Wytchfire (Book 1) (31 page)

Shade faced him soberly. “Not for sport. To prove a point. I would not expect you to understand.” The Shel’ai waved his hands, conjuring a violet campfire. He sat by the fire to warm himself. Though his face was like stone, Lethe saw something in his master’s eyes—a tiny spark of brutal, almost lustful enjoyment.
Gods, the stories are true. This one loves killing the way rich men love gold. He might hide it, might even regret it sometimes, but it’s there.

Lethe wondered if Fadarah knew. He doubted it.
But I bet that wytch of yours knew. I bet that’s why she turned on you.
“That was murder,” Lethe repeated. “Tell me you took no pleasure in it, and I’m Zet reborn.”

Shade turned to face him, Sylvan features dagger-sharp in the darkness. “Pardon me if I doubt your conscience, assassin. That was mercy, not murder. This is the end. We have pushed as far east as needed. My master wants this city destroyed so that the Isle Knights will be certain to go to war.” He hesitated. “And he wants it done quickly.”

Something in Shade’s voice chilled Lethe’s blood. “What does that mean?”

Whatever Fadarah had ordered, Shade looked none too excited about it. “If Silwren or El’rash’lin summons the courage to face the Nightmare, Lyos might actually survive. We cannot risk that. So we must break Lyos from the inside out.”

Lethe winced.
More killing.
A cold, familiar hollowness filled him.

“This time, we will not be alone. My master sends two Shel’ai and a squad of Unseen to aid us. They will reach us within a few hours. Once more, we will slip into the city unnoticed. This time, though, it will be more dangerous.” He hesitated. “More painful.”

“You said you’d set me free. You lied.”

“I did
not
lie. I merely have further need of your services—such as they are. But that need will lapse once Lyos has fallen.” Shade added, “Besides, you might yet find the quick death you seek. I do not expect many Unseen to survive what we must do tonight.”

To Lethe, the words were music. Still, he glared at the sorcerer. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he went back to brushing the horses. He started with Shade’s destrier. “I know what you carry, Sorcerer,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanks to you, I carry it every day.” He braced himself. He expected Shade to unleash the agony of the Blood Thrall. But he did not.

“Who was that man you were fighting?”

The unexpected question cut clean through Lethe’s rage and made him shudder. Had his master been reading his mind? He kept his eyes on his work. “Just someone I recognized from my old life.”

“Indeed.” Lethe could tell by the Shel’ai’s tone that he did not believe him.

Lethe snapped. “If you want to know so damned bad, why don’t you just read my thoughts?”

“I already have.” Shade’s voice softened. “For what it’s worth, Human, I am sorry.” The Shel’ai gathered his bone-white cloak around himself. Then it began to rain. The rain soaked the Shel’ai’s clothes, darkening the crimson greatwolves and bloodstains.

The violet campfire flickered but did not go out. In a voice little more than a whisper, Shade said, “I wonder how it happened. How we became monsters.” He sat again, pulling up his hood against the rain.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dogbane Circle

“G
ods, I hate this place!” Rowen muttered.

Morning light spilled through the open window of the tiny shack as he opened the cracked shutters, allowing new air to stream in. The air was stale, even after a storm that had washed over the city well after midnight, thundering as it unleashed an unapologetic torrent of rain. Rowen almost could not believe it. He reeled from the stench of human filth and burnt urusk meat: the daily perfume of the Dark Quarter.

The streets—if that was the correct term for the muddy spaces between the uneven rows of shacks, inns, and brothels—were already crowded with cutthroats and beggars. The streets contained children, too—some of them naked, all grubby as animals, running and fighting in the mud. While he remembered that from his own childhood in the slums, he could see that now, many more of them appeared to be Ivairian refugees. Meanwhile, armed men from the gangs prowled, looking for food and trouble.

Rowen winced, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. But what choice did they have? Aeko was right. If Silwren and El’rash’lin stayed in the inner city, they would be killed. But if they still meant to save the city, they needed to be close when the Throng arrived.

He rubbed his eyes. He had spent the night in restless sleep, plagued by nightmares of fire and death. He woke afraid, not even knowing at first where he was. When he remembered, the fear did not dissipate.

Memories from the night before returned to him. Aeko’s Knights, bound by her orders, had donned plain cloaks to hide their identities and sullenly escorted Rowen and the Shel’ai through the rear gates of Lyos, around the city walls to King’s Bend, then down the worn, trash-strewn paths into the slums. The Shel’ai were still unconscious. The knights carried them on litters, concealing their identity by covering them like corpses. Rowen led the way, shuddering as much from fear and loathing as from the night air’s chill.

The Dark Quarter had changed very little. Rows of shanty-inns and brothels lined the streets, many of them simply going by different names now. Here and there hung the territorial markings of the gangs: the Skullbreakers, the Bloody Asps, the Crazy Knifemen, and others he did not recognize. Those areas, he avoided. Without the Knights for protection, and with the Shel’ai unconscious, he might not last long in some of the worst areas of the slums.

Rowen did not think the small, ratty cottage where he and Kayden had lived as children would still be there. The sight of its cracked mud walls and low straw roof chilled rather than heartened him. It had been turned into a whore shack now. Upon entering the door, he was greeted with the smell of sweat and urine. Naked, brutish men and women lay unkempt on the dirt floor, all of them unconscious. The air reeked of
fran-té,
an acrid, slum-favored plant that, when smoked, produced reeling hallucinations.

With the Knights’ help, Rowen roused the people and told them to leave. They did not protest. Rowen was wearing a plain cloak to hide his Red Watch uniform of faded scarlet, but they saw it anyway and thought the Knights were guards as well, coming to drive them away or kill them. Their spirits rose when Rowen handed them a few copper cranáfi instead.

Although none of the Knights knew him, he imagined that they must have sensed by now that he too came from this place of filth. He dismissed the Knights as quickly as he could. They hesitated. Though visibly anxious to leave the Dark Quarter, they doubted it would please their beloved Commander Shingawa if her new squire was knifed the moment they left.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured them. He glanced back at the makeshift stretchers upon which Silwren and El’rash’lin still slept, fitful and oblivious. Summoning his courage, he said, “I must have your word that you’ll tell no one except Commander Shingawa where we are. Not even Sir Ammerhel. Swear it on your honor.”

The Knights hesitated. Rowen knew they wanted to refuse, but Aeko had already told them to follow his instructions, no matter how crazed. One by one, the Knights swore. Then they left.

Now, as daybreak spread across the shadowed filth of the Dark Quarter, Rowen wondered if his decision had been the right one. They were still alive, still safe, but how long would it be before the slumdwellers turned on him, or Captain Ferocles sent soldiers of the Red Watch to scour the Dark Quarter until they were found?

Rowen distracted himself by stripping off his faded scarlet tabard and tossing the black falcon emblem into the corner of the filthy shack. Traveling alone in the Dark Quarter while wearing a Red Watch uniform was asking to be stabbed.
Besides, I’m a squire now.

He decided to check his weapons. He had a small knife hidden in his boot. Otherwise, he had only Knightswrath, since the longsword issued to him when he joined the Red Watch had been confiscated and never returned.

In his daze, and in all the chaos that followed the battle in the jailhouse, he had not bothered to inspect the adamune Hráthbam had given him. He remembered how the rusty blade had absorbed wytchfire that should have burnt him to cinders. He had not spoken of this to Aeko or Captain Ferocles, thinking he must have been mistaken. But he had felt the terrible heat of those flames and knew the already damaged blade must be wholly ruined now.

Returning the knife to his boot, he sat in front of the open shutters of his boyhood shack, letting the morning light wash over him, warming his skin. He laid Knightswrath across his lap. He unsheathed it. Bright, perfect kingsteel flashed in his palms.

Am I still dreaming?
The blade looked remade, a lethal curve of kingsteel with distinctive snowy swirls deep in the metal. Spelled across the blade in gilded lettering, the sword’s name shone clearer now.

Fel-Nâya.
Knightswrath. Beneath the name, what Rowen had first mistaken for a darker stain was in fact the exquisite, silver inlay of a dragon in flight. The design must have been the emblem of the swordmaker, but he did not recognize it. He returned his attention to the intricate designs covering the brass crosspiece and dragonbone pommel. These also seemed more distinct, almost lifelike. “Gods...”

He heard rustling behind him. As though waking from a trance, he turned. El’rash’lin sat up then rose painfully to his feet, face pale with weariness and hunger. He looked around and grimaced. “Have I gone to Fohl’s hells?”

Despite himself, Rowen laughed. He sheathed Knightswrath, resolving to puzzle over the enigmatic sword at a later time. “Careful, Sorcerer. You’re insulting my childhood.”

“If
this
is your childhood, Human, we have more in common than either of us thought.”

Rowen considered the memories El’rash’lin had magicked into him. He still felt them as though they were his own, which puzzled and unnerved him. Several times since then, he had found himself strangely aching to return to a forest he’d never seen, to a people he did not even know.

They were both orphans, both scarred—both plagued by anguish and loneliness they tried their best to deny. Rowen remembered his own childhood in the Dark Quarter and shuddered. Had El’rash’lin, in imparting some of his own memories, gained some of Rowen’s as well?

He wanted to offer some paltry words of comfort, but he could think of nothing to say. Morning light spilled through the cracked shutters, illuminating the dust in the air. He looked at Silwren instead. She was still asleep, face taut with pain and weariness. Rowen gasped.
Am I mad, or does she look maybe five years older?

El’rash’lin nodded grimly. “She’s dying, Human.” He coughed. “Although slower than I am, it seems.” His misshapen lips broke into a sad smile.

Rowen asked, “Will she become—”

“Like me?” The crooked smile broadened. “In time, yes. Shel’ai were never meant to be Dragonkin. We stoked the fire too high. It devours us from the inside out.”

Silwren stirred, but her eyes did not open.

“She’ll wake soon,” El’rash’lin said. His voice sounded hollow.

Rowen said, “I’ll go and get food. Bar the door behind me. Open it for no one but me, or you may have to call upon that magic after all.”

He fetched his cloak and adjusted his leather brigandine. He thought about wearing Knightswrath openly to dissuade would-be cutthroats, but the sight of the exquisite dragonbone handle would only encourage them all the more. He shifted his sword belt, partially concealing the weapon beneath his cloak. Taking the dagger from his boot, he slid it into the belt for easier access. Then, with great reluctance, he left the shack of his youth for the Dark Quarter beyond.

Morning wore on, and chaos spread through the muddy streets of the slums. Everyone had heard by now that the Throng was only hours away. Beggars and orphans fought their way up King’s Bend, hoping to seek refuge behind the walls of Lyos. But the gates were barred. Along the parapets, both the Red Watch and Isle Knights denied them entrance. Crossbows were fired with warning
crack
s, spilling iron-tipped bolts into the dirt.

The slumdwellers drew back in fear. Rowen’s heart sank as he watched them slump back to their homes and muddy streets, dejected. Pity turned to anger. Concealed by the hood of his cloak, he trained his gaze on the battlements again. This time, the wealthiest citizens of Lyos gazed back, derisively.

“They’d rather watch us die than grant us entrance into their precious city.” He had not meant to speak aloud, but a passing slumdweller heard and nodded in grim agreement.

“That’s our lot. They leave us the worst land for crops, tax half of what we grow anyway, then when trouble comes, they leave us nothing but rocks to fight with!” The man pulled a crooked dagger out of his sleeve and waved it, grinning. “But I make my
own
weapons!”

The man had fashioned his dagger out of a crooked shaft of urusk-bone, crudely sharpened at one end, wrapped at the other with shabby leather for a kind of hilt. Around King’s Bend, other slumdwellers carried weapons, too. Those from the gangs carried axes or metal blades, but others had nothing more than farming implements or crude spears of fire-hardened wood.

These people won’t last ten seconds when the Throng comes
. Even if the Isle men and the soldiers of the Red Watch succeeded in holding the walls of Lyos, even if Silwren and El’rash’lin stopped the Nightmare, the slums would be overrun. Anyone who resisted would be killed.

The Throng was known to show mercy to those who surrendered, but only to swell their ranks with conscripts. But the Throng surely had enough farmers and laborers by now. What was the use in conscripting lawless, sickly peasants who would need to be clothed, fed, and armed first?

He spotted a familiar face—the young prostitute who’d approached him and Hráthbam when they first made their way up King’s Bend. The facade of lust had vanished. She wore a thick cloak now and held a crying infant close to her body, her eyes wide with panic. She passed Rowen without recognizing him. He stared after her with pity.

Jinn’s name... all these people are going to die!
He wondered why they did not flee. Then he remembered why he and Kayden had stayed in the Dark Quarter: where else could they go? The Lotus Isles would not have them. Ivairia was already riddled with famine. Dwarrs were infamous for butchering trespassers whether the lands in question were in use or not. Refugees would have no better luck fleeing west. Even if they managed to avoid the Throng, most of the Free Cities where they might have taken refuge had already been devastated. The rest would burn soon enough, once the Dhargots came.

Rowen’s fists clenched. As much as he hated this place, the injustice filled him with pity and rage. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d thrown back his hood and was striding purposely back into the Dark Quarter, pushing through fearful crowds until he reached Dogbane Circle.

The place got its name from street vendors there who dried salted slabs of tough meat cut from stray dogs, alongside the usual fare of charred urusk flesh. The bones and waste, meanwhile, were simply discarded and burned in the circle so that the air always had an acrid stench.

Gangs met here to parley. Dogbane Circle hosted a standing truce, making it the Dark Quarter’s equivalent of the great King’s Market of Lyos. Slumdwellers gathered there now, but not to shop or steal. Helpless, desperate, they looked to the gangs for protection. Rowen did not blame them. Many of these people had families. The gangs could give them a better chance than they’d have alone.