Wytchfire (Book 1) (5 page)

Hráthbam’s dark face broke into a wide grin. “You speak my language?”

“No better than a child of your lands,” Rowen said. “I used to be a sellsword. I learned enough to get by.”

Hráthbam grinned. “It is true: our children often have the vocabulary of mercenaries.”

Rowen bristled then forced himself to smile back. He lifted his ale. “Thank you for this. And for the food.”

“Of course. Call it an advance payment.”

Did he already hire me, and I forgot? If so, I’m drunker than I thought!

The merchant laughed at Rowen’s expression. “I need guards. I’ve been lodging here two days, hoping someone of mettle would pass through. You are the first I’ve seen wearing a sword.” The Soroccan rubbed his green eyes. “I must apologize. I usually drink wine. Or hláshba
.
Anything else fogs my wits.” He laughed and emptied his mug and then used one silk sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Straight to it, then. I hired two men when I passed through Phaegos, but they turned on me—would have cut my throat if I hadn’t cut them first.” Despite the statement, the mirth in his voice remained unchanged. “I’m tired of waiting. So I’ll pay you what I took back from them: one hundred coppers. Two men’s wage, at least. And all you have to do is keep me breathing and unbloodied for the next month. Maybe less if the road favors us. After that, if I still need you, we can talk.”

Rowen’s eyes widened. For that much, he would guard the man all the way to the Wintersea!
Trying his best to appear unimpressed, he asked, “Where are you bound?”

Hráthbam raised his mug, found it empty, and set it down with a disappointed look. “That’s the part you won’t like. I’m going to Cadavash.”

Rowen’s surprise became instant trepidation.
The dragon graveyard...

Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Since when did the dragon priests need silk?” He feared Hráthbam would take offense, but the Soroccan answered with a deep belly laugh that resounded through the inn and drew curious stares from the patrons.

“They don’t,” Hráthbam admitted. “But they
do
have something
I
need. Dragonbone. I want to buy as much I can, cart it off somewhere, and sell it. Maybe Atheion, depending on which direction I wake up facing.” He added, “At the moment, you’ll find my wagon all but empty: not one bolt of silk, if you have a heart for robbery.”

Rowen’s face flushed. “I’m no thief.”

Hráthbam nodded soberly. “Of course not. Isle Knights rarely are.”

It took Rowen a moment to form a reply. “I’m no Isle Knight. Not a squire, either.”

Hráthbam shrugged and waved his hand, fat gold rings sparkling in the lamp-lit inn. “Squire, Knight… makes no difference to me, so long as you’re worth your steel.” His eyes narrowed. “You
are,
aren’t you?”

“Yes! I mean...” Rowen hesitated. He remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius that characterized bragging as an act of dishonor. But Rowen had already been a fair swordsman before going to the Lotus Isles, almost as good as Kayden. The Isle Knights had made him better. In the tilting yards of Saikaido Temple, sparring with bamboo swords against the other squires, Rowen had won more matches than he’d lost.

“I’m good with steel. Good with my hands and feet, too, if the fight goes to ground. And I’m fair with a bow—although mine’s still branched to a tree at the moment.”

Hráthbam grinned, clearly appreciating the joke. “That settles it!” He tried to drink out of his empty mug again. “Standard contract, my friend: ten coppers now—the rest when the job’s done.”

“Didn’t you say you paid your last guards all in advance?”

Hráthbam raised one eyebrow. “Yes, and look what it got me! Ten now, ninety later. That, my friend, is my final offer. Do you agree, or did I buy your ales for nothing?”

Rowen had never been to Cadavash, but its priests were infamous for their fanaticism. Rowen could not imagine that men who worshipped the ghosts of dead dragons would be willing to sell the very bones of their gods to a gaudy silk merchant. But one hundred copper cranáfi for a month’s work was more than generous. Maybe Hráthbam would even extend his employment for another trip. Best of all, it meant Rowen could avoid going back to Lyos—at least for a while. He raised his mug. “Agreed.”

“Excellent! I’ll buy your room. We’ll drink our fill and leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Keep drinking like that, and you’ll be lucky to make it out of your bed by sundown! Not that I’ll be much better…

The old woman returned to the merchant’s table and brought him and Hráthbam more ale. Without waiting for an invitation, she scooped up four copper coins off the table and tucked them into her stew-stained apron.

The merchant drank and talked nonstop, telling Rowen all about his travels through Phaegos, the mistake he’d made in hiring two charming wagon guards who later tried to strangle him, the fortune that could be made from the silk trade (if people knew what they were doing), and the wealth Hráthbam hoped to gain off dragonbone. Then, the Soroccan began describing the various attributes and peccadilloes of his wives and the annoyance of their own separate husbands.

Rowen was halfway through his fourth ale. “How many wives do you have?”

“Ten.” Hráthbam held up both of his hands. His gold rings sparkled again. “One for each finger! When I have enough for each of my toes, I’ll know it’s time to stop.”

He spoke more about his wives and children until Rowen was thoroughly confused by a seemingly endless series of long, foreign names. Then, the Soroccan changed topics completely.

“I should have mentioned this before. I’ll have to test your mettle first. Nothing serious—just a little sparring to make sure you’re worth your copper. Meet me outside the stables at dawn. And bring your sword!”

Rowen nodded through his confusion. Merchants commonly tested the fighting abilities of sellswords by pitting them in mock combat against one of their best guards, but Rowen had never known a merchant to engage in this combat himself.
Then again, if I’m his only guard, what choice does he have?

Rowen sipped his fourth ale and tried to focus well enough to size up his opponent. The Soroccan, despite his padded build, must have been a skilled warrior once. Rowen believed his story about besting the guards who tried to kill him, but for all Hráthbam’s obvious strength, he could not be very fast. And when it came to wielding steel, speed counted for more than strength.
Besides, if he keeps drinking like that, he won’t even be able to lift his sword tomorrow!

Rowen finished his fourth ale, paused a moment to comment on the mug’s engraving of a drunken dragon, then nodded when Hráthbam mirthfully insisted on buying another round.

Chapter Four

The Dragon Wakes

M
orning sunlight stung Rowen’s eyes as he stood outside the stables and tried to keep his balance. That was not easy, given how the earth rippled like water beneath his boots. “Gods!” Rowen swore, rubbing his eyes. “I’d like to know if that’s spice they use in their ale or—”

A two-foot curve of sharp, naked steel flashed toward Rowen’s neck. Wide-eyed, he ducked then backed away, clumsily unsheathing his own blade. Hráthbam advanced, laughing heartily.

“Come, my pale friend! Surely those chicken limbs can move faster than that!” Hráthbam’s eyes shone clear, and his face looked well rested despite having helped Rowen polish off what he suspected was the Drunken Dragon’s entire stock.

Rowen’s face reddened, but he knew better than to respond with an insult of his own.

Hráthbam darted forward, nimble as a dancer despite his bulk, and swung his scimitar at Rowen’s shoulder. Rowen raised his shortsword to block, barely remembering to keep his grip loose before the force of the Soroccan’s blow sent a raw jolt through his arms. Rowen tried to push the scimitar down, but Hráthbam twisted free and lunged instead. Rowen managed to clumsily chop the blade out of the way, but it took all the strength he had.

I’m going to lose…
Rowen shook his head to clear his thoughts.

The two circled each other. Rowen’s face burned. Breccorry’s early-risers stopped in the streets and doorways to watch the fight. Most were farmers; others, young women on their way to the brothel to begin their day’s sordid work. The old innkeeper and his wife watched through the window of the Drunken Dragon. Rowen wondered if they were about to see him get chopped in half.

Hráthbam advanced again. They traded a rapid flurry of blows, then Rowen backpedaled again. This time, Hráthbam followed. The Soroccan gripped his scimitar with one hand while the other held up the hem of his pompous robes to keep him from tripping. Instead of boots, the merchant wore thin silk slippers. Rowen wondered how the man kept himself from yelping in pain whenever he stepped on a rock.

The rest of the merchant’s clothing was just as preposterous. He wore a white turban today. Unlike the black and violet robes he had worn the previous night, his new ones were bright crimson. The color stung Rowen’s eyes as badly as the morning sun.

“Gods, I have a headache! How are
you
so damned sharp?”

Hráthbam laughed heartily again. “Ten wives raises one’s tolerance for pain, my friend!” He leveled his scimitar and lunged a second time. Rowen realized with shame that the Soroccan was going easy on him. A scimitar was no lunging weapon. Surely Hráthbam knew that.

If I want his respect, I have to put a stop to this.
This time, instead of parrying, Rowen sidestepped, grabbed Hráthbam’s sword arm to hold it immobile, then stepped in, angling his shortsword for Hráthbam’s throat. He intended to stop short, just to get the blade close enough to prove his point.

But the Soroccan was too fast. He twisted away and kicked the back of Rowen’s left knee, nearly sweeping his legs out from under him. By the time Rowen recovered his balance, the dreadful scimitar was sweeping toward him again.

Rowen cursed, blocked, then answered with a swing of his own. The two struggled back and forth, their swords clattering loudly in the morning air. As though sensing that Rowen had gained his composure, Hráthbam fought harder.

Sweat beaded on Rowen’s forehead. “I thought... this was just a test!”

Hráthbam grinned. The scimitar whirled in his grip. “Are you telling me these paltry dance steps are the best an Isle Knight can offer?”

Rowen flushed then sprang to the attack. “I told you”—he feinted high, twisted his blade in midair, and nearly took Hráthbam’s head off—“I am
not
a Knight!”

Hráthbam’s face turned serious as Rowen drove the bigger man backward, toward the stable. Hráthbam caught the heel of one silk slipper on a rut and lost his footing. Rowen might have pressed the attack, but he caught his breath instead, giving his opponent plenty of time to recover.

“See?” Hráthbam noted. “Even enraged, the Isle Knight maintains his honor!”

Rowen flinched then realized too late that the merchant was only trying to distract him. The scimitar slashed, changed direction, lured Rowen’s blade the wrong way, then changed back and slipped beneath his guard. Rowen grunted as the dull side of the scimitar slapped him hard in the gut. Then the scimitar flashed up. This time, the dull side cracked his right elbow.

Rowen cursed. He swung wildly to keep his opponent at bay. Then he backed up, his arm throbbing.
If he wanted to, he could have used the sharp side and cut me to pieces by now.

“You should do something about that temper, my friend,” Hráthbam advised, suddenly grave. “It disrupts your focus.” He swung his scimitar in tight circles before him. “Tell me I am wrong, and by Dyoni’s grace, I will apologize.”

Rowen gritted his teeth but said nothing. He changed his shortsword to his left hand. His stomach ached, and numbness flooded his right arm. He wanted this contest to be over, but he knew he needed to redeem himself first. But that was not all. Suddenly, he wanted to kill this man!

Then, shamefully, he realized the Soroccan was right. On the Lotus Isles, Knights taught squires to channel their emotions, to clear their minds in the face of death. Rowen had absorbed much of the Isle Knights’ tactics but still relied on anger.

What a fool I am!
Rowen took a deep breath and released it.
Seek speed in slowness. Empty the mind. Breathe.

Hráthbam charged. This time, Rowen dodged the blurring scimitar with ease. Then he stepped in and kicked the Soroccan in the side. He might have twisted his hips and generated enough force to break the man’s ribs, but he held back. Rowen took a split second to focus then knocked the scimitar from Hráthbam’s grasp, caught the hilt with his own numbed right hand, and tucked the curved blade beneath Hráthbam’s chin.

Hráthbam’s eyes widened. If he was troubled by having his own sword pressed against his throat, his smile said otherwise. “Dyoni’s grace, my friend. Well done!”

Rowen blinked as though waking from a dream. “Forgive me...” He realized he was still holding Hráthbam’s scimitar and clumsily passed it back. He bowed again.

Hráthbam sheathed his scimitar with a laugh. “Forgive you? Only if you promise you’ll teach me how you did that!” Without waiting for a reply, the merchant went to attend to his wagon, muttering in Soroccan and rubbing his side.

The innkeeper and his wife gaped at Rowen through the window of the Drunken Dragon. Nearby, both of Breccorry’s blacksmiths and the emporium owner stared at him, visibly impressed. Three young prostitutes smiled coyly from the doorway of the brothel. Rowen blushed further. Then he sheathed his shortsword and went to help his new master ready the horses.

At the same time, far away, dawn shone off the vast city of tents and cooking fires that distinguished the encampment of the Throng, sprung up in the shadow of another city walled in broken stone. Banners speckled the encampment, still throbbing with activity. Some armed men continued the well-orchestrated looting of Cassica while others, paradoxically, gathered and treated the fallen city’s wounded. Amid the noise and bustle, a thin, hooded figure in a bone-white cloak shook his head with open derision.

Shade cursed the mud beneath his boots and the stench of wound and waste, wishing—not for the first time—that his master had marshaled the strength of other races: the Dwarr or maybe even Olgrym, with their macabre fondness for sometimes lighting themselves on fire before battle. Any race but Humans!
But then, I have always hated Humans.

Olgrym could not help what they were. But Humans, while feebleminded, were still smart enough to know better. They had built cities, raised armies, and even written books. One of their ancient heroes—the Isle Knight, Fâyu Jinn—had even sworn allegiance to the Shel’ai and Sylvan rebels during the Shattering War.

Not that any of these men would remember that
. Humans may be short-lived, but their memories were even shorter. The last, deciding blow of the Shattering War had been dealt ten centuries before. Not even Loslandril, the old Sylvan king, had been born yet. But Shade knew the stories—hard though they were to believe.

Nearly all the races had taken part in that war in one way or another. Some sided with the Dragonkin, seduced by their power. Among these were the Dwarr, Olgrym, and Humans. Ancient tomes even mentioned terrible, soulless creatures hewn from iron, into which the Dragonkin breathed life. But thanks to the Shel’ai, the Sylvs, and yes, even a few Humans who turned against their kind, the Dragonkin and their allies were driven back.
But that alliance is dead. So is Fâyu Jinn and his brand of knight—if they lived at all.

Shade shook his head, scowling with open disgust as a squad of armored men passed. All were careful to bow, but Shade did not return the gesture. All Humans looked ugly in his eyes. They lumbered like oxen—even when sober, which was not often. Their thick, hairy limbs lacked grace, and their language sounded like the grunts of wild animals.

But this is what we have to work with
. At least half the roster of the Throng was made up of conscripts from other conquered cities—men who joined the Throng in return for the Shel’ai sparing their families’ lives. Soon the armies of Cassica would join them, too. The rest of the army was made up of mercenaries: a few Dwarr, who were little better, but mostly Humans.

The Shel’ai curled his lip. It sickened him to know that these uncouth Humans were willing to kill and die for nothing more than a few coins earned by gutting other men who spent their lives just as wastefully.
At least when we kill, we do so for good reason!

Shade passed a stretch of field being used as a makeshift hospital. A hundred wounded lay there. Some of the men hailed from the Throng, bloodied and cleaved from isolated skirmishes, but most were soldiers from Cassica, injured when the Nightmare brought the wall down. Shade saw men with their faces burned black as tar, others with ghastly open wounds and shattered, protruding bones. The smell of blood and Human waste nearly gagged him.

Shade gritted his teeth, using his sleeve to try and mask the scent. Despite his disgust with these Humans, he resisted a sudden twist of pity by imagining that the injured and dying were Sylvs instead.
Like the ones who drove me out for what I am—for what I was born able to do.

Shade quickened his pace. He did not have time to muse. He had been summoned. Hurrying deeper into the camp, he came to his master’s tent.

In addition to a host of bodyguards, half a hundred white-and-crimson banners, all proudly displaying the sigil of a greatwolf, ringed the tent. The bodyguards stood nearly as still as the banners around them. Unlike the other men in the camp, these wore black from head to toe. Even their faces were covered, except for eyes as cold as stone.

Shade slowed. Five years since their inception, he still could not decide if the Unseen spoke to the power and rigid determination of the Shel’ai or instead illustrated their greatest folly. Groomed to be elite bodyguards and assassins, the Unseen were infamous. Loyal, yes, but they hardly had a choice, thanks to Shel’ai magic.

As Shade approached his master’s tent, the Unseen knew better than to challenge him. None bowed or saluted either, which suited him fine. In fact, the Shel’ai had to admit that he preferred the blunt honesty of their hatred. Pushing aside the flap of the tent, he walked in.

Fadarah was seated at a great oaken desk, studying maps and reports. He stopped when Shade entered. Even plainly dressed, without raiment or his imposing blackened plate armor, the Sorcerer-General was a kingly figure. Shade fell to one knee.

Fadarah took him by the shoulders and pulled him up. “Welcome, Kith’el.”

Shade winced. Though he no longer went by his given name, Fadarah still used it from time to time. Shade might have protested, had it been anyone else. He quickly concealed his emotions, but Fadarah sensed them anyway.