Wytchfire (Book 1) (27 page)

Aeko called out his name again. This time, when Rowen ignored her, the olive-skinned Knight of the Stag caught his arm and wrenched him to a halt. With surprising strength, she shoved him away from the crowds, into a dirty alley between two inns.

“That was foolish.” She pointed back in the direction of Sir Ammerhel. “What did you think you were going to accomplish there?”

Rowen did not answer. Aeko stood half a foot shorter than he, but the look on her face intimidated him.

“Is it true?” Aeko asked instead. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Did that wytch and her friend curse you?” Her hand moved for the hilt of her adamune.

“I don’t... I don’t think so.”

“You don’t
think
so?”

Rowen threw up his hands. “What is it you want from me, Commander?” He backed away from her. She followed him deeper into the alley.

“I’d like to know why you are so intent on throwing your life away. Did you really think that Crovis Ammerhel, a venerated Knight of the Lotus, was going to accept help from a Sylvan wytch? Or change his mind based on some ranting tale from a mainland corporal?”

Rowen gritted his teeth. “I do not pretend to be wise, Commander. But I am no fool. Silwren may be a wytch, but she is no devil. The same can be said for El’rash’lin. When they say they’ve come to Lyos to protect us, I believe them.”

After a moment, Aeko said, “Then I believe her, too. But it doesn’t matter.
None
of this matters, Rowen. What Crovis said is true.” She lowered her voice even though the noise of bartering, bustling crowds beyond the alleyway meant they might have shouted and no one would have noticed or overheard them.

“Another bird arrived this morning. Word from our scouts to the west. The Dhargots are sweeping across the Simurgh Plains. Footmen, cavalry, war-elephants...” She winced. “Gods, Locke... They’ve already taken Syros, and they’re marching on Cassica—or what’s left of it. Soon, the Shel’ai will have to turn their army around. They’ll have to look to their rear, or else they’ll lose everything!”

Rowen’s heart sank. He wanted to believe her, but El’rash’lin’s memories returned to him. “El’rash’lin said this would happen. The Throng made a deal with the Dhargots. Fadarah will clear a path. Then the Dhargots will sweep their legions across the Simurgh Plains, all the way to the coast, and the Isle Knights will have to fight them.”

Aeko’s eyes narrowed. “El’rash’lin said this… and you’re only telling me now?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. Why would the Dhargots help Fadarah?”

“The Dhargots get the Free Cities—and the Isles, if they can take them—in exchange for helping the Shel’ai take the Wytchforest. By the time it’s all over, the whole damn continent will be drawn into this. It’ll mean fighting unlike Ruun has seen since the Shattering War!”

Aeko took a deep breath and let it go. Rowen sensed her frustration. “Apparently, your mind was drifting when we taught strategy on the Isles. Even a Shel’ai knows better than to trust a Dhargot. Why would Fadarah conquer all this land then just give it away?”

“Because it’s not enough to have an army. The Shel’ai learned that the hard way. Wherever they go, someone tries to kill them. The only way they’ll be at peace is if they break everyone who can hurt them.”

Aeko grimaced. “You almost sound like you agree with them.”

“I’m not entirely sure that I don’t,” he confessed.

Aeko shook her head. “Maybe Ammerhel was right to dismiss you after all.”

Rowen recoiled as though slapped.

Aeko’s face flushed with guilt. “Damn. Forgive me...” She started to reach for his arm then stopped herself. “But it’s true, Rowen. Can you even conceive of all the planning and strategy that went into winning these battles? If the sorcerers’ goal is to take the Wytchforest, why waste their men’s lives on the plains? Did they think we’d care whether or not they put Sylvs to the sword?” She laughed coldly. “There are few in the Lotus Isles who remember the old stories about all the races fighting together as allies once. Most say those stories are just fairy tales. But even if they were true, the Knighthood would never get involved in a war on the opposite end of the continent!”

She’s right. But she’s wrong, too. Somehow, I know it.

He rubbed his eyes. “You’re thinking of this in terms of numbers, Commander.” He still referred to her by her title, for despite the occasional warmth in her eyes, he had never felt free nor had he been invited to call her by her given name. “Battalions, swords, how many miles men have to march, how much food it takes to feed and armor them. How much they have to pay the mercenaries to keep them from rebelling. Am I right?”

Aeko frowned. “Of course. That’s what
all
generals must think about.”

“Unless they’re sorcerers,” Rowen answered. “El’rash’lin says this is just a ruse. I know it from his own mind. The Shel’ai aren’t strong enough yet to take the Wytchforest. Besides, they want more than that. They want
everything!
All of Ruun. They want us all to destroy each other. That’s the only way they can ever be safe.”

Aeko’s expression said she did not believe him, but he was tired of arguing, tired of standing in this alley, which smelled of mud and filth. He was tired of this city. But most of all, he was tired of not saying what he really wanted to say.

“You should have defended me. I was a fine student. If Crovis would not do it, you should have knighted me yourself.”

Aeko blinked in surprise. “That’s a dead custom. Nowadays—”

“What about the Codex Lotius? What about honor?” He shook with rage. “You’re a hero! My brother worshipped you. The peasant girl who became a Knight, who beat five Olgrym single-handed—”

“Three,” Aeko corrected. “There were three, not five. One already had an arrow in his leg. And I almost died fighting them. Anyway, I’m not in Lyos because I’m some fearless hero. I am here because Crovis Ammerhel likes to stare at me. When he isn’t belittling my intelligence and questioning my honor, that is.”

Rowen’s jaw fell in disbelief.

Aeko sighed. “I am sorry I couldn’t do more for you. But let me tell you something about my place in the Knighthood while you’re finally standing still and listening. Crovis despises me. He would strip my title in a second if he could. I bet he dreams of that even more than stripping my armor! You think the Knights are some kind of goodly brotherhood. They’re not. Most of them are like Crovis: honorable to a fault but not like the stories. Not like Fâyu Jinn. Those Knights don’t exist anymore—if they ever did.”

Rowen could think of nothing to say.

Aeko sighed. “Your brother’s name was Kayden—if I recall.”

This caught Rowen further off guard. He had spoken with Aeko on the Isles, but he never mentioned Kayden to anyone there. If he won his Knighthood, he was determined that it be on his own merit, not Kayden’s reputation.

“I remember him,” Aeko said, taking his silence as answer. “You look like him. Crovis didn’t want Kayden knighted, either. I had to call in more favors than I cared to spend to get your brother his adamune.”

Rowen blinked back tears, cursing a sudden surge of emotion. “Kayden wanted me to come to the Isles, but I didn’t have enough coin yet. Then I heard…” He choked then forced a smile. “I had a hard time accepting that. I know it happens. I’ve known other men who fell out of the saddle while drunk and busted an arm or something. And I saw an old man once who split his skull that way. But Kayden was a good rider. To survive all that training, to go through everything he did, then die like that—” Rowen stopped. Something in Aeko’s expression unsettled him.

“The letter,” Rowen began. “The Knighthood sent me a letter, saying he died by bad chance. A snake spooked his horse. He fell… split his head on a rock.” It seemed to Rowen that even as he spoke, he could hear the speed and tone of his own voice changing. “Commander…”

He trailed off. For a long time, he could not speak. When he finally found his voice, he hardly recognized it. “Who killed him?”

Aeko’s answer was quick, as though she were unsurprised by the question. “I cannot tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” Aeko said, unfazed. “I understand your grief, Rowen. I do. But I have already hinted at too much, and it is not my place to say more. I was not Kayden’s commander.”

“Then who was?”

“A Knight of the Stag named Matsuo. He was my friend. He died too—along with most of the company.”

“Where?”

Aeko tensed. At last, she said, “The Ash’bana Plains, north of the Wytchforest. Near Godsfall. They were ambushed.”

Rowen’s eyes widened. Godsfall was the land of the Olgrym, probably the most dangerous place in all of Ruun. But the Knights’ destination stunned him most of all. “The Wytchforest! What in Fohl’s hells were they doing there?”

“They were looking for something.” Aeko fell silent.

“No. You have to tell me.” When she did not speak, he seized her arm. “What were they looking for?”

Aeko swore under her breath. She twisted free of his grip but did not leave. They stood a while, awash in the distant, chaotic sounds of the market. At last, she said, “They were looking for the tomb of Fâyu Jinn.”

Chapter Twenty-One

In the Throng

T
he Throng made camp on the Simurgh Plains just two days’ march from Lyos. Campfires blazed everywhere like flickering orange jewels. Catching the night breeze here and there flew several banners: the crimson greatwolf of Fadarah plus the various emblems of the men’s homelands, now used to distinguish one company from another. Despite the fact that most of the men were conscripts from conquered cities, high pay and relatively good treatment—coupled with fear of the Shel’ai—had kept the ranks in line so far.

But Fadarah could tell that was changing. He gleaned thoughts of rebellion in the minds of nearly every man he passed as he made his way through the camp. Still, all who saw him coming looked away quickly. He felt a touch of smugness as he sensed how they feared him. He stood a good foot taller than any other man in the camp, with a powerful build even the most muscular Humans envied. Tattoos covered most of his exposed skin, including his shaved head. While Fadarah doubted that the men of the Throng understood the full implication of those tattoos, camp gossip had at least informed them of the brutal truth: in his youth, Fadarah had tattooed his body with the names of the Olgrym he’d killed.

As he paced the camp tonight, Fadarah also used his magic to amplify his hearing. He could tell that word of the latest developments had spread. The Dhargots were marching onto the plains, threatening the same homelands that the soldiers thought they could protect by pledging themselves to Fadarah’s banner in the first place. Some men wanted to rebel outright. Others wanted to try and desert, though anyone caught attempting such a thing was burned alive by wytchfire. No one could believe that Fadarah, who had proven himself on countless occasions to be a cunning strategist, seemed unperturbed by the Dhargots advancing behind them, seizing for themselves all the lands that the Throng had taken just months before.

Even when the occasional Human officer got up the nerve to ask, neither Fadarah nor the other Shel’ai offered any explanation.
Many will not want to fight tomorrow.
He had already paid these men a fortune, but they wanted more than wealth. They wanted their lives. They wanted to go back and defend their homelands from the Dhargots.

Fadarah did not begrudge them this. For all their sins, he could not bring himself to share Kith’el’s infamous hatred of Humans. He could imagine what it must be like to have a home and to see it in danger. Any soldier who survived the coming battle would be released. Of course, Fadarah did not expect many of them to survive.

He felt a pang of guilt but reminded himself, as he had countless times before, that he had no choice. If the men were released to go back and defend their homelands, they might actually succeed in slowing the Dhargots’ advance. Fadarah’s bargain with the one they called the Red Emperor—an alliance that would eventually help Fadarah claim the Wytchforest—meant giving the Dhargots free run of the Simurgh Plains, clear to the Burnished Way if possible.

He looked up. Clouds veiled the heavens, including the great starry swirl of Armahg’s Eye, which many of these superstitious Humans called an ill omen. That gave them all the more reason to revolt, and his Shel’ai were already hard-pressed, guarding against deserters. Add to that the strain of keeping the Nightmare in check, and the Shel’ai were nearing their breaking point. But he only needed them for one more day. And so he went to see Brahasti.

The thought of dealing with the exiled Dhargot momentarily sickened him, but for all his despicable qualities, Brahasti was still the best strategist gold could buy.

Fadarah paused outside the man’s tent. Guards tensed, their expressions uneasy, but Fadarah dismissed them. Then he listened and scowled. A woman cried from within Brahasti’s tent.

Didn’t I warn him about that?
Fadarah scowled. Violence born of necessity was one thing, but this was quite another. He and the other Shel’ai did not tolerate such things, even among high-ranking officers like Brahasti. Fadarah threw open the tent flap and strode inside.

Darkness and the reek of sweat filled the tent. Fadarah waved his hand, conjuring a sphere of wytchfire that hovered in the air in front of him. Relics cluttered the tent—trinkets from sacked towns and cities, plus chests of gold coins Fadarah paid to retain the man’s loyalty. Looking past these, Fadarah’s eyes fell on a straw pallet.

Brahasti lay there: tall, dark haired, and frightfully thin. A young woman was pinned beneath him—probably one of the prostitutes who followed the army, looking for work. Her cheek was bleeding. He was biting her neck now. She stared imploringly at Fadarah.

“Brahasti, get up.”

When the man did not answer, Fadarah snapped one hand into a fist, using magic to wrench the man off the woman and fling him to the ground. The woman leapt up, grabbed her gown off the floor and rushed out—still naked—into the night.

Brahasti rose from the ground, also naked, and laughed. “My apologies, General. I didn’t hear you come in.” He nodded after the woman. “But I’m guessing your entrance made quite an impression on her.”

A chill ran down Fadarah’s spine.
Strange
.
After all I’ve faced, even though I could kill this man with a gesture, something about him frightens me.
“I sent for you an hour ago,” Fadarah answered coldly. “If you have such an affinity for torture, perhaps I should impose a Blood Thrall on you.”

“You’ll find I am not as creative a killer when I am under duress.” Brahasti grinned. “Still, I appreciate your fortitude, General. That’s why I serve you.”

Fadarah took a threatening step forward, a fierce violet glow igniting around his body. “You serve me because otherwise, I’ll roast your living organs.” He closed his fist and opened it, summoning tendrils of wytchfire so brilliant and hot that Brahasti drew back. “We have business to discuss.”

Brahasti still had not bothered to cover himself. “Of course, General. How can I be of service?”

Fadarah considered ordering the man to dress then decided he preferred to leave as quickly as possible. “The army is on the verge of revolt. They’ll ask you to lead them against me—if they haven’t already.”

Brahasti nodded, unfazed. “Shall I refuse?”

“No. Tell them you want to revolt, too, but insist they wait until after Lyos has fallen.”

“How long?” Brahasti’s eyes danced with cold amusement.

“One week,” Fadarah answered. “Say you overheard plans for half the Shel’ai to leave the army on another mission of some kind—meaning it will be easier for you to kill the rest of us. Pretend you’re acting out of concern for your men’s lives.”

“And what will you give me in exchange?”

“First,” Fadarah said, “your life. Because if the army does not fight tomorrow, I will blame you. And I promise, you will not die quickly.”

Brahasti examined one fingernail. “I understand.”

He’s not even afraid of me. Kith’el is right. This one is too cruel to control. I could impose a Blood Thrall on him, but he’s right. I need a general, not another mindless guard dog like the Unseen.

Fadarah fought the impulse to draw his greatsword and cleave the man in two. Instead, he decided to bribe him instead. The figure he promised was more gold than Brahasti had ever seen—more gold, in fact, than most kings held in their treasuries. Brahasti’s face brightened. The Dhargot bowed, a touch of mockery in his voice as he said, “I remain your humble servant, General.”

Fadarah whirled and left the tent, dismissing his wytchfire and leaving Brahasti in darkness. His heavy armor clattered as he stomped off into the night. One matter, at least, had been settled. But that left others. As he walked, Fadarah thought of El’rash’lin again.
I miss your cunning, old friend.

The plan to pit all the peoples of Ruun against each other, yoking their strength while reducing their threat in the process, had been as much El’rash’lin’s as his own. If El’rash’lin had indeed gone as mad as poor Silwren, he might very well betray their advantage to Lyos. But there was a way to prevent that. The Sorcerer-General sighed with regret.
Forgive me, old friend, but you’ve left me no choice
.

Jalist Hewn had joined the Throng shortly after the host had marched from the smoldering ruins of Syros and was slowly rumbling toward Cassica. He was, to his knowledge, one of only a half dozen Dwarr in an army of thousands. This he knew only by rumor; he had never sought out or spoken with the other Dwarrs, nor did that trouble him. Jalist had no desire to seek solace among his own kind. He was used to standing out in a crowd.

“Ants on two legs,” Humans sometimes called his kind. While most Dwarrs had red-brown or black hair, which they wore in tight fighting braids, Jalist’s shone like sun-bleached pebbles. A squad leader could spot Jalist from a hundred yards away. An enemy could single him out in the fiercest melee—which happened often. Jalist was used to this, too.

Once, years and years before, Jalist had served as a housecarl under King Fedwyr Thegn of Tarator, where his famed long-axe cut bandits clean out of their saddles. But that was long in the past. His only reminder of his old life was the tattoo of a black dragon on his bicep: the personal insignia of the housecarls.

Jalist had thought of the tattoo the first time he saw the Nightmare. He had heard stories but had not yet actually seen it in action. When he did, he doubted the citizens of Cassica were any more terrified than he was.

No ultimatums, no demands—the Throng simply fanned out beyond the walls of Cassica, cavalry and footmen in neat formation. The Shel’ai formed ranks and stared, just beyond bowshot, as though waiting for something. The hired swords milled around behind them.

Then, the Nightmare roared to life. Friend and foe alike pissed themselves when they saw it. A scaled thing, huge but man shaped… and burning. Always burning. Chains and a blackened steel collar held it in check, its eyes slicing about—yellow, cold, thin as daggers. Then the collar vanished—whisked away by magic, no doubt—and the beast howled.

Jalist had never seen fire demolish stone before, but that was exactly what happened. One blast only, and the walls of Cassica came crashing down.

The Shel’ai swarmed forward, shrouded in their bone-white cloaks, riding their well-bred destriers—Fadarah himself on a huge bloodmare. Jalist followed because he had no choice, swept up with his regiment.

In truth, only one section of wall was demolished, but at the time, it had seemed much worse. Some men were killed in the collapse but not many. The rest huddled, coughing and wide-eyed, and thought they were about to die. Jalist pitied them. But as quickly as it appeared, the Nightmare seemed to disappear—replaced, he swore, by a stooped figure in a cloak, though no one believed him.

Fadarah himself had ridden forward, huge and imposing in his dark armor. A banner displaying his crimson greatwolf snapped overhead. He called out, pledging that any who surrendered would be spared. One by one, Cassica’s defenders threw down their pikes and swords. Fadarah was true to his word. His army looted the city while the white-cloaked Shel’ai maintained order, keeping rape and bloodshed to a minimum. Meanwhile, the soldiers of Cassica were herded together on the plains outside the smashed wall.

“You will find me fair as I am cruel,” Fadarah had said, his voice booming. “The stories are true. Those who oppose me die screaming. But those who swear fealty to my army see their loved ones spared and their pockets filled with gold. Decide now.”

Men exchanged glances, their faces smeared with blood and soot.

Jalist, arrayed with the men of the Throng, took a moment to study the rest of the sorcerers arrayed around the dark-armored general. He had never seen Shel’ai before, but their exotic features mesmerized him as much as their magic. He came back to his senses when he heard the fallen city’s defenders mumbling their pledges of loyalty to the Shel’ai.

Jalist had no doubt that many still had half a mind to rebel just as soon they could, but such desires withered with time. Serving the sorcerers turned out to be better than anyone expected. There was always plenty of stew and bread, and Fadarah paid them well. Every hired sword and conscript earned more coins than they could spend. What’s more, the sorcerers employed priests and priestesses of Tier’Gothma to tend their wounds, plus minstrels and whores for their entertainment. But something had changed. Jalist considered this as he went to see Llassio.