a charm.

  “Damn lizard!” Ajuk Rothe, a heavy man in a half helm and iron breastplate, cursed as he managed to shake himself free of his sibling. He had only one sword left of the two he’d started with, but regardless he charged Raz head-on, bringing the blade up with two hands for an overhead slash. Aiming for the vulnerable space between neck and shoulder, he let the steel fall, slicing down, going for the kill.

  What he found instead of flesh and bone, though, was air and dirt.

  “Too slow,” Raz growled from beside him as the man stumbled forward behind his own impetus.

  Before Ajuk could fall again, however, one clawed hand caught the back collar of his breastplate, the other slamming up to take the man in the abdomen. Sweeping the gladiator’s feet out from under him with a leg, Raz shoved upward, tossing the man into the air even as he continued forward.

  The result was a cumbersome front flip, ending when Ajuk crashed hard to the pit floor on his back, from which he didn’t rise again.

  By now, though, the other fighter was back on his feet, and Raz turned to face him bare-handed. Smaller and leaner than his brother, Brüg Rothe had the brains not to attempt to take his faster, stronger opponent in a rush. Instead he held back, finding good footing and hefting his long pike before him defensively.

  “Ain’t coming to you, ya scaly bastard!” he shouted after spitting out a mouthful of mud. “You feel like bein’ skewered, you’re gonna have to come do it yerself.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” Raz said with a shrug, following Brüg’s movements as the man started making a careful circle around him. “I’ve been poked full of holes plenty of times before, though. Don’t think another couple more is going to matter much.”

  Then he shot forward.

  For a minute or two he let the gladiator believe he had a chance. For all intents and purposes the man was good with his pike, taking full advantage of its reach to keep a good distance between Raz and himself. Raz, for his part, dodged left and right and down as needed in rapid repetitions, allowing the iron point of the weapon to sneak within inches of his belly, legs, and shoulders. Had he had Ahna in his hands, or even his gladius, the pike or its wielder or both would have lost their head any number of times.

  While the blood might have won some people over, though, such a rapid end would have done little to please the crowd.

  Still, eventually the theatrics had to come to a close. As Brüg began to tire, Raz knew his dance would get obvious and boring. Therefore, the next time the pike was thrust outward a little too far, Raz stepped around and forward, making good use of old footwork to close the gap between their two bodies in a blink.

  His extended arm caught Brüg below the neck, clotheslining him so abruptly he hit the pit floor with no less force than h
is brother had. The pike followed a moment after, and the fight was done.

  Sound returned suddenly and sharply to Raz’s world. What he’d droned out during the fight came back in a single wave, riding along with the explosive cheering, hollering, and applause of ten thousand bodies taking to their feet in the stands above. Raz looked up, gazing into the crowd that commended him so fondly.

  All the while wondering if there might have been a time in his life, even not so long ago, that he might have enjoyed their praise.

  When the chanting started, Raz didn’t fight the frown. These men and women of the North didn’t know him well enough yet to read his mood by his face, but even if they had he doubted they’d notice or care. Still, when the word became clear, rising in volume with every repetition, he felt the familiar angry tension building within him.

  “SCOURGE! SCOURGE! SCOURGE! SCOURGE!”

  Over and over again they shouted it, feeding off the title and their own bloodlust. When he finally had enough, when he felt the anticipation had built to the point of bursting, Raz raised a single hand in silent acknowledgement. The crowd exploded again, their roar trailing behind Raz as he turned his back on the pit, leaving behind the Rothe brothers’ unconscious forms as he made for the rising portcullis that led to the Arena’s underworks.

  Men and women alike stepped smartly out of the way as Raz reached the bottom of the uneven earthen gangway that led down from the Arena floor. He was in the waiting chambers, the series of large dirt-and-timber rooms where gladiators were housed as they awaited their moments of glory, as well as the wild animals sometimes used as complements to the entertainment. Heavy iron sconces bearing torches along the walls supplemented what little grayish light made its way down through the arched gateway at the top of the ramp, illuminating the mass of people scattered around the room. There were no beasts today. A week ago a number of half-starved wolves had been chained to one end of the chamber, but they’d been killed off in a well-publicized fight that had claimed the life of one of the Doctore’s prized gladiators, as well as the arm of another.