Wytchfire (Book 1) (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

No Quarter

T
he basement torches still blazed, but Rowen did not need them, thanks to the wytchfire. The cloaked figure stood outside Silwren’s cell, his face livid, tendrils of violet flames coursing the lengths of his arms.

Meanwhile, in the cell, Silwren stood protectively over El’rash’lin. The latter slept fitfully on the cold, straw-strewn floor, as though gripped by a terrible fever. Rowen descended the stairs. No one turned to acknowledge him. Rowen winced from the mild slashes to his forearm and thigh, but he had no time to bandage them. He only hoped he would not lose so much blood that he passed out. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the dark-garbed fighter was following him.

Not yet. I should have killed him when I had the chance, though.
Spotting footprints on the stairs behind him, he realized they were his own, made from his boot soles soaked in dead guards’ blood. He fixed his gaze on Shade instead. With shaking hands, Rowen held Knightswrath in a guarded position before him, though the sword would be useless against wytchfire. He started forward… slowly.

The cloaked figure spoke in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign at the same time. Rowen thought of El’rash’lin again. He had the odd sensation that if he concentrated, he might be able to understand what they were saying. But at the time, he did not care. He edged closer.

Shade still had not noticed him. A few feet more, and he could strike the murderer down. Then, Shade turned.

He did not appear frightened by the sight of Rowen’s poised blade, only surprised. Or was he annoyed? Rowen could not tell which. Silwren screamed a warning—too late. Fingers coursing with wytchfire flung death through the air.

Rowen cried out in panic. He stumbled backward, knowing he could not outrun the fire. Out of desperation, he raised Knightswrath before him as though it were a shield. Time slowed to a crawl. He knew he was about to become like one of the ghastly dead men burned alive in the cells upstairs.

But the wytchfire met his sword instead. Like a dry rag cast into water, Knightswrath drew the wytchfire into its rusty depths. Rowen did not believe it.

Nor did Shade. He stared at Rowen without comprehension. Then he changed tactics. One slender wrist flicked sharply, and Rowen went sailing backward, flung by some invisible force. He struck the ground hard, Knightswrath clattering from his grasp.

Then he heard another clang of metal, far louder than his falling sword. Desperately, he struggled to rise. Something warm and dark ran into his eyes, burning them. He wiped away blood. Dazed, he looked down the corridor. His eyes widened.

The bars of Silwren’s cell had been wrenched open, as though made of tin. Silwren stood in the corridor now, her body awash in wytchfire, eyes blazing white. Shade recoiled before her. He pleaded in their foreign tongue again, lifting his hands. A protective shield of violet flames formed in front of him.

Silwren smashed it aside. The fire engulfing her body intensified. She was wholly white now. Rowen felt the heat on his face. Blinded, he turned away. The sorcerer’s cloak brushed over him as Shade was flung toward the stairs. He struck hard. Bones cracked.

Somehow, Shade rose, blood running from his mouth, eyes wide with fear. He struggled up the stairs. His cloak caught on the stone and pulled away from him. He left it behind.

Rowen fumbled blindly for his sword. Finally, his hands closed over the dragonbone hilt. It felt so hot he could barely touch it. He hefted the sword anyway. It felt alive in his grasp, even more so than it had in the depths of Cadavash.

He considered chasing down the sorcerer and finishing him. Instead, shielding his eyes with his free hand, he tried to locate Silwren through the glare. But all he saw was light—light and fire.

Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the light and fire vanished. Silwren stood in the corridor, a mad look in her eyes, the clothes burned from her body. She stared at him without recognition. He feared for a moment that she would kill him. Then she pitched forward, collapsing into a fragile heap. Beneath her, the floor of the jailhouse looked blackened, as though kissed by a dragon’s breath.

Captain Ferocles could hardly believe the story when he heard it. As nightfall spread over the city, a squad of soldiers had left the barracks for the jailhouse at shift change to relieve their comrades. Upon entering, they found guards and prisoners—all dead. They descended into the basement, swords drawn, and discovered Corporal Locke with the Shel’ai.

Ferocles was surprised his men did not kill them. Instead, they sent word. When he arrived, he ordered everyone else upstairs. Locke recounted his story. Despite the tale’s strangeness, Ferocles could tell by the look on Locke’s face that he was either too stunned to tell anything but the truth, or else he was the world’s greatest liar. Ferocles knew they had to act fast. So he sent a runner to the Knights.

“Who do I fetch, Captain?” the runner asked.

Ferocles grimaced at the thought of soliciting the help of Crovis Ammerhel. And Sir Vossmore was obviously no more than Ammerhel’s lapdog. “Find that pretty Knight of the Stag and bring her here.”

The runner’s eyes widened. “Captain... the
woman
?”

Ferocles shoved the man toward the door.

Aeko Shingawa appeared more quickly than he expected, a squad of her most trusted Knights in tow. Despite the abrupt summons, they appeared in full battle dress. Ferocles thought she would blanch when she saw the bloodshed. Instead, her almond eyes narrowed, one hand on her adamune. “Who did this?”

Ferocles said, “According to Locke, it was another Shel’ai.”

“Locke?”

“He’s in the basement, with the wytch and her friend, both of whom sleep like the dead.” He glanced at the blood and bodies still covering the jailhouse floor. “No disrespect to these poor bastards.”

“And where is the one who did this?”

“Fled.” Ferocles shrugged. “I’d like to think even sorcerers have trouble slipping past locked gates, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Have you sent men after him?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Ferocles was glad they had opened the windows. At least a little of the stench had cleared from the air, but his nerves were wearing thin. He gestured at the ghastly mess all around them. “These are my men, Knight! And those prisoners—no matter what they did—were still citizens of Lyos! I’ll flay this bastard’s guts if it takes the whole Red Watch to do it!”

“It might.” Aeko held up her hands. “Peace, Captain. I understand your anger. But our first duty is to keep word of this”—she hesitated, glancing around them—“
incident
from spreading throughout the city, unless you want another riot.”

Ferocles glowered at her. “I’d rather drink my men’s piss than admit you’re right.”

“But we both know I am,” Aeko said. “If the Light wills it, Captain, we
will
find and kill this sorcerer. I swear it. But first, we must look to the city.”

Ferocles stalked past her, barking orders to his men. Most of them milled uneasily outside the jailhouse, talking in frightened whispers. More than a few had already vomited there.

Waving off her loyal Knights, Aeko descended into the lower level to find Rowen Locke. The cells of the lower level were all empty, save for one that contained two prone figures. One—a woman—slept beneath a singed, bone-white cloak sewn in crimson greatwolves and splotched with blood. As Aeko drew nearer, she saw how, even in fitful sleep, Silwren resembled some exotic heroine from an ancient mural.
No wonder Locke keeps risking his skin for her!

Then she noticed the cell itself. The door of iron bars was not open, as she first thought, but wrenched apart. Rowen Locke sat on the floor with his back to the cell, a sheathed sword across his knees. His head hung low. But he jumped at the sound of her approach, fumbling for his weapon.

“Peace, Locke. It’s just me.” She looked him over. “You’re wounded.”

Rowen rose with difficulty, using his sword as a crutch. Aeko’s eyes fell on his exquisite adamune and widened. That mattered little to her, but it seemed uncharacteristic of Rowen to violate one of the many laws of the Codex Viticus that he had so eagerly tried to learn on the Isles. She wondered how she hadn’t noticed the sword before. Shaking off this thought, she returned her attention to his wounds.

“Just some scratches,” Rowen said boldly, but she saw how he winced when he moved. “A cleric of Tier’Gothma already tended them.”

Aeko nodded and looked into the cell. She found it unnerving to be this close to Shel’ai. She had never seen them before. Silwren looked peaceful enough, despite the strangeness of the long, tapered ears emerging from her platinum tresses. Then she saw the other Shel’ai, the one who must be El’rash’lin.

The breath caught in her throat. “By the Light...” All that was visible of the man’s body was his face and hands, but that was enough. The skin looked as though it had been cut a dozen times then had healed as well as it could over a tattered tapestry of warts and sores. She thought back on Rowen’s strange tale—that these two had been infused with power like that of the Dragonkin, only to have that very magic threaten to devour them each time they used it.

Silwren appeared to be in the grasp of a nightmare, trembling fitfully beneath a bone-white cloak, but she was anything but ghastly.
How convenient for Rowen.
Did her beauty mean Silwren had not fully embraced her power or that the Shel’ai’s story was a lie?

Aeko decided not to press this for the moment. “I’ll hand you a silver cranáf
if you can explain this in terms I’ll understand.”

Rowen answered with a chilling smile that seemed almost mad. She was glad when he sheathed his sword and laid it aside. “You won’t believe a word of it.”

Aeko said, “I swear by the Light to try.”

That was good enough. Rowen told her about arriving at the jailhouse to find the guards and prisoners dead. His pitched duel with the dark-garbed fighter. The sadistic Shel’ai who went down to the lower level, presumably to kill Silwren and El’rash’lin, only to be driven away.

Aeko looked at both Shel’ai again and sighed. Her hand rested on the hilt of her own adamune. In a low voice, she said, “Locke, I don’t have to tell you what a terrible mess we are in.”

Rowen said nothing.

“I sent word to Crovis. I had to. I’m sure by now, King Pelleas knows about this, too. There’s a good chance that neither will believe what you told me. In fact, they may have decided
you
helped these two kill everyone upstairs in an effort to escape.”

Rowen reached for his sword again. “Let them think what they like.”

Despite herself, Aeko had to conceal a smile. “You understand, they may come for you soon.” She gestured at the two sleeping Shel’ai. “You and these wytches.”

Rowen nodded tightly.

“And can you say with certainty that these two had no part in the slaughter upstairs?”

“Commander, I swear that on my life.”

Aeko nodded, satisfied. “Unfortunately, that changes nothing. At best, we are left with an army fueled by sorcery that will be laying siege to this city the day after tomorrow. And our strongest allies appear to be two renegade wytches who refuse to fight.”

Rowen hesitated. She saw him look at Silwren again.
By the Light, is he falling in love with her?

“They’ll fight with the time comes,” Rowen said. “I swear it, Commander.”

Aeko’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve sworn many things, Locke. Be careful that you do not overextend your honor.”

Rowen flinched.

Aeko looked into the cell again, eyeing the Shel’ai. “Two things must be done here,” she said at last. “To protect the wytches, we must get them out of here. Take them somewhere Crovis, the king, and the good captain will not find them.”

Rowen’s expression soured. “I know a place.”