Wytchfire (Book 1) (32 page)

The problem, of course, was that the gangs knew it. Each gang leader was flanked by bodyguards marked with the tattoos of their allegiance. Rowen saw familiar men, all dirty, some with stringy hair, others missing fingers. The gangs usually fought each other for control of the Dark Quarter. But today, they were smiling.

A raised wooden platform had been constructed from old tables and chairs pushed together. In a few minutes, he guessed, whomever the gang leaders elected would mount the makeshift dais and address the slumdwellers, offering the illusion of protection in exchange for what little wealth the Dark Quarter had. Rowen wondered if, five years ago, he would have acted any different.

He pushed his way into the heart of Dogbane Circle. Steadying his gaze, he threw off his cloak and shifted Knightswrath—still sheathed—to his left hip. Gang leaders’ bodyguards turned to face him. They looked him up and down. They frowned. No asp or skull tattoo adorned his arms, no gang sign on his tattered leather brigandine.

Rowen ignored the bodyguards and started toward one of the gang leaders, a man he recognized: Fen-Shea, leader of the Bloody Asps. Before Rowen could reach him, Fen-Shea’s men—each tattooed on his left arm with a red zigzag that was supposed to represent a bloody serpent—blocked his path. All drew their daggers. Rowen did not draw his sword. Instead, he called out Fen-Shea’s name.

The gang leader frowned. Then, a cold grin spread across his face. “Locke. I figured you’d be keeping your brother company in Fohl’s hells by now.”

Rowen bristled. He sized up his opponent. Fen-Shea was well muscled with a shaved head, bare chested but for a brace of daggers and what looked to be a necklace made from rodent skulls. “I see you still like to wear your own family around your neck.”

Fen-Shea’s grin vanished. Some of his own men smiled. Other gang leaders laughed openly at the leader of the Bloody Asps even though his gang was indisputably the strongest in the slums.

Fen-Shea took a step toward him. In one hand, he held a blackened mace with a long handle wrapped in snakeskin. He said, “I
thought
I saw you awhile back, when that wytch fell from the walls. I didn’t believe it. They even say you talked the soldiers into sparing her!” Smiles vanished. Men clenched their weapons. Fen-Shea grinned, enjoying the reaction. “Tell me, Locke, have you come home to die?”

Rowen shrugged. “If I have, it won’t be by your hand.”

His response drew scattered laughter. Fen-Shea only had to say the word and Rowen would be cut to ribbons. But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Fen-Shea had been humiliated. Simply having Rowen killed would not erase that.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

“I heard you joined the Red Watch,” Fen-Shea called out in a loud voice, prompting a deafening hiss of disapproval from the men around them.

“We all make mistakes.”

Fen-Shea snorted. “And you just made another one.” He waved the great snakeskin mace in a slow circle, stretching his arm. “You want to apologize… or should I haul those words out of you, along with your entrails?”

Some of the men cheered. Beyond them, the rest of the slumdwellers stared in confusion. Rowen struggled to control his fear. “I have something
else
you can pull on, Fen-Shea.” He turned his back on the man and raised his voice so all could hear. “I am
not
a man of the Red Watch. Not anymore. I’m not a sellsword, either. I am Rowen Locke, the new leader of the Bloody Asps.”

The chanting of the crowd buffeted his face like desert air. Rowen stumbled, overwhelmed for a moment by the noise. Why had he been so hotheaded? He’d barely eaten or slept in days and was in no shape for a fight, least of all against someone like Fen-Shea.

The leader of the Bloody Asps laughed, sensing his fear. He charged. The great, snakeskin mace whirled at Rowen’s head. At the same time, Fen-Shea drew one of his knives and slashed at Rowen’s thigh—the one injured in the battle at the jailhouse.

Rowen backpedaled out of range of the knife and used Knightswrath to hammer Fen-Shea’s mace out of the way. The shock of the blow swept up Rowen’s arm. He cursed.
Why didn’t I ask El’rash’lin to heal me?

But Fen-Shea was taking his time. He circled Rowen slowly, swinging his mace, waving to the crowds and laughing with his men. Fen-Shea’s men watched, enjoying the sport along with the other gangs. Even the common slumdwellers seemed to have forgotten all about the Throng and focused instead on the fight before them.

Rowen fought in vain to clear his mind. He’d hoped to take command of the strongest gang in order to broker some kind of alliance to protect the slumdwellers. The law of the slums gave him the right to take Fen-Shea’s place if he beat him. But what good would that do? Someone else might just challenge
him
, then. And even if they didn’t, would leading the gangs really help him save the people of the slums?
Gods, I didn’t think this through—

Fen-Shea pivoted suddenly and charged. He feigned a lunge with his knife, then threw it instead. Rowen saw it coming. He sidestepped, letting the knife clatter past him. He blocked Fen-Shea’s mace again.

Fen-Shea drew another knife from those sheathed along his torso and lunged. This time, Rowen dropped one hand from the hilt of Knightswrath and caught Fen-Shea’s wrist. He twisted. Fen-Shea grunted and dropped the knife into the mud.

The leader of the Bloody Asps pulled free and backed away, retreating across the muddy, bone-strewn earth of Dogbane Circle, clearly biting back a scream of pain as he nursed his sprained wrist. This time, Rowen followed. He offered two slow cuts—which Fen-Shea blocked—then followed those with a third, faster cut that would have severed the gang leader’s leg at the knee, had Rowen not turned his blade at the last second.

The flat of Rowen’s blade swept Fen-Shea’s legs out from under him. The snakeskin mace flew out of reach. Cursing, Fen-Shea reached for another knife. Rowen stomped on Fen-Shea’s hand, pinning it to his chest. Rowen tucked the tip of his sword under the gang leader’s chin. Breathing hard, Rowen looked down at him. “Yield.”

Fen-Shea blinked in surprise. He grimaced. Then he nodded.

Rowen stepped back, letting him up. The other members of the Bloody Asps stared at him with surprise and grudging respect. No one had ever beaten Fen-Shea before. They would follow him—at least for now.

The same could not be said for the other gangs. He read the truth in their frowns and uncertain gazes: they thought Fen-Shea’s defeat was a fluke. Or, failing that, perhaps the old leader of the Bloody Asps had not been so formidable, after all. Why should they follow a former soldier of the Red Watch most of them did not even know?

The Dark Quarter was divided now. The people were doomed.
Gods, I’ve only made matters worse!
Then, he spotted Silwren.

She stumbled toward him, barefoot across the muddy ground of Dogbane Circle, still dressed in nothing but Shade’s bone-white cloak. She held it cinched across her breasts with one hand, leaving one shoulder bare and pale in the still-young light of day. Her hood was down, revealing her long, tapered ears. Platinum tresses spilled, unkempt and lovely, almost to her waist.

Her violet eyes found his. Her mist-white pupils shone now like the sunlight. For a moment, he was speechless. Then he came to his senses. He shook his head in warning, but it was too late.

A dreadful whisper swept through the crowds. Slumdwellers followed her with steely eyes. Some stared, entranced. Others grimaced and backed away, reaching for weapons. The gang leaders, forgetting Rowen, waved in more men to protect them. Weapons glinted in the sunlight. Those who had no weapons picked up rocks.

Silwren stared back at them, defiantly. “Yes,” she called out in a loud voice that echoed throughout the Dark Quarter, “I am a Shel’ai.” She came forward until she stood at the heart of Dogbane Circle. She touched Rowen’s hand. Then, she ascended the makeshift dais and turned slowly, letting everyone look at her. “You would not find it hard to kill me. But if you wish to save yourselves and your families, you will listen to what I have to say first.”

Rowen fixed a stern expression and raised his sword, even though he doubted he could match a Shel’ai’s ability to intimidate all the gangs of the Dark Quarter at once.

Silwren said, “In just a few hours, an army led by sorcerers will reach this city. Swords and arrows will not stop them. The demon you have heard about is real. He will smash the great walls of Lyos as if they were kindling. All of you will die,” she paused as fear rippled through the crowds, “unless you stand against this together.”

She lifted one hand, pointing to the summit of Pallantine Hill. “The people of that city, in whose shadow you live, call you wretched. They look down from their parapets and see you fighting like dogs for scraps, and it sickens them. They speak of killing you. I know. I’ve heard them.” She lowered her hand. “I’ve heard you speak just as often of killing them. And me. And each other. If
they
are wrong, perhaps you are, too.”

The crowd murmured uneasily. Meanwhile, Silwren turned westward, toward a great, dark blur on the horizon. “I am weary of bloodshed born of loyalty, of peace sought only through steel and wytchfire. But I am as guilty as any. So when the Throng comes… if I must… I will give my life to stop this—just as others have risked their own lives to save mine.”

She faced Rowen. Her violet eyes seemed suddenly less foreign to him. He saw something heart-wrenching there and nearly wept. A faint smile touched her lips. Though her voice softened, it resounded just the same.

“You could kill me—and each other, as they expect you to. And die soon after, like animals. Or you could make another choice.”

Her voice grew louder. “It could be like the tales of old: Isle Knights and Shel’ai fighting together. Homes saved from the torch, thanks not to lofty oaths or threats and promises of payment, but the simple courage of strangers. We could live—if only for one, fine hour—as we were meant to.”

Her voice fell silent. In Dogbane Circle, nothing moved. Men shifted uncertainly, weapons in hand. Rowen’s gaze moved from face to face.
It’s not going to work! She touched some of them—but not enough.

Then, Fen-Shea stirred. Without a word, the one-time leader of the Bloody Asps stooped, retrieved his mace, and made his way toward the makeshift dais upon which Silwren still stood. He limped slightly. Rowen shook off the spell of Silwren’s words and lifted Knightswrath, thinking that the man wanted to fight him again for leadership of the Bloody Asps.

Instead, Fen-Shea came to stand beside him. He slapped Rowen’s shoulder and winked. Then he put his back to Silwren and faced the crowds, his fierce look daring anyone to try and harm her.

The crowds began to mutter. A few people fled, but to Rowen’s great surprise, a few men of the Bloody Asps walked up and joined them. Then a few more. Then the stringy-haired, wild-eyed leader of the Crazy Knifemen shrugged and joined them, followed by half his men. Other gangs followed suit.

Within an hour, Rowen and Silwren had an army.

Jinn’s name, now what?
Rowen feigned a look of certainty as he stood on the dais and swept his gaze over the roiling crowds of Dogbane Circle. He was glad the gang leaders had stopped asking questions, Fen-Shea having tasked them with arming everyone he could before he himself left—“To give my wife one last bedding, in case I get my guts cut out
,
”
he said.

Rowen’s first act had been to advise Silwren to mindspeak with El’rash’lin and warn him to stay out of Dogbane Circle. Despite the miracle worked by Silwren’s eloquence, Rowen doubted their tenuous alliance would hold if the already frightened slumdwellers saw the disfigured sorcerer heading their way. He wondered what to do next. He thought he’d seen smoke cresting the battlements of Lyos but attributed it to another riot. Several slumdwellers ventured up King’s Bend then returned, reporting that the gates of the inner city had been closed.

Nevertheless, Rowen penned a letter and asked for volunteers to carry it to the inner city’s high walls. From those, he chose a gangly, freckled youth—the most innocent-looking one of the bunch—and sent the runner up to the gates, offering a deal: Silwren and their patchwork army would fight for Lyos, in exchange for the king allowing the slumdwellers to take shelter behind his city’s high walls. Rowen did not bother addressing Sir Crovis Ammerhel in the note, since he knew the Knight of the Lotus would refuse. He hoped the king would be more reasonable.

Rowen led Silwren out of Dogbane Circle, toward the outskirts of the slums, to await the runner’s return. Crowds pressed in, though Rowen was glad they kept their distance since he still did not entirely trust them around Silwren. He hoped the runner would return with news that the king had accepted his offer but suspected that instead, the king would only request to meet. Even though approaching the walls might mean his arrest—or get him feathered with a dozen arrows—delivering the offer himself instead of sending a messenger might have made a better impression.