Wytchfire (Book 1) (14 page)

The former Captain of the Unseen followed his master toward the gorge. Though he’d never visited this wretched temple before, he’d heard stories about it—none of them pleasant. It looked as though most of the worshippers were spilling out into the streets, milling around the smaller temple on the surface, trying to figure out what had happened.

But there still could be plenty of guards below the surface. And gods only know what we’ll find once we reach Namundvar’s Well!

Lethe said, “We’ll never get out of this place alive.” Fighting back a wild grin, he quickened his pace to keep up with his master.

Darkness reigned over the lowest depths of Cadavash. Rowen stumbled in the pitch blackness and nearly tripped over something: the guard he’d knocked down. He figured the man had been knocked unconscious. He felt in the dark for a pulse but found none. The man’s neck was broken.

Bad luck.
Rowen whispered a short, Shao prayer over the corpse. Guilt twisted inside him. Finally, Rowen wrenched himself away and continued.

Faint, dim light shone from a single lantern hanging in the distance, down at the end of a long corridor. Rowen had expected another vast, open area similar to the previous levels of Cadavash. Instead, he found a hallway barely wide enough for a single man to pass through. He tried to proceed cautiously until he heard shouts and booted footsteps above him. The guards were coming.

“Damn…” Rowen ran blindly through the darkness, nearly tripping twice before he reached the lantern. It was bolted to the wall, but Rowen used Knightswrath—its hilt still warmer than before—to pry it free. He raised the wick. The growing light spilled across ghastly carvings on the walls, even more macabre than the ones he’d seen before. Here, a man was being disemboweled by winged beasts. There, a laughing woman appeared to be feeding her own children into a dragon’s open maw. Rowen shuddered and pressed on.

The corridor turned left then led to another stairwell, this one just as narrow as the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, he found a locked door. Rowen pushed, testing its weight. Solid oak. He would need a battering ram to break this down.

Even a Knight of the Crane might give up now,
Rowen told himself.
But I am not a Knight...

He sheathed Knightswrath in his belt again. Then, he tore the thin metal handle from the lantern, bending it and reshaping it until he could slide it into the keyhole. Memories of his childhood in Lyos returned to him. There, he and his brother had learned to do what was necessary in order to survive. In the hierarchy of their sins, Rowen knew that picking a lock was not so terrible.

Not so difficult, either.
Rowen jostled the metal wire and heard the rewarding click of the lock mechanism. He bent the wire again and slid it back into place in the lantern, holding the lantern high by its reformed handle as he pushed the door open.

There, he found an antechamber filled with dust and relics. No guards, no priests. No dragon. Rowen closed and locked the door behind him then investigated the chamber as quickly as he could. He found another locked door at the far end. Rowen knew the lantern’s wire handle would break if he tried to reshape it again, and he couldn’t very well carry a hot lantern without a handle! Broiling with impatience, he scouted around and discovered a dry torch. He used the lantern to light the torch and tried to remove the wire handle from the lantern again.

The wire broke in his fingers, as he’d feared it would. But he salvaged a short, straight piece and slid it slowly into the lock mechanism. He’d hardly begun when he heard shouts and footsteps behind him. The guards were at the door.

He dropped the wire and reached for his sword, holding Knightswrath in one hand and his blazing torch in the other. Both sent waves of heat up his arms. But the door at the far end of the antechamber did not open. Muffled shouts echoed, right before the door shuddered. They were trying to break it down.

Rowen shook himself from his daze, leaned Knightswrath against the wall, and went back to work. He’d dropped his makeshift lockpick, but after a few precious moments, he retrieved it from the dusty floor and slid it back into the lock.

Another booming thump echoed behind him. Rowen’s heart leapt in his throat. Given enough time, the guards would break the door down. He had to get out of there. He had to get his own door open.

“Then what? I’m trapped in the bottom of this damned temple, out of my mind, probably about to get—”

The lock interrupted him with a loud click. Rowen stood. He slid the lockpick into his belt, retrieved his sword, and pushed the door open.

He expected to find an enormous chamber containing whatever person or thing had summoned him here in the first place. Instead, he saw a tiny, dark room not much bigger than a closet. No doors, no stairwells, not even a single carving on the wall. Behind him, wood splintered.

I’m a dead man...

Shade and Lethe descended deeper and deeper into Cadavash, all the way to the fourth level, before they were stopped in a corridor. Both men had kept their hoods drawn the entire time, but when three guards appeared to question them, led by a wild-eyed priest, they lowered their hoods. Both knew they had no chance of talking their way out of this.

The priest’s eyes narrowed at Lethe’s cold gaze and scarred face. Then he looked at Shade. His eyes widened. “Are you a Sylv?”

“No.”

“But your face—”

Shade lifted his hands. Wytchfire sprang from his fingertips, washing over the priest and his guards. They fell, screaming and burning.

Cursing, Lethe drew his shortsword and finished them off. “If you’re going to kill them, kill them!”

Shade did not answer. The dark-cloaked Shel’ai strode forward. Two more guards appeared, their faces stunned. Shade dispatched them without hesitation, unleashing enough wytchfire to reduce them to ashes before they could scream. “Better?”

Lethe seethed. “If Silwren came down here, shouldn’t we be following a whole trail of ashes?”

“Her powers are greater than mine, Human. She can avoid being seen, if she wishes.”

“Avoid
killing,
you mean!”

Shade was quiet a moment, his eyes closed in concentration. When he opened them again, he pointed. “As shall we. There is a locked door and a secret stairwell beyond that dais. Few men in Cadavash know of it. That will lead us down to Namundvar’s Well.” He started forward.

Lethe followed, bloody shortsword in hand. “And my death,” he pressed.

Shade answered without slowing. “And your death.”

Chapter Ten

Namundvar’s Well

R
owen desperately searched the antechamber for escape, at least for a place to hide, but found nothing. Only two doors: the one behind him, which led nowhere, and the one at least a dozen guards were about to break through. Panic seized him.
Gods, why did I come down here?

He considered giving up, but he had already slain two men. Worse yet, he’d broken into the sacred temple of the dragon worshippers!

Surrendering would likely only get me killed out of revenge. And probably tortured first.
He shuddered.
Maybe Hráthbam will save me.
But one man would not be enough to rescue him from all the guards of Cadavash. Besides, this was Rowen’s fault, not Hráthbam’s. Rowen took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He held Knightswrath before him, fixing his gaze on the door in the distance.

The crash and shudder intensified. He had no idea what the guards were using to break the door down—a statue, perhaps—but more than the weight of men was driving against it. In seconds, it would be over.

No courage without fear...
Rowen hoped the Isle Knights’ credo would hearten him. But what was coming, he knew, would not be a battle. It would be a slaughter he had brought upon himself.

Another crash made him take a reflexive step backward. He was nearly inside the tiny chamber now. He could hide inside, close and lock the door behind him, but the guards would never fall for that. Still, it might buy him time.

He took another step backward, his boots scraping along the dusty stone floor. He was inside the chamber. Then, strangely, the floor sagged beneath him.

Rowen nearly wept with relief. Stepping out of the tiny chamber, he turned and knelt, brushing aside a thick layer of dust with his hand. Underneath the dust lay a hidden trapdoor. It was locked. No time to use the lockpick. Straightening, he kicked the trapdoor with everything he had. It did not budge. Rowen kicked it again without result. Desperate, he moved entirely into the tiny room and closed the door behind him. The ceiling was too low for a torch, so he cast it away and stood in darkness. He positioned himself on top of the trapdoor and jumped as high as he could.

The weight of his body crashed down upon the trapdoor beneath him, but it did not give. Rowen steadied himself and jumped again. That time, the trapdoor shattered, and Rowen plummeted through.

Lethe started to laugh.

They’d found the long, secret stairwell, sure enough, but at the bottom they were greeted by a blank wall. No door, no markings, nothing. “Looks like a dead end,” he said.

Shade closed his eyes again. That time, a violet glow sprang up about him, enveloping his entire body. Reflexively, Lethe stepped back. Shade slowly extended one hand, touching the blank wall. The stone wall shimmered like a desert mirage then vanished altogether.

Lethe stared in amazement. Then he cursed.

Before them lay an antechamber, lit by torches. The chamber was filled with armed men.

The guards turned, blinking as Shade stepped through what had been solid stone just moments before. Some raised their weapons. Others started to kneel, perhaps intending to worship. Shade gave them no chance.

Lethe winced. He could feel the awful heat on his face as its sheer intensity momentarily blinded him. But that was nothing compared to the screams. Furious, he followed Shade into the antechamber.

The Shel’ai stood alone, stone faced. All the guards were dead.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lethe said. “You are a Shel’ai! You’ve been here before. They might have groveled at your feet if you’d commanded it!”

“I am not here to bandy words with would-be worshippers. I’m here to save Silwren.” Shade pointed toward a door in the distance. “There.” He waved his hand, and an invisible force yanked the door open.

Rowen feared for a moment that he had broken his leg in the fall. He tried to move and bit back a scream. He fumbled in the dark as his warm, wet blood soaked through the thigh of his pants. A shard of wood had stabbed him during the fall. Gritting his teeth, Rowen pulled it out. He bit back another scream then waded through the cloud of pain in his head and groped blindly in the darkness.

He stood at the beginning of another narrow corridor. It led in only one direction. Rowen found Knightswrath on the ground, struggled to his feet, and started forward. He placed his weight on his good leg and prepared to use his sword as a crutch if necessary. He heard commotion behind and above him. The guards had broken the door down. They were in the antechamber now.

It will only take them a minute or two to find me
. Summoning his strength, he moved faster, hugging the hall with one arm while he used the other to grope in the darkness ahead of him. The corridor ended abruptly. He probed to the left and right and found another hallway in each direction. He wondered only for a moment which path to take. Facing the corridor to the right, he touched Knightswrath’s hilt. It felt cool. Still gripping the hilt, he turned left—and immediately withdrew his hand when the hilt nearly burned him.

Somewhere on the surface, the Soroccan merchant probably searched for him. Rowen shook his head.
Hráthbam, just what kind of demon trinket did you give me?

He’d only gone a few steps when the screams of dying men echoed from the chambers above him. Rowen froze for a moment then surrendered all thoughts of caution and ran left, headlong into the darkness.

Shade lit their way by conjuring tendrils of wytchfire that wrapped and tangled around his wrist, leaving him unharmed but transforming his arm into a living torch. They proceeded down the corridor until Shade stopped in his tracks, so abruptly that Lethe nearly ran into him.

“She’s close. Silwren...” He turned. “Hear me well, Human. She does not answer my mind speak. That means she’s frightened, probably hurt. When we find her, stay back and keep silent, or the torments—”

“Or the torments you’ll unleash will be like nothing I can imagine,” Lethe finished. “I am quite familiar with Shel’ai threats.” He gestured to the corridor ahead of them. “After you, m’lord.”

Shade’s expression tightened with fury, but the Shel’ai was in far too much of a hurry to stop and punish the assassin now. Shade felt Silwren’s essence more strongly now.

“Silwren, my love, I’m here.”
Shade mind spoke the words but received no reply. He sensed that she was conscious, that she heard him but did not understand. Beneath her confusion, he sensed terror. But what was she afraid of? Surely, not of him. Herself, then. She feared power so great that it threatened to devour her from the inside out, to rot her memory and her senses if she used it—her body, if she did not.

“Do not be afraid, Silwren,”
he told her.
“The power’s too great—I know—but we will help you. Do you hear me? I made you a promise long ago, and I swear, I’ve come to honor it. I’ll save you from this madness, my love. And you will save me.”

At the end of the corridor, Rowen discovered an open doorway. Light blazed from within.
Where there’s light, there might be guards
. He drew Knightswrath and entered slowly. But his newfound sense of caution quickly dissipated in the face of the breathtaking chamber before him.

This chamber was the size of a village, with vaulted ceilings and gigantic pillars carved with intricate runes. Unlike the filth of the rest of Cadavash, the floors here were clean marble covered with carvings and intricate paintings. The walls bore lit torches in brass brackets, but Rowen saw at once that these were not ordinary torches. They produced no smoke, and instead of crackling flames, they yielded a soft white glow. Rowen, wondering a moment who might have lit them, realized that the answer might be no one.

He studied the floor paintings instead. None, he saw with relief, resembled the grisly carvings of the temple floors above. Dragons of all colors did nothing more menacing than sleep or spread their wings—two, four, even six—among painted clouds. He spied other figures, too: all naked, dancing or making love, some resting on the green banks of a blue-white river. They looked Human but for their lithe bodies and more delicate, exotic features.
Are these Sylvs?

He tried to remember the priestly legends he’d heard as a child, plus the myths he’d been taught while training on the Lotus Isles. Hadn’t the Sylvs come
after
the dragons vanished? These figures must be the ancestors of the Sylvs, then. The Dragonkin.

Rowen frowned. Hadn’t the Dragonkin
stolen
their power from the dragons, draining them of their godly essence until the winged beasts dried up and vanished like water in a desert? Why, then, did these paintings show the two living in harmony?

But this was no time for pondering. The guards must be closing in by now. He thought, too, of the scream he’d heard on the surface—the same as the one he’d heard that crazed night on the plains, after the battle with the greatwolf, when the deformed Shel’ai appeared to raise Hráthbam from the dead.

A dragon, if that’s what it was, something great and awful that would probably destroy him. Rowen tried to recall a passage from the Codex Lotius to give him courage, but all the words seemed to have fled his mind. Finally, he lifted Knightswrath into a guarded position before himself and headed deeper into the chamber.

Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas’s first thought, when the fireball fell from the sky and burst into nothingness upon the plains, was that he had drunk too much hláshba, having indulged after the good fortune of finding an inn that served it in the first place. His second thought, once the inn emptied and priests and armed men fell into panic, shrieking that the dragons had returned, was that he had to find Rowen Locke and escape.

Left and Right pawed at their stalls, nervous but unharmed. The young squire, however, had vanished. Hráthbam frowned. The shortsword he had lent to the squire lay inside the wagon, along with his cloak. Wherever Rowen was, he was probably unarmed.
Except for that decrepit adamune I gave him. Gods forbid he try and use it!