Wytchfire (Book 1) (9 page)

Hráthbam went as rigid as the greatwolf, then slowly, he relaxed. “Such a waste... of good hláshba,” he said with a forced grin. “Does it look as bad to your eyes as it does to mine?”

Rowen knotted a second then a third makeshift bandage around Hráthbam’s wounded thigh. He pressed hard on the wound, causing the Soroccan to grit his teeth. This was not the first time Rowen had dealt with wounds, but this one was different. “I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Hráthbam nodded quickly. “I didn’t expect you to. I am...” He paused. “There is no word for it in the Common Tongue. But my blood does not thicken as yours does.”

Rowen felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the breeze against his blood-wet face. He had seen this before, in the slums of the Dark Quarter: children who could not stop bleeding. For them, even a fistfight or a graze from a knife could be deadly, unless they kept proper ointments handy to staunch the blood flow.

“How... how do I treat this?”

Hráthbam shook his head. “Just bring me more hláshba. I want to be good and drunk when I meet the gods.”

But Rowen refused. “No way even you were dumb enough to leave Sorocco without something to treat this. Now where is it?”

“In the wagon,” Hráthbam said, finally. He shuddered. His eyes rolled before coming back into focus. “In the smallest trunk, the one painted with my people’s sigil. A pouch full of green powder. Bring it... with water.”

Rowen sprinted toward the wagon. Left had finally broken free. Both she and Right stood some distance away, watching. The wagon was on its side now, provisions spilled in all directions. It took an eternity for Rowen to locate the small chest painted with the emblem of a black galleon against a white sea. When at last he found it, the chest was sealed. Rowen grabbed the nearest weapon—a hatchet—and broke the lock. Inside the chest, he found cracked vials, soaked scrolls, and a small leather pouch.

He feared at first that the liquid from the cracked vials had soaked into the pouch, but inside he found a dry, foul-smelling powder the color of spring leaves. Rowen rummaged for a waterskin then hurried back to his master.

Hráthbam’s dark face had paled. His eyes were closed. Rowen knelt on the bloody grass and shook him. Green eyes flickered opened. The Soroccan stared without comprehension.

“What do I do?” Rowen pressed. He showed Hráthbam the pouch. “Damn you, tell me what to do with this!”

Hráthbam’s words slurred. “Two... pinches of the powder... right in the wound. Press hard. Then... just a little water. Bandage after.”

Rowen nodded. Carefully, he removed the bloody silk bandages to find that the bleeding had not slowed. He was about to add the powder into the wound when he remembered stories of other men’s and animals’ blood causing further sickness to the wounded. He opened the waterskin and rinsed his hands as best he could. Then he rinsed Hráthbam’s wound and sprinkled two pinches of the strange green powder directly into it.

He pressed hard. The Soroccan hissed, but Rowen did not let up. He leveled all his weight on the wound until he counted to one hundred, then he let up and rinsed the wound again.

This time, surprisingly, the wound foamed like the mouth of a rabid animal. Rowen added more powder then rinsed the wound but with less water this time. The bleeding slowed but did not stop.

Rowen kept more pressure on the wound. When finally the bleeding seemed to have ceased, he peeled off his own bloody tunic, noting in the process that his own injuries were just scratches, and wadded his tunic beneath Hráthbam’s head as though it were a pillow.

He eyed the man’s open wound and wondered if he shouldn’t find a needle and thread to sew it shut. He was a fair hand at that, having treated Kayden’s wounds and his own on the battlefield, but he did not want to leave the wound uncovered while he searched for what he needed.

He tore fresh strips of silk from Hráthbam’s robes and once again bandaged the man’s thigh, as tightly as he dared. Only then did he notice the Soroccan’s eyes—closed, unmoving.

Chapter Six

Dragonkin

F
lames.

Shade could not see, could not move, could only feel crisp flames gnawing him down to the bone. With awful certainty, he realized it would not stop. It would never stop.

But then, it stopped.

Water—cool, deep, dark—enveloped him, soothing the pain into a memory. The water faded, became only air. He remembered Sylvos and the breathtaking height of the World Tree. He remembered his own name… then Fadarah… then Silwren. He opened his eyes.

Fadarah stood over him. The great man’s tattooed face was taut with exhaustion, smeared with dirt and dried blood. Stripped to the waist, the big man’s muscular torso—tattooed in Ogrish writing—was covered in sweat and a dissipating violet glow. Fadarah’s eyes were closed, but he opened them as well and smiled.

“You nearly crossed over. Another moment, and we’d have lost you.”

Shade tried to speak.

Fadarah shook his head. “Save your strength, my friend. The flames bit you deep. I have restored you, but you must rest now.”

Shade blinked frantically, trying to will enough strength into his mind so that he might make sense of things. To know he was alive was not enough. What about Silwren?

Suddenly, Fadarah’s voice echoed in his head even though his master’s lips had not moved.
“Save your strength, my friend. We can mindspeak more easily.”

Shade cursed his own foolishness.
“General, is Silwren—”

“Alive,” Fadarah answered aloud, “but gone. I hoped that allowing her to emerge from her sleep on her own time would prevent madness. I was wrong. In her panic, she nearly destroyed you and everyone around her.”

Shade tried to sit up.

Fadarah stopped him by pressing one great hand to his chest. “Peace, Kith’el! Save your strength. I don’t have the power to heal you again, and there are others who need my attention this night.”

For the first time, Shade realized that he was back in Fadarah’s command tent, surrounded on all sides by burnt and injured Shel’ai. Others who had survived Silwren’s awakening were tending to them, a violet glow enveloping their bodies. Instead of wytchfire, they summoned vaporous, healing energies and urged them into the broken forms of their comrades. Que’ann was with them, her wrinkled face taut with weariness and concentration as she moved about, seemingly set on healing everyone at once.

Shade remembered the six Shel’ai tasked with defending the initiates. Surely they were dead. But he had seen only Fadarah and Que’ann coming to their rescue. The other Shel’ai had been too far away, scattered throughout the camp.
“How were so many wounded?”

Fadarah’s brow furrowed.
“Silwren did not just attack those around her,”
the Sorcerer-General answered.
“As she fled, her rage sought out all others with magic in their blood. In her panic, she turned on herself—by turning on us.”

A terrible question formed in Shade’s mind.
“The other initiates—”

“Dead,”
Fadarah answered.
“Aerios, Cierrath… Silwren killed them both while they slept. They felt no pain, save what torment already roiled in their minds. Don’t be afraid,”
he continued.
“We do not blame her. She’s mad with pain worse than the rest of us can imagine. But we’ll find her. Now rest. I must tend the others.”

Shade had a thousand questions, but he stopped himself. Fadarah squeezed his shoulder then left to tend the other wounded Shel’ai. Shade lay back and shut his eyes, battling the despair rising up within him.

El’rash’lin had already forsaken them. The Nightmare was growing too powerful, too unstable. Now, death had claimed Aerios and Cierrath, and even Silwren was gone. How had it come to this? How long had he slept, and how far must Silwren have fled by now?

I will find her. Fadarah and the others must keep the army moving east, toward Lyos. It will take all of them to keep the Nightmare in check. But I’ll find her. I will talk to her, reason with her, save her. I will bring her back!

The young Shel’ai took a deep breath and let it go. If he did not rest, he would die. And then, Silwren would be alone out there, ravaged and mad. Shade took a deep breath and released it. For now, he would wait. Besides, Silwren would be easy enough to find. Already, Shade could guess exactly where she was going.

“Cadavash...” He whispered the dreadful word, moments before he willed himself to sleep.

Hráthbam shuddered in his sleep-like stupor. Rowen knew at once the reason why. He sprinted to the wagon, gathered every cloak he could find, then rushed back and used them to cover his master. While doing so, he checked the bandages.
He’s lost too much blood
.

He eyed the bloody grass and the dead greatwolf. The beast already reeked as though it had been rotting for days. He kicked its head. Then, grimacing, he grabbed its hind legs and hauled it away, muscles straining. He caught a faint glimpse of steel in the ruddy muck: the broken blade of his shortsword, still planted inside the greatwolf’s ribcage.
That’s two swords I’ve lost now.

He searched the wagon for a needle and thread. The first trunk he opened overflowed with fine robes. Amid the heaps of silk, he found a satchel containing soap, several spools of thread, and a few needles. Some of the needles were thick enough to repair leather with the aid of a hammer, but Rowen found one slender enough for wounds. He chose the thinnest spool of thread and returned.

Rowen removed the silk bandages, rinsed the wound yet again, then meticulously sewed the man’s thigh shut. Hráthbam barely stirred. Rowen remembered the long stream of curses his brother used to utter whenever Rowen sewed him up after a fight, be it on a battlefield or a tavern common room.

Rowen bandaged Hráthbam’s wounds once again then checked for the big man’s pulse. It fluttered weakly. The Soroccan was still shivering, so Rowen went to the nearest tree with a hatchet, hacked down a few dry branches, took the flint from his own satchel, and built a fire.

Left and Right had calmed down now, and they hesitantly drew closer to their injured master, stirring listlessly near the fire. The horses whinnied with concern. Rowen was stumbling with exhaustion, but he found oats and a brush in the wagon and cared for the horses. Finally, he allowed himself to sit and rest for a moment.

He happened to collapse facing west. The sky shone with the same vibrant color as Hráthbam’s blood. Rowen shook himself from this thought then realized how hungry and thirsty he was.

He remembered food in the wagon, but he doubted he had the strength to rise any more. He ate some of the dry, tasteless rations from his satchel, drank from the waterskin, then slowly poured some water into his sleeping master’s mouth. The Soroccan swallowed but did not stir, his dark skin colder than ever. Rowen added a few more branches to the fire.

Nothing more I can do,
he told himself. He used the waterskin to rinse Hráthbam’s blood from his hands.
I’ve stopped the bleeding, cleaned and sewn the wound, given him water. He’s sleeping. It’s in the gods’ hands now.

Rowen considered the irony of this, given their earlier, blasphemous discussion about the gods. Glancing up at the northern sky, he located Armahg’s Eye, its light gaining brilliance as twilight blued the rest of the sky. Rowen looked up at Armahg’s Eye and muttered the only prayer he knew. He said it several times. He did not expect anyone to listen.

A scream jolted Rowen from his sleep.

He bolted up, and for a moment, he did not know where he was. Twilight had darkened the clouds. Nearby, Left and Right pricked their ears, pawing the earth with fright. The campfire still burned, warm against his bare feet.

The awful sound had startled the wounded Soroccan, too. He tried to sit up. “Dyoni’s bane... what was that?”

“Just a deer,” Rowen lied, fumbling for his shortsword before he remembered it was gone. Rising shakily to his feet, he searched for another weapon. Nearby lay Hráthbam’s heavy scimitar, the footman’s pike—which he’d retrieved from the battlefield—and the Queshi composite bow. Rowen preferred the bow, but the quiver of arrows was still by the wagon. He grabbed the pike instead.

“Like hells,” Hráthbam said, coughing. “Unless by ‘deer,’ you mean ornery succubus!”

Rowen ignored him. By the sound of the scream, he expected to see a flock of demons descending upon them. Dusk darkened the horizon as far as he could see. But the moon was waxing and the stars were out, and the pale glow of Armahg’s Eye lit the hills and grasslands as Rowen’s eyes searched for enemies.

“I must have been dreaming.”

“More like a nightmare,” Hráthbam said. He reached weakly for his scimitar. “And if you had it, my friend, so did I!”

Rowen kept the pike in hand as he returned to the wagon and found the arrows for the composite bow. He also grabbed Hráthbam’s crossbow and quiver of bolts though he doubted the Soroccan was strong enough to use them. He returned to the campfire but sat with his back to the flames so his eyes would not be blinded by the light.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Hráthbam whispered quietly, “Like I had my leg opened by a wolf the size of my third wife... then I bled half my guts on the cold, hard ground.” He laughed thinly, the sound barely audible over the crackling of the campfire.

Rowen took the waterskin and helped the Soroccan drink as much as he could. “Do you realize that I could have killed you in Breccorry?”

Hráthbam paused. “Are you referring... to our little sparring match? If you managed... to scratch me, I’d have deserved it.” He drank more then coughed.

Rowen lowered the waterskin, slipped one arm under the man’s shoulders, and held him up until he was done coughing. “Sleep now,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

“How... how are the horses?” Hráthbam asked instead. “Are they hurt? Did my third wife get them, too?”

“No,” Rowen said, “they’re just over there. If you could stand up, you’d see them. I think they’re worried about you.”

The merchant scoffed. “Don’t bet on it, my friend! Especially Right. If she had teeth like that wolf, she’d have taken my head off a long time ago.” Despite his words, the merchant’s tone was filled with affection. “And the wagon?”

“Not as bad as you think,” Rowen answered quickly. “Left tipped it over, but it’ll be fine once we get it upright. A few things got banged and busted, but nothing serious.” He added, “You should be more worried about yourself.”

Hráthbam waved him off. “My people do not waste precious time on worry!” He laughed then winced with pain. “Is there any... hláshba left?”

“No,” Rowen said. “But there’s wine.” He held the wineskin for the merchant again. “Just a little,” he cautioned. “Take the edge off the pain, but too much is dangerous if you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Now is hardly the time to scold me for drinking!”

Rowen sat with his back to the fire again, pike laid across his knees. The composite bow lay within easy reach, near a quiver of arrows. “You hired me to be your protector, didn’t you? That hláshba stuff will rot your innards.”

Hráthbam did not answer, shivering beneath the pile of cloaks. Rowen reached to one side and tossed a few more branches onto the fire.

“My wives bribed you to get me sober,” the Soroccan grumbled at last. “Admit it.”

“Freely,” Rowen answered. “Now, sleep.”

“I’ll sleep soon enough, I fear. If ‘sleep’
is what you call it.” He tried to sit up.

“Lie still, damn you! If you reopen that wound, I’ll personally smash every last thing in the wagon!”

Hráthbam laughed weakly but gave in. “Talk,” he grumbled. “If I can’t... listen to my own prattle... at least I can listen to yours.”

“What should we talk about? The gods, again?”

Hráthbam shook his head. “No, I think any questions I have about them... will be answered soon enough. Tell me... about the Isle Knights.”