Wytchfire (Book 1) (13 page)

His pulse quickened. At least by then, he would have a pocketful of copper cranáfi! Hráthbam could probably be persuaded to sell Rowen the shortsword he’d borrowed—especially since he’d lost his last one trying to save Hráthbam from a greatwolf! He eyed the composite bow, appreciating its excellent workmanship. Doubtless, its price was beyond him.

I could just take it. It wouldn’t be stealing, exactly. Don’t I deserve some kind of reward for everything I’ve been through?

He chided himself. What would Aeko Shingawa say if she knew he was considering such a thing? What about Kayden? Sure, his brother had stolen plenty in his day, but hadn’t that changed after he became an Isle Knight?

Besides, Hráthbam already gave me my prize!
He glanced at Knightswrath, lying neglected and forgotten in the corner of the wagon. More out of boredom than curiosity, he picked up the sword and examined it further. He felt guilty for not feigning more gratitude over the gift, but the false adamune
was practically worthless. The rusty sword was useless in a fight, which meant it would be nothing but a hindrance when Rowen had to carry it on his back from job to job, city to city.

Maybe I can sell it in Lyos
. Not everyone on the Simurgh Plains admired the Isle Knights as much as he did, but surely he could find at least one pompous nobleman who might pay too much to have a rusty, imitation adamune
hanging over his fireplace. Rowen snickered.

Then again, this is probably the closest thing to an adamune I’ll ever own!
He grasped the tattered, leather-wrapped hilt and unsheathed the blade. He gave it a few short swings—as much as the narrow wagon would allow—expecting to feel the blade shifting at the hilt: a sure sign of a weak, half-tanged blade that would snap in battle. Instead, he found himself appreciating the sword’s balance, how well it fit his hands.

“Fel-Nâya...” He smiled faintly and gave the Shao sword another short swing. He decided to see what the sword could do and climbed out of the wagon. The smell of straw and hay filled the dark stables, and he heard the even breathing of sleeping horses. The stable boy leaned against the wall, snoring and drunk. Glancing down at the stalls, Rowen saw Right and Left where they should be and then went outside, Knightswrath in hand. Though the night air chilled his bare chest, he liked how the cold quickened his pulse. Taking a few strides from the stables, Rowen took a deep breath and glanced up at the stars.

The moon shone nearly full near Armahg’s Eye. The sight of the distant star-wash soothed the lingering blight left in his mind from what he’d seen in underground Cadavash. He calmed his senses then lifted Knightswrath with both hands and began the sha’tala.

The martial dance employed initially simple then increasingly complex circular steps and movements that simulated a Shao warrior being attacked from all sides. Rowen had never excelled at the exercise—he always felt self-conscious performing it under the scrutinizing gaze of his trainers on the Lotus Isles—but he enjoyed how the warrior’s dance stretched his muscles, sharpened his balance, and aligned his senses.

Several passing guards wearing the green tunics and emblems similar to the priests of Zet stopped in the streets to watch him. Rowen could not read their expressions in the dark, nor did he care anymore. He was deep in his sha’tala
now, entranced, nearing that state Shao warriors often described as being alertly asleep.

Despite a rush of exhilaration, Rowen kept his breathing slow and deep. Knightswrath whirled faster and faster in his grasp. To Rowen’s surprise, the sword’s balance was superb. He could not see its rusty blade in the darkness, so he forgot its disrepair and began to feel oddly as though the sword had been made for him.

He quickened his pace, performing the sha’tala
faster than he ever had before. Moonlight spilled past his wild red hair, down his bare arms, and played off the naked, whirling sword as it slipped and flashed through the night air. His heart leapt. He lost himself in his exercise, only to find himself anew.

At last, he finished his sha’tala and lowered Knightswrath to his side, as though sheathing it in an imaginary scabbard. He bowed to his equally imaginary defeated opponents. Then he saw that he’d attracted a larger crowd than he’d realized. They stared at him in stunned silence. A few applauded.

Suddenly self-conscious again, Rowen blushed, nodded to them, then started back toward the stables. As he did so, he glanced down at Knightswrath. He stopped. During his sha’tala, the ratty leather wrapped around the hilt had come loose. Rowen had torn it off without looking, unwinding and casting it away as he moved. Now, for the first time, he realized what he was holding.

“Jinn’s name…” The pommel was exquisitely carved dragonbone. It bore the familiar iconography of the Isle Knights—the crane, the stag, the crimson lotus flower—as well as other designs: a nursing mother, an armored man standing by a stream, a woman with fire flying from her hands. Rust had flaked away from the crosspiece—or vanished—revealing further, painstaking details of the crane and dragon wings rising to grasp the blade.

I must be losing my mind
.
Or dreaming!
Knightswrath’s blade remained rusty as ever, but the red swirls in the dragonbone pommel meant the hilt was worth a fortune. Rowen considered selling it. For some reason, the thought filled him with shame. Shaking his head, he took a single step into the stables when a familiar scream froze him in his tracks.

A single, blood-chilling cry. Female. Not quite Human, but not animal, either. The same cry that had echoed across the night-shrouded Simurgh Plains only days before, the night Hráthbam lay dying. The same night the mysterious, disfigured Shel’ai had appeared out of nowhere to bring the slain Soroccan back from the dead.

“Jinn’s name...” Rowen barely had time to speak before the darkness blossomed into blinding white fire. He turned—wincing from the brightness—just in time to see a ball of scalding-white flame plummet from the heavens. It fell upon the Simurgh Plains, beyond the outskirts of Cadavash, crashed without sound, then disappeared. For a moment, no one moved. Then, panic ensued.

Guards ran to get the priests, calling at the top of their lungs. Drunk and weary dragon worshippers stumbled from temples and inns, their eyes wide with fright. Behind him, the horses in the stables were going berserk. He picked out Left’s and Right’s whinnies among the cacophony. He was about to rush inside to soothe them before they injured themselves—or each other—but something stopped him. He stood immobile for a moment, his heart beating in his throat. Then, clutching the hilt of Knightswrath, he ran in the direction of the vanished flames. As he moved, the sword’s hilt seemed to warm in his hands.

Chapter Nine

Battle in the Temple Depths

N
ot far from Cadavash, Lethe turned in the direction of the awful cry frosting the night air.

The rider beside him threw back the hood of a white-and-crimson cloak and faced the vanished sound with a look of relief. “It’s as I thought. Silwren makes for Namundvar’s Well.” He gestured for Lethe to follow and started forward. “Hurry! We’re close.”

Lethe scowled. Having seen all too often what the Nightmare could do, he was in no hurry to approach a similar creature. But Shade’s promise spurred him on.

“If I help him catch her, he’ll let me die...”

He smiled faintly. No more murders, no more torture. No more Shel’ai. All he had to do was follow orders one last time. He could do that. Snapping the reins, he followed his master, loosening his sword as he rode.

The Simurgh Plains swarmed with armed men, crazed dragon worshippers—whose theatrics had suddenly been replaced by true terror—and one ex-squire from the Lotus Isles. Rowen still held Knightswrath in his hands, but he wondered what good an imitation adamune would do against a dragon.

“If it
is
a dragon,” he reminded himself.
But what else could it be… unless it’s a Dragonkin?

All around him, the wretched priests of Zet whispered feverishly. A great fire had fallen from the sky, leaving a great swath of the plains blackened and smoldering. Surely, their gods had returned! But why? Were they angered by the temple, by the very worshippers who sold the bones of the ancient, winged dead? Should the priests commit mass suicide to appease their deities, or had the dragons instead come back to reward them for their patience and faith?

The priests were so busy debating that none seemed to realize the obvious: they saw no dragon—just burnt, smoke-wreathed plains and cold night air. Rowen tried to keep his distance from the dragon worshippers. Unlike their exaggerated lamentations in the depths of Cadavash, their panic was genuine. Soon, they would become violent. They might very well turn on each other—or upon any stranger they didn’t recognize, whom they could conveniently blame for their dragon disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

“And I am just such a stranger,” Rowen muttered. He turned back toward Cadavash. “Dragon ivory be damned! Time to find Hráthbam and get out of here.”

Rowen knew the way, but his legs betrayed him. Instead of toward the inn and the wagon, he found himself running deeper into Cadavash, toward the gorge and the wretched temple within.

Jinn’s name, have I gone mad? What am I doing?
But Knightswrath’s hilt grew warmer, the farther he went. He considered returning to the wagon, but curiosity got the better of him. He reminded himself that it was not wise for an armed stranger to run at night into the sacred temple of fanatics. Reversing Knightswrath in his grasp, he slid the rusty blade into his belt and hurried on.

Lethe reined in, scowling at the noise and chaos in the distance. “You said nothing about dragon worshippers.”

Shade whirled back to face him, violet eyes taut with impatience. “You’ll do as I command! Besides, what do a few fanatics matter?”

“They will think she’s a god. They’ll worship her. Or kill her, depending on how mad they are.”

Shade’s fists clenched, wytchfire rising unbidden from his closed fingers. “We will not let that happen.”

Lethe nodded. “As you say. But there will be hundreds—”

“Then we will
kill
hundreds! I have no time for cowardice. Now follow… or stay here in agony!”

Lethe obeyed, casting a murderous look at the Shel’ai as he rode behind him.
Not cowardice, you damn fool! I’m just not in the mood to slay madmen until sunrise, just so you can have your pretty Dragonkin back.

But he kept silent. He reminded himself that the more enemies he faced, the more likely one would manage to kill him. Then, there would be no need for Shade to make good on his vow.
And maybe, in that last moment before death, I can throw a blade in the general direction of that haughty bastard’s neck!

Lethe grinned. He urged his horse on more quickly until he was riding at his master’s side.

To Rowen’s great relief, the dragon temple was nearly deserted. Most of the guards, priests, and worshippers had already rushed aboveground, anxious to see what the great disturbance was all about. Those who remained spoke in cold, anxious whispers, too preoccupied to notice Rowen as he slowed his pace, lowered his head, and passed as casually as he could.

Where on earth am I going... and why?
His feet seemed to know the course better than his mind. To his dismay, they were leading him deeper and deeper into Cadavash, down one dark, torch-lit stairwell after another. He could still turn and run if he wanted, but he had the odd sense that Knightswrath
wanted
him to keep going—as though through the sword, someone or something had called for help.

As much as the temple had frightened him during the day, it was worse now. The silence unnerved him. Torchlight and shadows played off macabre carvings on the stone walls. The smell of death hung thick in the air, punctuated by the honored bones of dead dragons hung here and there, usually guarded but now abandoned as everyone else made for the surface. Nearby lay bodies. Some, he figured, were drunks. But others, he knew, must be worshippers who had gone too far in their lamentations and now lay dead because of it.

He realized he was now at the deepest level he and Hráthbam had explored earlier. The crowds were gone, but unlike the previous levels, this one was not abandoned. Here and there, a few guards and priests cast suspicious glances at him. Rowen tried to appease them by staring reverently at his surroundings. He remembered what the worshipper had told them before: only a select few were permitted to enter the deepest level of Cadavash.

But with all the commotion on the surface, maybe the guards…
Ahead of him, a gothic stairwell descended into a great mouth of darkness. Unlike the previous stairwells, this one was flanked by armed guards. Two of them.

No such luck.

The guards rose to attention at the sight of Rowen. The ex-squire resisted the impulse to draw his sword, telling himself how absurd he must look—a bare-chested, armed man with unkempt red hair, stumbling around the lower vaults of their sacred temple in the middle of the night—and smiled at them instead. “Greetings, brothers. I don’t suppose you could tell me what all the fuss is about?” He pointed toward the ceiling. “Sounds like everyone on the surface has lost their wits!”

One of the guards said, “None but the anointed are permitted in the deep vaults. Go, or it’ll cost your life.”

“Surely, brothers, there’s no harm in—”

The guard who had spoken stepped forward and placed a gauntleted hand on his chest to stop him. “I said turn back, or I’ll cut your—”

Rowen’s uppercut struck the guard full on the chin and sent him tumbling backward, senseless, rolling loudly down the stairs into darkness.

Rowen swore over the noise then turned to face the second guard. This man was younger, his eyes wide, and he made the mistake of trying to draw his sword.

“Too close for that,” Rowen chided. He grabbed the guard’s sword hand and held him immobile then dropped the man with a savage kick to the knee. He covered the guard’s mouth to muffle his scream. One swift blow from his edge of his hand to the back of the guard’s neck drove him to the floor, unconscious.

Rowen heard footfalls behind him and turned. He cursed again. Two others raced down the stairs toward him, alerted by the commotion—a priest and a guard. The priest’s eyes widened. He issued a quick order to the guard, turned, and ran to get help. The guard, meanwhile, drew his sword and charged.

No choice...
Rowen drew his sword, too. “Stop! We don’t have to—”

But the guards of Cadavash were only a little less fanatical than the priests who employed them. Here was a stranger, an interloper seeking to defile their sacred temple. Here was a chance to stop him, to honor the spirits of the winged dead, to earn riches and perhaps even immortality in the pantheon of the heavens. The guard leapt at the chance.

Rowen braced to meet him, holding Knightswrath
with both hands.
Let’s hope this damned, rusty sword doesn’t shatter on me!
The guard swung. Rowen sidestepped, narrowly avoided falling down the stairwell, and answered with a swift cut of his own. But the guard was a better swordsman than Rowen had anticipated. He dodged the cut then swung for Rowen’s midriff. No time to dodge. Rowen had to block.

He expected the rusty adamune
to shatter, but Knightswrath turned the guard’s blade with ease. No time to feel relief—Rowen feigned a cut at the guard’s thigh. When the man moved to block, Rowen cut for his neck instead. The guard’s eyes widened… a split-second before Rowen turned the blade and struck him with the flat instead. Again, Rowen expected his blade to shatter. It didn’t. But it struck the guard with enough force to knock him out.

Rowen took a deep breath and let it go. More guards would be there in seconds. He had to run, hide, maybe incapacitate another guard and take his uniform, then make his way back to the surface.

He turned to the stairwell again. The darkness chilled him even more than his guilt. Then, lifting Knightswrath, he started downward.

“Where is she?” Lethe demanded in a seething whisper. He resisted the impulse to draw his sword as armed fanatics filled the night. “No way we’ll find her in
this
!”

Shade closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them, he pointed. “There.”

Lethe sneered. “I was afraid you’d say that.”