Wytchfire (Book 1) (18 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The Blood Thrall

S
hade reined in his horse, gesturing for Lethe to do the same. On the road ahead, someone called for help. Shade could not tell much about the little man’s appearance, save that he lay crumpled in a torn cloak, his voice unmistakably Human.

“Help, m’lords! Bandits took my horse, cut my leg…” The man trailed off, as though weeping.

Shade was tempted to ride by, but only a day ago, he’d incinerated a dragon priest and a few guards who recognized them from Cadavash. Lethe had openly accused Shade of murder, saying the Shel’ai could just as easily have incapacitated them. Shade decided that now was as good a time as any to demonstrate that he could be merciful, too.

“See to his wounds. Leave him food and water as well.”

Instead of looking surprised, Lethe winced, visibly pained as he rode ahead.

Why would he argue about helping someone in need?
“Hold,” Shade called out. He rode to where Lethe had paused. “I thought you would approve of this. What’s the problem?”

“It’s a trap,” Lethe said. “I’ve seen this before. That man probably has a knife hidden somewhere.”

The little man overheard them. He sat up a little. “No, m’lords, I swear! I’m just—”

Shade burned the prostrate man into the earth. Lethe stared, aghast. Shade attacked so quickly that their pack horse bolted. He extended his mind into that of the animal, compelling it to return. Then he turned his attention back to Lethe. “Why the grim face, Human? You said yourself it was a trap. He might have killed the next traveler who happened by.”

“Oh, I don’t object to you killing them,” Lethe countered, “just how much you enjoyed it.”

Shade considered answering the rebuke with an invocation of Lethe’s Blood Thrall but then changed his mind and let the matter drop. “I know how much you Humans crave riches. If you want to search him for valuables, I’ll wait.”

Though Shade meant it as a rebuke, Lethe dismounted and approached the charred corpse. Shade cursed at the delay but decided to feign indifference. Covering his nose with one hand, the assassin prodded the corpse then rifled through a knapsack lying nearby. Lethe frowned. He pulled something out of the knapsack—a book. The assassin paled.

“What is that?”

“Nothing,” Lethe said. He slid the book back into the knapsack, dropped it on the ground, and returned to his horse.

“Nothing of value?” Shade prodded.

Lethe shook his head. “I crave death, not riches. Until then, Sorcerer, I’ve got everything I need.”

“Too bad you had to warn me it was a trap, then. You might have gotten what you wanted.”

They pressed on, stopping only when the horses could go no farther. They passed a handful of travelers, but all of them had the good sense to shy away from the Shel’ai and his fearsome bodyguard, some cursing or making superstitious signs of warding as they did so. Shade dared to hope they’d make it all the way to Lyos without further incident. Then, a half-dozen bandits crested the hill, directly in their path.

Rough-looking men, all of them carried swords, and one even carried a repeating crossbow. The crossbow caught Shade’s eye. He had seen such weapons a few times before. Supposedly, they were an invention of the Dwarrs. Fitted on top with a stock that contained ten or so crossbow bolts, the weapon was fired using a lever that drew back the bow, dropped a bolt into place, and fired it all in one pull. While not especially accurate or powerful, repeating crossbows made up for this in speed.
Might be a good addition to the Throng.

Shade judged by the laughter that the bandits were expecting an easy mark. They did not know a Shel’ai of the Throng when they saw one, simply mistaking Shade for some foppish priest or nobleman.

“Let’s have them coin purses,” their leader said, reining up not far ahead of them.

Shade stared straight ahead and made no reply to the bandit leader’s orders. The smell of the bandits’ unwashed bodies had preceded them just as surely as the sound of their poorly shod horses.

“Did you hear me?” the bandit leader called out. “Toss over the purses! And you”—he pointed at Lethe—“drop all them weapons!”

Still, Shade did not answer. The bandit leader drew his sword. The other bandits did the same. The bandit leader howled and led the charge, gripping the reins with his pike-hand, his rusty bastard sword whirling overhead.

Shade lifted his hands, slender fingers splayed at the oncoming men. Violet flames exploded from his fingertips, blasting the bandit leader clean out of his saddle. His body struck the ground and burst like a bag of cinders.

In the awful stillness that followed, Shade changed his aim.

More wytchfire unfurled from his wrists and crackled from his hands, taking a second man from his saddle. Then a third. Forgotten, the Dwarr crossbow tumbled onto the plains, burning. Shade sighed with regret.

The remaining bandits’ eyes widened. Horrified, they yanked on their horses’ reins and tried to flee. Probably none, Shade thought with bemusement, had ever seen magic before. He hesitated. On the one hand, allowing the bandits to escape meant they would spread word of the horrible power of the Shel’ai—always a good thing in Shade’s eyes. On the other hand, he and Lethe would have to be on guard when they camped that night, just in case the bandits found their courage and returned for revenge.

Shade said, “Take them.”

Lethe chased the bandits straight into the setting sun. The bloody glare made him wince. His pulse leapt in his throat. He did not particularly wish to kill anyone today, but the Blood Thrall would wreak agony on him if he disobeyed.

He dispassionately drew both of his shortswords, leaning low and bracing himself in the saddle with his knees. He raked his palfrey’s flanks with his spurs. The bandits were terrified, flying away at breakneck speed, but Lethe’s mount was better. It took only a few moments for him to close the distance. When he caught them, he gave no battle cry.

The bandits glanced over their shoulders and saw him. Lethe wondered if they were relieved, seeing a man pursuing them and not his fire-conjuring devil of a master. This thought amused him as the first bandit turned, swung clumsily, and suddenly found himself without a head.

The last two bandits whirled to face him, too. When they saw how effortlessly Lethe had dispatched their comrade, they hesitated. They might have tried to flee again, but Lethe was already on top of them.

He drove his horse straight into one, blocked the man’s wild swing, then shoved him out of the saddle. He faced the third. This bandit stabbed conservatively at Lethe’s face, trying to hold him at bay. Then, the bandit swung for Lethe’s horse.
Nice try.
He cut the blade and the hand that wielded it from the bandit’s body.

The bandit howled, leaning so far away in his saddle that he was just beyond range of Lethe’s shortswords. The man cried for mercy. Lethe thought of the book he’d left on the plains—of the laws therein, stating that mercy must always be granted when requested. Cursing, Lethe urged his mount closer. He used the bandit’s tactic against him. One shortsword flashed down in a brutal swing, cutting the bandit’s horse out from under him.

But then, as the horse crashed to the plains, the beast flailed wildly with its hooves, tangling them in the legs of Lethe’s own palfrey. Blood had left the grass slippery. Lethe’s mount lost its footing.

Lethe flung himself clear. He struck the ground hard, rolled, and tried to come up, but his foot caught a divot in the earth, and raw pain lanced through his leg. A strange elation filled him, despite the pain.
My leg’s broken. Two bandits left. If I let them kill me—

No sooner did he have this thought than new, far more terrible pain washed over him. His master had given him orders to kill these bandits. The Blood Thrall tapped directly into his brain and his heart. Though it could be activated by a Shel’ai, it had a will of its own, too. If Lethe did not do everything in his power to carry out his orders, the Blood Thrall punished him.

Still, if the bandits could kill him quickly enough, Lethe might be able to bear the torment long enough to earn himself the sweet release of death. But suddenly, the world moved at the pace of melting ice.

Through a blur of tears and pain, he could see the bandit he’d unhorsed earlier moving to help the one whose hand he’d taken. Both readied their swords. Lethe could make out the rage on their faces and knew they meant to kill him. But they moved like snails. The awful sundown sparkled off drawn steel as though the sun had also frozen in place. The Blood Thrall roiled through him, inflicting layer upon layer of torment. He would suffer the equivalent of years before the bandits actually slew him.

Lethe gave up. He would have to fight. He’d lost one sword in the fall, but he raised the other. Instantly, all pain but that of his broken leg disappeared, and the flow of time returned to normal. The bandits barreled toward him. One reeled from pain and blood loss but held a knife in his remaining hand. Lethe could not stand, could not move anything but his sword arm, but that was enough.

The shortsword danced before him, seemingly everywhere at once. He held the bandits at bay then feigned a mistake, leaving himself open. The one-handed bandit lurched immediately for Lethe’s side. Instead, puzzled, he found himself weaponless, impaled hilt-deep on a shortsword.

Lethe grinned.
This is it
. He’d fought as well as he could. He’d tried to kill all the bandits, but he’d lost one sword and stuck the other in this dying man’s gullet. There was no way he could wrench it free or draw another weapon before the last bandit finished him off. The Blood Thrall had no reason to torment him.

Lethe closed his eyes.
By the Light... thank you. At last!

Violet flames caught the final bandit in the back, washing over his body with heat intense enough to sear Lethe’s cheek. He opened his eyes in time to see the force of his master’s magic propel the howling bandit through the air, scattering his body like ash.

Shade rode toward him and dismounted. The Shel’ai was smiling. “What would the rest of the Unseen say if they could see their great captain bested by a mere three brigands?”

Lethe stared back, speechless. He nearly wept.
So close... I was so close!

Shade knelt to examine his leg. “You broke your ankle. This will not do.” He lifted the leg of Lethe’s trousers, revealing a swell of angry, purple skin. Bone jutted through. Lethe winced—more from the sight than from the pain.

Shade laid his hand over the ghastly wound. Without warning, he shoved the bone back in. Lethe bit back a scream. Shade squeezed the wound. Heat flowed from the Shel’ai’s hand. The wound tingled, followed by a brief but maddening itch, then more heat. The pain subsided. By the time Shade removed his hand, only a faint bruise remained.

Shade knelt to rest. The Shel’ai’s hood was thrown back, revealing his pale skin and hair. For all his urgency to find the Dragonkin, Shade was smiling.

Lethe recalled all the stories he’d heard, that Shade had spent years killing Humans as revenge for the slaying of some other Shel’ai. Lethe eyed the Shel’ai’s exposed throat. He wanted to jam a blade into it. Instinctively, one hand moved to his weapons belt. But no sooner had he touched the hilt of a knife than the Blood Thrall washed over him again.

Chapter Fifteen

The Newest Guard

I
t seemed to Rowen that Hráthbam, at least, woke in better spirits. He brought Rowen a bowl of spiced porridge, water, and a plate of sliced apples in the morning. The merchant announced his intention to sell the remaining contents of his wagon in the King’s Market that afternoon.
Rowen ate without comment and then accepted the sweetbitter leaf the merchant passed him. He chewed and kept it in his mouth until the mix of the plant’s burning juices and his own saliva made him wince, then spat it out.

Hráthbam wore his most bombastic silken robe yet: a silver-and-golden thing sewn with an intricate pattern of interlocking leaves and scimitars, plus a rather comical rendition of a purple lion tipping back what looked like a bottle of wine. The pouring wine was represented by a trail of scarlet gemstones.

Gold and silver rings bound the Soroccan’s goatee, too. He had apparently exchanged his scimitar’s plain scabbard for a more extravagant one wrought of stained mahogany inlaid with carvings that depicted the fanciful myth of Dyoni seducing Fohl the Undergod only to leave him engorged and wanting, as revenge for his disrespect of her priestesses.

Perhaps the merchant’s good humor was a façade, but Rowen was not about to question it. He insisted on readying the wagon all by himself, allowing Hráthbam another moment to flirt with a pair of Lyosi tradeswomen. Tall and lithe, both had dark hair and deeply tanned skin. Though they batted their eyelashes and feigned fascination in Hráthbam’s accent and biceps, Rowen sensed they were just trying to charm him into lowering his prices. He missed the conclusion of their dealings, but when he returned, Hráthbam was smiling.

“I might be the only man who enjoys being robbed from time to time.”

Rowen was about to ask for details, but a pang of jealousy prompted him to stay quiet. They drove the wagon to the King’s Market. Rowen unhitched the team. This time, Rowen told Hráthbam to refrain from unloading the wagon until he’d personally entrusted Left and Right to the nearest stable. Then Rowen returned as quickly as possible and helped the merchant set up his displays.

Hráthbam had already sold most of his dragonbone, but he still had all manner of weapons, silk, liquor, and other trinkets. In fact, what Rowen had mistaken earlier for chests full of junk actually seemed to sell better than the dragonbone. The Queshi sickle-sword and the Ivairian-style shortswords sold quickly, something of a novelty in a street market where most merchants preferred to sell cheap imitations of Isle Knights’ adamunes
.

Rowen had secretly been hoping to buy the Queshi composite bow for himself, but a hunter happened along who shared Rowen’s appreciation for the bow’s fine, powerful curves. After only a token attempt at reducing Hráthbam’s outlandish asking price, the hunter bought it. Rowen swore.

The silk sold as well, plus trinkets the merchant had brought with him from Sorocco. By midday, Hráthbam’s table stood half empty. Rowen realized his newfound friend would almost certainly leave the next day, his wares sold, the job done. Hráthbam, on the other hand, was all smiles. He offered Rowen a handful of copper cranáfi and told him to fetch both of them some lunch and ales. The Soroccan insisted he would be all right, hefting his scimitar for emphasis.

“Just so you know, Locke, that sorcerer appears to have healed my blood as well!”

Rowen frowned at the abrupt comment. “What?”

Hráthbam laughed. “I nicked myself a few days back, preparing that stew you like so much. I fetched the powder, figured the bleeding wouldn’t stop—but it did.” He shrugged. “Apparently, being hauled back from death brings additional benefits!”

Rowen’s eyes widened. Speechless, he took the coins then went to fetch lunch. If the resurrection magic had altered Hráthbam so much, he wondered if the magic El’rash’lin had used to teleport him out of Cadavash had done something else to him—something he had not perceived yet.

He rejected the first few food vendors he saw, judging by the gray hue of the meat they were selling that it had been improperly treated and left out too long in the sun. He remembered what he’d heard of the Soroccans’ peculiar diet: they preferred vegetables and fruits over meat, but if necessary, they would eat the flesh of land animals. They would not consume the flesh of birds, which they associated with the sea and therefore considered holy. Rowen was confident that Hráthbam’s tastes were motivated less by belief than habit, though.

He bought food and ale, for the first time forgetting to scan the crowds for a sign of tapered ears and long, platinum tresses, then returned. He found Hráthbam grinning even more broadly, his table empty but for a few trinkets of jewelry. What’s more, two young women—twin sisters, by the look of them—were fawning over the merchant. Both women wore gowns with all the substance of colored clouds.

Unlike other cities, Lyos had long since adopted the Lotus Isles’ open-minded view on prostitution, largely regulated and overseen by the well-schooled clerics of Dyoni. But their affection was an act—just business, like shoeing a horse or repairing a busted piece of armor. While not evil, the act held no substance. And substance, it seemed, was what he was forever doomed to crave.

Still, he reminded himself, he was just a wagon guard. What made him uncomfortable was irrelevant.

Hráthbam gave Rowen a hearty greeting, accepted the food as though he had completely forgotten what food
was, then handed one of the girls a handful of copper cranáfi. He winked at Rowen. To the young woman, he said, “The good Knight here finds himself far removed from the comforts of his temple. Might you help him find it?”

The woman smiled. “Of course!” she purred. She took Rowen’s arm with teasing affection, using one hand to trace his chest through his clothes before snaking boldly downward, brushing his thigh before she lifted it again. At her touch, his blood burned despite her insincerity. For a moment, he hated himself for it. Then he surrendered. He offered Hráthbam the remainder of the coins he’d been given before. The Soroccan waved them off.

“I’ll be here when you return.” Hráthbam glanced at the wagon. “Well, I’ll be
nearby
, at least!”

Face burning, Rowen pocketed the remaining few copper cranáfi then followed the young woman. She guided him by the hand toward a nearby inn. Forgotten, the food he’d just purchased grew cold and inedible on the empty table, lost in the daily commotion of the world around it.

Rowen rose slowly from the bed, hoping not to wake the prostitute. He went to the window of the dusty room in the upstairs of the inn. It was nearly sunset. Orange light filtered through the battlements and fringed the tops of houses and walkways. He sighed. His second day in Lyos. Naked, weary, he stretched.

“So, are you really an Isle Knight?”

Rowen was glad he wasn’t facing her. “No. I was just a squire.”

“So you cleaned your master’s armor and carried his lances and such?”

Rowen concealed a smile. “You’re thinking of the Lancers, up in Ivairia. The Isle Knights are a bit different, more like fighting monks. They care for their own steel. It’s part of their discipline. Squires are basically just advanced students... like acolytes, I guess.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I left the Isles before I finished training.” He blushed further. He remembered his brother saying that he lied as well as he danced.

“Liar!” she teased, echoing his thoughts. “It’s all right,” she added. “Lots of squires end up here, m’lord. No shame in that. I could name a dozen if I had a mind to.”

Rowen did not like being called a lord. “I bet you could.” He glanced at her in time to see her wince. “Sorry.” He returned to the bed but shifted awkwardly.

She looked at him and smiled. She had a pretty face, round with a small nose and full lips. Her breasts were also full and more than his hands could grasp—the way he liked it, oddly perfect but for a scar on the side of one that looked to have been made by a knife.

He had half a mind to ask her about the scar, but he decided not to. He liked her. He wasn’t sure if it was his loneliness or the ache in his loins or the blackberry wine they’d shared earlier, poured from a skin that Hráthbam had given her.

She squeezed his hand. “Relax, Sir Knight. I have skin like armor. I promise.”

For some reason, the words touched him. He wanted her to stay, but she kissed him playfully then rose from the bed. Rowen was sure his face matched his hair again as he watched her dress in a burgundy sarong trimmed in white lace.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever thought about joining the Red Watch?”

Rowen laughed. “An orphan from the Dark Quarter joining the Red Watch...”

She smiled. “
I
came from the Dark Quarter, I’ll have you know! I like to say it toughened me. Maybe it didn’t, maybe scars are just scars, but it’s a nice idea.” She lifted her arms over her head and wriggled into her gown. It sank past the faint, serpentine outline of her spine, past her pleasingly full buttocks, to her bronze ankles. “Anyway, the Red Watch ain’t all bad. But I’d understand if you want to get away from here, what with the war coming.”

Rowen tensed. “What do you mean?”

She frowned at him. “You should listen to rumors more!” She continued talking as she dressed. “I got to know an officer of the Watch a while back. He said they’d gotten reports about that sorcerer’s army. The Throng, I think they call it. Anyway, they’re moving east. Weird thing is, he said they’re not even bothering to guard their rear—whatever that means!” She winked at him. “He said they’ll probably take a stab at Cassica if they haven’t already.”

Rowen forced himself to smile. “Their army’s even bigger than the one here at Lyos. My brother and I sold our swords there a long time ago. If this so-called Throng marches on Cassica, they’ll get slaughtered!”

The woman was dressed now. “If you say so, Sir Knight.” She stretched, playfully arching her back and accentuating her bosom through the tightly-tied sarong. “I have to go. You can stay for a while and sleep, but can you be gone before dark?”

He caught her meaning. “Yes... of course.”

She kissed his forehead then vanished out the door. Only then did Rowen wish he’d thought to ask her name. He considered sleeping. Instead, he thought of what the woman had said. It occurred to him that Cassica was far away. If it had already been attacked—had already fallen—word might not have reached Lyos yet.

By the time Rowen returned to the King’s Market, twilight had spread through the whole of the city like some nobleman’s thick, blue rug. Rowen found Hráthbam where the table had been. The table and chair had already been loaded into the wagon, the horses hitched. On the ground lay Rowen’s few, meager possessions, neatly stacked. Hráthbam now wore a plain traveling cloak over his pompous silk robes. When he saw Rowen, he grinned and held out his hand.
“Fa’taj dá fiél-tha.”

Rowen blinked in surprise. Reflexively, he shook Hráthbam’s hand. “What are you thanking me for?”

“For keeping me alive,” Hráthbam laughed, “although I suppose you had a little help!” He pressed a coin purse into Rowen’s hand. “Ninety coppers. To tell it true, I thought about making another trip to Cadavash, but the coin doesn’t seem to be in dragonbone after all.” He shrugged lightly. “Anyway, I thought about hiring you to see me safely to the docks off Sorocco, but something told me you’d be staying in Lyos.”

Rowen frowned. “I have no reason to stay here.”

Hráthbam’s expression sobered. “Could have fooled me.” For a long time, neither spoke. Then Hráthbam lowered his voice. “My friend, should we meet again in this life, perhaps we will each have the courage to tell the other what we have seen.”

Before Rowen could reply, Hráthbam shook his hand again. Then, silently, he climbed into the wagon and steered it through the King’s Market, down the cobblestone streets, past the open gates of Lyos, down the muck-trodden path of King’s Bend, and beyond, out of Rowen’s life.