Not a gods-damned word! “Yes,” Rowen said instead.
The crooked figure seemed to take this as his answer and lowered his gaze to Hráthbam again. “Death is death. Every sane person knows that. Then again, death is also not death—depending, of course, on what you mean by not.” He laughed curtly. “I have no idea what that means, but I know it’s true.” He took Hráthbam’s cold, dark hands between his own. Rowen saw the stooped man’s hideous flesh again.
Jinn’s name, what is he doing? Rowen grabbed the only weapon within reach: the shovel. Holding it with both hands, he lifted it high. Moonlight shone off the dirt-speckled blade.
“You might want to wait a moment before bashing my head off,” the stooped figure said. He still did not look up. “Your friend will thank you for it.” The violet glow returned. But this time, it washed over the madman’s entire body. Brighter and brighter it glowed, until Rowen was blinded. Light flooded the Simurgh Plains. Swearing, Rowen backed away, dropping the shovel to shield his eyes. He tried to hold his ground, but the glare drove him back until he lost his footing and fell, still pressing his fists to his eyes.
Moments later, the glow dimmed. Fearfully, Rowen lowered his hands. He was stunned for a moment, blinking in the dark, then he found and picked up the shovel again.
Ahead of him, the stooped figure rose slowly. He looked weaker now, unbalanced. As he took a step, he lurched and nearly fell. Rowen didn’t know whether to help him or strike him. Then the hood fell from his face. Moonlight spilled down features every bit as hideous as the skin that covered the man’s hands and wrists.
Rowen gasped, horrified. The stranger glanced up at him sharply. He quickly tugged his hood back up—but not before Rowen saw the man’s eyes: deep violet save for the pupils, which were not black but white as mist.
The stooped figure turned away, looking at Hráthbam again. “You can try bashing me with the shovel again if you like. But I wouldn’t suggest it. Your friend will be very hungry when he wakes. And confused. The latter is a blessing. Some things are best forgotten. Perhaps this whole night is one such example.”
Gathering his ratty cloak about his stooped frame, the Shel’ai started to shuffle off then stopped and glanced back. “I think the Light has plans for us. But I could be wrong. I often am. Goodbye. Remember what I said about your hands.” He shuffled toward the dark, easterly horizon.
Rowen started to follow when a low groan interrupted him. The body of the Soroccan merchant shuddered. Then, Hráthbam’s eyes opened, green and full of life in the darkness.
The Soroccan stared. Then he saw the open grave beside him. His eyes fixed next on the shovel in Rowen’s hand. Hráthbam shook himself. His voice hoarse, he said, “If you mean to bury me alive, you pale-faced, red-haired bastard, at least give me a drink first!”
Captain Lethe of the Unseen awoke with a stream of curses as someone yanked his tent open. Fresh sunlight streamed into his eyes. Shielding them with one hand, the captain reached for his sword. He drew the blade and might have taken the guard’s head off before he recognized him.
Ruefully, he sheathed his weapon and closed his eyes again. “If you don’t close that flap, I’ll kill your mother and rape her ghost.”
The guard paled. “I’m sorry, Captain, but General Fadarah sent me.”
The captain’s eyes stayed closed. “This army has been sitting in the same place for a week while the sorcerers tend their wounded. It will probably be sitting here another week before we start moving again. There’s nothing to fight. What in Fohl’s hells does that tattooed bastard want with me now?”
To speak with such open disdain about a Shel’ai—especially Fadarah—was unheard of even among the Unseen, who had more reason than any to hate the sorcerers. The guard said, “You are to meet Lord Shade at the east end of the camp. Fadarah has reassigned you to be his bodyguard.”
Lethe sneered and opened one eye. “From what I hear, that one’s killed ten times more men than I have. I doubt he needs a wet-nurse.” He closed his eye. “Tell Fadarah to find somebody else.”
“Forgive me, Captain, but General Fadarah said that if you do not go at once—”
Lethe chuckled. “Let me guess. If I don’t scurry off like a good slave and serve the sorcerer as his lapdog, the mighty Fadarah will come drag me out himself, and I’ll spend the rest of the day in unimaginable agony.” He snickered, his eyes still closed. “Is that about right?”
The guard hesitated. “Actually, Captain, he said it would be three days this time.”
Lethe gave the guard such a withering glance that the man reached for his sword. But Lethe merely rose, dressed, girded his weapons and leather armor, then stepped out to piss on the grass before quietly stalking away. As he did so, he imagined the guard who had awakened him turning to what must be his second task: locating the next Unseen officer in line, another cutthroat probably still drunk off wine and rape, and telling him he had just been promoted. Poor bastard!
As the former Captain of the Unseen stalked through the camp, soldiers hurried to get out of his way. Even unwashed and unshaven, Lethe was unmistakable in his black leather armor emblazoned with red greatwolves. As Lethe walked, he passed two Shel’ai in their bone-white cloaks and wished, as he always did, that he might simply step into their path and shove steel into their throats, angling it into their brains. Of course, that was impossible.
My own damn fault. Gods, why did I agree to this? Hurrying past the Shel’ai, neither of which gave him a second glance, Lethe considered the complex web of magic that had been seared deep into his mind—as was the case for every Unseen warrior. While the Shel’ai required that all Unseen agreed to the Blood Thrall, it hardly seemed a fair choice since the only alternative had been death.
Used first as an assassin, Lethe had eliminated enemies of the Shel’ai from Dhargoth to Ivairia: rogue slavers, quarrelsome generals, and sellsword captains whose ambitions overshadowed their ability. Lethe had no idea how many he had killed. He only knew that he never failed, never lost. Not even once. Not even when he wanted to.
Lethe often thought that he had been transformed—thanks to the Blood Thrall—into the perfect attack dog. Still, he could not imagine any attack dog who spent so much time considering how satisfying it would be to crunch on the spines of its masters.
Lethe stalked the rest of the way through the camp then spotted Shade just outside the camp, seated on an impressive black destrier and dressed in his bone-white cloak and fighting robes, emblazoned with the crimson greatwolf. The Shel’ai impatiently held the reins of a pack-laden rouncey, along with a palfrey Lethe guessed was to be his mount. Shade threw him the reins to both animals, a short throw that gave Lethe no chance of catching them.
“You should not keep your masters waiting, Human.”
Muffling a curse, Lethe mounted.
“I was awakened. I was summoned. Now, I am here.”
Shade ignored the impudent response. “Your orders are simple. Command of the Unseen has been given over to your first officer for the time being. Tomorrow morning, this army breaks camp and presses on for Lyos. But we must ride ahead, find Silwren, and bring her back with all possible speed. Do you understand?”
Lethe was quiet for a moment. He had witnessed the creature Shade spoke of, just as the rest of the Throng had—an apparition, a dragon of moon-white fire—ripping across the sky, its scream chilling even the Unseen to the bone. That the thing bore little resemblance to the Nightmare did little to assuage the panic that had swept through the camp. Soon enough, the Shel’ai restored order. They swept through the camp, using magic to immobilize warrior after warrior, threatening to burn anyone else to cinders if they fled. The threat worked. Within hours, relative calm had been restored. The Shel’ai explained the event as some spell gone awry, nothing of consequence, but the Unseen knew better.
“Oh, I understand! One of your pets slipped her leash, and now—”
Shade waved his hand.
Raw pain exploded throu
gh Lethe’s body. Even accustomed as he was to his torture, he still yelped when the agony of his Blood Thrall washed over him. Lethe struggled against it for a moment then toppled from his saddle. He fell hard, twitching, but did not even feel the impact. All he felt was the pain Shade wished upon him, pain in waves without end.
An illusion… The pain’s not real, just an illusion…
But this helped him no more now than it had in the past. Once more, the agonies of the Blood Thrall flayed his mind until he wept. Then, at last, the pain vanished.
Shade said, “Get up.”
Lethe obeyed, as though he were a dog.
Shade glowered at him. “Based on how well you’ve served the Sorcerer-General in the past, I thought you’d be more agreeable than this.”
Still shaking, Lethe managed a response. “I serve those I fear. I do not fear you.”
“Listen well, Human. I can harm you with impunity. Or, if you obey, I can reward you with what you seek most.”
Lethe did not have to ask. He yearned for the same grace granted to all those Unseen who had perished in battle at Quorim, Syros, and Cassica. True, the Shel’ai presented the Unseen with this rare gift from time to time, but how could Lethe be sure that Shade meant what he said?
Shade smiled thinly. Lethe guessed that the Shel’ai was reading his mind. Lethe knew he should be used to such a violation, but still his face flushed with rage. He wanted to draw his sword and slash the smile from the Shel’ai’s face, but he could sooner fly than accomplish such a thing.
“You know because I said so. If I give my word—even to one such as you—it is good. Now, get on your horse.”
Lethe mounted the palfrey, holding the reins to the rouncey in his other hand. Satisfied, Shade turned his destrier away from the camp. “Follow.” The Shel’ai started off without looking back. Angry and hopeful at the same time, Lethe had no choice but to obey.
She looked nothing like the Nightmare… Fadarah had not permitted himself to think this before, but he thought it now that he was alone in his tent. True, the Well gave the Nightmare the same kind of power, but it did not turn him into a dragon. His appearance in battle is just our illusion, done to make him appear more terrifying.
Yet he had seen it himself as Silwren rose from the camp, burning everything around her: though ghostly, her shape was unmistakably that of an ancient dragon: six-winged, scaled, graceful, and deadly.
The Light favors her. If she can harness the power, she might be even stronger than Iventine and El’rash’lin combined!
Of all the initiates, Silwren had been the most hesitant, persuaded less by selflessness than some kind of indignation resulting from a quarrel with her lover. Fadarah thought of Kith’el.
I should not let him call himself Shade anymore. That’s the name he gave himself, the name of a killer. That’s not who he is anymore. However, even as he thought this, Fadarah wondered if it was true. He remembered finding Shade on the westernmost corner of the Simurgh Plains: a boy, grinning wildly, even laughing as his hands turned a Human family to ashes. From what Fadarah could glean, these Humans had not been enemies per se, just a random clutch of dirty farmers who had the misfortune of being discovered by a vengeful child who could conjure fire.
El’rash’lin had warned him at the time, “That one is no better than a rabid animal. Right or wrong, kill him now before he destroys everything you’re trying to build!”
Fadarah had sensed, even then, that Shade’s magical abilities were nearly on par with his own. With Silwren’s help, Fadarah had managed to civilize that child-killer, returning to Shade a measure of humanity.
But can I trust him to bring Silwren back? True, they were lovers once. But by the time she went to the Well, she had already begun to lose faith in him. Now, she has the power to annihilate an army. Until she regains her reason, she might kill him without a second thought.
Still, Shade was their best option for bringing Silwren back to the fold. He rubbed his eyes. His efforts to heal the wounded had left him exhausted. He needed to sleep, but there was no time for that. There was still a feeling of disorder in the camp. The men of the Throng needed to see him pacing about, strong and fearless—even if it was an act.
Fadarah straightened. He took a deep breath and let it go. As he did so, he touched the blue glyphs tattooed on his face in a language no one else in the camp could read: the names, in Olg, of all the Olg warriors and chieftains he had personally slain in his younger years. Perhaps I am not so different than you are, Shade.
As he left his tent, Fadarah wondered if one of the names had been the Olg who raped his Wyldkin mother. His father. He hoped so.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WINGED DEAD
Upon rising, dizzy and famished, Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas ate and drank even more than he had at the Inn of the Drunken Dragon in Breccorry, devouring dry rations and working his way through half a wineskin. Meanwhile, Rowen prepared a vegetable stew, which he flavored haphazardly with spices he found in the wagon: crushed peppercorn, salt, and some pungent red spice that made Rowen’s eyes water but made Hráthbam grin as soon as he raised the wooden spoon to his lips.
Rowen still half-expected that he would wake any second from the strangest, most vivid dream of his life. But sunrise turned to late afternoon, and Rowen had still not come to his senses. It happened. It all happened.
Hráthbam did not believe at first that he had, in fact, died. But the wound—or lack thereof—proved Rowen’s tale. The Soroccan could not have forgotten how the greatwolf’s claws ripped a long gash in his thigh. Now, that wound was gone. No stitches, no scar.
Otherwise, only the greatwolf’s charred body a little ways beyond the camp, plus the still-overturned wagon, remained to lend testimony to the events of the night before. The Soroccan only dimly remembered the battle and nothing after that until he awoke next to his own grave, Rowen standing over him, shovel in hand.
The Soroccan listened, captivated but skeptical, to Rowen’s tale of the strange, disfigured madman who helped them. “That could not have been a Shel’ai,” the merchant objected. “You said his face was hideous, but Sylv are supposed to be beautiful!”
“I know what I saw. His eyes were just like in the stories. As for the rest of him…” He shrugged helplessly. “If I’m lying, then how are you alive?”
“Maybe I’m not.” Hráthbam scraped his wooden spoon to get at the last of the stew in his bowl then looked around. “No offense, but if I’m dead, you’re part of a thoroughly disappointing afterlife.” He stared into his bowl.
“What do you remember?”
Hráthbam looked up. “Of what?”
Rowen blushed. “Of being dead. The afterlife. Whatever happened to you.”
Hráthbam tossed his bowl on the ground. “Not a thing.” Something in his tone advised Rowen not to press the matter for the time being.
Rowen expected the merchant to be weak, but he was up once he finished the stew, rooting through the wagon and his scattered goods for hláshba. He grimaced when Rowen told him he’d used the last of it to burn the greatwolf.
“That was my private stock, not some common cooking oil. Some of those flasks cost me three silver cranáfi each!”
“If you paid three silver cranáfi for that swill, you were robbed. In the Dark Quarter, we used to brew better poisons than that for half a copper!”
They had pushed the wagon upright again, but two of the wooden wheels were cracked. Other merchants Rowen had traveled with knew enough to bring one or even two spare wagon wheels along with them, plus wood and nails for repairs. Hráthbam had none of these. This only reinforced Rowen’s suspicion that his newly resurrected employer had little in the way of true merchanting experience. Rowen suggested they return to Breccorry and have the wagon repaired, but Hráthbam’s map showed that Cadavash lay only half a day farther.
“Twice as long to get to Cadavash is just as bad as doubling back to Breccorry and starting over,” Hráthbam pointed out. “The
wheels aren’t broken yet. We’ll lighten the load and travel slowly.”
If the wheels break tomorrow, before we get to Cadavash, we’ll be in an even worse position! But he kept his mouth shut and respected Hráthbam’s decision. And after all the strange goings-on of the past few days, if one or both of the wagon wheels broke before they reached the temple of the dragon-priests, that would hardly rival what they had already endured.
They lightened the wagon as much as they could by filling their satchels and loading much of the provisions in Left and Right’s saddlebags. Rather than ride in the wagon and add to its weight, Hráthbam and Rowen walked instead. Rowen feared that the Soroccan might be too weak for this, but Hráthbam insisted he had never felt better in his life. Each of them took up position beside one of the rounceys. Rowen was glad when the Soroccan volunteered to keep an eye on Right, since the petulant horse was beginning to get on Rowen’s nerves, pulling against the reins and nipping at anything that moved. Left was more agreeable, despite her newly laden saddlebags, and nuzzled Rowen’s open hand as they walked. Rowen fed the horse a few oats from his satchel.
As they traveled, following the rough road westward along the Simurgh Plains, Rowen considered pressing Hráthbam about what it had been like to be dead, but something distant in the Soroccan’s expression dissuaded him. He thought of the madman instead. He had no doubt that the man had used magic to restore Hráthbam’s body and raise him to perfect health. But what kind of magic was capable of such a thing?
Rowen had heard barroom stories of Shel’ai throwing fire from their hands, engaging in deep meditation that allowed them to project their souls beyond their bodies, and speaking to each other using only their minds. He had always figured those stories to be nothing more than fairy tales. But even those abilities were a far cry from men who could raise the dead!
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 11
