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.
“Why so grim, my child? Did we not win another great victory just a few days ago?”
Shade smiled thinly. Though he was tall, he still had to crane his neck to meet his master’s gaze. “Yes, General. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to Iventine,” Fadarah corrected. He returned to his seat—not the regal throne he deserved, Shade noted, but a simple wooden chair. “Have you seen him?”
Despite himself, Shade shuddered. “Yes, General. He sleeps. Four Shel’ai attend him in the southern subcamp, along with a full company of Unseen. He will not wake until you command it.”
Fadarah nodded, but his expression remained troubled. “I sensed today that his power is still growing.”
Shade hesitated. “As did I, General. Forgive me, but I’ll say it again: if this continues, we may have to—”
Fadarah’s eyes narrowed, silencing him. Despite his violet eyes, filled with dragonmist, his face flushed to a strange, ominous shade of gray—a product of his half-Olg blood. “We are not speaking of an animal. Iventine is still one of us—regardless of what we may be forced to do, in time.”
Shade bowed. “Of course. Forgive me, General.” He added, “Maybe if one of the other initiates—especially Silwren—could be awakened...”
Fadarah shook his head resolutely. “We have already seen what happens when an initiate wakes too early. We lost poor Iventine and El’rash’lin that way. We can’t risk Silwren and the others too.”
But Silwren is not like the others.
Fadarah turned his atte
ntion back to the reports on the table before him. “I summoned you because losses among the Throng remain lighter than usual. Only eighteen killed, thrice that wounded. Normally, this would be a cause for celebration. This time, it concerns me.”
“Maybe rumors of the Nightmare’s power sapped the courage of Cassica’s defenders,” Shade offered. “Word may have reached them after Syros, long before we got here.”
Fadarah glanced up. “Undoubtedly. But General Brahasti has nearly finished rounding up Cassica’s men-at-arms, and the numbers are light. Most dropped swords, and there are still some skirmishes, but Brahasti insists there’s still at least one full brigade out there.”
“Humans are infamous for deserting their compatriots in times of need, General.”
Fadarah’s eyes narrowed. “You do not think I should rely so heavily on Brahasti’s advice, then.” It was not a question.
“You lead this host, General. Not me. I bow to your wisdom.”
“Thank you, but I did not request your endorsement. I asked for your opinion of Brahasti el Tarq.”
The mention of the name made Shade’s lip curl. “An army can have only one general. Besides, Brahasti is a Dhargot.” He spat the word like a curse.
Fadarah smirked. “Brahasti is banished from the empire. I believe the Red Emperor threatened to have him impaled if he returned.”
Shade did not laugh. “Then let the Red Emperor have him! We’d gain favor, and Brahasti would get what he deserves.”
Fadarah shook his head. “We need Brahasti. For now, at least. But I sense there’s more to your hatred than disagreement with his strategy.”
Shade hesitated. Then in a low voice, he said, “Brahasti is a dog—even among Humans! He is a sadist who delights in torture and rape. Were it within my province, I would burn him to ashes and sleep well for it.”
So strong was the Shel’ai’s revulsion that, as he spoke, violet tendrils of wytchfire flickered to life, writhing and flitting about his fingertips. Shade flicked his hands, and the wytchfire disappeared. He blanched and bowed. “Forgive me, General.”
Fadarah faced him, unfazed. “No Shel’ai need fear disagreeing with my decisions, Kith’el. You above all others know that.” He sighed, leaning back in the chair, which strained to accommodate his muscular bulk. “I like the man no more than you do. I’ll make you this promise: when Brahasti outlives his usefulness, you will be the one who sends him to be judged by the Light. And I suspect I’ll sleep as well afterward as you will.”
Shade bowed deeply. “Thank you, General.”
Fadarah glanced at the reports again. “As for this missing brigade, it may be they deserted. But we should take care until this can be confirmed. Should this brigade return and attack us, they would not be so foolish as to assault the main camp. The hills to the south would be a perfect hiding place for them. I have dispatched scouts, but we should prepare, in the event that this missing brigade of men-at-arms attacks the subcamp to the south.”
Shade caught his meaning. That is where the initiates are! “Silwren...” He whispered her name before he could stop himself.
Fadarah nodded. “She and the others must be protected at all costs. I do not want to risk the common men of the army learning about the initiates, so take only the Unseen with you. Their silence is assured. I have already ordered Captain Lethe to assemble a brigade and proceed to Iventine’s tent, but we must guard the initiates’ tent as well. Assume command of my bodyguards and go there at once. I will send more Unseen to relieve you as soon as I can.”
“Your own bodyguards... Forgive me, General, but—”
“No need for concern. I summoned Que’ann from tending the wounded. She’ll remain here and guard me until you return. Besides, I suspect I will be quite safe at the center of my own army.”
Shade hesitated. “As you command, General.” He bowed again and left the tent.
Assuming command of Fadarah’s bodyguards—all handpicked from the ranks of the Unseen—he headed briskly for the southern subcamp. The Unseen followed without comment or complaint. Shade stalked through the main camp, his hood lowered. Armed men scurried to get out of his way. Shade led the Unseen past a line of sentries guarding the southern end of the main camp. At that moment, they were supervising the camp’s fortifications—the digging of a ditch and the raising of a palisade.
Shade reflected on his master’s plan to keep the Nightmare and the rest of the initiates in subcamps, separated from the main body of the Throng. Shade had argued that doing so made these subcamps prime targets for would-be guerrilla fighters from the cities they conquered. Fadarah had countered with a point Shade could not answer: what if the Nightmare awoke on its own? What if one of the initiates emerged from dream-sleep every bit as mad as Iventine? In a rampage, he might destroy half the army before the other Shel’ai could stop him! Those soldiers not killed would surely revolt, and all would be lost.
So the subcamps were placed under heavy guard—not just by Unseen but by Shel’ai too. Even against a far smaller number of Unseen, an entire brigade of Cassican men-at-arms would stand no chance once Shel’ai engaged in the battle too. Shade smirked. As far as he knew, there existed no armor on the continent that could shield its wearer against wytchfire.
They reached the southern subcamp, located a hundred yards from the rest of the Throng. Palisades ringed this camp as well, but here, all the sentries wore the black leather brigandines of the Unseen. Their armor bore the crimson greatwolf, and black silk cloths had been tied to conceal their faces. None saluted. Shade pointed, and those Unseen marching behind him joined the others encircling the initiates’ tent, bolstering the sentry-lines. Shade approached the tent itself and bowed to the sorcerers standing outside.
Six Shel’ai stood guard, all dressed in bone-white cloaks like his own. They guarded the only entrance into the tent, stoic faces shadowed by hoods. They glanced impassively at the fresh squad of Unseen that Shade had brought with him.
“A brigade of Cassican men-at-arms may be hiding in the hills. Captain Lethe already guards Iventine’s slumber. More Unseen will arrive here, too. I’ll stay until then. Obviously, General Fadarah wants the initiates protected at all cost.”
The six Shel’ai nodded. “Of course,” one said. “Thank you, Lord Shade.”
The Shel’ai who addressed him lowered her hood, revealing beautiful Sylvan features. She regarded Shade with open admiration. And something else.
Shade ignored this. “Nariel, what is the status of their sleep?”
Nariel’s expression stiffened. “Unchanged.”
Shade nodded. He was sorry to spurn this Shel’ai woman’s affections, but that could not be helped. She knew, as did everyone, that his heart belonged to Silwren. He passed the sorcerers and went inside the tent.
Darkness cloaked the tent in which the initiates slept, even though no amount of light would disturb them. Shade summoned his wytchfire, raising his hands so that the magical flames flooded the whole tent with radiance. He told himself he did so only to light his path, but he had been here so many times he could have found his way to Silwren’s side blindfolded.
No, there was something in the air—something he could not name—that drove a cold chill through his heart. The tent held three beds. These were not straw on wood but real beds, though the initiates could not possibly be aware of this small extravagance. Three figures lay untended: two men, one woman; all young, all Shel’ai; not dead but steeped in fitful, enchanted slumber. Two of the three Shel’ai—the men—were horribly disfigured, their skin swollen with sores, warts, and ghastly, barely healed burns. Yet the third, the woman, was whole.
Shade traced his hands in an intricate pattern, and the wytchfire separated from his fingertips to form two glowing spheres that rose in the air, continuing to light the tent even without his touch. Shade approached the woman.
He stared down at her, trying to see past the dreadful lack of color in her face. Hair the color of melted platinum spilled beneath her lithe fig
ure in long, exquisite tresses. She looked small to him, but he smiled wistfully. Silwren was anything but fragile.
She had been only a child when her parents died. Unlike most parents of Shel’ai, hers had loved her in spite of the magic kindling her blood. In that, they were the exception that proved the rule. They tried to keep her in Sylvos, in the nurturing shadow of the World Tree, but their fellow Sylvs had other ideas. Silwren made cinders of her parents’ killers then fled.
Shade stretched out his hand and brushed a soft curl of platinum hair from Silwren’s eyes. Sylvs aged slowly; those born as Shel’ai aged more slowly still. Silwren had not changed at all in five years. He was not sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Like the other initiates, she often slept in fits, sometimes spasming, with wytchfire blossoming wildly from her hands so that only the quick action of her Shel’ai attendants prevented her from harming herself. So, too, did they feed and clean her, hoping that she would one day awaken and become their savior.
Silwren was lying still for the moment, but she had tossed the sheet from her body. Shade retrieved it and covered her. Silwren wore the same bone-white robes as the other Shel’ai, cut up the side for ease of movement and fighting, but subtle curves in the fabric revealed the womanly beauty of the figure beneath. Shade’s eyes lingered on her bare thigh before he blushed with shame. He covered her with the sheet then touched her forehead with his fingertips.
The gesture was not merely an affectionate one. As he had countless times before, Shade used his magic to probe for some spark within her then-glacial mind to indicate that her recovery was more than a faint hope. He felt nothing.
Shade clenched his eyes, fighting back tears. Silwren had been in this unnatural sleep for nearly five years. Fadarah was probably right: to force her awake would mean turning her into something like the Nightmare. She needed to wake on her own.
But if it weren’t for you, I never would have survived. How am I supposed to finish all this without you? He brushed her hair with the palm of his hand. You saved me, even more than Fadarah did.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 6
