Wytchfire (Book 1) (7 page)

“Silwren!” he shouted joyously.

The sound of rustling cloth made him turn around. All six Shel’ai
rushed into the tent. Shade stood to face them, the rarest of open smiles on his face. “It’s Silwren! I felt—”

“We felt it too,” Nariel said. “Even from out there.” She cautiously splayed her fingers inches above Silwren’s heart. Silwren’s bosom rose and fell with slow, even breaths. “It’s true. She’s waking!”

In disbelief, another Shel’ai
took her place. His fist uncurled over Silwren’s body.

As rare as it was for Sylvs to flaunt their emotions, it was rarer still for Shel’ai. Their harsh lives did not permit it. But Shade felt no shame as tears of joy ran down his face.

Another Shel’ai said, “We must tell Fadarah!”

But Nariel scowled. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

“I feel it too,” said another. “Shade, she’s waking too quickly!”

Shade pushed his way past them, fearfully probing Silwren’s mind again. He had to know for himself. The tiny flicker that had been her deepest essence became a roaring blaze. Her mind was alive but wrought with ragged, incomprehensible energy. Her body shook.

“No,” Shade whispered. “Not again, not her…”

“We have to stop this,” someone said.

“Combine magic,” Nariel suggested. “We seven can keep her asleep until—”

Harsh screams and the clatter of steel reached their ears. Shade knew at once what was happening. While the other Shel’ai swore and raced to the tent flap to confirm what they already feared, Shade was extending his consciousness beyond the tent, through the camp, seeking out the mind of his master. Unhampered by as ungainly a thing as verbal speech, their mental conversation required only the space of a few seconds. Then Shade broke the contact.

“Fadarah’s on his way. We have to guard her until he arrives.”

The other Shel’ai exchanged grim looks. They did not argue. To renew Silwren’s magic-induced coma required their combined magic and concentration. But they had no time. Outside, men were dying.

Shade gritted his teeth. “Follow me.” He strode from the tent. Wytchfire flared to full, terrible life at his fingertips.

At once, his eyes drank in the chaos. All around them, a pitched battle raged. The black-garbed fighters of the Unseen formed a tight circle around the tent, pikes and shortswords facing a full company of horsemen. Hundreds strong, they wore chain mail and tabards emblazoned with Cassica’s intertwined serpents.

Howling men hacked each other with swords until the earth resembled the crimson of the setting sun above them. The savagery did not make him flinch. Nor did he intervene. To cast wytchfire into such a melee would only strike friend as well as foe—though Shade would hardly refer to the Unseen as his friends. Better to gather his strength, force himself to be patient, wait a little longer until all the Unseen had been slain.
Let them kill as many as they can. We’ll kill the rest,
Shade vowed.

The other Shel’ai watched impassively. As the last Unseen fell and the furious men-at-arms closed in, thin fingers rose, unleashing streams of wytchfire. Fresh screams echoed across the plains. Horses reared up, spilling their hapless riders to the ground. Others were turned to cinders in the same fiery maelstrom that claimed their riders as seven grim-faced Shel’ai barred the path of hundreds.

Men on horses and on foot closed on them from three sides. Violet flames drove them back. Shade added his magic to the torrent, killing and killing. The men-at-arms recoiled, their faces slack with horror. Shade imagined they had heard tales of Sylvan magic, but none were prepared for this!

Shade singled out another rider. One hand blasted the man from his horse while the other unleashed a storm of flame that lit the earth and drove back the men behind him. He stood at the center of the Shel’ai. On either side, his comrades fought with the same tenacity. They were winning. But it could not last.

One of the men-at-arms flung himself in front of his comrades, absorbing the worst of a firestorm, shielding the men behind him as he perished. Another threw a spear before he died. Shade screamed a rallying cry. The combined efforts of the Shel’ai drove the men-at-arms back again, but this time at a price. Two sorcerers lay dead, a third cut and bleeding.

“Hold them!” Shade cried. But even as he spoke, a terrible weariness flooded his brain, numbing his chest and limbs. The wytchfire he cast from his fingertips was like his own blood. If he cast too much of it, the men-at-arms would have no need to kill him after all.

None of the Shel’ai spoke after that. Brows knit with concentration as trembling hands cast more and more precious wytchfire from their bodies, thwarting charge after charge from the men-at-arms. Men hurled spears, but the sorcerers waved their hands, burning them in midair. Other men flung knives and swords or crawled on their bellies, hoping to avoid the deathly storm above them.

Then one of the Shel’ai gasped and fell. Shade turned to look. It was Nariel. Though her body bore no visible injury, she had simply exhausted herself beyond all limits.

Rage quickened Shade’s senses. He did not cry out. Instead, he unleashed another torrent of wytchfire, then another. His comrades did the same. But they were too few. A wedge of men-at-arms broke through. Shade drove them back, so weakened by then that his vision blurred.

One Shel’ai perished. Then another, gravely wounded, gave Shade a glance of farewell.

The attack had stalled a moment. Shade thought of Silwren in the tent behind him. He would never see her again—but Fadarah and Que’ann were close. He sensed his master’s reassuring words in his mind. They had more men with them. Silwren would live, as would the other initiates, because of this sacrifice.

Wide-eyed, reeling in heaps of ashes and acrid, burnt remains that had once been the better half of their brigade, the men-at-arms rallied one last time and charged. Shade thought that the men must know they had no hope of survival and guessed they had gone fey, only hoping to take as many Shel’ai as possible with them.

Another Shel’ai fell quickly, expending the last of his vital energy in a guttering wash of violet flames. The men-at-arms pressed on. Shade and the last Shel’ai beat them back. They knew they were beyond saving. All that mattered now were the initiates.

And then, at last, Fadarah arrived.

Pressing toward the tent, horsemen and footmen whirled suddenly to find fresh opponents streaming toward them. They were led, not by Humans, but by a towering man with fire streaming from his fingertips.

Shade’s heart leapt. Through the chaos of the melee, he spotted his master. “Fadarah!” He struggled against the exhaustion he knew was about to claim his life.

He lost sight of the Sorcerer-General in the chaos of the melee. Then a staggering man-at-arms slew the faithful Shel’ai guarding Shade’s back. Shade cast fistful after fistful of murderous fire and then reeled. A final, weak burst of flames escaped from his fingertips.

This is it. The moment of my death.
Shade raised his hands. The next blast, he knew, would kill him.

A fresh cry caught his attention. The Sorcerer-General had claimed the horse of a fallen man-at-arms and was driving toward the tent, his great sword in one hand, fire streaming from the other. Men scattered before him. Shade had the wild thought that he might actually survive.

Beside him, deep within the pitch-darkness of the tent, something awful came to life. It howled once—a deafening cry that shook the earth, stunning friend and foe alike. The battle was forgotten as everyone turned, horrified, to see what could make such a sound.

Despite the danger, Shade turned his back on the fighting. “Silwren!” he cried, staggering forward. He threw aside the tent flap and was about to rush blindly into the darkness when white fire washed the world from his sight.

Chapter Five

A Squire’s Honor

A
n autumn breeze whipped up the grassy smell of the plains and flung Rowen’s shaggy hair about as he left the town of Breccorry, riding in a wagon alongside Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas. Glancing over his shoulder at the wagon’s interior, he saw that the dark-skinned merchant had told the truth. The wagon contained nothing but foodstuffs, various weapons, and a few old, sealed trunks. Rowen wondered briefly if these battered trunks were filled with bolts of Soroccan silk.
Or more of his preposterous silk gowns!
Rowen resisted a grin.

He glanced at the weapons instead: Soroccan scimitars, a few Ivairian shortswords with waisted blades and man-shaped hilts, a battered round shield bearing a painted insignia faded past recognition, and a footman’s pike. He also spotted a Queshi sickle-sword and remembered a brief time he’d spent with the nomadic horse masters of the Southern Basin, tending their herds of bloodmares. It had been a comparatively peaceful time in his life, and he had considered returning more than once.

Rowen continued scanning the wagon. He was relieved to see a pair of crossbows and even what looked like a Queshi composite bow.
Those will be a lot more useful than my sword if we’re attacked by boars or greatwolves
.
Or bandits, for that matter.
Rowen would have preferred to have two or three more guards beside him, but Hráthbam had had no luck hiring more.

The Soroccan was a much better fighter than Rowen had anticipated, though Rowen had proven he could hold his own against the bigger man. Between them, if they armed themselves first with bows and picked off as many targets as possible from a distance, they could take maybe half a dozen highwaymen at a time.

The wheels of the merchant’s wagon jostled and buckled. This road was clearly rougher and less traveled than the road to Lyos, but the landscape had changed very little. The grassy Simurgh Plains extended in all directions, sloping sometimes in slight hills, speckled here and there with patches of forest.

Not many places to hide out here
. If they were lucky, and they stayed sharp, they should be able to spot trouble coming from quite a distance. Rowen relaxed a little. He halfheartedly tuned back in to his boss’s seemingly endless chatter.

Hráthbam had not stopped talking since they left Breccorry. He first introduced Rowen to the horses: a pair of plain but sturdy rounceys the merchant had named, simply, Left and Right. Left was an aging mare, Right her foal. While Left was slow, calm, and steady, Right was fast and easily agitated, so the horses often tried to pull the wagon in two different directions. Given how loosely Hráthbam held the reins, he was no expert when it came to horses.

Gods, I hope this isn’t the man’s first expedition!
He remembered Hráthbam’s story of hiring two men who later turned on him. Good, experienced merchants needed a knack for judging character. Likewise, Hráthbam should have known better than to pay the men all at once before their job was done. The Soroccan was lucky to be alive.

Another quick glance into the back of the wagon revealed the shoddiness of the trunks. Rowen returned his gaze to Hráthbam, lowering his eyes to the man’s fat gold rings. He wondered if their luster had not simply been painted on.

Rowen’s pulse quickened. Most of the coins he’d seen on Hráthbam’s table at the Drunken Dragon had gone to pay for their food and ale.
What if he doesn’t even have the coin to pay me, much less buy dragonbone from the priests at Cadavash?
He touched his sword hilt. He was willing to take what was owed him if need be, but what if Hráthbam simply did not have it?

Rowen forced himself to let go of his sword. Even if the Soroccan was not as rich as he appeared at first glance, he had still paid Rowen the first installment of his wage. Rowen now had ten copper cranáfi in his pocket, no paltry sum. If nothing else, Rowen’s journey would lead him even farther from the Lotus Isles. Right now, that was enough.

Hráthbam had stopped talking and was staring at him as though waiting for something. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What was that?”

Hráthbam laughed. “You pale-faced Ivairians have the manners of boars!” he bellowed, not unkindly. “I asked what you thought about the gods.”

Rowen hesitated. The question made him uncomfortable. He’d met priests in Lyos who worshipped the various gods and tried to convert him to their respective faiths. This had been especially prevalent after he and Kayden graduated from digging graves to working as mercenaries, and the priests realized that the brothers might make good temple guards. But Hráthbam was not a priest.

Which god did the Soroccans worship? Was it Maelmohr, the Firegod? No, that was the Dwarr. Tier’Gothma, the Goddess of Healing and Harvest? No, that did not sound right either. Nor could it be Fohl, the Undergod with his many burning hells, for no sane man worshipped him.

Rowen’s headache reminded him of the merchant’s love of drink, suggesting Dyoni, the God of Earthly Pleasures. But he saw no obvious emblem of faith carved into the man’s rings or gaudy gold medallion. He gave up trying to deduce the best thing to say to worm his way out of this conversation and simply answered, “I try not to think about them very much.”

“Truly? I thought you Isle Knights were supposed to be men of thought as well as steel!”

Rowen’s face blushed to match his hair. “Told you, I’m not...” Reminding Hráthbam yet again that he was not an Isle Knight seemed pointless. “Most Isle Knights worship the Light,” Rowen said instead. “
Worship
probably isn’t the right word, I guess. They meditate, but they don’t pray, exactly. They don’t believe that the Light actually answers prayers. I mean, not that it ignores them either, but...” He felt foolish. “You should ask a priest if you want to know about the gods. I’m no philosopher.”

Hráthbam nodded, adjusting his turban. “Nor am I. Don’t look so worried, my friend. I am not trying to convert you. I was just wondering what you knew about Zet.”

Rowen finally understood. The priests who dwelled in the graveyards of Cadavash worshipped Zet, the Dragongod. If they were going to do business with such men, it made sense to know what they were about. “Sorry,” Rowen said, “I just get nervous whenever someone mentions the gods. Usually, that means they’re about to tell me what an awful sinner I am.”

“And how you’ll sink into damnation unless they save your soul... for a price!” Hráthbam grinned and clapped Rowen on the shoulder. “That’s not me, my friend. I understand the gods no better than I understand the stars.” He gestured toward the faint, daytime star-swirl of Armahg’s Eye. “You will not catch me pretending otherwise. I just ask because the Dragongod is unknown to my people. Maybe I’ll get a better bargain from these priests if I can show some appreciation for their superstitions.” He winked.

Rowen relaxed. He liked being back in the company of someone who shared his confusion about the enigmatic figures of a pantheon so many others seemed to believe in without question. “I don’t know much about Zet either,” he admitted. “In Lyos, some priests say Armahg made this world but Zet filled it with dragons. Only the dragons were too powerful. Or too beautiful, depending on who’s telling you the story. So the other gods got angry.”

Rowen felt ridiculous talking like this, but Hráthbam seemed interested.
At least so long as he’s listening, he’s not chattering about his wives, his children, the silk trade, and every other damn thing!

“Some of the gods wanted to kill the dragons, but Zet stopped them. There was some kind of battle. Supposedly, the other gods killed Zet, but it took so much of their power that they weren’t strong enough to wipe out all his dragons afterward.”

“Couldn’t the poor darlings just take a nap and recuperate?”

Rowen laughed. He liked this man’s blasphemy.
Kayden would have liked him too.

“You’d think so,” he said, “but I guess that doesn’t work with gods. Anyway, they came up with some kind of plan. They cast Zet’s body down onto the world, where it burst open. All other life on this world emerged from his corpse.”

Hráthbam grimaced. “Like maggots, you mean? Hardly a noble story!”

“Talk to another cult, and they’ll probably tell you something different. That’s just what the priests of Zet say, I think.”

“What happened to the dragons?”

Rowen thought hard, trying to remember the rest of the tale. “Well, one of the races that wriggled out of Zet’s corpse was the Dragonkin. Because they came from Zet, who made the dragons, they could control dragons, too. Only they craved more power, so they drained the dragons’ life force somehow, used it to feed their own magic—which is what the gods wanted in the first place. In time, the dragons died out.”

Hráthbam stroked his braided goatee. “My people tell a similar tale. Except in ours, the dragons turned to fighting each other.”

Rowen said, “I’ve heard that, too. I think the followers of Maelmohr like that one.”

“Strange how gospels change, depending on who’s telling them!”

Rowen nodded. For hours after that, they traveled in silence. The wagon jostled as it rolled over the uneven road. The day was sunny but cool, and despite his weariness, Rowen was in good spirits. He rubbed his right elbow, which was still a little numb from the strike it had received from the blunt end of Hráthbam’s scimitar. He had feared at first that his elbow was broken, but he could move his arm now with just a little pain. Likewise, he seemed to have recovered from the knot on his head that the robbers had given him, and Jalist’s salve had all but healed his slashed palm.

As they traveled, legends of warring dragons dominated his thoughts. He imagined the scene: countless dragons battling each other in the sky, each one bending in the air like a fish underwater.

No one had seen a living dragon for close to a thousand years, but everyone knew for a fact that they had existed—at least on this continent. The great beasts’ bones had been unearthed in fields from one end of Ruun to the other. He himself had once seen a gigantic, nearly complete skeleton of a dragon on display in the mansion of a rich man whom he had briefly served as guard. The skeletal dragon’s eye sockets had stretched nearly as wide as he was tall.

Maybe dragons were still alive somewhere. Maybe they had merely fled from the Dragonkin to some remote corner of the world. The farthest he had ever ventured from Ruun was to the Lotus Isles, but he had seen ancient maps in Saikaido Temple that showed other continents beyond this one, mysterious lands about which he knew nothing.
Maybe someday, I’ll go there
.
But I need coin first!

Hráthbam continued to guide the wagon, tending the reins and staring out over the Simurgh Plains with patient curiosity. The two horses were causing some trouble, each trying to lead the wagon at a different speed. When Right petulantly nipped at Left’s ear, Hráthbam scolded the horse in Soroccan. Then the merchant produced a flask, drank, and offered it to Rowen.

“Hair of the wolf, my friend. Have a drink!”

Rowen wanted to refuse, but he did not want to appear rude. He had worked for many merchants in the past, and he could remember none as personable as Hráthbam (let alone as good with a sword). Rowen ruefully accepted the flask and raised it to his lips. The pungent, sour smell overwhelmed his nostrils. It was hláshba—a powerful, Soroccan liquor made from fermented corn and potatoes. Even on good days, Rowen could not stomach the stuff. But he was still recovering from the night before, and the smell made him want to vomit.

Unable to speak except to curse in Ivairian, he shook his head and, as politely as he could, pushed the flask away. Hráthbam laughed, bright-eyed, and took another drink before he tucked the flask back into a pocket in his silk robes. Then he said, “And the Sylvs?”

Still struggling to regain his composure, it took Rowen a moment to realize that Hráthbam was resuming their conversation about divinity. “What do you mean?”

“My people say that the Dragonkin were the ancestors of Sylvs,” Hráthbam said. “But no one seems to know how the Sylvs came about. Or why the Dragonkin disappeared.” Rowen sensed that the Soroccan was speaking no longer from a desire to prepare for his dealings in Cadavash but out of genuine curiosity. “Do you?”

Rowen shrugged. “I’ve heard some pretty wild tales about that. Seems like each temple has its own version. Most of the stories make even less sense than what I just told you.”

“And the Shel’ai?”

The mention of the sorcerers sent a chill down Rowen’s spine. “Don’t know much about them either, aside from tall tales of them stirring up famines and plagues,” he admitted. “They’re Sylvs, I think, except they’re born with a bit of Dragonkin magic inside them. Something that makes their eyes purple, like the color of a bruise—but with misty white pupils instead of black. I hear the other Sylvs fear them. Usually, they kill them when they’re born.” He shuddered at this, hoping such stories of murdered infants were just stories. “Otherwise, they drive them out of the Wytchforest to torment the rest of us.”