Wytchfire (Book 1) (23 page)

The two men rode on in silence. The day wore on, long and monotonous, with Shade permitting them to stop and rest only a handful of times. The Shel’ai himself was nearly blind with exhaustion now, his body sapped both physically and mentally by his divining trance that morning, but each step brought him closer to Silwren. He could make out Pallantine Hill in the distance now. Just a few more days, and they would reach Lyos. Shade would find Silwren there, reason with her, and bring her back to Fadarah before it was too late.

What can she be thinking?
Shade wondered again.
Bad enough that she lashed out and killed the other initiates!

“We’ve gone far enough for one day,” he said to Lethe. “Strike camp and start a fire.” As he spoke, the Shel’ai realized with alarm that the assassin slumped with exhaustion in his saddle, despite the Blood Thrall’s ability to enhance each Unseen warrior’s ferocity and endurance as well as ensuring their loyalty.

Lethe said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we’re headed?”

“Lyos, one of the Free Cities to the east. Silwren has gone there. That’s all you need to know for now.” He dismounted. He wondered why Lethe’s eyes widened with fear.

“I can’t... I can’t go there.”

Shade frowned. “Would you prefer to spend the rest of your days twitching in agony?” But the assassin seemed unfazed by the threat. Puzzled, Shade did something he almost never did. He used his magic to probe an Unseen’s thoughts.

He needed only a moment to understand. Breaking his mental connection, he stared at the assassin with newfound pity. For a moment, he considered sending Lethe back to the Throng, but that would displease Fadarah. Besides, Lethe might still be of use, and finding Silwren remained his first priority. But the pity remained.

“I’ll make you a promise, Human. See me safely to Lyos, and you’ll be released. The Blood Thrall can be lifted without killing you—but I
will
kill you, if that’s what you desire. This I swear upon the trees of my homeland, to the gods, to the Light.”

Lethe glanced at him but did not answer. Shade did not have to probe the assassin’s thoughts to tell that the man did not believe him. He started to give the assassin the reins to his destrier but stopped himself. He decided that for this one night, he could care for his horse himself.

Chapter Eighteen

Reluctant Allies

A
eko Shingawa slowed to a halt as Pallantine Hill rose at last on the horizon, lording over the Simurgh Plains, which shone bright and wild in the afternoon sun. Lyos was faintly visible now as well. The city crowned the hill’s summit while its slums darkened its base.

The other Knights around her stirred restlessly in the saddles of their palfreys, some of them towing the reins of rounceys and destriers, the latter of which were much too prized and valuable to be used except in battle. The Isle Knights were followed by wagons driven by Islemen, squires charged with the duty of hauling the Knights’ provisions and extra armor. All had pressed hard to reach the city. Now, after four days of riding, they couldn’t wait to put the trip behind them.

But their captain took his time, staring at distant Lyos with a look of disgust. “It would be too much to hope that old Pelleas has finally done something about the filth in his city.” He waved a fly from his face. “Such is the nature of mainlanders, I suppose.”

Aeko tugged at her tabard. “Are you referring to the Dark Quarter, my lord?”

The Knight-Captain scowled at her. “Tell me, Commander Shingawa, is this where you lecture me on the dangers of imposing value judgments on others I do not know?”

Aeko Shingawa knew better than to respond. She’d grown accustomed to the captain’s rebukes and knew full well the reason behind them. The captain was in his early forties, well built, with handsome, aristocratic features including dark eyes that could be either charming or malicious, depending on his mood. He was used to young, female Knights competing for his favor. But Aeko had no intention of playing that game.

A few of the other Knights chuckled behind her, but most laughed only because it was expected of them. Especially among the younger Isle Knights—most of whom were Knights of the Crane, the lowest of the three orders—genuine respect for Captain Ammerhel was in short supply.

Aeko glanced at her captain’s attire. While Crovis Ammerhel wore an azure tabard similar to her own and those of the other knights, emblazoned with the emblem of a balancing crane, he also wore an additional insignia: a lotus flower.

How, by the Light, do bastards like Crovis get to be Knights of the Lotus?
Of course, she knew better than to ask this question aloud, no matter how many times she posed it to herself in private. Ammerhel might be as un-Shaolike a surname as any she’d heard, but Crovis could still trace his lineage back to one of the first mainland warriors who’d founded the Knighthood with Fâyu Jinn, so many centuries ago. What’s more, Crovis would almost certainly be Grand Marshal once old Bokuden died.

Perhaps sooner.
She shuddered and glanced down reflexively at her tabard. She wore the emblem of a noble stag—still quite an accomplishment for a woman, let alone one in her late twenties, but she would never be promoted higher.

“Begging your pardon, Captain,” she said. “I meant no offense.”

Crovis laughed. “None taken, Commander. The young are often too idealistic for their own good. It seems pious to view slumdwellers as equal to nobles, but experience teaches otherwise.”

What Crovis had just said directly contradicted the Codex Lotius and the principles of the entire Knighthood, meaning she was honor-bound to bring him up on charges or even challenge him to single combat. But Aeko would not do that.
If I challenged every Knight who deserved it, my sword arm would never rest!
“Shall we be on our way, Captain?”

Crovis seemed to ignore her, his eyes following the motion of a fly. His right hand shot out and caught the insect midair. He crushed it in his gauntleted fist. “Ah, yes. I suppose the sooner we relieve this wretched city of its wytch, the sooner we can go home.”

He signaled, and the column of Knights started forward again.

“Thank you,” King Pelleas told the messenger who had just informed him of the Knights’ arrival. He glanced at the gigantic map unrolled to cover half the table, and forced a smile to hide an abrupt feeling of dread. He told the servants to usher them in. Then, sensing the gaze of his captains, he lifted his wine goblet and drank away his grimace.

In all the years of his reign, despite a fortune paid to the Isle Knights in tribute and taxes, King Pelleas had only called upon their aid a handful of times. He hated paying them, seeing as how the Knights actually did very little to ensure the safety of Lyos. Also, it left him counting coppers and borrowing from other plainsmen nobles just to keep all of Lyos from deteriorating into the Dark Quarter.

But more than that, King Pelleas detested calling upon the aid of the Lotus Isles because it gave them exactly what they wanted: a chance to show off their prowess, to excuse their unfair taxes and tributes and maybe even raise them. But these were desperate times. Captain Ferocles already had his hands full trying to quell the city’s near-riotous population and keep order. What chance did the tirelessly loyal captain have against an army of mercenaries five times the size of the Red Watch, not to mention a cadre of demon-conjuring sorcerers? They needed the Knights, whether they liked it or not.

Nevertheless, Pelleas swore under his breath when the doors to his council chamber opened and the king’s least favorite Knight walked in. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. “I send for Bokuden and he sends me Ammerhel instead!”

Judging by their frowns, Ferocles and his sons visibly shared his disappointment. They, too, watched the smartly armored figures walk toward them, each Knight wearing a superb, long-handled sword wrought of kingsteel.

Ferocles leaned toward him. “Looks like someone wants to make Grand Marshal, Sire. And this is just the neat little war he needs.”

King Pelleas whispered back, “Indeed,” and rose from his chair, signaling a shift to necessary formality. His advisors rose as well, faces stoic. In a loud voice, the king greeted Sir Ammerhel and the Knight’s somber retinue. “Welcome, Sir Ammerhel! It has been too long, my old friend.”

The haughty Knight of the Lotus fell to one knee before the king’s great, semicircular council table. The other Knights did the same. Almost as soon as the Knight’s knee touched the stone floor, it rose again, less a sign of respect than a stumble. “It has, Sire. Allow me to introduce my subordinates: Aeko Shingawa, Knight of the Stag; and Paltrick Vossmore, Knight of the Crane.”

Pelleas nodded quickly at Vossmore then faced Aeko and gave her a genuine smile. “Lady Shingawa’s name is known to us.” He caught himself. “Should we call you Sir or Lady? We do not see many female fighters on the plains.”

Some of the other Knights stifled laughter, but Aeko answered graciously. “Either will suffice, Sire.”

Pelleas nodded again. “Lady Shingawa, then. The peasant who became a Knight. Welcome.”

Sir Ammerhel’s eyes flashed with rage at this. The same qualities for which Commander Shingawa was famous had made her an object of scorn in Ammerhel’s eyes—which was all Pelleas needed to admire her. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful.

But then, he admitted to himself, he’d always had a weakness for Islewomen. Like other natives of the Lotus Isles, Aeko had exotic, burnished skin and hauntingly dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her long hair—luxurious and black—reminded him of a night sky washed clean of stars. Probably for the sake of convenience, she wore it in an intricate braid that spilled off her shoulder as she bowed.

“Thank you, Sire,” Aeko answered politely. If she caught the spark of interest in the king’s eyes, her own expression did not acknowledge it. But as she turned her gaze to acknowledge his advisors, a look of surprise passed over her face.

He followed her gaze to the same soldier with unkempt red hair whom Ferocles had charged with interrogating the Sylvan wytch. Ferocles had suggested permitting him to attend the council, just in case he had some additional perspective on their Shel’ai prisoner.

What was the man’s name again? Ah, yes. Locke.
The name was Ivairian, but this man was clearly no northman Lancer. Captain Ferocles said the man had actually grown up as a Lyosi orphan—probably in the Dark Quarter, for that matter…

Pelleas needed only a moment longer to figure out the rest. Lyos had no shortage of washouts with dreams of becoming Knights. Aeko Shingawa must have been one of the soldier’s former teachers. His suspicion was confirmed when the same surprise registered on the young man’s face, a moment before he blushed and looked away. This intrigued him, despite everything else on his mind. Pelleas understood failure. Hadn’t he himself failed, like all his forefathers, to free Lyos from the Isle Knights?

The soldier’s red hair made Pelleas think of Typherius, his hotheaded youngest son, still struggling to get the city of Phaegos back onto its feet. Typherius had refused to attend this council. Pelleas could not blame him.

The king did not want to waste time introducing all of the officers, advisors, and temple priests present, not to mention the representatives of the various city guilds, so he introduced only his three other sons and Captain Ferocles, then bade the Knights sit down and join them. At least the priests and priestesses of Dyoni had elected not to attend. The Isle Knights would not have taken kindly to sharing a war council with a sect of half-naked men and women who were drunk more often than not.

“We had just convened to discuss strategy,” Pelleas said. “Your timing could hardly be improved.”

Crovis Ammerhel cleared his throat. “You might have done better to wait a little longer, Sire. Matters of war are best left to us.”

Pelleas’s sons, Captain Ferocles, and the others stirred at this insult, but he ignored it. “Of course, your prowess in such matters is well known. But I only dispatched my request to Marshal Bokuden a few days ago. I had not counted on you being so punctual.”

“Your letter said the need was urgent, Sire. The Order of the Crane does not abandon its protectorates to the ravages of mercenaries and sorcerers. Not now, not ever.”

Given what I know of the Knighthood, was that meant to be heartening?
King Pelleas sighed. Already, this council was going to be even more unpleasant than expected. “May I inquire, Sir Ammerhel, how many Knights you have with you?”

Sir Ammerhel’s expression stiffened. “I bring one full company of my best swords: two hundred anointed Knights of the Isles. Plus several hundred squires, of course.”

Before Pelleas could stop him, Captain Ferocles burst out, “Two hundred Knights? You fool, we need
ten times
that number!”

Sir Ammerhel gave the captain a withering look then raised one eyebrow at the king, as though indicating he should exercise better control over his subordinates. “Two hundred is all that could be raised in such a short time. Rest assured that a second, larger force is being raised even now. They can relieve us in sixteen days, should their presence be required.” He added, “We have already strained the precepts of the Codex Viticus by bringing squires who have not yet earned their adamunes, but again, your plea sounded urgent, and the Knighthood does not abandon its allies.”

Captain Ferocles pointed at the map covering half the table. “But—”

Pelleas cut him off. “There has been considerable unrest in Lyos of late. I have imposed both danger and strain on the good captain and his men. You must forgive him. You spoke of a second army of Knights coming to relieve us. I am sure the captain shares my gratitude as well as my concern that this sorcerers’ army—the Throng, as they call it—will reach Lyos long before this relief force arrives.”

Sir Ammerhel sighed in obvious exasperation. The Knight glanced down at the map as well, eyeing the various markers corresponding to the approaching mercenary army—some of which already covered Cassica, Syros, and Quorim. Sir Ammerhel stood and drew a knife. Men frowned at the sight of steel drawn in presence of the king, but the Knight only stabbed it into the map, at the northwestern peninsula corresponding to the Dhargoth Empire.

“
This
is why you would all be better off leaving matters of war and strategy to us,” Crovis Ammerhel said in gentle rebuke. “I fear you’ve wasted your time and created a great deal of panic for nothing. All that is required to win this war is the ability to read a map. As you can see, the sorcerers have whipped this hired army of theirs back and forth across the plains, hounding every Free City they could. They’ve taken Syros, Quorim, Cassica, probably a hundred other towns along the way. Now, they’re heading for Lyos. You fear them, but with all respect, fear has made you blind.” He smiled. “The sorcerers move too quickly! They’ve taken more land than they can possibly hold—even if they were to hire twice as many mercenaries as they have now! Such a strategy is self-defeating.”