Wytchfire (Book 1) (28 page)

The lad was a Syrosi pikeman who’d joined the Throng after his own city fell—a freckled, clumsy youth with an easy smile and a guileless nature that made him a target for ridicule among the other sellswords. Though Llassio had technically been with the Throng longer than Jalist had, the lad stood little chance of surviving on his own. Jalist had resolved to keep the lad from harm, though after the fall of Cassica, he wondered if the young man would live to see the sunrise.

Lost in thought, Jalist nearly collided with a squad of Unseen. But he saw them at the last moment and stepped to one side, bowing so deeply that his sand-colored hair nearly touched the ground. The men stalked past him. A few glanced at him and smirked derisively. They wanted nothing more than to start a fight, but the Shel’ai frowned upon such things, and the Shel’ai were the only beings in all of Ruun that the Unseen had to answer to. Jalist scowled at the cruel warriors then hurried on to Llassio.

A gigantic hospital tent had been erected at the center of the camp. The Shel’ai had hired twenty gentle priestesses of Tier’Gothma to employ their skill with herbs and ancient medicines. But their skills had limits. As Jalist entered the tent, his stomach knotted.

Gods, can’t they do something about that smell?
Jalist knew better than to pinch his nose around corpses. Instead, he breathed deeply and clogged his senses all the way to the brain with the awful smell of shit and rotting meat, so he would get used to it faster.

Everywhere, straw pallets held the wounded and the dying. Jalist’s heart wrenched with pity when he heard their groans and whimpers of distress. A few of these men he recognized. While the initial battle for Cassica had been nearly bloodless—at least, as far as the Throng was concerned—there had been trouble after. A battalion of Cassican men-at-arms had not been in the city at the time of the attack—gods knew why—but had appeared late, hot for revenge, after the Nightmare had vanished.

Jalist himself had been nearly killed when the fiery scourge swept over everything. He and Llassio had been part of the force sent to reinforce the subcamp. They were rushing to aid the Unseen battling the rebel men-at-arms when flames burst from what was rumored to be a tent full of demons. Jalist pulled Llassio to the ground and threw his wooden, iron-rimmed shield over them. The shield burned to nothing in his hands. But Jalist pressed himself flat against the earth and the flames washed over him, singeing his leather brigandine but leaving him otherwise unharmed. Llassio was not so lucky. The flames had scoured his body, burned off his tunic, and melted the rings of his hauberk into his skin.

Jalist spotted the hospital bed in which Llassio rested and stopped. For a moment, he wanted to run away. But then, Llassio turned his sweating face and grinned. One blackened hand lifted, beckoning weakly. The Dwarr forced a smile and went to join him.

“Hey, lad. You’re looking better.” Jalist hoped he sounded convincing. As he spoke, he tried to keep from looking down. The priestesses had done what they could, using tongs and thin, sharp knives to extract the metal rings melted into Llassio’s flesh. But they could do nothing about the ghastly, open wounds extending from his collarbone to the top of one thigh. They might have used needle and thread to stitch them shut, but there was not enough skin left to sew.

“I... feel better today, believe it or not.” Llassio smiled weakly.

He sounds drugged.
Jalist looked up as someone else joined them, an old woman but not a priestess. A good foot taller than he, she wore a bone-white cloak sewn with crimson greatwolves. She smiled at Llassio before nodding politely to Jalist.

Jalist bowed to her. Most Shel’ai treated Humans at best with chilly indifference. Not Que’ann. Gentle and shy, she rarely used her magic for battle, preferring instead to assist the priestesses of Tier’Gothma with healing.

Que’ann whispered soothingly to Llassio as a soft violet glow formed around her. She urged healing energies into Llassio’s body. This further numbed the pain and kept him alive, Jalist guessed, but it could not mend wounds of this extent.

He should never have been moved!
But Fadarah had ordered that the campaign continue. So the wounded were loaded in wagons and hauled along with the rest of the army. Que’ann had done much so far to help the dying survive their travel, but she was only easing their suffering. For Llassio, no magic was strong enough—save, perhaps, that of the Nightmare, though Jalist doubted the demon’s repertoire included healing.

The youth looked up at Jalist, his face sweaty and pale. “Que’ann says she’s going to take me to the Wytchforest when this is all done. Can you believe that, Jalist?” Llassio turned to Que’ann. “No Human has been there for... how long?”

“At least ten centuries.” Que’ann answered, her melodic voice betraying her Sylvan accent. “Not since the Shattering War. I myself have not been there since I was little. Perhaps we can go together.”

Jalist blinked back tears. Que’ann was lying. “Good, Llassio,” he said. The Dwarr squeezed a small patch on his friend’s wrist—the only part of his arm that had not been burned. “That sounds good. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

Llassio said, “No need. You’ll come too. Right, Que’ann? A Human and a Dwarr in the Wytchforest. Won’t that be a sight!”

The Shel’ai woman did not answer. The violet glow faded from her body. She had done everything for Llassio that she could. Jalist struggled for words. A throat cleared behind them. When Jalist saw who stood there, he had to resist the urge to draw his sword.

“Good evening, General,” he said instead.

Brahasti el Tarq looked past him, nodding to Que’ann instead. Then, he grimaced at Llassio. “Gods, someone should put that poor wretch out of his misery!”

Que’ann frowned at Brahasti. Jalist went further than that. Grief turned to anger, and before the Dwarr knew what he was doing, he gave the Dhargot a hard shove. The general flew back several steps but kept his footing. Indignant, he raised one hand, as though to backhand Jalist across the face, but drew back at Que’ann’s warning glare.

“Outside, then,” Brahasti grumbled.

Jalist Hewn followed him out, one hand openly holding the hilt of his sword. He had just made a mistake, but he did not care. The black dragon tattoo tensed on his arm. If Brahasti wanted a fight, Jalist would give him one.

But once they were outside, Brahasti’s frown became a thin smile. There were no guards nearby but the Dhargot general glanced in all directions anyway, as though making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

That told Jalist right away what the general wanted to discuss. Still, he kept one hand on his sword. “Make this quick, General.”

“I could have your hand for shoving me, Dwarr. Do you know that?”

Jalist met the general’s gaze even though Brahasti was a foot taller.

Brahasti shrugged. “No harm done, though. I can see your poor friend is dying. I will come straight to the point, then.”

“Please do.”

Brahasti lowered his voice. “We must postpone the revolt.”

The Dwarr feigned ignorance. “What revolt?”

“Riccard and Eric deserted this morning,” Brahasti said in a low voice. “Lost their nerve—then Eric lost his life when an arrow caught him in the back of the neck. I know that you haven’t been with the Throng very long, but you’re now the most senior sellsword captain. I’ve already spoken with the others. They’ll follow you. And I’m telling you, the revolt must wait!”

“Wait, hells! This foolishness ends tomorrow, whether you say so or not.”

“It’s too soon, my friend.” Brahasti placed a hand on Jalist’s shoulder: an odd gesture, since Jalist stood only as tall as Brahasti’s breastbone. “You must trust me. I am thinking of your life as well as my own.”

The Dwarr shoved the hand off his shoulder. “You’re thinking of your own coin purse.”

“It was
your
idea to draw me into this. Why not trust me now?”

Jalist said, “Let’s keep this straight, Dhargot: I’ve
never
trusted you. But you’re smarter than I am, and if we’re going to do this, we need
your
help.”

“So you do. But the revolt must wait.” Brahasti lowered his voice further. “In a week, Fadarah and half the Shel’ai are turning back to the Wytchforest. They’re taking the Nightmare with them. The rest of us are supposed to stay and guard Lyos. If we attack after Fadarah has gone, we can overwhelm the remaining sorcerers with ease. More lives can be spared. Maybe our own. Then we can go home.”

Home...
Jalist remembered Tarator. Great stone halls scented by roasted meats and spiced ale. Silk banners proudly displaying the hammer and black dragon of the Dwarrs. The housecarls seated at their place of honor, their laughter and boasting rising from the heavy stone table like music. King Fedwyr, proud and strong atop his dark throne. Beside him, Prince Leander Thegn, the king’s eldest son—Leander the Brave, Leander the Horse Tamer. That look the prince gave Jalist when they thought no one was looking. A look soft as lambskin, heady as strong wine.

Jalist concealed his wistfulness behind a scowl. “How do you know this?”

“Because Fadarah asked me to take command of the Unseen while he’s away.” Brahasti grinned. “For a fortune in coin, of course.”

That, Jalist believed. Still, the Dwarr had to be sure. “How do I know that Fadarah didn’t bribe you to betray us?”

Brahasti seemed unfazed by the question. “You don’t. But if you go through with this revolt tonight, you will do so without my help. And all of you will die, which means the Dhargots will raze your homelands while you rot in the earth.”

Jalist pondered this. He did not care about the Dhargots. He cared about the men in his command. Something was amiss. He felt it in his bones. If they did not revolt soon, they would all die.

The Dwarr tried to decipher Brahasti’s expression, but he might as well have tried to decipher blank stone. Eventually, Jalist turned to warm his hands by an abandoned campfire. “One week. No more.”

Brahasti agreed. “One week. Thank you, my friend.” He turned to go.

Jalist grabbed his arm. “I may be new here, and I may not be as young as I used to be, but there’s still strength left in these bones. If you’re lying, I’ll slice off your cock and grind it under my boot heel. Look into my eyes if you doubt me.”

Brahasti carefully removed his arm from Jalist’s grasp. Expressionless, he nodded. “I would expect no less from you. But remember, Dwarr, our fates are joined. I have as much to risk here as you do.”

Yes, as much to risk... but more to gain!

The Dhargot sauntered away, seizing a passing prostitute by the wrist and pulling her after him. Jalist stood there a moment, considering what he’d just agreed to. Almost as soon as he’d joined the Throng, he’d learned of the men whispering of revolt. When several sellsword captains brought Jalist into their confidence, he suggested they invite Brahasti, as well. As much as Jalist hated the infamously callous Dhargot, his worth was obvious. Initially, the sellsword captains refused, but Jalist eventually won them over.

Except now, most of them are dead—and I’m in charge!
Jalist had not wanted that. Still, Brahasti himself had pointed out how much concentration it took for the sorcerers to control the Nightmare. That meant the best time to revolt was during the next siege. There must be hundreds in the Throng—men from Syros, Cassica, Quorim, and countless other towns—who wanted to head back and defend their homes from the Dhargots. Once the revolt began, he hoped they would fall in line. Jalist said they should deal with the Unseen first, but Brahasti disagreed. All had heard stories of the Blood Thrall. Killing the Shel’ai might free them. They might even hail Jalist and the others as heroes.

But Brahasti wanted to wait.
He might have a point,
Jalist conceded.
If he’s telling the truth, that is.

He thought about Que’ann. Jalist would try to protect her when the fighting started. But if she chose to remain loyal to her own kind—as Jalist feared she would—then they would have no choice but to kill her.

The Dwarr sighed. He thought of how gently Que’ann cared for the wounded, especially Llassio, her pale hands pressing cool cloths to wounds, her touch kindling magic to soothe pain when her pointed ears caught the faintest moan. How the freckled youth and the other injured men loved her! Remembering his friend, Jalist hurried back into the hospital tent. He reached Llassio’s side just as Que’ann was somberly closing his friend’s wide, staring eyes.

“I am sorry,” Que’ann whispered. She touched his arm, her hand warm, then moved on to tend the next in a long line of wounded.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kayden’s Fate

A
eko Shingawa stood with Rowen Locke on an empty marble walkway as the midday sun lit the beleaguered city of Lyos. The arched walkway—one of many throughout the city—stood empty for the moment. That one led to the beautiful Queen’s Garden at the center of Lyos, normally crowded, but no one cared about flowers and trees at the moment.

“What I am about to tell you is a secret,” Aeko began hesitantly. “If Crovis found out, he could have my adamune. Or my life. I want your oath to repeat none of this.”

Rowen said, “You have it.”

But Aeko pressed him. “You won’t like what I have to say.” Her voice lowered. “You might hate me afterward. You may consider me your enemy. That’s your right. Still, I need your word on this. Swear it again.”

“I swear, damn you. Now get on with it!”

“Calm yourself, and I will,” Aeko said. “You know the legend of Fâyu Jinn... how he founded the Knighthood, allied with the other races—even the Shel’ai—and helped drive the Dragonkin from Ruun.”

Rowen nodded impatiently.
I also know my brother died five years ago. And I know I don’t know why. That’s a bit more important to me than fairy tales.

“And the Oath of Kin,” Aeko went on. “The pact between Fâyu Jinn and the Sylvs—”

“That if ever their nations were in dire need, each could call upon the other,” Rowen interrupted, quoting the legend almost verbatim. “But you said yourself that most Knights don’t believe those stories!”

“And do you remember the legend of the kings’ burials?”

Rowen frowned. He thought back to the fairy tales again. “Fâyu Jinn decreed that upon his death, he was to be buried in the Wytchforest as a symbol of his people’s kinship with the Sylvs. King Shigella of the Sylvs did likewise and was buried on the Lotus Isles. Their tombs were supposed to be a constant reminder of the old alliance.” He snorted. “But it’s all a lie. There is no Sylvan king buried on the Lotus Isles. If there was, we’d have found the tomb by now.”

Aeko gave him a hard look. “We found it seven years ago.”

Rowen blinked.

“We found it on a small island to the east, in the ruins of a city with no name. The tomb was hidden in the rubble—deliberately.”

“Who would do that?”

“Good damn question.”

Rowen considered this for a moment. “If the Knights wanted to hide the tomb, why not just destroy it?”

“Because it’s sealed,” Aeko said. “By magic.”

“The Shel’ai?”

“Yes and no.” Aeko explained, “Remember, the legends tell us that a thousand years ago, Shel’ai fought alongside Fâyu Jinn and the other races against the Dragonkin.
They
could have sealed the tomb. But that doesn’t explain why we didn’t at least know it was there.”

“You think the
Knights
hid it?”

Aeko nodded slightly. “Read our histories, Rowen. You will find almost no mention of the Shattering War. This from a Knighthood that loves words almost as much as it loves itself! Outside the legends, we have no proof that Fâyu Jinn and Shigella even existed or the Shattering War really happened. Until now.”

“You really think the Knights would want to hide all that?”

“The few who know about it? Of course!” Aeko laughed derisively. “You’ve seen what the Knighthood has become. Imagine what men like Crovis would say to an ancient decree saying all Knights were honor bound to lend aid to the Sylvs! Imagine what would happen if we learned the Shel’ai really were our allies once!”

Rowen felt lost. He stared past her, into the shadows of the dogblossom trees crowding Queen’s Garden. He wanted to run away, to leave all this madness behind him. “So are you going to tell me what all this has to do with Kayden?”

“I’m getting to that,” Aeko said. “When we found the tomb, it was sealed by magic. No tool or weapon would open it. But the carvings on the stone claim King Shigella’s body is inside. Grand Marshal Bokuden reasoned that if we could prove that Fâyu Jinn’s tomb existed too, then maybe the rekindling of the old alliance would be just what the Knighthood needed to heal its reputation.”

Rowen glared at her.
You’re stalling.
Sunlight played off her long, dark braid. Suddenly, he wanted to vent his impatience by yanking on it.

“Crovis disagreed. But Sir Matsuo volunteered to lead a diplomatic envoy to the Wytchforest. Your brother went with them. When they reached the forest, they were turned away. The Sylvs claimed that Fâyu Jinn’s tomb didn’t even exist. Matsuo argued then eventually gave up. The Knights started for home. But the Sylvs intercepted them on the Ash’bana Plains...”

Rowen’s fists clenched. “The Sylvs killed him?” He took Aeko’s silence as an answer. He flushed with rage until he was sure his face matched his beard. “Why... why have I never heard this?”

“Bokuden decided the attack should be kept secret. Many on the Council objected—Crovis among them. But Bokuden is still the Grand Marshal. He swore them all to silence. But it cost him. In time, Crovis will challenge him. And Crovis will win. He’s already openly defied Bokuden once by sacking Phaegos.”

Just like Sergeant Epheus said!
“So Sylvs murdered Knights of the Crane, and the Grand Marshal didn’t even seek justice?”

“Bokuden was faced with a terrible choice, Rowen. He could commit an ailing Knighthood to a bitter, impossible campaign against a foreign race clear across the continent—”

“Or pretend it never happened,” Rowen finished.

Fuming, he stalked away from her, losing her in the market crowds. She called after him, but he did not answer. That time, it seemed she knew better than to follow. Rowen made sure he was free of her then turned toward the jailhouse.

He did not want to believe Aeko’s tales of murder and intrigue, but her story was too strange to be a lie. Rowen touched his sword’s hilt. He had never seen a Sylv before, but they must look identical to Silwren and El’rash’lin—save for their eyes. He would know them when he saw them. He would avenge Kayden’s murder by torching the Wytchforest himself.

Rowen wondered if El’rash’lin knew anything about Fâyu Jinn’s tomb or Kayden and the other Knights’ murders. He did not think so. There had been nothing of that in the memories El’rash’lin shared.

Besides, the Sylvs viewed the Shel’ai as enemies. This made Rowen inclined to call them friends—except, of course, that the majority of their kind seemed intent on burning Lyos to the ground. Rowen laughed.
Perhaps it would be better if they did!

With Hráthbam gone and Kayden dead, he felt hard-pressed lately to find a single person whose life was worth saving. He thought of the prostitute he’d met earlier then reminded himself that he did not even know her name.
All the more reason to get out of here and save my own skin!

Rowen reached the jailhouse. He braced himself for a cold greeting from the guards, but none stood outside. Red Watch guards would never risk their captain’s wrath by leaving their posts—especially during times like these. Rowen reached for Knightswrath, cursed when the hilt felt warm, and stepped through the door.

The smell of blood, filth, and scorched meat filled his nostrils. He wanted to gag. Instead, he stepped sideways and drew his sword, blinking in the darkness. The shutters had been closed, the lanterns extinguished. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. When he did, he saw bodies everywhere. “Gods...”

Movement caught his eye. A dark figure leapt from the shadows. Rowen barely raised Knightswrath in time. A shortsword clashed against his own blade. Then the attacker swung a second shortsword at his thigh. Rowen backpedaled, stumbled, then narrowly parried a vicious lunge at his throat.

Gods, he’s fast!
Rowen swung Knightswrath in a low, wide arc, trying to keep his attacker at bay. Meanwhile, he squinted in the darkness, searching for more attackers. Dead soldiers littered the floor, their bodies slashed. He saw a slain priest of Maelmohr, too, who must have been here to minister to the imprisoned. In the rows of cells nearby, burned corpses lay twisted and blackened against the walls. Their arms were contorted before them in some vain, final attempt at self-preservation.

His attacker drove at him, fast and coldly disciplined. Rowen had no choice but to give ground, trying not to trip over the dead as he backpedaled. He sensed that his attacker was trying to herd him away from the open door to prevent escape. Had he not instinctively sidestepped upon entering the jailhouse and smelling blood, he would have been killed.

His mind reeled even as he fought off his attacker’s leaping blade. The guards and priest had been killed by steel. The prisoners had been killed by fire. But the cells, constructed of stout iron bars, were still locked. That meant the men had been killed by sorcery allied with steel.

Rowen parried another flurry of cuts, struggling to hold his ground. “I take it they left you to kill whoever walked in.”

His attacker answered with another flurry of cuts that Rowen barely survived.
So much for stalling.

A thin black cloth masked his opponent’s features. The man’s leather armor was black too, making him nearly invisible in the darkened jailhouse. But Rowen made out an emblem—what looked like greatwolves—sewn into the man’s armor. The sigil’s color matched the blood on the floor.

I’m getting tired, and he isn’t even breaking a sweat yet!
Rowen backed off. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The man came at him with the speed of a dancer, lunging one blade at Rowen’s eyes and the other at his groin. Rowen could not parry both at once. He sidestepped, beat back another cut for his shoulder, then grimaced as one of the shortswords cut a bloody groove in his thigh.

Pain gave him renewed fury. He beat back his attacker, Knightswrath dancing in his hands, but he could not press his advantage. He just was not fast enough. Exhaustion crept up his arms. He barely parried a stab at his face then botched another parry and took a sword point to the shoulder.

Rowen swore in Shao. He backed up as fast as he could, even though that carried him farther from the jailhouse door. Blood ran from his wounds, hot and unstaunched. He expected his opponent would follow and finish him off. Then he heard footfalls.

Down the stairs from the upper level of the jailhouse came a new figure: tall, thin, and dressed in a bone-white cloak sewn with the same blood-colored greatwolves adorning the armor of Rowen’s attacker. The cloaked man glanced at Rowen with only mild interest. The man’s hood was down, revealing youthful, haughty features and long, tapered ears. Though ten yards separated them, Rowen saw dragonmist in the man’s eyes. He cursed again. A Shel’ai. Not Silwren or El’rash’lin but a Shel’ai, nonetheless. That explained the fire.

I know him,
Rowen realized, though he could not fathom how. Then he understood: El’rash’lin’s memories.
What was his name? Kith’el. No—Shade.

“Finish him,” the cloaked figure ordered.

The dark-garbed fighter hesitated. The man’s brow contorted in abrupt, awful pain.

“You’d be better off running,” Rowen called out. “By now, half the garrison must be on the way here!”

Shade smiled wolfishly. “Not likely, Human.” He faced the dark-garbed fighter again. “Meet me downstairs after he’s dead.” He left the staircase he’d just descended for the one that led down to Silwren’s cell.

I have to stop them!

Rowen raised Knightswrath with both hands, holding the sword straight over his head. The Shao called the position
hoso no-kami
. Guard of the Tower. It was the strongest attack pose but the weakest for defense. But a strong defense against an opponent such as this only delayed the inevitable. “
Singchai ushó fey!
Come and die, you bastard.”

But the fighter did not move. The man’s eyes went taut with pain again. Rowen frowned. He had not wounded the man. Was this just a ruse to draw him in?

Rowen remembered another old saying of his brother’s:
When in doubt, charge!
Rowen charged. To his amazement, the fighter made no move to defend himself. Knightswrath descended in a rusty arc. At the last instant, Rowen changed its course. With two quick strikes, he knocked the swords from his enemy’s grasp. The man still had not moved. He simply stared.

Why isn’t he fighting—and why didn’t I kill him?
No time to figure it out. Silwren needed him! He shoved the man aside and rushed for the stairs.