Wytchfire (Book 1) (4 page)

Rowen cleared his throat and approached slowly. He even paused once to kick a few loose rocks with a loud clatter. When no one appeared to challenge him, he called out. “Hello! No need to spear me, friend. I’m not a robber or a demon. Just some cold, starving bastard who’s lonely enough to think a cave would be good company.”

He hoped that would earn a laugh, but no one answered. Rowen held his crude knife with one hand but kept it low, out of sight. He circled around and found the stranger’s camp.

As he’d thought, a fire was burning. The warmth eased the autumn chill, as though inviting him to sit. Over the fire had been erected a spit on which a rabbit was cooking. Rowen’s stomach growled. He squelched the impulse to wrench the half-cooked animal off the spit and devour it then and there. Instead, he looked around. No horse, but just inside the crude cave, he spotted a simple bedroll and a couple of satchels. Otherwise, the camp appeared to be abandoned.

Rowen saw something glint between the satchels. He stepped closer then whistled in disbelief at the source of the gleam: an enormous long-axe, its curved shaft carved of oak adorned with extravagant scrollwork, its blade bright and clearly well tended.

Rowen stared a moment longer, grinning, then straightened. He did not turn around. “Jalist?”

“Right behind you, jackass,” a voice said.

“Figured as much.”

Rowen turned slowly. He faced a barrel-chested man who, though a good foot shorter, sported arms nearly as thick as Rowen’s legs. The man’s skin had an odd, gray tinge to it, as though permanently veiled by shadow. His dark, nearly black eyes ranged over Rowen. He grasped a curious sword. Its blade was short but wide and heavy to make good use of the man’s unusual strength.
Even if I had armor on, I bet he could shove that blade clean through my ribcage.

“Jalist Hewn. Well met.”

“Rowen Locke,” the man answered, unsmiling.

“Since when were Dwarr so damn stealthy?”

Jalist ignored the jibe and eyed the crude knife in Rowen’s hand. “You want to drop that bit of bone, or should I cut it out of your hand?”

Rowen slid the antler-knife into his belt instead. “Better?”

“It’ll do,” Jalist answered gruffly. The heavy shortsword came down. “Any chance you brought that bag of coins you owe me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Jalist grunted. “Didn’t think so. I suppose you want to share my fire, though.”

“So long as you stay on your side.”

This time, Jalist half-smiled. “Don’t worry, Locke. I like men, not boys.” He gestured toward the fire, and Rowen sat.

“I’m glad it’s you here and not Thass.” Rowen smiled. “Or Will. He always stunk up the place.”

Jalist sat opposite him at the fire. “And now he’s stinking up the earth. Back of his head met a broadsword—some alley up in Phaegos about a year ago.”

Rowen’s smile vanished. “And Thass?”

“Gone south, I think. Said he was done with fighting. Didn’t help that he lost half his right arm to infection.” Jalist studied him, frowning. “What about you? Looks like you went back to living off paupers’ root and burnt urusk. I thought you were saving up to follow your brother to the Isles!”

When Rowen did not answer, Jalist read his expression and grunted. “Looks like you had some trouble on the road.”

“I thought I’d gotten better at watching my back. Apparently, the opposite’s true.”

Jalist shook his head. “You better not have gotten soft, Locke. You won’t live long that way. Not these days.”

Rowen bristled but then shrugged. The Dwarr sellsword had a point. “Things seem worse now. I was only gone a few years, but—”

“A lot’s happened.” Jalist turned the rabbit on its spit. The meat hissed and crackled. Rowen’s stomach growled again. “Lots more sickness up north. Plagues here and there—especially last winter. Too many refugees, not enough food.”

Rowen thought he should feel pity for his countrymen, but he had not been in Ivairia since he was a baby, when his family was still alive. “I heard about that on the Isles.”

“Well, I’ll wager you haven’t heard the worst of it! Those Sylvs, the ones who can throw magic—”

“Shel’ai,” Rowen said.

“Them. They’ve raised an army of some kind. Stories say they’ve got some kind of demon squatting with them. The Nightmare, they call it. They’ve overrun half the Free Cities so far. Everybody says they’re going after Lyos, sooner or later. Looks like they mean to take all the Simurgh Plains!”

Rowen frowned. He’d heard that too, but he had a hard time believing such a thing, especially with the Dhargoth Peninsula just northwest of the Simurgh Plains. The Dhargots boasted an army as formidable as any on Ruun. Any force that disrupted the loose confederation of the Free Cities would have to brace for a potential invasion from the Dhargoth Empire.

Jalist said, “I know what you’re thinking. But these sorcerers are mad for a fight. Sylvs, the Free Cities... seems like they want to take on the whole continent at once!”

Rowen smirked. “They say the Dhargots tried that once, too. Even with their war elephants, they didn’t get far once the Free Cities banded together.”

Jalist grunted. “Well, from what I hear, a few of those same cities are rubble now. Something’s coming, Locke. Not like those little skirmishes we used to get hired into. Something bigger. I feel it in my bones.”

Rowen shrugged. “Fair enough. What’s your plan, then?”

“To get my short ass on the right side while there’s still time.
That’s
my plan!” Jalist turned the rabbit again. “I hear the sorcerers are hiring sellswords by the dozen. Pay sounds better than anything we ever made. I’m heading west to check it out.” He scowled. “If you’ve got more brains than I recall, you’ll come along.”

Rowen considered the offer. It made sense. Still, he found himself shaking his head. “I’m done with that.”

Jalist’s scowl deepened. “What, being a mercenary? Honor is for the well fed, Locke. It’s either this or go back to making a few coppers guarding some merchant who’s just as likely to try and cheat you.” When Rowen did not answer, Jalist said, “Well, it’s your life to waste.”

He plucked the rabbit from the fire then, almost as an afterthought, tore off a huge portion and offered it to Rowen, who accepted at once. Jalist watched Rowen devour his portion. The Dwarr laughed. “Gods, you’re a sight!” He offered Rowen a wineskin. Rowen accepted with even greater enthusiasm, pleased to find that the Dwarr’s taste in wine had not waned over the years.

They ate and drank in silence. Rowen considered mentioning the possessions he and his brother had stashed within the cave but then thought better of it. Jalist might not be a robber, but he had already been generous and might reasonably lay claim to whatever Rowen uncovered.
Besides, I still owe him a bag of coins from that drinking contest
.

Rowen warned Jalist about Dagath, in case the Dwarr was heading in that direction, but Jalist answered with a look of disgust. “That’s an old trick, Locke. Can’t believe you fell for it. But if I run into the bastard, I’ll gut him and get your sword back—for a price.”

When they had finished eating, Jalist offered to examine Rowen’s maimed hand. The Dwarr produced a salve that soothed the sting and, he assured, would keep him from getting blood sickness. Jalist finished treating the wound then wrapped it in a fresh, clean cloth. “Should be fine in a couple days,” he grumbled.

“I suppose I owe you for this, too,” Rowen joked.

Jalist grunted but did not answer. The Dwarr wrapped himself in a cloak and lay down next to the smoldering fire, one strong hand resting on his long-axe. Within moments, the Dwarr was snoring. Rowen shook his head, still weighing the Dwarr’s offer in his mind, then eventually fell asleep himself.

Rowen woke at dawn, but Jalist was already gone.

He spotted a shortsword lying on the ground nearby. He stretched then stood and went to examine the weapon. Though plain and rust-flecked, it was an adequate weapon—obviously a spare Jalist had left behind. Beside the shortsword lay three copper coins. A message had been scratched into the dirt in Common Tongue: “Good luck you damn fool.”

Rowen smiled, more than a little surprised. He scooped up the coins, put them in his pocket, and examined the shortsword again. Though a far cry from what he’d lost to Dagath, the weapon was still a vast improvement over his crude antler-knife.

Rowen ducked inside the cave. He felt around in the darkness for a certain rock—a jagged bit of sandstone carved with a crude image of a wolf—then rolled it aside. He shoved dirt aside with his crude dagger, figuring he may as well utilize it for something before he threw it away. As he worked, he felt guilty for keeping his secret—especially since Jalist had left him weapons and three copper coins—but he forgot all that when his fingers touched fabric. Barely containing his excitement, he hauled up a thick wad of dirty cloth that turned out to be a few articles of clothing. Beneath them, still buried in the earth, he found five more copper coins—all cranáfi of the Lotus Isles—and the weapons he had been searching for.

The weapons disappointed him, though. Though wrapped in urusk skin, years of water had seeped in, and the knife, shortsword, and spearhead were all rusted through. Crestfallen, Rowen considered taking them anyway but then thought better of it and left them on the ground at the mouth of the cave. If someone wanted to risk blood sickness by handling them, that was their business. Rowen began to don the leather jerkin when he felt something crawling on him. He threw the garment away and saw that it had been transformed into a battleground between fleas and spiders. The other articles of clothing were likewise infested. He took the garments and threw them on the ashes of the fire. Then, girding the sword that Jalist had left for him, he stretched and made for the road to Lyos.

Chapter Three

Hráthbam

“B
reccorry.”

Rowen spoke the name of the familiar town and watched a red-gold sunset burnish three long, haphazard rows of thatched rooftops. Beyond the town, the great swell of Pallantine Hill dominated the northern horizon. Lyos was only three days away. Instead of relief, the realization filled him with dread.
I’m sorry, Kayden. I know I swore I’d never go back… but what choice do I have?

He shook his head and fixed his gaze on the town before him. A few strangers glanced Rowen’s way, frowned at his sword, then apparently decided he was harmless and walked on. Rowen was not sure whether to feel relieved or insulted.
What does the Codex Lotius say about dogblossom and honor blooming best from filth?

Just off the wide dirt road to Lyos, Breccorry subsisted on the coin of travelers—just one of many struggling towns Rowen and Kayden had passed through during their time as mercenaries. The town had two competing blacksmith shops (neither of which appeared to be prospering), an emporium, a stable, a small house painted with a brazen mural of naked women in suggestive poses (the new brothel), and a dreary inn. He saw farms in the distance, plus a modest orchard, all crowded with a few dozen peasants in homespun clothes finishing their day’s work.

Rowen visited the emporium first. His appearance drew stares, and the shopkeeper openly followed him to ensure that Rowen did not steal anything. Rowen flushed at the insult but reminded himself that, were he in the shopkeeper’s place, he would do likewise.

Rowen glanced longingly at the weapons, particularly eyeing a brightly polished bastard sword locked inside a glass case, plus a pair of curved, brass-handled daggers with scrollwork covering the blades, but all cost ten times more than he had. He examined the armor next, drawn to a fine brigandine and a wide assortment of tooled leather armor, but these too were beyond his means. Finally, he chose a cheap tunic sewn with a lackadaisical rendition of the Lyos falcon. Then, ducking out of sight, he changed into his new tunic. The coarse wool garment scratched his skin, too tight in the arms and too big in the gut, but at least he looked more presentable. He left his torn, muddy tunic on the ground.

Rowen had intended to press on through Breccorry until nightfall, but he hesitated. He had all the weapons and supplies he needed and no horse, so he had no use for the smithies and stables. The brazen paintings on the wall of the brothel made his blood burn, but he could not afford a prostitute. Instead, his eyes lingered on the sun-bleached sign outside the inn. The sign showed a rough painting of a bloated, huge-eyed dragon curled around a mug of ale.

Rowen smiled slightly, scratching his red beard. He remembered the inn. Kayden and he had stayed there long ago. The inn doubled as the town brothel in those days, hosting a certain flaxen-haired beauty whose sweet acquaintance he’d made. She’d had a little Dwarrish blood in her, which had gifted her with a disproportionately large bosom. She also had some skill as a dancer and spoke of her intention to eventually leave Breccorry and head for Atheion to become a priestess of Dyoni.

It made sense. There in the luxury and beauty of the fabled sea city, among a sect of worshippers who saw pleasure as a vehicle for enlightenment, her talents would be in high demand. Rowen doubted she still lived in Breccorry—and could not afford her even if she did—but he might at least get a hot meal and a mug of cool ale.

Rowen touched the last few coins in his pocket. He bit his lip, warring with himself. He had not been thoroughly drunk since his expulsion from the Lotus Isles, and the desire remained as strong as ever. Common sense told him he should save his coin and press on.

Desire overcame common sense, and he made his way toward the inn.

As he drew nearer, he spotted what appeared to be a merchant’s wagon unhitched just outside. Presumably, the horses were in the stables. The wagon was enclosed by a canopy preventing Rowen from seeing the goods inside. He turned back to the inn. Business had improved since he’d been here last.

The inn’s shutters lay open, and the windows sported real glass instead of open air. He could even see oil lamps burning inside! So he was surprised when he opened the door and found the inn’s common room nearly empty. There was a small, crackling fire in the hearth. A few farmers sat at one nearby table, talking in low, weary voices. At another table sat a thick-shouldered man whom Rowen guessed to be one of the town’s blacksmiths. He sat alone, eating and drinking in sullen silence.

A bored, heavyset innkeeper stood behind the bar. The serving wench, probably the innkeeper’s own gray-haired wife, came to greet him. Rowen smiled when he recognized her. She did not remember him, of course, but it made him feel better to see a familiar face. “What can I get you, young sir?”

Rowen hesitated. “How much is ale?”

The old woman raised one eyebrow skeptically. “Two coppers. We spice it with a secret recipe and keep it chilled in the basement. And there’s still some good lamb stew, three coppers a bowl if you want it. We also have venison with potatoes and roasted onions for the same price.” She lowered her voice slightly. “If coin’s a problem, we’ve also got roasted urusk, just one copper a slab. My boy went hunting this morning. I could probably throw in a small potato or two if you don’t cause us no trouble.”

She eyed the sheathed sword at his side.

Rowen flushed. The old woman had not even bothered to tell him the price of a room for the night. He felt the coins in his pocket again. “I’ve eaten twice my share of urusk meat in this life. Bring me an ale and stew.” He added, “You’ll get no trouble from me.” Rowen produced five coins and handed them over.

The old woman took his coins and tucked them into her apron. “Sit where you like. Still plenty of tables by the fire.”

Rowen made his way toward the fire and took a seat at one of many empty tables, laying his satchel on the table’s chipped, worn surface. Though Rowen did not mind the faint chill of early autumn—a product of Ivairian blood, some said—the warmth of the fire soothed him.

The old woman appeared a moment later with his ale, served in a wooden mug carved to resemble the drunken dragon pictured outside, and Rowen drank. He was not sure what the old woman meant about secret spices because the ale tasted bland and watery, especially in contrast to the heady, sweet lotus wines he had grown accustomed to on the Isles. But at least the ale was cool, and he was glad to have it.

When he realized he had already emptied half the mug, Rowen slowed and set it down, determined to savor what was left. He felt in his pocket again. All he had left was a single copper cranáf, not even enough to buy another mug, much less get good and drunk, as he wanted.

Rowen tried instead to concentrate on how good the stew would be. Though he doubted Breccorry’s food would be much better than its ale, and certainly no better than the rabbit Jalist had shared, anything would be better than paupers’ root. As he sat impatiently, he looked around the inn’s common room and spotted another man, whom he had not noticed at first.

The man was sitting at a table right next to the fire, shaded by the stairwell above him, which presumably led up to the inn’s guest rooms. The man’s skin was as dark as the shadows around him.
He must be from Sorocco.

Rowen had never actually visited that famous island city off Ruun’s northeast coast, but its seafaring people dominated the entire world’s silk trade, supposedly defending their own coasts with gigantic mirrors that could catch and magnify the sunlight until it set enemy ships aflame. Soroccan silk merchants were a common sight on the Lotus Isles, where some richer knights insisted upon something better than dyed linen or wool for their tabards. According to stories, Soroccan silk merchants had been a common sight in Ivairia too, before famines forced the Lancers to do away with such luxuries.

Rowen had met Soroccans before. As mercenaries, he and Kayden had made more than a few coins guarding merchants from one city of the Simurgh Plains to another. He smiled.
Maybe I won’t have to go to Lyos after all
.

The Soroccan looked to be in his late thirties, taller and more broadly shouldered than Rowen, but with a softness to his build that spoke of years of sweet wines and easy living. He had thick, strong arms and a round belly mostly concealed by the folds of loose robes of black and violet silk. He wore gold rings and a gaudy medallion around his neck. A large Soroccan scimitar hung sheathed at the man’s right side. While Rowen had met many who wore swords but had no real idea how to use them, something in the way the merchant’s hands moved told Rowen that he was different.

No matter how good he is with a blade though, it’s still strange that he doesn’t have guards with him.
Surely he could afford a few swordsmen for protection. Rowen’s hopes grew. If this merchant was indeed alone, Rowen’s services might be welcome. But mercenaries had to be as careful choosing their employers as did the merchants who hired them. Rowen continued his scrutiny.

The merchant’s hair hung in dark, intricate braids. He sported a long, braided goatee and bright green eyes that flashed with mirth as he drank. Empty plates, bowls, and mugs crowded the merchant’s table. Even alone, the man wore an easy grin that Rowen was not sure whether to attribute to drunkenness or good nature. He hoped, for bargaining’s sake, that it might be both.

The man answered his scrutiny with a friendly nod.

Rowen barely spoke enough Soroccan to introduce himself, though he assumed the merchant must speak Common Tongue if he was doing business so many weeks’ travel from home. Still, Rowen hesitated. He thought again of his plain attire and unruly red hair. He looked more like a gravedigger than a mercenary.
What sort of impression would I make like this?

The old woman returned from the kitchen with Rowen’s stew. She placed the bowl on the table, along with a worn wooden fork. Rowen was about to ask her about the merchant, but at that moment, the Soroccan motioned with his empty mug. The old woman hurried to the merchant’s table instead. The two spoke briefly, too softly to hear, then the woman rushed off to get the merchant another ale.
Always the rich ones who get the best service.

Rowen turned his attention to the stew. Unlike the bland ale, the stew smelled excellent, strongly peppered and heaped with lamb, potatoes, carrots, and sweet roasted onions. Rowen had not eaten since that morning, and he tore into the stew with a vengeance, emptying the entire bowl in minutes. Then he washed it down with the last of his ale. His head felt a bit swimmy from the ale, and his stomach warmed, but he was not yet sated.

He brought out the last coin in his pocket and pondered what to do next. More townsfolk crowded the inn. Talk and laughter rose in the night. Someone even brought out a mandolin and began to strum a simple, lively melody. Rowen saw the old woman talking to the innkeeper, both of them glancing in his direction. He flushed with shame when he guessed the meaning of their conversation.

The tables were filling up. If he wasn’t buying, he would have to go.

The old woman approached him.

Rowen’s stomach growled, despite the stew he had just eaten. He considered spending his last coin on the roasted urusk the old woman had mentioned before. He was not in the mood to leave, but the stew had been excellent, and he did not want to spoil its memory with the bitter, acrid taste of urusk meat, either.

The old woman set down a full mug of ale.

Rowen stared down at it thirstily. “I’m sorry. I can’t pay for that.”

“Don’t have to.” The old woman gestured toward the Soroccan merchant. “It’s on him. He said to bring you more stew too, if you want it.”

It took Rowen a few seconds to recover enough to nod.

The old woman left for the kitchen. Rowen turned toward the dark-skinned merchant and saw the man smiling. Rowen waved gratefully. The merchant responded with a light wave of his own then turned his attention back to his own drink.

The old woman reappeared with a second bowl of stew and set it down in front of Rowen. She brought bread as well. The ale had loosened Rowen’s worries and quickened his appetite, and this second bowl of stew tasted even better than the first. This time, the stew came with fresh bread crusted with a sweet but unfamiliar spice. While Rowen ate, the old woman brought him a third mug.

“He says join him when you’re done.” She nodded toward the Soroccan. Rowen blinked, finished eating, then took the third mug of ale and rose unsteadily. He was not drunk yet, but his legs felt loose, and he nearly tripped as he made his way toward the merchant’s table. As an afterthought, he fished a leaf of sweetbitter from his satchel, hastily chewed, and swallowed.

The man stood at his approach. He was taller than Rowen had guessed. The man extended one hand, his plump forearm decorated with gold bracelets, and shook Rowen’s hand in a grip like iron.

“I trust you enjoyed your meal! The fare here is not extravagant, but Dyoni knows I’ve had worse since I left home.” The man’s voice was thick with the staccato accent of his people. He added, “Forgive me if this table is too close to the fire. The heat reminds me of home.” Despite all the empty mugs on the merchant’s table, he still sounded sober.

Rowen sat, spilling some of his own ale in the process. The Soroccan did not seem to notice. But Rowen saw that in addition to heaps of empty mugs and bowls, the man’s table was littered with coins! Like most merchants, this man was prepared to travel anywhere. Most of the coins were copper, but Rowen saw a few silver cranáfi too, along with some bronze ones bearing the galleon insignia of Sorocco, even a handful of iron crowns from Dhargoth, stamped with the sigil of a dragon. Unlike the comical dragon painted on the sign outside the inn, though, the Dhargoth’s dragon was a ghastly thing impaled on a long spear, its maw open and screaming.

The Soroccan said, “May I ask your name?”

“Rowen Locke.”

The Soroccan merchant smiled. “I hear an Ivairian cadence. Are you as far from home as I am?”

Rowen hesitated. The ale had loosened his tongue, but he had no desire to share his entire history with a stranger. “Not quite. My family moved to the plains before I was born. I grew up in Lyos.”

The Soroccan seemed to sense Rowen’s unease and did not press. Instead, he touched his own chest with one well-ringed hand. “I am Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas.” He bowed. “By Dyoni’s grace, you may call me Hráthbam.”

Rowen bowed too.
“Al mos haláka.”