Wytchfire (Book 1) (35 page)

Rowen stared as chaos overran the battlements. Everywhere, men of the Red Watch shook with fear. Even the Knights stared, horrified, at what approached them. Men already poised to flee their posts did so now, running for their lives. Rowen realized, dimly, that they were only seeing the Nightmare as Fadarah intended them to see it. An illusion. But that did not help.

For weeks, he had heard about this demon, but nothing had prepared him for this. Not a man but a beast—huge, awful, burning. Smoke leaked from gaps in its scales. Its hooves left smoldering footprints.

Rowen looked away. He forgot everything: El’rash’lin, Aeko Shingawa, the city behind him, even his own name. A mad darkness flooded his brain. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

Then, slowly, the darkness faded. A strange light filled his mind—faint at first, then stronger. Rowen did not know at first where it came from, but then a face formed in the light—a face both strange and familiar. A man with ghostly, violet eyes. Young, gentle, sad. Rowen felt as though he was in the Wytchforest again, staring down at his own reflection.
No
.
It’s El’rash’lin...

Rowen opened his eyes. The squire blinked in surprise. Before him lay King’s Bend, El’rash’lin, the army. And there was the demon—except that in place of a towering, scaled monstrosity, stood a man—cloaked and hooded, hideously twisted and deformed like El’rash’lin, but just a man.

“We have dispelled the illusion,” Silwren whispered.

Along the battlements, panic slacked, replaced by puzzlement. Rowen trained his eyes on El’rash’lin now. The stooped figure halted on King’s Bend, halfway between the city and the army below. He stretched, slowly, to his full height. He waited. Iventine—crazed—rushed up to meet him. The men grappled, wytchfire gushing from their fingertips.

Men watched from the plain and the battlements of Lyos alike as the ravaged sorcerers fought. Flames crackled in bruise-colored tendrils, alive and strong despite the frailty of the men who conjured them. Rowen watched, helpless. Then he looked to Silwren for help. But her eyes were closed now, deep in concentration. A violet glow enveloped her body. Everyone but Rowen drew away from her in fear.

She must be lending her strength to El’rash’lin.
He wished he could do the same.

“Silwren, I’m here,” he whispered. He did not know if she could hear him.

Jalist Hewn stared. There, on the slopes of Pallantine Hill, the whole world seemed to have gone mad. The Nightmare that had plagued his dreams had disappeared. In its place stood a misshapen sorcerer of awful power. He was battling another Shel’ai—an equally disfigured man Jalist did not recognize.

“I think I’ve lost my mind!” someone muttered.

“Lost mine first,” Jalist said. He wondered why the Shel’ai of the Throng were just standing there. Why didn’t they rush to the defense of their demon? Why weren’t they ordering the Throng forward?

Jalist fixed his eyes on the nearest sorcerer. The man’s hood had fallen, revealing a face wracked by fierce concentration. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, his eyes clenched shut.

Jalist spotted a second Shel’ai not far from the first, flanked by a protective ring of Unseen. This sorcerer’s hood was still raised, but Jalist saw the man jerk, as though his whole body had gone so tense that it spasmed. Then he understood.

Brahasti was right. If they break their concentration, they’ll lose control of the Nightmare.
Jalist’s mind raced. Shade and ten other sorcerers had already gone to slip into the city, taking the bulk of the Unseen with them. Something had already happened to the Nightmare, weakening it. All the Shel’ai left among the Throng were occupied, including Fadarah.

To the hells with Brahasti. It’s time!
Jalist hefted his long-axe, thrusting the steely blade into the yellow glare of the afternoon sun. With all his strength, he shouted, “Now, lads! For Quorim! For Cassica! For Syros! For all you’ve lost and all we’ve yet to lose...
fight!
”

He charged. The Dwarr feared no one would respond, that he would die alone like the fool he was. Then he heard a great, furious shout as the army came to life. Some threw down their weapons and ran. Within moments, whole companies were deserting. But others echoed Jalist’s cry then surged forward, weapons glinting. No longer was their target the people of Lyos, but their Shel’ai captors.

Blank faced, the remaining Unseen braced to stop them. Jalist had expected this. The awful Blood Thrall forced the Unseen to defend their masters from attack—even though they hated them more than anyone.
Don’t worry, lads
.
Our blades will set you free.

He faced the nearest shadowy fighter. They traded swings, then Jalist ducked beneath a shortsword and came up fast, swinging his long-axe in a vicious, sweeping cut. His Unseen opponent staggered and fell, throat open, eyes wide with gratitude.

Jalist leapt over him and chose another opponent. When his long-axe stuck in a man’s shield, he drew his broad-bladed shortsword instead. He finished off this opponent then paused a moment to take stock of the situation.

The Throng roiled now, in full revolt. Most of the men had fled westward, deserting back toward their homes, but hundreds remained, hot for revenge. They charged the Unseen, hoping to cut their way through and hack the Shel’ai to pieces. Then, a terrible flash of wytchfire lanced through the ranks, burning pikemen like candlewicks.

Jalist cursed. They were too slow. The revolt had broken the sorcerers’ concentration, all right. Only now, the Shel’ai were turning their magic on the mutineers!

Violet flame billowed over Jalist’s head, followed by more screams as the fitful magic slew anyone who happened to find themselves in its path. Jalist spotted the sorcerer just a few yards away, guarded now by just a single Unseen warrior.

Jalist wrenched his long-axe free, lowered his head, and charged. The Unseen warrior spotted him and braced. But Jalist was not in the mood to duel. He threw his broad-bladed shortsword, and the Unseen toppled, eyes brimming with that same awful gratitude. The Dwarr leaped over the body, returning both hands to his long-axe.

The cloaked Shel’ai twisted toward the sound, unleashing a second storm of wytchfire. But he was not expecting someone of Jalist’s short stature. The Dwarr ducked well beneath the flames and swung. The sorcerer crumpled.

“Not so powerful now, are you!” Jalist swung his axe twice more. Then he looked about, searching for another enemy. Other Shel’ai battled in the distance, refusing to die quietly, wytchfire streaming from their fingertips. But all were far away now. He was tempted to yank back the hood and see the face of the one he had just killed.

What if it’s Que’ann?
Shaking his head, he straightened, chose the nearest enemy, and charged, howling like a madman.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Turning Tides

H
igh atop the battlements of Lyos, standing next to Silwren, Rowen Locke watched in disbelief as the Throng turned on itself. Hundreds of men fled westward while others surged toward the hill, battling the Shel’ai and their dark-garbed bodyguards. Screams and the din of battle filled the air. Rowen spotted who he thought must be Fadarah himself: a huge man, big as an Olg, dressed head to toe in black armor. He stood at the head of his great host. One hand carried a great sword while the other crackled with wytchfire. Then he lost sight of him in the swirling chaos of battle.

Meanwhile, El’rash’lin and the Nightmare continued their mad battle on King’s Bend. Wytchfire flew from their hands, their bodies bathed so brightly in magic now that men turned away, blinded. Though there were no houses on King’s Bend, abandoned carts and vendors’ tables went up like dry kindling.

Rowen shouted to Aeko, “We have to get down there and help him!”

“And how, Squire, do you suggest we do that? We’d be burned alive once we got close.”

Rowen was tempted to grab a longbow, but the Nightmare would be a hard shot even standing still. Besides, the battling sorcerers blazed so fiercely now that he could no longer tell who was who. Nor, he realized, could they ride out to join those rebelling against Fadarah since the two Dragonkin were battling in the middle of King’s Bend.

Silwren remained deep in her trance, her face strained with exhaustion.

Frantic, Rowen looked toward King’s Bend again. The blazing Dragonkin continued to grapple, awash with fire and light, but he could not tell how the battle was faring. Then, an awful cry split the air as one of the blazing figures toppled, his body smoking. The other reeled over him and stumbled but did not fall. At the same time, Silwren whimpered and slumped toward the battlements. Rowen caught her as she started to fall over the edge and lowered her to the ground.

“What do you see?” he asked Aeko.

The Knight of the Stag peered over the walls, speechless. A moment later, she started to answer, but a new cry drowned her out. Sword clashes and screams.
That’s not coming from below…

Sir Crovis Ammerhel drew his sword. “They attack the city from within!”

Aeko grabbed her captain’s arm. “Your place is on the walls. Let me go.”

Crovis glared at her. Then he nodded. “Take thirty Knights with you.”

“Captain—”

“I’ll send more if you need them,” Crovis promised. “But I must wait to see what happens below before I weaken the front defenses.”

Aeko gestured for Rowen to follow and started for the stairs. Rowen hesitated, glancing down at Silwren, still anxious to learn El’rash’lin’s fate.

“Go, Squire,” Crovis said. “Your wytch is safe with me. I swear it on my honor.”

That will have to do.
Rowen rose and hurried after Aeko, Knightswrath in hand.

Further into Lyos, the Knights discovered a nightmare of a different kind. Enemies had sprung as though from nowhere. Shel’ai in damp bone-white cloaks stalked the cobblestone streets, burning all in their path. Already, lines of houses blazed. Mothers clutching their children ran for their lives. Flames wreathed Queen’s Garden.

“We need
all
the men here, now!” Aeko seethed. He imagined what had happened: the enemy had come through the aqueduct again since Aeko did not have enough men to guard all the wells. Some had probably already killed the Red Watch guarding the rear gates and opened them. Lyos was being attacked on two sides.
“We need Silwren!”

Unseen swept up the streets, dozens strong, mad for blood. She shuddered, thinking of the temples they must have already ravaged. Ahead lay yet another temple—this one devoted to Tier’Gothma. It was filled, she knew, with refugees from the Dark Quarter—those too young or infirm to fight.

Aeko ordered Rowen back to the walls. “Tell Crovis to send
all
the Knights at once—plus whatever else he can spare. And bring Silwren if she’s still alive. Archers, if she isn’t.” Rowen hesitated. Aeko shoved him. “Go!” This time, Rowen obeyed.

The Unseen had slowed at the sight of the Isle Knights. The two forces faced each other. Aeko raised her sword and saluted, momentarily holding the crosspiece of her adamune at nose level, the edge perfectly vertical between her eyes. To her surprise, many of the Unseen returned the gesture in the same Shao style.

She had no more time to ponder this before they charged.

Rowen found the walls all but abandoned. Silwren lay slumped in the distance, just where he’d left her. A handful of Red Watch and armed slumdwellers milled about, uncertain.

Where in Jinn’s name did Crovis go?

Rowen sprinted up to the battlements where Silwren lay and looked out over the twisting road below. He saw no sign of El’rash’lin or the Nightmare. But Crovis Ammerhel galloped down King’s Bend at the head of his Knights, charging the remains of the Throng. “Gods, what’s he doing? We have to clear the city first!”

Captain Ferocles and Sergeant Epheus shouted in the courtyard below. He guessed they were trying to take command of the soldiers left behind. Rowen called to the slumdwellers nearby, ordering them to go and help. Then he turned his attention back to Silwren. He shook her. “Silwren, we need you!”

She opened her eyes. “El’rash’lin. Dead...”

Rowen blanched. Grief swelled within him—grief over the death of a violet-eyed boy—but he fought it back. “They’re inside the city. Do you understand? They’re burning the temples where the refugees are hiding. They’re killing everyone we saved!”

Silwren blinked, as though waking from a dream. She stood on her own. Something terrible kindled in her eyes. She said, “Take me there.”

Jalist Hewn awoke from his blood-daze to see the gates of Lyos swinging open, just a few hundred feet up the road. Armored Knights in azure tabards streamed out, row upon row of red-garbed soldiers trailing behind. He frowned. “What in Fohl’s hells?”

Just ahead, the last of the Unseen were fighting a pitched battle against the rebelling Throng, trying to hold off the latter long enough for Fadarah and the remaining Shel’ai to get away. Jalist had intended to do everything in his power to stop this. But the sight of armed men thundering down King’s Bend brought him back to his senses. The Isle Knights did not mean to join them. Instead, they meant to attack the Throng. “Gods-damned fools!”

They could not run. The Knights could easily ride them down, their spears and curved swords hacking them to ribbons. He looked around, wishing for the first time that Brahasti were here, but the sadistic Dhargot was nowhere to be seen. Men turned to him, looking for guidance. He grimaced. Only one choice remained.

“Well, lads, let’s hope there’s some truth behind those stories of Islemen’s honor.” He threw down his long-axe. The men hesitated, exchanging glances, then followed suit. One by one, they cast down their weapons.

The charging Knights slowed. Jalist raised his open hands in a sign of surrender. He spotted the Knights’ captain—a proud man in a brilliant steel helm—and approached him. The Knight’s destrier reared, hooves flailing over the Dwarr’s head. Jalist was glad, once again, for not being taller.

The Knight removed his helm, revealing a coldly handsome, olive-skinned young man. “Do you surrender?”

Jalist glowered up at him. “No, we threw down our weapons for exercise. Want to see us pick them up again?” He fought the impulse to drag the Knight from his horse. “We were
rebelling,
you dunce!”

The Knight-Captain stared back, unfazed. “You knowingly took up arms against a protectorate of the Lotus Isles. Consider yourselves prisoners.”

“Call us what you like,” Jalist spat back. “Just gut those damn Shel’ai before they get away!”

The Knight-Captain smirked. “Oh, I’m sure I can find something for my sword to do.” He waved to the rest of the Isle Knights. “Gather their weapons! Search them carefully. Kill any who resist.”

Screams and smoke ruled the air. The people of Lyos fled the heart of their own city as the Unseen swept up the streets, running to the walls instead. They sought the protection of the Isle Knights and the Red Watch—only to find the crenellated battlements all but deserted.

Rowen ran in the direction of the fighting, pulling Silwren after him. His stomach lurched as he dodged the bodies strewn about the grand cobblestone streets and marble walkways. They reached the Queen’s Garden and slowed.

Ahead of them, at least a dozen dead Knights filled the streets. Heaped all around them were the slain bodies of their foes: men in black armor sewn with crimson greatwolves.

“Aeko...” Rowen ran forward, searching the grisly battlefield for any sign of the commander. But Aeko Shingawa was not among the dead. Silwren touched his arm. She pointed.

In the distance, three Unseen milled in the shadow and smoke of the burning garden. With them stood a Shel’ai in a bone-white cloak. Rowen bristled. He reached for Knightswrath, but Silwren locked her thin hand on his arm, stopping him. Her violet eyes flashed with murder.

“Rowen, get behind me.”

Such was her tone that he obeyed. In the distance, the Shel’ai stared at them with open derision. The man spat something in Sylvan. Silwren answered by summoning wytchfire, letting it course the length of her arms, crackling at her fingertips.