Wytchfire (Book 1) (16 page)

He stared into the campfire instead. “She said she didn’t summon me,” he said at last. “
Something
led me down into Cadavash, led me straight to her, but she says it wasn’t her.”

Hráthbam shrugged. “Maybe she’s lying.”

“You think she’s lying about where she’s going, too?”

“It doesn’t really matter. Let’s say she
does
go to Lyos. They’ll kill her the moment they see what she is!” He took a long drink of hláshba. “Shel’ai or no, she won’t last ten seconds against a few hundred armed men, and probably a mob besides.”

“Never seen a Shel’ai before,” Rowen admitted, “but she seemed different somehow. So did El’rash’lin. More like Dragonkin—whatever they used to be. I don’t think a mob could stop them.”

“Then you’re worried about her torching your home the way this other one, this Nightmare, is burning cities in the west?”

Rowen sneered. “If she wants to burn down the Dark Quarter, I’ll hand her the torch!” He remembered the fire that fell from the sky. “If she needs one, that is.” He glanced at the wagon, imagined the figure sleeping within, and wondered if the delicate-looking young woman really had that sort of power. “I suppose the real question, then, is whether we try and stop her or applaud her.”

Hráthbam’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” He stabbed the fire with the drawn blade of his scimitar. “Well, neither one of us has tried to kill her yet, so it seems we’ve made up our minds on
that,
at least.”

“Ignoring her isn’t the same as helping her.”

Hráthbam shrugged. “Seems we’ve already done that, too. Or did I imagine you risking your neck—and mine—to get her out of Cadavash?”

Rowen’s stomach sank. “You’re right.” He bowed slightly. “For what it’s worth, you have my apology.”

Hráthbam scoffed. “Fohl’s hells, it’s my neck to risk. My choice.” He stabbed the fire again. “What I meant is you already seem... well, I’d say
taken
with her, but maybe
ensnared
is a better word!” The Soroccan did not laugh.

Rowen didn’t laugh either. “My brother always said I was dull-witted. Maybe he was right.”

“I doubt that,” Hráthbam said. “Dimwits don’t see trouble coming. That’s why they can’t help getting themselves killed. But you, my friend, seem just thick-skulled enough to see it coming then walk right into it anyway!”

Rowen’s temper flared. He stood, fists clenched, biting back an angry retort, and stalked away.

Dawn brought no sign of trouble from Cadavash. Rowen would have preferred to see a column of angry dragon priests bearing down on them than face what was to come. Both he and Hráthbam, still awake, saw Silwren emerge from the wagon. She wore one of Hráthbam’s extravagant gowns, belted and folded so it would fit her. But the gown was still much too large for her thin frame, and despite himself, Rowen laughed at the sight of her.

Silwren glanced toward the sound, eyes narrowing, but instead of offering a rebuke, she blushed.

As she passed the horses, Rowen expected them to shy away from her, but they regarded her as though she were no more obtrusive than the grass beneath their hooves or the faint morning breeze blowing through the trees in the distance.

Hráthbam frowned. “Where is she going?”

Rowen blinked in surprise. “East, I guess.”

Hráthbam scoffed. “You’re welcome,” he muttered after her. “Let’s get going, then.”

But Rowen was already moving. Before he realized what he was doing, he ran after the Shel’ai and blocked her path. “Wait! Where are you going?”

“I told you last night.”

“So you did. But you didn’t say why.”

“I was not aware I had to.”

Rowen steadied himself. “You will if you intend to get past me.” He moved his hand to his sword hilt.

Silwren studied him a moment and then laughed. Not unkindly, she said, “Forgive me, Human, if I doubt the sincerity of your threat.” She stepped past him and continued on.

Rowen’s face burned. Hráthbam laughed. Cursing, Rowen glared at the merchant. Then he turned to face Silwren but saw her back instead.

“Lyos is
my
city!” he called after her.

Silwren turned, half smiling. “I took you for a fool, not a king.”

“There’s stories of someone…
something…
like you burning cities in the west. If those stories are about you, if you intend—”

“I’m not the one they call the Nightmare if that’s what you’re asking.”

Rowen swallowed hard. “Just the same, I was born in Lyos. If you mean its people harm, I can’t let you go.” Fixing the bravest expression he could muster, he drew Knightswrath and prayed the rusty blade would not fail him. As he did so, he winced when he felt the hilt nearly hot enough to burn him. “I don’t
want
to kill you,” he added. “I just want to understand what in Fohl’s hells is happening here!”

Kill her? Gods, I probably couldn’t even get close before she burned me to ashes!

But Silwren did not attack. Her expression sobered. “You would do well to fear for your people, Rowen Locke. But not because of me. I go to Lyos to warn them.” She bowed slightly, then turned and walked away.

Rowen stood a moment, dumbfounded, then returned to Hráthbam and the campfire.

Hráthbam said, “Let it go, Locke. Better this way. Don’t forget, my friend, we have dragonbone to sell!”

Rowen tensed. “Where do you want to take it?”

“Somewhere pretty and far away. Atheion, maybe. I’d like to see those streets made of water.”

I would too.
“Bad idea,” he heard himself say. “Atheion’s full of simple folk. They don’t even wear jewelry. You won’t get a good price there.”

Hráthbam frowned. “So simple that they live in floating houses?”

Rowen kept a straight face. “They hate dragons. As much as those worshippers at Cadavash love them—or love their bones, at least—the folk in Atheion hate them. Some ancient legend about one of the last dragons killing their king.”
Gods, I’m a bad liar! He’ll see right through this!

Hráthbam was quiet for a while then shrugged. “You’re the wandering fool, not me. Where would
you
go?”

Rowen chose his words carefully. “I’d say Cassica, but that’s close to Syros—and Syros has probably already fallen to the Shel’ai and that demon of theirs.”
I’m telling the truth about that, at least.

He thought of Jalist going to join the Throng but pushed the Dwarr from his mind. “That doesn’t leave many options,” Hráthbam grumbled. “I suppose Phaegos—”

“Lyos is closer.” Rowen pretended not to notice the Soroccan’s scowl. “Forget Silwren. Forget demons and Shel’ai and all that nonsense. You’re right. She’s just one woman. And anyway, Lyos has the biggest market I’ve ever seen. Lots of rich, fancy bastards who like spending their dead parents’ money. And it’s closer to Sorocco, besides. You ride all the way west, you might get caught up by these Shel’ai and lose everything. Make it to Atheion, and you’ve still got to come back. Finish your business at Lyos, though, and you’re just a few days from the coast.”

Hráthbam mulled it over. “The sooner I can put all this madness behind me and sail home to the warmth of pretty wives, the better.” He gestured absently. “Fair enough. We’ll make for Lyos instead. May as well fix some breakfast first, though. Give that wytch some time to get well ahead of us and maybe forget you just pulled a sword on her.”

Rowen smothered a grin. “Agreed. But no more stew.”

“Don’t jest about Soroccan stew, my friend,” Hráthbam answered, stoking the fire. “It’s just the thing for thickening a soft skull.”

Chapter Twelve

Rousing the Throng

F
adarah sighed.

The great war camp had been broiling on the Simurgh Plains for days now, a stain no amount of sunlight or rainfall could purge. Cassica lay sacked in the distance, its city walls still blackened from the Nightmare’s onslaught. But things had calmed since then. Cassica’s surviving men-at-arms had joined the Throng—some voluntarily, others less so. The Shel’ai wisely divided the newest members of the Throng, stationing them so that all served with strangers, in case they still fostered notions of rebellion. Farmers were free to return to the fields and bring in crops, provided that a substantial portion of the yield went to feeding Fadarah’s hungry soldiers.

The army had barely moved since the attack. Men stirred amid a great sea of tents, smoke, and waste, all of it ringed in a protective palisade.

Fadarah had heard some of the Shel’ai whispering, “It is not good to keep the army so close to Cassica. The sight of the broken city might yet incite a rebellion!” He could not entirely disagree. Still, the Throng was the least of his worries at the moment.

Just past sunrise, he knelt in his tent. He had sent his servants away even though he had yet to don his armor. His great half-Olg frame knelt in the center of the tent, eyes closed as though in prayer. But the faint violet glow enveloping his body hinted at a level of magical exertion not usually seen with mindspeak.

“General... I have failed you.”
Shade’s voice echoed in his mind, drawing a scowl to Fadarah’s tattooed face.

“Kith’el, to mindspeak over such a great distance—”

“My Human thrall can protect me if needs be.”
A pause.
“Master, I lost her. I tracked her to Cadavash, to Namundvar’s Well. But then…”

Fadarah’s frown deepened although his eyes remained closed, deep in concentration.
“Did she attack you?”

“No, Master. She was unconscious. But El’rash’lin was with her.”

Fadarah’s open hands clenched into fists. The glow around his body turned a deeper shade of purple, almost black.
“He teleported her away from you?”

Shade answered, “
Yes. I can’t believe he had that much power! Almost as much as Iventine—”

“What was she doing in Cadavash?”

“El’rash’lin claims she went there to try and be rid of her powers.”

“Do you believe him?”

Shade did not answer.

Fadarah said,
“Don’t judge her too harshly. She’s not in her right mind. In such a state, any of us might do as she has done—myself included.”

Shade did not reply for such a long time that Fadarah feared his pupil had succumbed to exhaustion. Then Shade asked,
“What are your orders, General? Shall I return to the army?”

“No. Hurry ahead to Lyos. Gauge the city’s strength, as we discussed.”
He added,
“And I would not be surprised if you find Silwren there. If so, appeal to her if you can, but do not risk yourself needlessly. Remember, as painful as this may be, she probably hates both
of us right now. But that, too, will be remedied.”

“I understand.”

“But rest first,”
Fadarah insisted.
“If all goes well, the Throng will reach Lyos in three weeks.”

Lest Shade be tempted to continue, Fadarah emerged from his trance, ending their discussion. He opened his eyes. He continued kneeling for a moment. Then he called for his servants. “Bring my armor. And wake my captains,” he said. “We march east in two hours.”

Pallantine Hill rose from the Simurgh Plains like a gigantic, mossy fist in the late afternoon sun. As Hráthbam and Rowen drew nearer, their ears caught a cacophonous mix of shouts and drunken laughter. Hráthbam stopped the wagon. He stared into the distance for a moment.

Hráthbam’s face broke into a smile. “Well, I see no flames wreathing the battlements. Seems the pretty wytch was merciful.”

“Unless she’s not here yet.”

“She
should
be. Something tells me she made better time than we did.”

Rowen nodded absently. At the moment, Silwren was the farthest thing from his mind.
Home.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.

Hráthbam silently flicked the reins. Left and Right stirred, looking annoyed that their rest had been disrupted so soon, and began to pull the heavy wagon toward the city of Lyos.

Peasants and carts choked King’s Bend—the wide, cobblestone road that wound up to the great hilltop, hauling goods and people to and from the city. The road had been deliberately fashioned in a winding manner so that any army charging the summit would be exhausted by the time they reached the walls and, all the while, would be fodder for bowmen lining the parapets above.

Trees lined the trail, their leaves dried by autumn. The musk of the city washed over him, overwhelming him for a moment: sweat, whiffs of floral perfume, the tang of foreign spices and sweet, charred meat. Rather than breathe through his mouth, Rowen inhaled deeply. The act made his eyes water, but it clogged his senses—an old trick he’d learned in the Dark Quarter. He told Hráthbam to do the same.

“No need,” the Soroccan answered. “I’ve visited cities before, my friend. Besides, you haven’t felt your senses roil until you’ve been to a hláshba brewery.” Nevertheless, the Soroccan dabbed his watery eyes with one sleeve.

As when Rowen was last here, countless vendors had set up stands everywhere along King’s Bend beneath the shade of the trees, selling silvery-blooded fish and rainbow-shelled crabs hauled in from the coast, next to bolts of rough leather and bows fashioned from shafts of urusk bone. Other items vied for attention: bolts of fine, watery silk from Sorocco; string-tied stacks of sweetbitter leaves; beautiful, blue-white seashells drawn from the oft-frozen Wintersea; poor imitations of the long-handled adamunes of the Isle Knights, their curved blades forged not from folded kingsteel but common iron; even clay pots packed with darksoil, the legendary stuff of the Dwarrs to the south, who grew their food in caves without need for sunlight.

He even saw obscene paintings and drawings from Dhargoth, their purpose as obvious as their popularity. The sight of these reminded Rowen that he had not been with a woman in a long time—in a brothel or otherwise—but he blushed and pushed the thought from his mind. Rowen suggested Hráthbam remove his jewelry—several thick, gaudy rings and a brass choker fixed with precious stones—but the Soroccan refused. “If I were buying, I’d be dressed like you. But when I’m selling, I fetch a better price when it looks like I don’t need the coin.”

Rowen rolled his eyes. As a merchant driving a wagon, Hráthbam would already be a prime target for cutpurses. “My job would be far easier if you wouldn’t draw thieves and murderers like ants to honey.”

“That’s why I have you to protect me! Well, and this, too.” He rattled his scimitar for emphasis. “Between all that, they’d have to cut my hands off to get my rings!”

“Trust me, they would,” Rowen muttered.

Hráthbam’s grin vanished. Convinced by Rowen’s stark tone, he removed his jewelry and tucked it piece by piece into the pockets of today’s pompous silk gown, this one a deep burgundy trimmed in purple. “Satisfied?”

Rowen considered suggesting that the merchant put on different clothes as well, but he decided not to press his luck. He nodded.

Hráthbam asked, “Do you still think we’ll find your pretty young wytch in there?”

The question caught Rowen off guard. “If she really did come here, I can’t imagine they’d let her live... though from what I’ve seen, I don’t think Shel’ai die easily.”

Despite the bustle, the crowds appeared far too calm for having executed a magic-wielding wytch only a day or two ago. He tried to clear his head and focus on the matters at hand.

Midday found the Red Watch out in full force. Pikemen patrolled on foot and horseback, dressed mostly in leather brigandines or the occasional chain mail hauberk, over which they wore faded scarlet tabards stitched with the black falcon of Lyos. Though crowds here behaved far more civilly than in the Dark Quarter, the Red Watch had its hands full trying to maintain order, breaking up the occasional fight and apprehending cutpurses whenever they could.

The sight of the guards prompted a strange, instinctual reaction within him. His fists clenched. His pulse quickened. As a boy, he’d hated and feared the guards, who had standing orders to beat any urchin from the slums caught trying to steal from the city above. Some guards had been known to take that punishment further. Many times, sprinting with a stolen loaf of bread under his shirt, dodging through streets—half blind with panic—with a guard or two just steps behind, Rowen had been lucky to escape with both hands intact.

He tried to calm his temper, reminding himself that the guards were just men charged with a nearly impossible task. At best, they could do little more than hold the criminal elements of the Dark Quarter to a stalemate. Besides, although no one in the slums wanted to admit it, the Red Watch did much to dissuade more than a few of the more sinister gangs that prowled the Dark Quarter, searching for orphaned children.

Rowen paused a moment as a wave of dreadful memories washed over him: leering men with false smiles, worse than animals, whom he’d learned early on to avoid, despite their promises of coins and free food.

Jinn’s name, what madness brought me back here?
He thought of Silwren. He thought of the Well. He thought of what he had seen there, in the depths of Cadavash—less a vision than a feeling of wholeness fused simultaneously with a loss of identity, something he still did not quite understand.

But Silwren understands.
Somehow, through Knightswrath, he had been drawn to her. She could help him make sense of that, not to mention what he’d seen in the Well. Besides, with his contract with Hráthbam nearing its end, he had nowhere else to go.

Hráthbam slowed the horses, sensing Rowen’s unease, but Rowen waved him on without a word. Soon, they were caught up by the traffic flowing up and down the great hill. The market smell—an amalgamation of spice, burnt meats, sweat, and dung—closed in again, along with the raucous crowds around them. Left and Right were clearly agitated by so many strangers jostling about—guards in armor, rich men and women in silk sarongs, peasants in rags—but they obeyed their master’s commands for once. Rowen, meanwhile, was grateful that he was sitting in the wagon, but he had to resist the temptation to tug his tunic over his nose to protect himself from the smell of the crowds. He should have been used to it, but his time in the clean civility of the Lotus Isles must have softened his senses.

“Dyoni’s bane!” Hráthbam’s voice was muffled. Rowen felt a mixture of amusement and relief that his employer had covered his face with a silk rag. “How do people live amid such filth?” the Soroccan demanded. He gestured, incredulous, at a line of people immodestly relieving themselves just off the trail. “Have your kind never heard of privies?”

Rowen laughed curtly, biting back a reference to Hráthbam’s earlier mention of hláshba breweries. “We have some in the city, alongside the bathhouses. But the poor aren’t welcome up there.”

Rowen felt the wagon jostle. He cursed and looked over his shoulder, into the canopy. Sure enough, a thief had hopped onto the back of the wagon: a young man, frightfully thin with eyes like a wild animal. The thief had no notion of the fortune in dragon-ivory concealed under a pile of cloaks. He simply reached out with both hands and grabbed the nearest objects—a hatchet and a knapsack of dried foodstuffs—and was about to jump off the back of the wagon.

Rowen caught the man by the ankle. The man kicked but Rowen did not let go. A certain hold and twist he’d learned on the Isles would snap the thief’s leg at the knee. Instead of using it, he shook the man by his tattered shirt.

“Open your hands.”

A hatchet fell to the wagon floor with a heavy clang. A knapsack followed. Rowen released him. The man rabbited out the back of the wagon and vanished back into the crowds.

“Are you whole, or did you just catch a knife between the ribs?” Hráthbam asked, straining to hold the reins and look over his shoulder at the same time.

“I’m fine. Just a thief.” He sat beside Hráthbam at the head of the wagon again but turned sideways so he could keep a better watch on the rear.