Rowen felt ridiculous talking like this, but Hráthbam seemed interested. At least so long as he’s listening, he’s not chattering about his wives, his children, the silk trade, and every other damn thing!
“Some of the gods wanted to kill the dragons, but Zet stopped them. There was some kind of battle. Supposedly, the other gods killed Zet, but it took so much of their power that they weren’t strong enough to wipe out all his dragons afterward.”
“Couldn’t the poor darlings just take a nap and recuperate?”
Rowen laughed. He liked this man’s blasphemy. Kayden would have liked him too.
“You’d think so,” he said, “but I guess that doesn’t work with gods. Anyway, they came up with some kind of plan. They cast Zet’s body down onto the world, where it burst open. All other life on this world emerged from his corpse.”
Hráthbam grimaced. “Like maggots, you mean? Hardly a noble story!”
“Talk to another cult, and they’ll probably tell you something different. That’s just what the priests of Zet say, I think.”
“What happened to the dragons?”
Rowen thought hard, trying to remember the rest of the tale. “Well, one of the races that wriggled out of Zet’s corpse was the Dragonkin. Because they came from Zet, who made the dragons, they could control dragons, too. Only they craved more power, so they drained the dragons’ life force somehow, used it to feed their own magic—which is what the gods wanted in the first place. In time, the dragons died out.”
Hráthbam stroked his braided goatee. “My people tell a similar tale. Except in ours, the dragons turned to fighting each other.”
Rowen said, “I’ve heard that, too. I think the followers of Maelmohr like that one.”
“Strange how gospels change, depending on who’s telling them!”
Rowen nodded. For hours after that, they traveled in silence. The wagon jostled as it rolled over the uneven road. The day was sunny but cool, and despite his weariness, Rowen was in good spirits. He rubbed his right elbow, which was still a little numb from the strike it had received from the blunt end of Hráthbam’s scimitar. He had feared at first that his elbow was broken, but he could move his arm now with just a little pain. Likewise, he seemed to have recovered from the knot on his head that the robbers had given him, and Jalist’s salve had all but healed his slashed palm.
As they traveled, legends of warring dragons dominated his thoughts. He imagined the scene: countless dragons battling each other in the sky, each one bending in the air like a fish underwater.
No one had seen a living dragon for close to a thousand years, but everyone knew for a fact that they had existed—at least on this continent. The great beasts’ bones had been unearthed in fields from one end of Ruun to the other. He himself had once seen a gigantic, nearly complete skeleton of a dragon on display in the mansion of a rich man whom he had briefly served as guard. The skeletal dragon’s eye sockets had stretched nearly as wide as he was tall.
Maybe dragons were still alive somewhere. Maybe they had merely fled from the Dragonkin to some remote corner of the world. The farthest he had ever ventured from Ruun was to the Lotus Isles, but he had seen ancient maps in Saikaido Temple that showed other continents beyond this one, mysterious lands about which he knew nothing. Maybe someday, I’ll go there. But I need coin first!
Hráthbam continued to guide the wagon, tending the reins and staring out over the Simurgh Plains with patient curiosity. The two horses were causing some trouble, each trying to lead the wagon at a different speed. When Right petulantly nipped at Left’s ear, Hráthbam scolded the horse in Soroccan. Then the merchant produced a flask, drank, and offered it to Rowen.
“Hair of the wolf, my friend. Have a drink!”
Rowen wanted to refuse, but he did not want to appear rude. He had worked for many merchants in the past, and he could remember none as personable as Hráthbam (let alone as good with a sword). Rowen ruefully accepted the flask and raised it to his lips. The pungent, sour smell overwhelmed his nostrils. It was hláshba—a powerful, Soroccan liquor made from fermented corn and potatoes. Even on good days, Rowen could not stomach the stuff. But he was still recovering from the night before, and the smell made him want to vomit.
Unable to speak except to curse in Ivairian, he shook his head and, as politely as he could, pushed the flask away. Hráthbam laughed, bright-eyed, and took another drink before he tucked the flask back into a pocket in his silk robes. Then he said, “And the Sylvs?”
Still struggling to regain his composure, it took Rowen a moment to realize that Hráthbam was resuming their conversation about divinity. “What do you mean?”
“My people say that the Dragonkin were the ancestors of Sylvs,” Hráthbam said. “But no one seems to know how the Sylvs came about. Or why the Dragonkin disappeared.” Rowen sensed that the Soroccan was speaking no longer from a desire to prepare for his dealings in Cadavash but out of genuine curiosity. “Do you?”
Rowen shrugged. “I’ve heard some pretty wild tales about that. Seems like each temple has its own version. Most of the stories make even less sense than what I just told you.”
“And the Shel’ai?”
The mention of the sorcerers sent a chill down Rowen’s spine. “Don’t know much about them either, aside from tall tales of them stirring up famines and plagues,” he admitted. “They’re Sylvs, I think, except they’re born with a bit of Dragonkin magic inside them. Something that makes their eyes purple, like the color of a bruise—but with misty white pupils instead of black. I hear the other Sylvs fear them. Usually, they kill them when they’re born.” He shuddered at this, hoping such stories of murdered infants were just stories. “Otherwise, they drive them out of the Wytchforest to torment the rest of us.”
Rowen added, “Of course, they tell a completely different story on the Isles. Long ago, Fâyu Jinn—that’s the man who founded the order—befriended both the Sylvs and the Shel’ai and enlisted their aid to fight the Dragonkin.”
Hráthbam nodded slowly. “The Shattering War. My people speak of it, too.”
“Not everybody believes that, though,” Rowen continued. “I mean, the part about Fâyu Jinn asking the Sylvs for help. Some say that’s blasphemy.” He shrugged, trailing off. He remembered the rumors he’d heard on the Lotus Isles about trouble brewing in the west, something about the Shel’ai marshaling an army. He’d heard the same thing from Jalist. He wondered if Hráthbam knew such rumors, too. When pressed, though, Hráthbam seemed to know nothing of it. Rowen wondered if this was the first time the merchant had ever even left Sorocco. He considered asking the merchant about the legendary World Tree that supposedly grew at the heart of the Wytchforest, but if Hráthbam had not heard of it, he would only have to tell the story himself—and he knew nothing but vague mentions since no one he knew had ever gotten close enough to the Wytchforest to see it.
The two continued until sundown then camped next to a stream. Rowen volunteered to tend the horses while Hráthbam prepared a Soroccan meal of heavily spiced vegetables and rice that was delicious but made Rowen sweat as though he’d spent all day in the tilting yards.
Hráthbam questioned whether or not they should stand guard but seemed none too interested in fulfilling that task himself. Well, I’m the guard. While Hráthbam slept in the wagon, Rowen stood watch, resting with his back to the campfire, sword in hand. He heard the howl of distant wolves—including one deeper, ominous howl that must have been a greatwolf. He tensed but trusted the fire would keep wild animals away.
The next day, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, Hráthbam invited him to sleep in the wagon while he drove the horses. Rowen accepted but slept little, unable to get used to the jostling of the wagon wheels over the rough road. Then, late in the afternoon, Hráthbam pulled the wagon to a stop and shouted for Rowen to join him.
Rowen hurried to the front of the wagon. He followed the man’s gaze to the plains ahead of them. His own eyes widened.
“Gods!” Ro
wen’s hand flew for his sword.
“Is that what I think it is?” Hráthbam asked. He held the reins to Left and Right with one hand. His other hand rested on his scimitar.
Rowen nodded grimly. “A greatwolf. Big one, too!”
“Looks like I’m seeing a regular wolf through a spyglass! We do not have such beasts on Sorocco.” Hráthbam sounded fearful. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that it isn’t hungry.”
“Greatwolves are always hungry.” Rowen watched the greatwolf stare at them. Instead of charging, it approached very slowly, cautiously, its yellow eyes unblinking.
“Perhaps I should turn the wagon around. Do you think we could outrun it?”
Rowen glanced at Left and Right. The horses could smell what lay ahead of them and were pawing the ground and twisting, jostling the wagon. Rowen shook his head. “We’ll have to try and scare it off.” Which might be easier said than done.
He moved his hand away from his shortsword. Without waiting to ask permission, Rowen hurried into the back of the wagon. He grabbed the closest crossbow and passed it up to Hráthbam, along with a quiver of bolts. He was about to grab the second crossbow for himself when his eyes fell on the Queshi composite bow instead.
Made from fused bone and wood that took the better part of a year to cure, Queshi bows were short but incredibly powerful. Rowen had seen them send arrows through wooden shields and chain mail with ease. He had only a moment to inspect this one, but it appeared to be serviceable. He took it along with a quiver of solid, well-fletched arrows and rejoined Hráthbam at the front of the wagon.
The Soroccan merchant had already risen from his seat. He looked nervous, but his hands were steady as he spanned his crossbow and nocked a bolt. He held the reins of Left and Right under his boot. Lifting the crossbow to shoulder height, he tucked the weapon against his shoulder and sighted down the shaft.
“Don’t fire yet,” Rowen advised. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the damn thing will leave us alone!” He drew an arrow from his quiver as he spoke, fit the arrow to his bowstring, and gave the composite bow a long test pull. He liked the smoothness of its draw, the raw power tensed at his fingertips. He relaxed the bowstring without loosing the arrow. For now, they would wait.
The greatwolf had not yet made up its mind. Thirty feet away, turned sideways, it blocked the entire road, studying them with yellow, dagger-thin eyes. Its jaws closed in a low growl. Sleek reddish fur ran the course of its well-muscled body. It looked like an ordinary wolf except that it had claws like a tiger and its hind legs were shorter—meaning that it charged not in a sprint but in long, powerful leaps. That made it harder to hit with an arrow. Especially with shaking hands!
Rowen took a deep breath to steady himself. “Just one arrow won’t put that thing down.” He gauged the distance between them and the greatwolf. He might get off two shots if he was lucky. Hráthbam’s crossbow, because it took longer to load, would probably only manage one. After that, this would be a business for their swords.
Hráthbam swore, “Dyoni’s bane, that thing is bigger than my third wife!”
Rowen said, “Greatwolves go after the strongest enemies first. It’ll come for us first—not the horses.”
Hráthbam glanced at him dubiously. “Surely it cannot leap this high!”
“Oh, it can. Believe me.” Rowen drew his bow, heartened once again by its power. He could fire at the greatwolf now, before it attacked, while he still had plenty of time to aim. Or he could try to scare it off.
“I’ll see if I can drive it away...”
He took careful aim. Rowen was no master archer, but he had practiced long hours in the tilting yards of Saikaido Temple, and a greatwolf was hardly a small target.
Rowen let the arrow fly. He grinned as the taut bow seemed to explode in his grasp, hurtling the arrow with deadly power. Then, just as quickly, his grin vanished. He had intended his aim to be shallow—just a warning shot—but the arrow flew farther and skidded off a rock. It grazed one of the greatwolf’s massive paws.
The beast yelped. Then its yellow eyes drew thinner still. It charged.
Rowen swore and drew another arrow. Before he had time to nock it, he heard a tremendous thwap as Hráthbam fired his crossbow. Without waiting to see the results, the merchant braced the crossbow’s stirrup with his foot and used his thick arms to haul the string back. Rowen was impressed by the Soroccan’s speed, even as he fumbled with his own second shot.
Hráthbam’s first crossbow bolt had caught the greatwolf midleap, sinking deep into its rear flank, right above the haunch. It was a good shot. The wolf’s left rear leg was crippled now. It bounded more slowly, but it did not stop. It angled around the horses, flanking them, as though it meant to leap at Rowen’s side.
Rowen hoped his second arrow would fix that. But the sight of the charging beast rattled his nerves. He rushed his aim and put his second arrow into the thick gristle and hide of the beast’s right shoulder. The beast howled then charged faster than before.
No time for another shot. The composite bow slipped from his fingers as he drew his Dwarrish shortsword instead. Its blade suddenly looked ridiculous and puny in his grasp.
Beside him, Hráthbam was taking careful aim with his second crossbow bolt.
But the greatwolf hurtled closer. Left and Right panicked. Left balked, jerking the wagon to one side. Then Right reared up. Both Rowen and Hráthbam lost their balance, nearly tumbling off the wagon seat. The crossbow shuddered. Hráthbam’s second bolt flew wild.
Rowen thought of the shield in the back of the wagon. Why didn’t I grab the shield?
Then, the greatwolf leapt.
Its mouth flared open, revealing rows of fat teeth curved and sharp as Hráthbam’s scimitar. Instinctively, Rowen braced his feet against the wagon seat and pushed hard, tumbling backward into the rear of the wagon. The greatwolf’s paws, tipped with claws that could rip a man to shreds, struck the wagon to either side of Rowen’s chest instead.
The wagon shook as though struck by a battering ram. The horses broke loose. Hráthbam, who had just drawn his scimitar, tumbled to the plains before he could use it. Then, Rowen’s sight was blocked by a snarling blur of fur and teeth and thin, yellow eyes. On his back now, he shoved and kicked with his feet, cracking his head and shoulders against Hráthbam’s trunks, trying to get away.
The greatwolf was huge, the wagon too narrow. The beast tensed its great bulk and shoved its way after him, knocking weapons and provisions aside. Frantically, Rowen hacked with his shortsword. He stabbed at the eyes. The greatwolf took the cuts on its snout then went for his throat.
Rowen stabbed again—this time, not at the yellow eyes but into the greatwolf’s lunging maw. He meant to drive the blade up into the beast’s brain, but his sword tip caught the wolf in the gums, just above its incisors. The greatwolf yelped and withdrew. Rowen tried to sit up. Is this blood mine, or his?
Outside, Hráthbam was swearing in Soroccan over the unmistakable growl of a mad, wounded animal. Fearful, Rowen stuck his head out of the wagon’s canopy and saw Hráthbam, scimitar in hand, trying to fend off the injured beast.
Before Rowen could act, the wagon lurched beneath him. He fell, knocked his head, then struggled to rise again. Right had broken free, leaving Left still tangled in the reins, yoked to the wagon hitch. Right dashed away, but Left whinnied in terror and tried to scramble free again, hooves flailing, jarring the wagon every which way.
Rowen turned. Hráthbam stood ten feet away, turned sideways to make himself a smaller target, holding up the hem of his robes with his right hand to keep from tripping while his left hand whirled the scimitar in front of him. The merchant was playing it safe, only trying to keep the greatwolf at bay. Out here, on the open plains, the beast had all the room it needed to make full use of its ferocious strength and speed. But its mouth and snout bled from wounds dealt by Rowen’s shortsword—plus a few new cuts left by the crisp blur of Hráthbam’s scimitar. It still had an arrow in its shoulder, a c
rossbow bolt in its haunch. The wolf continued to bleed, growing weaker by the second, but remained formidable.
And now, thanks to me, it’s being cautious. It circled Hráthbam with dreadful patience, snapping its bloody teeth. Hráthbam circled too, trying to keep his distance. Sweat poured down his face. He seemed to know better than to try the powerful, sweeping strike. A scimitar was made for swinging, not fencing. In the time it would take Hráthbam to recover from such a swing, the greatwolf could rip him in half. So the Soroccan lunged instead, answering the greatwolf’s snapping jaws with quick jabs of his own.
“Locke, my excellent friend, perhaps you could lend some assistance here!”
Rowen grasped the nearest weapon—a footman’s pike—and threw it.
The beast yelped, twisting so fast that the pike tumbled from the wound and landed on the bloody grass. Rowen’s aim had been true, but the beast’s hide was tougher than a leather brigandine. It would take more than that to stop it. Still, for a moment, the greatwolf forgot about the Soroccan and focused on Rowen instead.
No courage without fear... Rowen charged. He assailed the beast with everything he had, hacking with such intensity that the greatwolf recoiled. Then it leapt, jaws lunging.
Instead of flesh, it met the wooden shield now strapped to Rowen’s left arm. The shield stopped the blow, but the force drove Rowen off his feet. All the breath exploded from his lungs.
The greatwolf stalked after him. Stunned, Rowen raised the shield to protect himself. The beast’s paws slammed down, using its weight to pin the shield to Rowen’s chest. The greatwolf’s jaw loomed over him, trickling blood in Rowen’s face.
“Aj thraci!” Hráthbam roared his battlecry and swung his mighty scimitar with both hands. The blade descended so fast that it made a sound like a cracking whip. The greatwolf’s flank, already wounded by Rowen’s pike, split open. Blood erupted from the wound. The greatwolf pivoted and opened Hráthbam’s thigh with its claws.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 8
