Memories of Rowen’s own childhood in the slums flooded him, unbidden. He remembered hiding from the gangs with his brother, stealing to stay alive, doing whatever he could to stay out of sight of those who had no qualms about forcing certain vile acts upon boys as well as girls.
An old, raw terror sprang up inside him. It took all his willpower to keep from trying to break free of his bonds right then and there. Dimly, he remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius. Singchai ushó fey—no courage without fear—but the words brought no comfort.
A faint, sad smile played on Sneed’s face. “It’s a wretched world, ain’t it?” He stabbed the fire with a knife. “So what was written on that letter? I mean, before.”
Rowen started to lie then changed his mind. “It was a letter from my brother, telling me to come join him soon as I could.”
Something in Rowen’s tone made Sneed nod. “He dead?”
Rowen started to answer, but his throat constricted. He nodded instead. I’m sorry, Kayden. I took too long.
Sneed stabbed the fire again, as though he meant to smother the embers but then changed his mind and added another scrap of wood. “Was he a knight, too?”
Rowen tensed. “I’m not even a squire anymore, so I’m sure as hell not a knight!” He added, “But Kayden was. A good one.”
Sneed stared off into the trees. “I wanted to be a knight when I was a kid. Would have been happy being a sellsword, too, I guess, but I never was much good in a fight.” His expression turned eager. “If you want to teach me, maybe we can be sellswords together! I’ll loosen your hands, and we can turn it on Dagath when he gets back.”
Rowen tensed. He knew he only had to nod. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m done being a sellsword.”
Sneed frowned and Rowen immediately regretted it. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Being a knight’s not all about fighting. There’s reading and writing and laws, too. You have to learn them all.”
Sneed took another pull of the wine jug. “Anything in those laws about playing hurt then stabbing whoever walks up to help you?” When Rowen did not answer, Sneed added his last scrap of wood to the campfire. “How’d you know it was a trick?”
Rowen was dangerously close to revealing that his story about being a blacksmith’s son was a lie, though he suspected that Sneed already knew. “Kayden always said if you see a dying man, smell the air. If it don’t smell like shit, he’s faking.”
Sneed laughed. “I’m glad I smell fresher than that, at least!” His expression sobered, and he stared out at the shadow-wrapped trees. “Here’s what’s bothering me, Squire. When you saw me laying there all groaning and wretched, you called out, said you weren’t buying it, told me to get up and go.”
Rowen nodded carefully, though he felt silly when he realized that Sneed was not looking.
“When I didn’t move, you walked up and kicked me—though not half as hard as you could have, I bet. I heard you draw your sword. You missed Dagath hiding in that tree, a ways back with a green cloak over him. Still, you knew it was a trap. You could have stabbed me in the back and been done with it—only you didn’t. Why?”
Rowen realized he had no answer.
Sneed nodded. “Would’ve made sense. Not one of the gods would have burned you for it. I’d have done it in your place. And here for all I know, we came out of those damn slums together.”
He stood up—knife in one hand, wine in the other—and circled around the fire. He moved so purposefully that Rowen wondered for a moment if the robber meant to stab him.
“I figure you get this as well as anybody, Squire. Most times, you just do what you gotta to keep your blood in the right place.” Sneed looked down. “Sometimes, though, you get to do what you want.” He gave Rowen a final, dull look then simply walked away, vanishing into the night.
Is this a trick? Rowen wondered, too, if Sneed had only gone to fetch more firewood. But minutes passed, and the balding thief did not return.
Rowen wasted no more time. He worked his bonds against the tree, wincing when the motion sent jolts of pain through his slashed palm. At last, he broke free. His shoulders ached, but he hurried to free his legs as well. He rose shakily to his feet.
Sneed had left his satchel by the fire, but Dagath had scattered his meager possessions all over the camp. Rowen gathered them with his good hand. Without his shortsword, he had no weapons save his razor. A pitiful weapon.
He ripped two strips of cloth from his shirt. Since he had to do so with one hand, the cloth tore unevenly and too far, further souring his already-bedraggled appearance. But that, too, was a concern for another time. Rowen tied one strip of cloth around his palm as a bandage. Then he chose a suitable branch from the fire, wrapped the second strip of cloth at one end, and fashioned a makeshift torch. Though better than nothing, it still smoldered more than it burned.
He finished gathering his belongings, snatching up the Codex Lotius and sliding it into his satchel. He glanced at the other volume—the one full of laws to which he was no longer bound—but left it where it lay. Then, heading away from both Dagath and Sneed, he hurried off through the trees into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
RUMORS OF WAR
Rowen walked throughout the night, doubtful that Dagath would return so soon but unwilling to face the big man without a suitable weapon. He abandoned his torch when the fire burned almost down to his hand. Supposedly, the Shel’ai’s strange, magical wytchfire burned without consuming fuel. That would come in handy now.
He remembered his brass-hilted shortsword—all he had left of Kayden—and considered circling back and trying to regain it. He trusted his fighting skills were a match for Dagath’s, though his instincts had already failed him once. Besides, I’m in no shape for a fight.
Muttering a stream of curses, he continued on. Without his paltry torch, the way was slow going since Rowen had no desire to take a false step in the darkness and break his leg. Blue-black clouds veiled the stars and a sliver of moon. Even the starry swirl that was Armahg’s Eye barely lit the outlines of trees and thickets, all of which roiled with shadows and convinced him that he was about to be confronted by everything from robbers to greatwolves.
So the sight of dawn cresting the broad, uninhabited hills of the Simurgh Plains brought a sense of relief, despite his exhaustion. Then he stopped and began cursing again. He had traveled mostly blind, hoping he was still heading in the general direction of Lyos. But he had gone farther east than he intended. In fact, he could faintly see the Burnished Way in the distance—a sun-washed span of amethyst water covered in plumes of fog.
Gods, I’m almost back where I started three days ago… and I don’t even have my damn sword anymore! He shook his head. He wanted to set off at once, but he couldn’t maintain that pace any longer. So he found a tree, put his back to it, and slept.
He had not slept long before hunger woke him. He searched his satchel but remembered that Dagath and Sneed had eaten what was left of his rations. Rowen scoured the area but saw no fruit trees, not even a stream from which to try and draw a fish, as he had days earlier. He pressed on and spotted a few urusks. Though they were the size of boars, the creatures were slow and docile, using their long snouts to root in the ground for insects. Rowen grimaced. He had practically lived off urusk meat in the Dark Quarter and had not forgotten its sour, acrid taste. I’m not quite desperate enough for that. Not yet.
He wished he had a bow. Few deer but plenty of wolves roamed these parts. He might fashion a crude spear or another torch to keep regular wolves at bay, but their greatwolf cousins would not be so easily dissuaded.
He considered a different danger. While the gash on his forehead had come from the blunt force of Dagath’s cudgel, his wounded hand was another matter. He peeled back the strip of cloth he had used to bandage his sliced palm and grimaced at the swollen, bruised flesh. Despite his thirst, he used what little water remained in his waterskin to rinse his hand, cursing himself for not doing so earl
ier.
Gods, give me a fever if you have to, but don’t make me have to cut off my own hand. He wondered how he would do so, without a sword. He remembered his razor, shuddered, and hurried on. Who could help him? The clerics of the goddess, Tier’Gothma, were renowned for their ability to treat wounds, but he was unlikely to find any in the few villages between here and Lyos. Besides, most required coin in exchange for their services.
Gods, is this how it ends? Dying either from fever or blood loss, alone on the plains—
He prayed for a stream where he might sate his thirst and more thoroughly wash his hand and rinse his blood-matted red hair, but the prayer went unanswered. Before long, the sun crisped the back of his neck. His steps faltered. He obsessively checked and rechecked his maimed hand. The skin was still purple—not yellow—but his fingers felt stiff and hurt terribly when he forced himself to flex them.
Rowen walked and walked until he came upon a farm. The place was far from impressive, consisting of little more than a small field and a lackluster mud hut. He was surprised to see men tending crops so late in the season but then realized that they must be harvesting paupers’ root, as many poor people did. The nutritious stuff could be grown even in winter, though like urusk meat, the taste left much to be desired. “Like grain passed through the bowels of the gods,” his brother used to say.
But they’ll have water, at least. Rowen forced a friendly smile and waved to them. They tensed at his approach. The farmer and two boys who must have been his sons produced crude bows and spears.
“I mean you no harm,” Rowen called out. “I’m not a robber, and I don’t have the plague. I just want water, maybe some food. No charity. As the gods are my witness, I’ll work for it—”
“Move on!” the farmer called.
Rowen caught an Ivairian accent in the man’s voice. Maybe this family had abandoned their famine-ridden country for the Simurgh Plains, just as Rowen’s family had so long ago.
“I only want some water,” Rowen called back. “I’m hurt. I just need to clean my wound.” He added, “I’m Ivairian… if that matters.”
The farmer shouted again. One of the sons joined in, yelling a stream of curses Rowen could not understand through the accent. Rowen switched from Common to Ivairian Tongue, hoping to charm them with their native language, but they would hear none of it. When one of the farmer’s sons fired an arrow into the dirt near Rowen’s feet, its shaft quivering in the afternoon sun, he retreated.
Rowen weighed his options. He had spotted a little muddy stream behind the farmer’s shack. He had no desire to creep up like a thief and risk his life for a mere drink of water, but circumstances left him no choice.
Rowen hid behind a line of yew trees, stomach growling, then made his way back to the farm. He chose an approach lined by low hills and mossy rocks and crawled on his hands and knees to keep out of sight. He risked a quick glance. The farmer and his sons were in the field again, though they stopped often and looked around. To his relief, they were looking in the wrong direction. Rowen kept crawling. He tried to favor his maimed hand, turning it so that the pebbles would not grind into his cut, but his eyes still watered from the pain. Dirt and mud caked his clothes. Finally, he reached the stream.
All shame momentarily vanished as he dipped his hands in the cool water. He drank greedily then washed his maimed hand as best he could. He rinsed his face next, working his fingers through his matted hair. Then he moved farther upstream and refilled his waterskin, half-expecting to feel an arrow in his back at any moment. He delayed leaving to try to rinse some of the grime from his arms and clothing, too.
Rowen shuddered. Staring back at him from the water was not the proud, aloof visage of a knight, nor even that of a squire, but a penniless, orphaned sellsword. Bitterly, he recalled a line from a Shao poem: What madness, to become only what I had forsaken.
He heard a cry of alarm. Almost grateful, he got up and ran. As he passed the edge of the field, he grabbed a stalk of ripened paupers’ root and tugged it after him. Dirt flew, releasing the foot-long, twisted root into his grasp. Rowen heard the sound of an arrow whistling through the air and kept running, even after he was well out of bow range.
Late in the afternoon, Rowen came across a dead stag, rotting on the plains. The fantastic slashes in its hide told him that the deed had been done by greatwolves. He looked around but saw nothing. The meat was too rotten to eat, of course, and the stench was such that he had to cover his nose. Still, he lingered. He wished the dead animal were an urusk instead of a stag. Properly treated, urusks’ backbones could be made into good—if gruesome—longbows. Then Rowen had another idea.
Well, it’s better than nothing. Braving the smell and flies, he seized the decaying corpse by the antlers and, with great difficulty, managed to break off a formidable length of bone. Tearing another strip of cloth from his already tattered clothing, he wrapped one end to fashion a sort of handle.
His efforts to break off a bit of antler had left its head lying at a horrible angle, mouth agape. Rowen nudged it with his foot to straighten it. Rowen remembered the Shao custom, so favored by many of the Isle Knights, to offer a brief prayer of thanks to the spirit of any beast they harvested. He started to speak the words but then stopped himself.
“I’m not even a squire anymore,” he reminded himself as he went on his way.
Rowen’s fortunes took another upturn when, soon after leaving the stag’s corpse, he reached a grove of fig trees. He had barely managed to keep down the bit of paupers’ root, having no fire or spices to make it more palatable, so the figs were as welcome a sight as any Rowen could remember.
He ate savagely, filling his belly then harvesting the remaining figs into his satchel. Wild mushrooms grew at the base of the trees. Ignoring the mushrooms, he stopped to rest. He felt a little better. He had no coins or steel, but he had food enough to get him to Lyos. There, he might—
Might what? Rowen had no desire to go back to being a sellsword, but even if he did, in his current state, who would hire him? He considered finding a graveyard and robbing the dead, in the hopes that one of the corpses might be a sellsword buried with coins or patchwork armor, but the thought filled him with revulsion.
Besides, I doubt there’s a single unlooted grave left anywhere. He was tempted again to turn around and go after Dagath—if the highwayman was still alive—but he remembered his reflection in the stream, and his anger slacked.
Better I just make for Lyos and put all this behind me. But how? One greatwolf, or another run-in with highwaymen, and I’m a dead man.
Then he remembered the cave. “Jinn’s name,” he swore, “could it still be there?”
Like most sellswords, Kayden and he had had no reliable place to stash their meager income. Most of what they earned went to food and drink and the occasional prostitute, or better weapons and clothes when they could afford it. From time to time, though, they had stashed whatever castoff possessions they could not sell in caves, knowing they could reclaim them if their fortunes took a turn for the worse. Provided no one else found them first, that is. One such cave was not far from here, near the town of Breccorry.
The goods stashed therein had hardly been worth preserving at the time: a few patchwork shirts and britches plus a small knife, a spearhead, and a shortsword flecked with rust. But that was then. Rowen caught his breath, remembering the handful of copper coins Kayden had stashed along with the clothes and weapons. What at the time had been just a fraction of their wages currently seemed like a fortune!
Rowen set out with newfound purpose. He checked the sun’s position, calculating that he might be there by sundown if he hurried. He soon spotted another farm in the distance, this one no more impressive than the last. This time, though, he gave the place a wide berth and continued on without being spotted.
He stopped once to rest, draining most of his waterskin and forcing down more of the overripe figs, the latter of which did not taste quite so appealing since he no longer felt as
though he was dying. Then, a while later, the grassy plains gave way to stray boulders. His pace quickened.
More and more boulders rose out of the earth, some as big as the mud hut he had seen earlier that day. It had been years, but Rowen found his bearings. One of the boulders, bigger than the rest, was concave on one side, as though some great giant had scooped out half its innards. He recognized it at once. Then he stopped in his tracks.
Faint tendrils of smoke rose from behind the boulder.
Rowen took a deep breath to steady himself. He must have been even more discombobulated than he thought, not to have already anticipated this. The cave was no secret. He and Kayden had sought shelter there before while in the company of other mercenaries, and other travelers had probably discovered it on their own. Still, Rowen doubted anyone would be able to find what his brother had left behind. Kayden was always good at burying things.
Rowen hesitated, weighing the possibility that he knew the cave’s inhabitant. He had made enemies as well as friends in those days. He considered abandoning the notion of retrieving his old possessions and just heading for Lyos after all, but he decided against it. Between robbery, injury, and the shame he’d felt at the farm, he was tired of running.
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.”
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 3
