Wytchfire (Book 1) (36 page)

The opposing sorcerer flung wytchfire of his own. Rowen recoiled, but Silwren waved, and the sorcerer’s wytchfire melted into thin air. Then, she unleashed hers. It washed over everything, pouring from her body until she howled with rage and pain.

Blinded, Rowen drew away from her. When at last she lowered her hands, wytchfire fading from her body, the sorcerer and the dark-garbed warriors had been replaced by ashes that mingled with the cinders of the burning garden.

“There are more,” Silwren said. “We must kill them all.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Knight of the Crane

I
n Lyos, the fighting continued street to street, temple to temple, house to house. Shade, ten Shel’ai, and a hundred Unseen were already deep inside the city. Shade had counted on fighting armed men, not defenseless women and children. But Fadarah’s orders were clear: Lyos had to be utterly destroyed. Showing mercy now would only hamper their campaign later.

Fadarah had already warned him of the revolt outside the city. Shade’s head spun from the realization that their plans had been unraveled, all due to Silwren and El’rash’lin. Because of them, innocent people were dying.

“Not my fault.” Shade unleashed wytchfire, scouring one house after another, wincing from the smell of scorched wood and burned flesh.

Desperately, he had tried to mindspeak with his wife before the fighting began. She refused to answer. They had shared so much, surviving together, and she would not even acknowledge him.

Hurt melted into bitterness. Bitterness became rage. Rage turned to murder.

Shade scattered the Unseen now, issuing their final order: kill and kill until they themselves were cut down. They accepted the order with relish, knowing that release from the Blood Thrall was finally at hand. But he kept Lethe close by. The Unseen wept openly—but killed and killed, as he was ordered.

Not my fault.

Aeko Shingawa led the fight. Blood speckled her olive skin. Gore ran from her adamune
.
During a brief lull in the fighting, she looked up and noted that smoke choked the sky. A quarter of Lyos was burning now. But at least the invaders did not go unchallenged.

In the distance, a squad of archers took up neat positions at the end of a street and provided cover for fleeing people, raining wave after wave of death on advancing Unseen. Earlier, slumdwellers had banded together and actually managed to kill a Shel’ai by flinging pikes, rocks, and daggers.

But it’s not enough…

Aeko had already arrived too late to prevent a squad of Unseen from sweeping through a temple of Maelmohr and murdering everyone inside. But when the Unseen emerged—some weeping, others smug with bloodlust—they’d met the swords of Aeko, her Knights, and a squad of Red Watch commanded by Captain Ferocles. The fighting was brief but furious. By the time it was over, Aeko had lost three Knights. Half the Red Watch had been slain—as had Captain Ferocles himself.

Now, Aeko tightened her gauntlets. In the distance, she spotted a party of Shel’ai and Unseen heading toward a refugee-filled temple of Tier’Gothma. Blocking them were Fen-Shea and his Bloody Asps. Aeko led her Knights to reinforce them.

Steel rang. Wytchfire blazed over stone. Men fell, dying. Fen-Shea’s great mace shattered in his grasp. He would have died, but the Isle Knights arrived in time. They raced across a marble walkway and flanked the enemy. One Shel’ai fell, then another—each taking Knights and gang members with him. Then Aeko slipped forward, raised her sword in
hoso no-kami,
and cut a third Shel’ai nearly in half.

The last sorcerer unleashed a fearful gush of wytchfire at her. Aeko pitched forward, trying to dodge. The devilish flames singed her armor. The Shel’ai prepared another strike then stiffened, one of Fen-Shea’s knives in his back.

Aeko nodded her thanks. The grim-faced leader of the Bloody Asps answered with a wink. She stopped to catch her breath, glancing at the body-strewn walkway. Why weren’t more Isle Knights arriving to help? Then she guessed.

By the Light, Crovis will pay for this!

Sergeant Epheus stood nearby, flanked by a handful of Red Watch, all fighting to catch their breath. She waved. Then she led her remaining few Knights, plus Fen-Shea and the last of the Bloody Asps, back into the fray.

Lethe lifted his shortsword. “Here they come again.” He spoke the warning only because he had been ordered to. He stood with Shade in a street near the rear gate.

The guards there had already tried three times to reach Shade. Each time, he drove them back. His master could have broken past them and made it out of the city, but Shade was not finished yet. He wanted to toy with them. A fey smile shone on the Shel’ai’s lips.

Lethe watched the men of the Red Watch gather in the distance, nine strong, armed with pikes and shields. They had started out with twenty.

The game reminded Lethe of a cat tormenting a dying mouse. “Enough of this! Finish them, and let’s be gone from here.”

Shade ignored him. Focusing on the soldiers instead, Shade feigned exhaustion. The soldiers advanced slowly, shields locked, then quickened their pace when they saw the sorcerer leaning wearily against the wall of an abandoned cottage, not a single wisp of fire curling from his wrists. Lethe glanced at the soldiers with pity. He wanted to warn them, but a stranger’s life was not worth the torments of the Blood Thrall.

Shade waited.

When the men were almost upon him, he straightened to full height and lifted his hands. Wytchfire blazed to life. The men screamed as Shade’s magic washed over them, burning through shields and armor alike. In his fury, Shade burned the bodies, too. He left nothing but ash.

Lethe spat at Shade’s feet. “Are you sated, or should I find you something else to kill? Perhaps there’s an orphanage somewhere nearby.”

Shade winced. The rage in the sorcerer’s eyes melted into hurt. Lethe wondered if he’d somehow gotten through to him. Then he followed his master’s gaze and saw a woman step into the street. Hair like quicksilver fell past her slender shoulders. Her grimace might have been chiseled from stone. Wytchfire crackled and writhed at her fingertips.

Shade said, “Hello, my love,” and unleashed a torrent of flame in her direction.

Lethe lost sight of the woman for a moment. Then the fire cleared. She stood unharmed. A new figure joined her: a man in a tattered brigandine, holding a curved sword wet with blood.
Rowen...

The woman said, “Kith’el, this must end.”

Shade said, “On that, at least, we agree.” He threw more fire at her. This time, the woman waved her hands, and the fire changed direction as though swatted away, burning the stone face of a temple statue instead. Cinders sailed like dying stars through her hair but left her unharmed.

“El’rash’lin is dead,” the woman said. “That should mean something to you.”

“
Many
have died. Many more will.” Shade unleashed another gush of fire.

The woman lifted her hands and absorbed it into her palms. That time, she flinched with pain. “How many have we buried and burned already? This must stop.”

Shade sneered. “Too many to count. Too many to mourn.” He drove at her again, hurtling wytchfire at her face and heart.

She waved it away, stumbling as she did so. Rowen moved to catch her, but she pushed him back, trying to keep him behind her. “There are never... too many to mourn,” she answered weakly.

Shade laughed. “But I am weary of mourning, my love!” His voice rang with mockery. “I know you could kill me. But you won’t. Shall I repay your mercy in kind?” He turned to Lethe. “Kill the Human. But first, take your mask off.”

Lethe’s eyes widened. “Please...”

Shade repeated the order.

The Unseen started forward, his body no longer his own to control. Sword in one hand, he used the other to tug the black cloth from his face and drop it onto the bloody street.

Rowen watched Silwren’s eyes widen. She whispered, “Kith’el, no...”

Shade answered with fire. Silwren met it with fire of her own. Rowen wanted to help her, but this was her fight. He fixed his gaze on the dark-garbed fighter instead.

Given the man’s armor and the way he moved, he must have been the same man he’d battled in the jailhouse. The same man who could have killed him but hadn’t. There would be no quarter.

“
Singchai ushó fey...
” He only whispered it. Then, hefting Knightswrath, he ran to meet his attacker. He stopped halfway.

Dimly, he smelled Lyos burning around them, heard the din of fighting as the Knights and the Red Watch sought out the remaining Unseen. But more than anything, he saw the face of his enemy—this time, unmasked.

Green eyes, auburn hair. A face knife-scarred on one cheek in the act of saving Rowen from a would-be child raper, years and years ago. “Kayden...”

Chapter Thirty

Mercy

T
hey met where the street widened to accommodate a well. Dead men littered the ground. There, only days before, the living had idly quenched their thirst after labor. Mothers had drawn water to bathe their children.

Rowen shook his head. “Gods, this cannot be...” Knightswrath dipped before him.

Kayden did not slow. He passed the abandoned well, his shadow rippling over broken stone and spilled blood. “Lift that sword, little brother. Or I’ll kill you where you stand!” The former Knight’s eyes broiled with despair.

Rowen backed up. “Kayden, wait! Tell me—”

Kayden swung his shortsword. Rowen blocked but did not swing back. Instead, he retreated down the burning street, further from where Silwren and Shade battled in the distance. Kayden followed. He lunged at Rowen’s throat.

Rowen parried and circled, trying to keep his opponent at bay. “Kayden!”

The former Knight’s eyes welled with tears. “They bewytched me. My choice, though. I should have picked death. I didn’t. I was scared. My fault. Ask Silwren when it’s done. She’ll explain.” He swung. “No choice now. You must”—he lunged—“kill me!”

Rowen parried and sidestepped. He glimpsed an opening for his brother’s neck but did not take it.

“I can’t fight it again. Kill me, or I’ll kill you!” Kayden drew a second shortsword with his free hand. Steel sparked and clattered in the burning street. Kayden drove Rowen toward a wall, twice nearly killing him, never once hesitating. Rowen pleaded, certain this must all be a dream. A nightmare. Then, one of Kayden’s shortswords slashed his arm. Pain and blood brought him back to his senses.

“What must I do?” Rowen cried.

Kayden faced him, anguished. “Set me free...”

Rowen blanched. Then, slowly, he nodded. He thought back to all the battles they’d fought together, the countless times they’d sparred. Kayden was better now, but Rowen still knew his brother’s style, his weaknesses. He raised Knightswrath overhead. Fire glinted off its ancient blade. They met.

Again and again, swords clattered. The men fought with dreadful calmness now.

Kayden charged. His shortswords flashed. But he held one too low, the other too high. Knightswrath sang a deadly arc. Kayden stiffened. He made no move to staunch the blood swelling from his throat. Instead, he dropped his shortswords with a heavy clatter and started to fall. Rowen threw down his own sword and caught him. “Kayden...”

Rowen stumbled from his brother’s weight but managed to keep his head cradled as he knelt. Kayden opened his mouth to answer but instead coughed on his own blood. Then he died, his eyes overflowing with gratitude.

Night darkened the Simurgh Plains for the first time since the Battle of Lyos. There, miles from the city, Fadarah held the lean, cowering figure of Brahasti el Tarq by the scruff of his cloak and shook him. Dirt and blood smudged the Dhargot’s face. His extravagant robes hung in tatters. Fadarah flashed back to the sickening sight of Brahasti brutalizing the whore in his tent.

The Dhargot knew better than to resist. Even without magic, the half-Olg could rip him limb from limb. Fadarah glared down with blazing violet eyes, his tattooed face contorted in rage. Still holding the Dhargot with one gauntleted fist, Fadarah splayed the fingers of his other hand before Brahasti’s face. Violet flames crackled to life at his fingertips.

Brahasti’s face went pale. “General, please...”

Fadarah hoisted the man off the ground and tossed him like a child’s toy. Fadarah did not have to look at the faces of the other Shel’ai to know they disapproved—but only because they wanted Brahasti dead. He could not blame them. Fadarah narrowed his eyes, flames still sparking from his fingertips. “Speak.”

For once, Brahasti’s expression conveyed no arrogance. “Forgive me, General. It wasn’t my fault. That Dwarr man-lover, Jalist.
He
signaled the revolt!”

Fadarah took a menacing step toward the Dhargot as the latter struggled to rise. “Am I to believe that they revolted, even after you ordered otherwise?”

Brahasti nodded quickly. “I swear it!”

“And you did all you could to stop them?”

“Yes, General!”

Fadarah countered, “Then why are you still alive?”

Brahasti hesitated, visibly unsure how to answer. One of the Shel’ai standing behind Fadarah moved quietly to the towering sorcerer’s side. She threw back her hood, the light of Armahg’s Eye shining through her short, flaxen hair. “Let me kill him, General.” She lifted one delicate wrist, her hand awash in flames.

“No, Avesha.”

“General, this man betrayed you! He cost the lives of twenty-three Shel’ai!”

“You can read his mind as well as I can. There was no profit in betraying us.” Fadarah remembered Brahasti’s chests of gold coins, the wealth the man had pilfered from the conquered cities of the Simurgh Plains. All of that had been left in his tent when the Throng disbanded. Once again, Brahasti was penniless. That, at least, was a pleasing thought.

Brahasti nodded emphatically. “General, I sought you out myself! When the revolt began, I could have joined them or fled—”

“I would have found you,” Fadarah interrupted. “There is no place in the world where you can hide from me.” Even as he spoke, Fadarah thought that Avesha was right: he should kill him. But he had other tasks for which Brahasti might still be of use. “Go.”

Brahasti bowed. “Thank you, General.” He tried to look dignified as he hurried into the nearest tent.

“Keep an eye on him,” Fadarah said to Avesha. “If he strays from the camp, burn one of his ears off.”

Avesha nodded. “Yes, General.”

Fadarah pushed the Dhargot from his mind and turned to survey the remainder of his once-great host. The mighty Throng was no more. Less than a dozen Unseen remained, faces as grim and murderous as ever, for they knew how close they had been to release. But that did not trouble him.

Fadarah thought of old friends not among those assembled, brave men and women he himself had rescued after they were driven from the Wytchforest: Que’ann with her gentleness, Aerios with his quick wit, Cierrath with his tireless, unflappable loyalty. He realized with a chill that he would never see them again. They were lost, at best cast back into the Light.

He thought of Namundvar’s Well, of the magic they had leeched. The abomination of the Nightmare. So much death.
What must the Light think of us now?

Fadarah moved away from the others, to the edge of their makeshift camp, and began to strip off his heavy plate armor. His servants had all either fled or been killed, so he stripped off his armor himself, casting it piece by piece onto the darkened plains. He flexed his great muscles, trying to fight off the awful numbness he felt.
No.
I must not give in. So much has already been gained.

Someone approached and knelt before him.

“You need not worry, Kith’el. I am alive and unhurt.” Fadarah added, “Though I am surprised to see that Silwren let
you
live.”

Shade flinched. “As am I, General.”

“Did you encounter resistance on the plains?”

“No. The Isle Knights follow the false trail left by Avesha’s magic.”

“And Silwren?”

Shade did not answer.

“She let you live for a reason,” Fadarah guessed.

“Yes, General. We fought. I was… not myself. I felt crazed… almost like I had when I was young and—”

“That would explain your disobedience,” Fadarah cut in. “When the Throng revolted, I ordered you to abandon Lyos. You stayed. Your anger cost ten Shel’ai their lives.”

Grief choked Shade’s voice as he said, “I know, General.” Shade paused. “I submit myself to your judgment. If you wish me dead—”

“Oh, I think you will punish yourself far more harshly than any of us ever could,” Fadarah said. “And Silwren’s message?”

Shade blinked. “She said the next time she saw you, she’d burn you to cinders.”

“I trust she meant that threat for you, too?”

Shade lowered his head, still kneeling, and stared at the dark earth.

“Yet she let us live. Silwren could have killed us, but she didn’t. There may yet be hope for her.” He sighed. “I sense there is more you wish to tell me.”

“I must ask... forgiveness for yet another transgression, General. This may be the worst of all.” Shade paused, trembling with shame. “I first saw it in the jailhouse at Lyos, but in my fury, I didn’t recognize it. Then I saw it again on the streets when I fought Silwren. I don’t know how she found it, but—”

Fadarah’s eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”

“The Sword of Fâyu Jinn. The last we heard, it had vanished from Sylvos. We searched everywhere but...” Shade hesitated. “General, they have it.”

For a long time, an ominous silence hung about the Sorcerer-General like a dreadful shawl. “I trust its full might remains unkindled, or else we would not be here.”

“But if Silwren should—”

“She won’t. She knows the price. No matter what side she has chosen,
that
will always be beyond her.” He paused. “Though if she knows, surely El’rash’lin did, too. Strange that neither of them took action. Perhaps we overestimated their resolve... and their courage.”

Shade opened his mouth to reply, but Fadarah dismissed him with a wave. The Sorcerer-General stood alone for a while, contemplating Shade’s words. Then he heard heavy footsteps as someone else approached. He stifled his irritation at the interruption, but then his eyes widened.

Fadarah made no effort to summon wytchfire, knowing a lone Human posed no threat. Instead, he scrutinized the man as he emerged from the shadows: tall and burly, dressed in midnight-blue silk, dark skinned like a Soroccan. “You are either the most foolish or the most unlucky Human who ever lived.”

“That’s hardly an appealing set of choices,” the man said. He wore a scimitar at his side but made no effort to draw it. He did not appear surprised or even troubled by the sight of Fadarah.

Fadarah considered using magic to wrench the man’s true intentions from his mind, but he guessed them easily enough. “You have come to kill me.”

“So much for the element of surprise.”

Fadarah said, “You never had a chance, anyway.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several Shel’ai drawing near, alerted by the sound of voices. He used mindspeak to order them to stand back. “Tell me your name.”

“Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas.” The Soroccan answered with a slight bow.

“And the reason a lone Soroccan is wandering the plains in search of a man who could kill him with a touch?”

“Repayment,” Hráthbam answered. “We Soroccans honor our debts.”

“And to whom are you indebted?”

“A man you used to know,” Hráthbam answered. “A good man. His name was El’rash’lin.”

For the first time in years, words eluded Fadarah.

“I met him on the plains,” Hráthbam continued. “He saved my life. Only it turns out that magic is a funny thing. In saving me, he created some kind of bond between us. I don’t know if that was his intention… but he did it nonetheless. I tried for weeks to deny it. I even tried to go home.” He laughed. “We Soroccans have a saying about trying to outrun your own shadow.” His gaze hardened. “El’rash’lin is dead.”

“So he is.” Fadarah was glad the darkness hid the spark of grief in his eyes. “I take it you came to avenge him?”

“Life is a matter of choices. There were others I hoped to place before that one.”

“How did you find me?”

Hráthbam surveyed their dark surroundings, especially a dense copse of trees in the distance. “This is where you met El’rash’lin for the first time. Some of his memories are mine now—no matter how I try to ignore them. Something told me you’d be here. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the gods. Either way, I came here to do what El’rash’lin would have done.”

“El’rash’lin would have killed me?”

“If he had to. But first, he would have embraced you as a friend, as a man he thought of as a father. He would have talked to you. He would have tried to make you see reason.”

Fadarah scrutinized the Soroccan again, studying the man’s dark, stoic expression. “You have courage, Human, but this argument is older than you are.”

“Of course. But a debt is a debt. I had to try.” Then Hráthbam blurred into motion. Instead of bothering with the heavy scimitar, one hand drew a little knife from his sleeve and flung it at Fadarah’s throat.

The Sorcerer-General caught the knife in his fist. His other hand lifted. Wytchfire crackled at his fingertips, but he did not unleash it.

Other Shel’ai raced toward them, but Fadarah ordered them back again. His gaze narrowed. The Human stared back, unafraid, not even trying to run.

Fadarah chuckled. “A fine effort, Human.” Fadarah tossed the knife at Hráthbam’s feet. His half-Olg skin, tough as leather, barely bled. “Go.”

The Soroccan hesitated a moment. He stooped, picked up the little knife and tucked it back into his sleeve. Then he turned and disappeared back into the night.

The other Shel’ai hurried to Fadarah’s side. Avesha glared after the Soroccan with murder in her eyes. “General—”

“Courage is courage,” Fadarah said. “Let him go.”

Avesha started to argue, but Shade touched her arm. The Shel’ai withdrew, leaving Fadarah to his thoughts.

The last of the Unseen formed a perimeter around the camp. The men looked more ragged than ever, nearly bestial. All hope for a quick death had been lost. They had accepted their fate, a curse from which they would never be freed.

Hours passed. The cloudy sky had cleared, letting starwash light the empty plains. At last, the rest of the Shel’ai had gone to sleep, surrendering themselves to dreams plagued by anguish. Fadarah, still wide awake, crept into the tent of the Nightmare.