Wytchfire (Book 1) (20 page)

He thought of the Well and shuddered.
Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I’ve just lost my mind!

He tried to recall what he’d seen upon gazing into the Well—but it had not been so much a vision as a perception, a momentary feeling of wholeness. He’d heard Isle Knights refer to such a state as
emptiness.
Before, he’d always been unable to understand how such a thing could be positive. At the Well, though, he’d momentarily transcended all his fears and doubts, even the encumbrance of his own identity, and in their place, felt only joy.
And now it’s gone. Maybe it’s just best I forget it… if I can.

He waved for another ale. When it arrived, he drank deeply. As he set the mug down, he thought of the drills.

If Rowen was not well-liked on duty, he at least received a measure of grudging respect from the other soldiers during each day’s training. As Captain Ferocles said, all soldiers of the Red Watch were required to train during at least one of each day’s drills, free at least to choose the drill that best matched their guard shift. Though nobody kept records, the captain was present at every drill, and somehow, even with hundreds of soldiers to oversee, he could tell at once who had not participated in training.

In his first week with the Red Watch, Rowen witnessed half a dozen fellow soldiers dismissed for this reason. He quickly learned that among the soldiers of the Red Watch, Captain Ferocles was infamous for not only his temper but also his sharp memory. This, at least, might work in his favor.

Whether with wooden swords or bare hands, Rowen held his own. Some of the other soldiers had themselves been squires on the Lotus Isles; they too seemed reluctantly impressed. Rowen hoped his skill might also earn him the respect of the captain, which would ease his time in Lyos—regardless of how long a time that ended up being. But if the captain noticed, he gave no indication of it. In fact, he had not spoken to Rowen since their terse exchange at the city gates.

Rowen was brooding on this when Sergeant Epheus entered the tavern and sat down beside him. The sergeant had a build similar to Rowen’s, with a close-cropped beard and long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight his hair looked like a black skullcap. Like Rowen, the sergeant was a former squire of the Lotus Isles, although his own failure to become an Isle Knight had taken place seven years before Rowen’s. Like other such men in the Red Watch, the sergeant had no wish to talk about it. But unlike the other soldiers, the sergeant was at least willing to speak to him.

Epheus asked, “How’s the ale here?”

“Warm and flat… but cheap.”

The sergeant snickered. “Figures.” He waved for a drink. “You know, there are a lot of better places in Lyos to get drunk. You should try the White Chimera, just up the street. That’s where most of the Red Watch goes. Good whores there—including some skinny, dark-eyed Isle women. Not to mention a few Dwarrs, if you prefer ’em with oversized tits and rumps.”

“Something tells me I’m not very welcome there.”

“Probably not. But don’t take it personal. New faces don’t get much respect at first.”

“How long’s
at first
?”

Epheus shrugged. “A few months, I guess.”

Rowen drank. “Then what?”

“Well, enough of the ones who have been here longer than you get killed, and suddenly, you’re a veteran!” The sergeant chuckled and slapped Rowen on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” The sergeant took the mug that was handed to him across the bar and drained half of it in one long swallow. Then he grimaced. “You’re right. My horse’s piss probably tastes better.”

The barkeeper glared at him but said nothing.

“I hear you grew up here, before the Isles,” the sergeant said nonchalantly.

Rowen nodded. He was hesitant to speak of his past, but he did not want to appear rude to the only person here who had showed him a sign of friendship. “My brother and I grew up in the Dark Quarter after our parents died.”

Sergeant Epheus whistled softly. “Another Quarter-man! Just what we need.” He finished his ale then waved for another. “Barkeeper, one more of your worst!” He chuckled at the barkeeper’s glare. “Where’s your brother now—still trimming throats down here?”

“Gone.” Rowen raised his mug to drink but found it empty. “He went to the Isles a few years before I did.”

“Two in the same family, huh? Where did he go after they rejected him?”

Rowen bristled. “They didn’t. He became a Knight. He made it.”

The sergeant’s expression sobered. “I didn’t think that was actually possible.”

“It’s not. Not really. But Kayden did it anyway.” Rowen waved for another mug.

“Then what?”

Rowen realized what the sergeant was asking. He pretended to be inspecting his empty mug.

“How did he die?” the sergeant asked finally.

“Don’t know,” Rowen answered. “I wasn’t there. The Knights say it was just an accident, though. He fell off his horse and dashed his brains on a rock.” Rowen almost laughed, imagining how Kayden might have reacted had he foreseen such a senseless, ignoble end.

“Have you heard about those Sylvan wytches?”

Rowen frowned. “The what?”

“That’s what we call them here,” the sergeant said. “Shel’ai, I guess they’re called elsewhere. Sylvs who can craft spells.” The sergeant grimaced as he spoke, this time not from the bad taste of his ale. “Rumor is they’ve raised an army in the west.”

Rowen thought of Jalist and rubbed his eyes. The ale was beginning to catch up with him. “An army of Shel’ai?”

“No, Humans. Mercenaries, mostly. Plus conscripts from whatever village or city they thrash. There are other stories, too, about some sort of creature. Not a wytch but something they made. Some kind of demon. They use it like an attack dog. They say nothing can kill it.”

Rowen was surprised to see the sergeant shudder. What would have been farfetched a month ago, before Cadavash, now loomed as an all-too-real fear.

The sergeant asked, “Have you ever seen one?”

“A Shel’ai?”

The sergeant nodded.

Rowen thought of Silwren and El’rash’lin. “No.”

“Me, neither. Nor a Sylv, for that matter. But I hear they look the same—except for the eyes. Sylv eyes are blue. But wytch eyes are purple. Only the pupils aren’t black. They’re
white
! Dragonmist, they call it.”

Rowen shrugged. “Superstitions told by old men with ugly wives.”

“I hope so. Because if it ain’t, not much anybody’s gonna be able to do about it. With none of these plains cities willing to stand together, I bet a strong enough army could sweep across the whole Simurgh Plains if it wanted.”

“As soon as they reached the coast—
if
they reached the coast—they’d have the Knights to deal with.”

“Boy, did someone brain you while I wasn’t looking? The Lotus Isles are a dung heap! Weren’t you there long enough to see that?”

Rowen tensed. “Why do you say that?”

The sergeant sneered. “Relax, Locke. You went there for the same reason I did. Probably your brother, too. You thought you were going to find honor there. But that doesn’t exist outside of fairy tales. Not here, not there, not anywhere.”

The sergeant waved something in front of Rowen’s face. Irritated, Rowen slapped the hand away. The sergeant chuckled and tossed a copper cranáf on the bar before him. “Look at that insignia, boy,” he said. “A damn crane. Not a falcon. Why do you suppose that is?”

Rowen had never bothered to consider that before.

The sergeant said, “Just a bunch of hypocrites! Didn’t you ever stop to wonder why the poor never become Isle Knights but the rich do? Do you really think you deserved to be shooed off like a stray dog, after all that training? Did I?” He scoffed. “The Knights took us in so they could take our coin. Then they let us go. We may as well have handed our coins to one of those wandering tonic peddlers, for all the good it did us.”

Rowen gritted his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“Locke, why do you think the Dark Quarter exists in the first place? Don’t you think King Pelleas would raze it if he could?”

“Every city has its slums.”

“Cities on the Lotus Isles don’t.”

Rowen shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe he can’t afford enough men.”

The sergeant laughed. “With all these taxes, all this trade?” He shook his head. “Don’t be so gods-damned naïve! I’ve served under three kings in my lifetime. Pelleas is as good as any. Do you think he
likes
his precious city ringed by slums like a jewel dropped in dung? No, you can blame the knights for that.”

Rowen rubbed his eyes again. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you telling me you don’t know?” When Rowen shook his head, the sergeant answered with a condescending laugh. “Locke, haven’t you ever wondered why every damn city on this half of the plains uses the same coin? How do you think the Isles can afford such big keeps and fancy armor? They tax the so-called Free Cities from Lyos to Cassica! In return, they promise protection. But if you see Isle Knights patrol the roads once in two months, you’re lucky. Twice, and it’s probably
your
town they’re getting ready to plunder!” He laughed. “There’s something the captain says. A saying, I guess you could call it. ‘If you’re in trouble, pray for a Knight. If one shows up, hide your daughters and your jewels until he goes away.’”

Rowen stared in disbelief. “That’s not true. If it were, I’d have heard about it a long time ago.”

The sergeant scoffed. “It’s a secret… of sorts. No king wants his people to know he doesn’t even rule his own city! Better we think they keep the gold for themselves than give it up for nothing.” The sergeant paused then added thoughtfully, “Well, not
nothing
, I guess. In exchange for what the Isle Knights call
tributes,
Lyos doesn’t burn. Only difference is, it’s
their
swords they’re sparing us from!” He shrugged. “The secret used to be easier to keep before the Knights got this greedy. Now—”

The room was spinning. “Prove it. Give me proof...”

The sergeant waved the coin again. “Ever been to Phaegos, a couple days northeast of here?”

Rowen thought of the Sister City, nestled against Artisan Bay near vineyards and good soil. Phaegos had been pillaged, robbed house to house, but left standing. Word was that now, four years later, the city still struggled to recover. “They were planning to invade the Isles. The Knights heard about it and struck first. What of it?”

The sergeant glowered. “Ah, yes. The mighty Phaegian army: poets, fishermen, and brothel dancers. Hardly a blade among them! But they stopped paying the tributes. So the Knights dealt with them.”

“I heard—”

“You heard what the Knights
wanted
you to hear.” The sergeant finished his ale and stood, tossing a handful of copper cranáfi onto the counter. “Believe what you want, Locke.” The sergeant rose and walked away.

Rowen saw the sergeant through the window, probably walking up the street toward the White Chimera. Rowen’s fists clenched. He could not believe what Epheus had said, nor could he imagine why the man would lie. Maybe Epheus was simply wrong. Weren’t the bandits who attacked Rowen’s own village defeated by Isle Knights?

But how many times since then had he even seen a Knight before he ventured to the Isles? How many times in his whole life had he seen a single patrol on the mainland? How much of his knowledge of them had been based purely on stories?

Rowen’s rage slackened. Nausea roiled in his gut. He hoped it was only the putrid ale he was drinking. Cursing, he ordered another.

Chapter Sixteen

Hard Choices

E
l’rash’lin found her just where he knew he would: on the edge of the parapets, overlooking the palace at the spot the city’s people called Beggar’s Drop. She was kneeling—either in prayer or meditation, he could not tell. Platinum curls spilled down her back, all the way to the dirty walkway.

El’rash’lin said, “I figured you’d left Lyos a long time ago. Gone south, maybe.”

Silwren did not answer. El’rash’lin extended his mind into hers. He felt her trepidation and wondered how long she had been wandering the city, invoking enough Dragonkin magic to render her invisible to Human eyes. Moonlight and the soft, steady glow of Armahg’s Eye illuminated her curls and then his scarred hand as he reached for her. At the sight of his own deformed flesh contrasting with her beauty, he withdrew his hand.

Finally she said, “Have you come for counsel or comfort?”

“I doubt you can offer me any more wisdom or comfort than I can offer you. Such truths are well past lamentation, though.” He eyed the sleeping palace in the distance. “I came to see which option you currently favor.”

She opened her eyes. “Two options? I didn’t know we had so many.”

El’rash’lin gestured to the white stones and moon-washed rooftops around them. “To save them”—he laughed thinly again—“or kill them.”

“Or do nothing,” Silwren interjected.

El’rash’lin grew thoughtful. “Yes, apathy is always an option. I’m sure even Fadarah would agree to that.”

Silwren stood so slowly that it seemed to El’rash’lin she floated onto her feet. The pupils of her eyes flared like iced starlight. “You know it makes no difference. The Dhargots will take the plains. The Isle Knights will fight the Dhargots, which means they
won’t
be able to help the Sylvs fight the Olgrym—even if they wanted to, which I doubt. Either now or later, Lyos will burn just as surely as will the World Tree.”

“Something might still be done,” El’rash’lin insisted. “If you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t have come here.”

“Not belief, my friend. Foolish hope. And that died once I looked into these people’s minds.”

“It took you weeks to look into their minds? You could have done that in seconds.”

Silwren’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“Just that I’ve never known a Dragonkin to wander aimless and invisible through a city she’d given up on.”

Silwren almost smiled. “Have you known many Dragonkin?”

“Just three, if you count myself. Of all of us, you’re prettiest.” El’rash’lin hoped the jest would add to her momentary flash of humor, but already, he could feel her mood shifting.

“We tried it your way, old friend. You saved a Human from the grave, showed another one how to look into Namundvar’s Well, into the Light itself. Their response? They pretend it never happened. We hoped for too much from Humans. The people of Lyos will be no different.”

El’rash’lin shook his head, his voice gentle but insistent. “I did not summon that man into Cadavash. I did not force him to look into Namundvar’s Well. Neither did you. Something else brought him there.”

Silwren glowered at him. “Faith breeds more murderers than heroes. You know that as well as I do.”

Are you sure you know that lesson? You nearly married Shade, after all.
El’rash’lin hesitated. “There’s a
fourth
option. Another choice. We both know it.”

Silwren shuddered. “I will not consider that. I won’t.”

He started to reach for her arm, but she pulled away.

Her eyes flared with rage. “Would
you
do it? Would
you
destroy your own kind?”

“Perhaps I should,” El’rash’lin answered. “You forget, you’ve been asleep for years. But I woke soon after Iventine. I’ve seen their sins with my own eyes: what they’ve done, how they’ve changed. The Blood Thrall, the burning cities, the executions—”

“I don’t excuse their sins,” Silwren said. “I felt them while I slept. I could hardly believe it. Especially Shade. I know his capacity for cruelty better than anyone. He shared his memories with me, all those Humans he killed when he was younger…” She winced. “But that, at least, I could understand. The invocation of the Blood Thrall was pure madness!”

“Our whole
cause
is madness now,” El’rash’lin said. “It’s not just Fadarah and Shade. I tried to reach Iventine, to see if there’s anything of who he was left in there…”

Silwren looked at him expectantly, but El’rash’lin shook his head. After a moment, Silwren said, “You know the same thing will happen to us if we use this new power to stop them. And to save Humans, no less! To save those who despise us.”

“Olgrym despise us, too,” El’rash’lin countered. “Yet they respect power. Fadarah will yoke them, use them against the Sylvs… kill two birds with one arrow, as the saying goes.”

Silwren’s jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting now that we enslave these Humans to help us stop Fadarah, that we raise a Throng of our own?”

“No.” El’rash’lin winced. His hideous features tightened further. “I’d prefer to save them, I think. One of us must. If you won’t, I will. We both know I’m stronger, by the look of what it’s done to me, but you have the superior will.”

Silwren said nothing. Then she began to tremble. El’rash’lin thought at first that she was about to cry. Instead, she screamed—not in anguish, but with raw rage. Magic ignited around her. Angry, violet flames flared to life, roiling off her body, blotting out the light of the heavens.

She screamed a second time. This time, an inhuman cry of madness. Too late, El’rash’lin looked into her mind and saw what she meant to do. He grasped for her hand. She blazed past him instead and plummeted headlong over the parapet edge, into the unforgiving night.

The awful scream sliced through the night air, jolting Rowen from his dreams. The barracks shook. Heart pounding, he fumbled for Knightswrath then cursed when the hilt burned him. He drew it anyway, wondering if the heat meant magic was close by.

Confusion filled the barracks. Most of the soldiers, like him, had fallen asleep drunk. They sat up now, blinking away sleep. All could tell, despite their fogged senses, that something terrible had just happened.

Guards from the night watch burst in, all talking at once. They had seen something—a sudden, searing light—plummet from the battlements near Beggar’s Drop, all the way to the base of Pallantine Hill. The slums were burning.

All around him, men leapt up and reached for weapons and armor. They ran half dressed out into the streets, expecting to find all of Lyos reduced to an inferno. Rowen moved more slowly. His hands shook. The scream had seared into his ears, just as it had that night on the Simurgh Plains...

Rowen struggled into his leather armor, fumbling with buckles and straps that suddenly seemed twice as complicated, then tugged on his boots and helm and girded his weapons. In addition to Knightswrath, he now carried one of the plain longswords issued to the Red Watch. Wrought of mediocre steel, unimpressive but sturdy, it still felt odd in hands accustomed to the heft of Ivairian-style shortswords or, more recently, the curved practice swords of the Shao.
It’ll kill someone if I shove it through their guts. That’s all that matters.

Captain Ferocles appeared. “Get your tabards on!” he roared. “You’re soldiers, not snot-faced peasants! I will personally truncheon every last bastard who leaves these barracks without his uniform!”

Rowen swore. He returned to his bunk for his faded scarlet tabard, even as other soldiers were donning weapons and armor as fast as they could, including those who had rushed outside but were returning for their gear. Bleary eyed, most demanded answers no one had yet, turning this way and that, disoriented by the clamor of panicked yelling and the faint smell of smoke.

“Form riot squads, double-step!” the captain roared, pacing furiously. The big man’s drawn sword gleamed, clearly of finer quality than Rowen’s blade. Within minutes, the entire barracks had been mobilized in neat columns in the night air. The people of Lyos were spilling into the streets as well, just as confused as the soldiers.

Not far away, Captain Ferocles spoke in hushed tones with his sergeants. A moment later, the sergeants disbanded, each taking command of a different squad.

His eyes bloodshot, Sergeant Epheus took command of Rowen’s squad. He held a blazing torch in each hand, one of which he passed to the nearest soldier. “This way, lads,” he said. “Keep close and stay in formation. If you spot a demon, kindly point before you start pissing yourself.”

The final remark brought scattered laughter. The squad set out at a brisk march. On either side, the rest of the Red Watch dispersed in all directions. Some marched double-time toward the palace of King Pelleas while others tried to maintain order in the streets of Lyos.

Numbly, Rowen realized that just his squad of ten men—only half of which he knew by name—were heading to the Dark Quarter. Sergeant Epheus called over his shoulder, “Stay sharp, men! But keep those blades in their scabbards until I tell you otherwise!”

A few men who had drawn their weapons sheathed them now as the squad raced down the road, out the open gates of the inner city. Here, the sergeant paused just long enough to order the gates sealed behind them. The squad turned sharply, heading down one of the worn trails that led down the hill, into the Dark Quarter below.

Rowen scanned the horizon. Smoke veiled the stars, but no flames defied the surrounding night. Even from this distance, he could see the Dark Quarter alive with commotion, filled with men and women just as panicked and confused as the people of Lyos. Except these people were armed.

So far, Rowen’s duties had kept him in the city, mercifully distant from the slums of his youth. That was over now. The slums horrified him. What he knew they’d find, though, frightened him more. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, knowing it would not do to lose his grip on his sword in the middle of a fight.

Sergeant Epheus slowed and turned to face the soldiers. “The men say they saw a screaming fireball land in the Dark Quarter. Now, I may be dense as an ale keg, but I’m pretty sure fire doesn’t scream. So we’re dealing with... something else.” Rowen detected unease in the sergeant’s voice. “We’re just going to poke around, see what our eyes can see, then report back to the captain. Understand?”

Rowen thought of Silwren, wondering if his pulse quickened out of fear or dread, but nodded with the others.

Ahead of them lay a haphazard sprawl of taverns and shanties, all reeking of waste, charred meat, and cheap tobacco, as different from the inner city as could be. Though smoke lingered in the air, nothing appeared to be burning. Armed men, women, and filthy children crowded closer at their approach. For once, though, the inhabitants of the Dark Quarter seemed to welcome the sight of the Red Watch. The crowds parted to let them pass. Rowen was glad he was wearing his helm and gladder still that it was night. He did not think it likely that anyone left in the slums would know him from the old days, but he had no wish to be recognized, given slumdwellers’ special hatred for fellow residents of the Dark Quarter who joined the Red Watch.

As the men marched in brisk formation, Rowen pulled his tabard over his face—not just to further conceal his identity but to avoid the stench. While the residents of the Dark Quarter knew enough to dispose of corpses by burning them, lest the entire place fall victim to plague, there were limits to what fire could do. Corpses and waste—both Human and animal—were common sights in the Dark Quarter.

What little order could be seen in the Dark Quarter’s construction pointed to wild concentric rings of poorly made structures, enclosing an open field that served as the slumdwellers’ market, unaffectionately called Dogbane Circle. Rowen gleaned from the shouting that the fireball had descended there. Given the surrounding reek, one soldier after another vomited, forced to keep moving even as they clutched their guts and tried to wipe their faces.

“Damn!” Sergeant Epheus tugged up his tabard, covering his nose just as Rowen had done. “Double-quick!” he called to the Red Watch, his voice muffled. “Let’s get this done and be out of here.”

As they marched, the crowd continued to press in on them, pushing them along inexorably. Rowen’s hand moved to Knightswrath. He felt ridiculous for bringing the tarnished adamune
in the first place. He told himself that he’d only brought it along to keep it from being stolen. Yet the hilt was warmer than ever, and he was torn between wanting to draw the sword, despite his sergeant’s orders that they keep their weapons sheathed, and wrenching his hand away. He chose the latter.