Wytchfire (Book 1) (10 page)

Rowen hesitated. “What about them?”

Hráthbam reached for the wineskin. Rowen helped the man drink again. After a moment, Hráthbam asked, “What made you... go to the Isles?”

“Mostly my brother, I guess,” Rowen began uncertainly. “My parents were Ivairian. Far from rich but not quite poor, either. My father squired for some middling Lancer. But the famines ended all that. So we left Ivairia, moved to some nothing of a village north of Lyos...”

“Bandits?”

“More like rival, starving refugees. They killed my parents and... my sister too, once they’d finished with her.”

“I am sorry, my friend.”

Rowen shrugged. “I was only two or three. I don’t really remember them.” He clenched his fingers around the pike resting across his knees. “My brother, Kayden, was older. We would have died, too, but some Isle Knights happened by. They swept through the killers like fire through dry straw. They saved us. But the town was gone. So Kayden took me to Lyos. We grew up as orphans in the Dark Quarter.”

“I have... heard of that place. Not a pleasant stage for a childhood.”

Rowen snickered. “You could say that. If you don’t starve or find yourself on the wrong end of somebody’s knife, that’s just the beginning. Certain things happen there… not just to women but to children, too.

“It wasn’t all bad, though,” Rowen added, anxious to change the topic. “Kayden took care of me as best he could—though he probably bloodied my nose more than anybody! We lived like rats at first, stealing food, but he kept me alive. And he talked about the Knights all the time. He never forgot how they saved us. When we were young, we survived by digging graves—and robbing them too, I’m ashamed to say.” As he spoke, Rowen caught a whiff of the dead greatwolf and grimaced. “When we were old enough, we became sellswords. There’s plenty of coin to be made among the Free Cities if you’re willing to risk your skin for it. We went as far south as the deserts of Quesh, where they breed those red horses that ride faster than lightning.”
I almost stayed there…
Rowen jabbed the fire with his pike. “On the way back, we stopped at Atheion, where everybody has copper-colored skin and all the houses float on rafts on Armahg’s Tears. I’ve never seen a sea so big and clear.”
Could have stayed there too, but Kayden always wanted to keep moving.
“For a while, Kayden talked about dragging us all the way up to Ivairia, finding a Lancer we could squire for—polish his armor and wipe his ass between tourneys.”

This made Hráthbam smile weakly.

“But mainly, we just bounced between the Free Cities. Still, Kayden always said he wanted to go to the Lotus Isles and become a Knight of the Crane. The only real knighthood,
he called it. I said he was crazy. The Shao almost never agree to train foreigners unless you could prove you had some tie to the older houses, like the first Knights who went there with Fâyu Jinn. But he went anyway. He saved up every coin for years—and took them from me when I let him—until he had enough to buy his way in. He trained with Aeko Shingawa herself. And by the gods, he did it. He became a Knight of the Crane.”

Rowen stopped, wondering how much the Soroccan knew about the particulars of the Isle Knights. “That’s the lowest of three orders, but I bet he could have been a Knight of the Stag in no time. They say they don’t let foreigners rise higher, but Kayden would have changed that. Who knows? Maybe he even would have made Knight of the Lotus someday!”

Rowen stared down at his pike for a while, then out into the growing darkness. He pivoted and added more wood to the fire, feeding and feeding it until he was sweating.

He feared that Hráthbam would press him further about Kayden, but instead the Soroccan said, “I’ve seen those Shao sabers at work before,”—
adamunes
,
Rowen thought but did not correct him—“even have one locked up in the wagon. After you... bury me, it’s yours.”

Rowen scowled. He was about to assure the merchant that he would survive his wound—or to point out that common practice among Isle Knights actually forbade squires from owning adamunes—then he changed his mind. “It will be my honor.”

Waving off his thanks, Hráthbam said, “If you want to be a Knight like your brother, what are you... doing here? Why aren’t you on the Isles?”

Rowen almost wished he’d asked about Kayden instead.

“I was... expelled from training,” he said. “It happens. Every half year, they dismiss certain squires they deem to be... unworthy. We started with two hundred. I made it until the fourth year. There were just thirty of us left. One more year, and I would have been knighted.”

Hráthbam said, “After... how you dealt with that wolf, I can’t imagine... it was for lack of skill! What kind... of training takes five whole years to master?”

“It’s not just swords,” Rowen answered. “They teach you reading and writing. Not just in Common Tongue but old Shao, too.” Saying this reminded him of his conversation with the robber, Sneed.
What happened to you? Did you get away, or did Dagath hunt you down?

Hráthbam smiled. “I bet... you learned everything they set in front of you. So why did they send you away?”

Rowen did not answer.

Hráthbam pressed, “Didn’t they give you... any reason at all?”

“They don’t have to. If the Knight in charge of your training touches your forehead with an empty scabbard, that’s it. You’re gone by morning, or you’re dead.”

He winced as he spoke. He had tried to expel that memory from his mind, but the sight of Aeko Shingawa with her almond eyes and long, dark braids—the same legendary Knight who had trained his brother, whom he had sought out for just that reason—grimly touching him with the empty scabbard still haunted him.

“Their mistake,” Hráthbam said finally.

Rowen shrugged. His face burned red with shame. Nervously touching the pike again, he stared out into the darkness of the Simurgh Plains. The world had gone quiet. Whatever had caused that awful sound had vanished—probably died. Still, Rowen did not trust himself to sleep. The campfire blazed, almost unbearably hot, but Hráthbam went on shivering.

Rowen was about to add more wood, but he realized that they were out. He should rise, get the hatchet, and go trim a few more branches to burn. Instead, he sat in heavy silence, sleep tugging at his eyelids. Finally, he shook himself awake. With great effort, he rose to his feet and headed toward a cluster of thin, ragged-looking trees in the distance. He had already left them dismembered to fuel the fire; by the time he was done, they resembled trees less closely than they did thick spears thrust in the earth and abandoned beneath the dark sky.

Rowen stumbled back. He piled still more wood on the fire then sat.
I need to keep Hráthbam talking, keep him awake.

“There are worse things than not being an Isle Knight, I suppose. Mercenaries live better than some. Besides, now I get to drink your wine and guard your sorry ass all the way to Cadavash!” He laughed in a way he hoped sounded convincing. “I meant to ask you at the inn—how did you know I’d been to the Isles?”

Hráthbam did not answer. Rowen wondered if the man had fallen asleep. He turned. The Soroccan’s eyes were still open, bright green in the flickering firelight. Rowen started to repeat his question then stopped himself. He tossed the pike away and felt for the merchant’s pulse. Then he bowed his head.

The fire went on crackling behind him. Not far away, cicadas began their night song. A cool breeze through a cluster of trees rustled a few autumn leaves from their branches. The horses, Left and Right, restlessly pawed the grassy earth in search of more oats. But Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas was dead.

Chapter Seven

Dragonkin

R
owen did not wait until morning.

He closed Hráthbam’s staring eyes and sat in a stupor for a long time, blank faced by the dying fire. Then he rose to his feet. He rummaged through the wagon for a shovel. The contents of the tipped wagon had been flung in all directions, and Rowen did not feel right going through the man’s trunks, but he thought he remembered spotting a shovel in the back of the wagon. Finally, amid the jumble, he found what he needed.

He slumped back to Hráthbam’s corpse. The man’s silk robes now resembled a flamboyant burial shroud. The fire had nearly gone out, but the chill that swept through Rowen’s body had nothing to do with the late autumn evening. Nevertheless, he stoked the campfire before he began to dig.

He chose a spot far from the road, beneath the dark boughs of a maple tree. The ground was soft there, the air fragrant with night-sap and good clean earth. Rowen blinked back exhaustion and thrust the blade of the shovel into the ground. By midnight, he had dug a hole deep enough to stand in up to his waist.

He worked on widening the grave next, focusing his anger into tossing shovelfuls of dark earth over his shoulder until, at last, he stopped. The grave looked big enough. Feeling foolish, Rowen tested it by lying down himself. He had to scrunch his knees to fit, and he remembered that Hráthbam was taller than he was. But if he bent the man’s knees, it would work.

Rowen climbed out of the grave. It was time, but he could not bring himself to bury the man yet. He turned and saw Right nuzzling the dead Soroccan’s body. Tears sprang to Rowen’s eyes, but he blinked them away.

He thought about the dead greatwolf instead. Its body would attract scavengers who might catch Hráthbam’s scent as well—even buried that deep. But Rowen was not about to dig a second grave for the greatwolf. So he went back to the wagon, rummaged around, and located several flasks filled, not with wine, but with a thick liquor nearly as putrid as hláshba.
This, Rowen hoped, would burn.

He dragged the greatwolf farther still from his makeshift camp, across the road, as far as he could from Hráthbam’s grave. Finally, cursing and sweating, he went to gather the flasks. He poured their contents into the beast’s ruddy, blood-matted fur then glanced back toward Hráthbam. “Sorry to waste your stock, my friend.” The sound of his own voice made him feel lonesome.

He let the strong liquor soak for a moment before he set it on fire. Then he gathered dry branches and added them to the fire made from the greatwolf’s body, tying a cloth around his face to protect himself from the stench. Then, he returned to his own campfire. He shooed Right away. The horse’s nuzzling had cocked Hráthbam’s head to an awkward angle, and the merchant’s jaw sagged.

Rowen shuddered. As gently as he could, he used the toe of his boot to straighten Hráthbam’s head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have done more.”

Rowen suddenly felt absurd. He had barely known this man. After all the corpses he’d seen in battles, not to mention all the corpses whose graves he’d dug beyond Pallantine Hill outside Lyos, why should this death matter so much to him?

I could go through his pockets for coin
. He squelched the thought, ashamed.

He left the shovel lying on the ground, grabbed the big man by his thick wrists, marshaled his strength, and slowly dragged the Soroccan toward the open grave. He had to stop often to rest, and he did not like how Hráthbam’s slack arms fell to the earth when he released them, or the cold feel of his skin.

He hauled the Soroccan’s body the rest of the way to the grave then stopped to rest one last time, intending to push him in and bury him as soon as he regained his strength. Thirsty, Rowen went back to the campfire, found the waterskin, then stopped.

Hráthbam’s lips touched this last.
Rowen remembered a Queshi tradition in which family members kissed the dead on the lips before he or she was given to the fire. He shuddered. Then he forced himself to drink what was left before he returned to his work. He looked down one last time at his former master. He was about to push him into the grave when a rustling sound echoed from behind him, in the direction of his makeshift camp.

Probably just the horses.
Nevertheless, he reached for the pike and turned. Between the dark outlines of Left and Right, he spotted a man—stooped as though quite old, clad in a ratty cloak, gently patting the horses as though they were his own.

Rage flooded his senses. Hefting the pike, he stalked back toward the campfire. The stooped man turned at his approach. Instead of running, he patted Right’s head as the horse nuzzled him.

“These horses mourn their master.”

Rowen stopped. The man spoke Common, but his accent was melodic and strange. The man’s hood obscured his features in shadows. Rowen pointed at him with the pike. “Would you rather they mourned you?”

The hooded man cocked his head to one side. “Are you in the habit of killing men you’ve only just met?”

Rowen’s rage went slack.
Does he mean
killing him,
or is he asking if I killed Hráthbam?
“A greatwolf attacked us,” he answered dumbly, gesturing toward the grave in the distance.

“I know.” The stooped, hooded figure turned his attention to Left and stroked the rouncey’s neck. “I was walking when I saw your fire. Or maybe I was dreaming. Can’t say. But I felt something, thought you were…
her.
But you’re just you. Just a Human. Yet here I am. Strange.”

He’s a madman.
“What do you want?”

The stooped figure cocked his head again. Though Rowen could not make out the man’s features, something in the gesture unsettled him. “To help you,” the man said at last. “I’m supposed to, I think. Though I don’t know what it will do to me.”

Rowen answered the man’s cryptic talk by holding up his hand. “See these blisters? Means you’re late. I’ve already dug the grave. I just need to roll him in and cover him up. If you want to help with that, I’ll pay you with food and a place by the fire—so long as you sit still and keep whatever nonsense your tongue is waggling to yourself!”

The stranger nodded. “How generous.” He laughed. The sound sent a chill down Rowen’s spine. “May I see your hands?”

Rowen frowned and backed up a step. “My what?”

“Your hands. Those things at the ends of your wrists with all the fingers on them. May I see?”

Rowen tensed his grip on the pike. “Listen, friend, I have no patience for madmen right now. If you want food, just take it and go.”

The horses suddenly whinnied and drew back, as though sensing something terrible flash to life in the man before them. But the stooped figure’s voice remained steady. “No patience for madmen? You may find that a liability in this world. All of us are mad. Some are just more honest about it.”

Rowen leveled his pike at the stranger’s chest, prodding him with just enough force to show he meant business without drawing blood. “Enough, old man. Pass on, or I’ll burn your corpse right next to the greatwolf’s!”

The stooped figure straightened. Rowen saw with surprise that the man easily matched his height. “I suppose I
am
older than you—by a good half-century, at least. But my people live a long, long time. So it’s hard to say which of us is older, depending on how you mean the word.”

Jalist once said you never turn your back on a madman. Should I kill him?
“Listen, friend, I’ve warned you—”

The stooped figure raised one hand and touched the tip of Rowen’s pike. As though wrenched by invisible hands, the weapon flew from Rowen’s grasp and sailed end over end, landing somewhere in the darkness beyond the light of the campfire. Rowen’s eyes widened. “How...”

“Beware men who call you
friend
while jabbing your chest with a pike,” the madman said. “Now, can I have a look at those hands, or must I assault you with threats of my own?”

When Rowen did not move, the madman made a sharp, slashing motion with one hand. Rowen’s hands thrust straight out, palms turned upward. He had no idea why, nor could he do otherwise. He struggled, but he could not gain control of his own arms.

“Now, let’s see...”

The madman bent and examined Rowen’s blistered palms. His skin was cold but his touch gentle. He clucked his tongue. “You should take better care of these hands, young man. Do you know that blood never truly washes off? If you know how to look, that is.” He pressed his hands over Rowen’s, tightening his grip. Rowen gasped. Despite his thin frame, the stooped man was frightfully strong. Rowen struggled to break free, to no avail. He wanted to aim a kick at the stranger’s kneecaps, but his legs would not obey him, either. Rowen had the awful thought that he was as lifeless as Hráthbam.

But what stunned him most was the man’s hands. They were covered in warts and scars, as were the man’s bare wrists. His fingers were hideously twisted although he straightened the fingers to grab Rowen. Then, right before Rowen’s eyes, a strange violet glow washed over the stooped figure’s hands.

“Shel’ai...”

“Not quite. Not anymore.” The stooped figure held him a moment longer then let go. Rowen felt some invisible force lift off his body, and suddenly he could move again.

“There! You see?”

The blisters were gone. Even the days-old cut dealt by Dagath had disappeared without a trace. Rowen was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize he could move his arms again. “I’m… dreaming…”

“Maybe we all are. Maybe that’s all life is. Or not. Now, let’s see about your friend.” He passed Rowen and made his way toward Hráthbam’s corpse. The ratty cloak rustled about his crooked frame as he shuffled forward into the night. He reminded Rowen of one of the crippled wretches who shambled through the Dark Quarter, begging for change.
But none of them can conjure magic!

Rowen considered running. His fists clenched, and he followed after the crippled stranger, wishing he knew where the pike had gone. He remembered the composite bow but did not want to turn his back on the man long enough to find it.

By the time Rowen reached the maple tree, the stooped figure was slowly kneeling beside Hráthbam’s corpse. The stranger inspected the man’s wounded thigh through the gash in his robes left by the greatwolf’s claws. He did not look up.

“This will hurt me,” the stranger said in a low voice. “If I summon all that I’d need to heal this man, I don’t know… what would happen to me after. Maybe I’ll keep control. Maybe I won’t. If not, there will be nothing left here but ashes. I’d tell you to take the horses and run, but the further he goes toward the Light, the harder this will be. You have to make the choice.” He looked up. “Do you understand?”

Not a gods-damned word!
“Yes,” Rowen said instead.

The crooked figure seemed to take this as his answer and lowered his gaze to Hráthbam again. “Death is death. Every sane person knows that. Then again, death is also
not
death—depending, of course, on what you mean by
not.
” He laughed curtly. “I have no idea what that means, but I know it’s true.” He took Hráthbam’s cold, dark hands between his own. Rowen saw the stooped man’s hideous flesh again.

Jinn’s name, what is he doing?
Rowen grabbed the only weapon within reach: the shovel. Holding it with both hands, he lifted it high. Moonlight shone off the dirt-speckled blade.

“You might want to wait a moment before bashing my head off,” the stooped figure said. He still did not look up. “Your friend will thank you for it.” The violet glow returned. But this time, it washed over the madman’s entire body. Brighter and brighter it glowed, until Rowen was blinded. Light flooded the Simurgh Plains. Swearing, Rowen backed away, dropping the shovel to shield his eyes. He tried to hold his ground, but the glare drove him back until he lost his footing and fell, still pressing his fists to his eyes.

Moments later, the glow dimmed. Fearfully, Rowen lowered his hands. He was stunned for a moment, blinking in the dark, then he found and picked up the shovel again.

Ahead of him, the stooped figure rose slowly. He looked weaker now, unbalanced. As he took a step, he lurched and nearly fell. Rowen didn’t know whether to help him or strike him. Then the hood fell from his face. Moonlight spilled down features every bit as hideous as the skin that covered the man’s hands and wrists.

Rowen gasped, horrified. The stranger glanced up at him sharply. He quickly tugged his hood back up—but not before Rowen saw the man’s eyes: deep violet save for the pupils, which were not black but white as mist.

The stooped figure turned away, looking at Hráthbam again. “You can try bashing me with the shovel again if you like. But I wouldn’t suggest it. Your friend will be very hungry when he wakes. And confused. The latter is a blessing. Some things are best forgotten. Perhaps this whole night is one such example.”

Gathering his ratty cloak about his stooped frame, the Shel’ai started to shuffle off then stopped and glanced back. “I think the Light has plans for us. But I could be wrong. I often am. Goodbye. Remember what I said about your hands.” He shuffled toward the dark, easterly horizon.

Rowen started to follow when a low groan interrupted him. The body of the Soroccan merchant shuddered. Then, Hráthbam’s eyes opened, green and full of life in the darkness.

The Soroccan stared. Then he saw the open grave beside him. His eyes fixed next on the shovel in Rowen’s hand. Hráthbam shook himself. His voice hoarse, he said, “If you mean to bury me alive, you pale-faced, red-haired bastard, at least give me a drink first!”

Captain Lethe of the Unseen awoke with a stream of curses as someone yanked his tent open. Fresh sunlight streamed into his eyes. Shielding them with one hand, the captain reached for his sword. He drew the blade and might have taken the guard’s head off before he recognized him.

Ruefully, he sheathed his weapon and closed his eyes again. “If you don’t close that flap, I’ll kill your mother and rape her ghost.”

The guard paled. “I’m sorry, Captain, but General Fadarah sent me.”

The captain’s eyes stayed closed. “This army has been sitting in the same place for a week while the sorcerers tend their wounded. It will probably be sitting here another week before we start moving again. There’s nothing to fight. What in Fohl’s hells does that tattooed bastard want with me now?”