“No, sir.” Rowen was glad that he was still standing at attention, his shaking hands clasped behind him, hidden from view.
“It is an order for your immediate expulsion from the Red Watch—plus a recommendation from your squad commander, Sergeant Epheus, that I have you executed for insubordination and striking an officer.”
Rowen’s jaw dropped. He had expected expulsion from the Red Watch. But he had spent the night in the jailhouse harboring the vague hope that he would merely be beaten instead of killed. He might have escaped from the barracks and fled Lyos, but he’d stayed for Silwren—though he could not say why, since he suspected they would kill her soon enough. Not that I can blame them.
Captain Ferocles leaned toward him. “How do you plead to these charges, Locke? Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
Rowen managed a nod. “Yes, Captain.”
The captain threw up his hands impatiently. “Well, then? Say something, whelp!”
Rowen steadied himself and began. “Captain, I intended no disrespect—”
“You drew steel against your sergeant,” the captain interrupted. “You don’t even have a gods-damned rank yet, and you defied his orders in front of about a hundred witnesses.”
Rowen glanced reflexively at Sergeant Epheus. The sergeant returned the look with murderous calm, arms folded. Rowen shuddered and faced the captain again. “Sir... may I explain?”
The captain snorted and leaned back in his chair. “I wish somebody would! So far, all I know is that a damned fireball fell out of the heavens like the flaming corpse of Zet himself! Now I have a Sylv wytch in my stockades, four hundred angry townspeople marching on the palace, and a king mad with questions I can’t answer.” He pointed to the sergeant. “Epheus tells me he wanted to cut this woman’s throat right then and there. That very well might have prevented all this. You stopped him. Why?”
Rowen sighed. “I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t know.”
His answer caught the captain off guard. Ferocles stared at him for a moment, incredulous. Then he laughed. “At least tell me it was because she’s beautiful, Locke. Or by the Light, I’ll hang you myself.”
Despite his fear, Rowen smiled. “Captain, I swear I meant no harm. But we’ve all heard stories about the Shel’ai marshalling an army in the west. This woman... Silwren... she said she was coming here to warn you. She said the entire city was in danger. If she was evil, she could have killed me with ease. But she didn’t.” He shrugged, helpless to explain further.
Captain Ferocles scrutinized him for a moment. Then he set the one parchment aside in favor of another one lying beneath it. “I got this report a few hours ago. Before I tell you what it says, Locke, I have a question. Have you ever been to Cassica?”
This time, it was Rowen’s turn to be caught off guard. “Yes. Years ago, when my brother and I were sellswords.”
“Years ago?” The captain sneered. “What were you, twelve?”
Rowen blushed. “We started early.”
“And what do you remember?”
Rowen could not fathom what this had to do with his imminent execution, but he was not about to question the delay. “Cassica’s not bad. A city like any other. We might have taken work there, but their king doesn’t take kindly to mercenaries. Or brothels, as I recall.”
Ferocles ignored the joke. “What of their army?”
Rowen shrugged. “Not much in the way of cavalry—ground’s too rough around there to graze horses—but Cassica’s men-at-arms are near the best I’ve seen. No disrespect to the Red Watch, of course.”
“And the Dhargots?”
Rowen thought for a moment, remembering the Dhargots’ well-disciplined phalanxes with their interlocked tower shields, their devilish catapults hurling clay jars of burning pitch that seeped into the chinks of armor and roasted men alive, so that afterward, they looked like bread left to burn in the oven. And, of course, their gigantic war-elephants: moving fortresses, virtually indestructible, tons of muscle and bone and fury carrying chariot-like saddles crowded with archers. And all of it emblazoned with the Dhargots’ chilling sigil: a dragon impaled on a spear.
Rowen said, “I fought both with them and against them. With them was better. Their phalanxes are more or less indestructible. They fight with chariots and archers, too. And those elephants of theirs are a nightmare all to themselves. There’s always stories about the Dhargots wanting to sweep down and conquer the Simurgh Plains, but the Free Cities keep them at bay, especially Syros. So the Dhargots mainly just fight each other and terrify foreign villages. Even elephants aren’t much use against stone walls.”
Ferocles glanced at Sergeant Epheus again then back at Rowen. “Then it might interest you to know,” he began, “that the rumors are true. Cassica has fallen. And Syros too, maybe a couple weeks before.”
Rowen’s eyes widened. “The Dhargots?”
“No. To my great surprise, it looks like Dhargoth had nothing to do with it. According to my scout, whose messenger bird arrived just this morning, it was the Shel’ai. Or more accurately, it was this patchwork army they’ve raised. And”—he grimaced—“this demon of theirs. The army itself is mostly hired swords, plus conscripts from all the places they’ve conquered. But this demon is something else. Swords won’t cut it. Arrows don’t pierce it. It shoulders through stone walls like they were made of twigs. They say the Shel’ai control it. And now, thanks to you, we have one of them in our jails.” He smiled slightly. “I suppose I should thank you.”
Captain Ferocles picked up the first parchment—the one containing Sergeant Epheus’s recommendation to have Rowen executed—and tore it in half. From his chair, Sergeant Epheus fixed a cold stare on both of them.
Ferocles’s low voice commanded Rowen’s full attention. “This is where we stand, Locke. Rumors of Cassica have already spread through the city. In another day or two, no matter how hard I try to keep this secret, everyone will know. Meanwhile, two weeks’ march from here lies an army at least five or six times the size of the Red Watch in its entirety—an army bolstered by sorcery, which I don’t pretend to understand. If they march on Lyos, we’ll have to surrender. King Pelleas knows this. That’s why the wytch is still alive. We need to know why she’s here and exactly what her wretched kind are planning.”
The captain pointed at Epheus again. “The good sergeant thinks we should wring the information out of her, maybe throw in some rape and red-hot tongs. I’m inclined to agree.” He smirked at Rowen. “Don’t look so surprised, Locke. I’ll do what I must to save this city. But we’ll try diplomacy first. That’s where you come in.”
Rowen swallowed hard. “What would you have me do, Captain?”
Ferocles answered, “Talk to her. Offer her whatever she wants. Tell her you’re her friend. Tell her you’ll have her released. Get her to fall in love with you. Honestly, I don’t give a damn how you do it. Just get her to talk.” He sighed. “You’re probably the only one who doesn’t want her dead. That’s why I’m sending you first. But if this doesn’t work, I’ll visit her myself.” He tapped the knife before him. “Do we understand each other?”
Rowen cleared his throat. “Yes, Captain.”
“Good. A detail of guards is waiting outside. They’ll escort you to the jailhouse. The better you fare at this, the more likely I am to forget what happened in the Dark Quarter.”
Rowen said, “Thank you, Captain.” He saluted and turned to go.
“Another thing, Locke. Since half my men want you dead for defending a wytch, we’re moving your lodgings to the jailhouse. Don’t worry, you’re not a prisoner. Not exactly. But if you try to leave Lyos, my men have orders to kill you. In fact, right now, my orders are about the only thing keeping them from tearing you limb from limb. So if I were you, when you meet this wytch, I’d be very gods-damned charming.”
Chaos swamped the cobblestone streets and marble walkways of Lyos.
Rowen pieced together what had happened from snippets of conversation he over
heard between the guards walking on either side of him. Mobs had formed, word having spread by then that the fireball fallen from the heavens just the previous night was, in fact, a Sylvan wytch come to kill them. Many demanded that the wytch be brought out immediately and executed in the King’s Market.
Still others sought only to use the abrupt unrest in the city as an excuse to loot and burn whatever they could. With most of the Red Watch busy trying to keep order in the city, gangs of the Dark Quarter had no trouble slipping into the city to wreak their own brand of havoc. Adding fuel to this was the growing whisper that three mighty cities—Quorim, Syros, and Cassica—had already fallen to a rampaging army of sorcerers.
The smell of smoke reached Rowen’s nostrils. Supposedly, the temples of Tier’Gothma were already filling with the wounded and dying. The city streets bore a startling resemblance to those of the Dark Quarter. In less than a day, Lyos had been transformed into a city besieged from within. He shuddered.
I have to get out of here! But that was impossible. Scowling soldiers flanked him on all sides, hurrying him along. Rowen’s Lyosi longsword had been confiscated, but surprisingly, Ferocles had returned Knightswrath to him. Rowen figured the captain did not think the rusty blade posed much threat to anyone, let alone half a dozen armed men who squarely blamed him for what was happening in their city.
Maybe they’re right, Rowen thought ruefully. He clenched his fists, growing so tense that the guards bristled around him, thinking he was about to strike.
Rowen forced himself to relax. On the Lotus Isles, the Knights had taught him to respect even one’s enemies. Now, thanks to Sergeant Epheus, Rowen was beginning to distrust the very order he’d wanted so desperately to join. Did the Knights who had trained him even believe in the very code of honor and piety they preached? But that doesn’t mean the code itself is wrong.
Acrid smoke stung his eyes, making them water. They were passing a burning inn. Dyoni’s Bane. Half the inn was already wreathed in scarlet flames, which a squad of soldiers was trying in vain to extinguish. They called for help, but the nearest citizens of Lyos were busy trying to save their own homes. The men escorting Rowen to the jailhouse hesitated.
“Go,” Rowen said. “Go help them. I won’t run.”
But the soldiers did not believe him. Instead, their corporal issued a quick order. Three Red Watch soldiers ran to the inn to help their fellows while the other three stayed with Rowen. These three drew their swords.
The corporal spat. “By all means, try to run!”
Another joined in. “My wife and son are out there. If anything happens to them, I’m coming for you.”
Rowen met his gaze. “I’d do the same.”
His answer caught them off guard. The corporal shoved him, and Rowen started toward the jailhouse again. Moments later, they reached a squat, gray, two-story structure with few windows and only one set of gates, these guarded by armed men who looked as though they would rather be anywhere else.
Rowen wondered if these men had families in Lyos, too. If so, surely they longed to be with their loved ones now, to protect them from the spreading violence of the mobs, despite whatever orders kept them here. But with all the rioters and looters being brought in, the jailhouse was more chaotic than anywhere else in the city. Another thing that’s probably my fault.
“This is him,” the corporal announced gruffly, signaling the guards. He prodded Rowen in the back with his sword, hard enough to pierce cloth and skin. Rowen managed, with great effort, not to cry out as he felt a little of his own blood run down the small of his back. He knew the wound could not be deep and he would only make things worse by acknowledging it.
The corporal said, “I know you’d like to swap his bones with his organs, but the captain says leave him alone.”
The jailhouse guards scowled at Rowen. One spat on the ground at his feet. But they led him inside.
The jailhouse reeked of sweat, blood, and urine. Shouting men—many of them drunk—filled every inch of space in the cells. The men shouted to be released, but they also quarreled with each other. Jailhouse guards tried to keep order by breaking up fights, but they were hopelessly understaffed. As Rowen was led past the cells, he thought he saw at least one corpse being trampled and looted by cellmates.
“The wytch is downstairs,” a jailhouse guard said. “We’ve kept that level clear. Your quarters are in the cell next to hers. If it stinks, that’s just because we all took turns using it as a privy. You’re welcome for not locking you in.”
Rowen knew better than to reply. The jailhouse guards led him down a narrow set of stairs, into the dim, dank basement. One of them pointed. “The wytch is down at the end of the corridor. You’re on your own down here.”
The sounds of fighting echoed from the jailhouse cells above. The guards hurried up the stairs, leaving Rowen untended. He tried to ignore the reek of wet, filthy straw as he looked down the dim, torch-lit corridor.
Though it made sense for the guards to leave the cells down here empty, he almost preferred the noise and violence to this silence as he made his way toward the Shel’ai woman’s cell, one hand on his sword hilt. He wondered if she would kill him or transform him into a beast or an insect through some matter of devilry.
Then he saw her. Despite his fear, his eyes widened, and he felt a sudden pang of lust.
She had discarded the remnants of her burnt gown. Her exotic tresses fell about her nude shoulders as she rose from her knees, as though she’d just been praying or meditating, and faced him with violet eyes. Her dragonmist pupils sent a chill down his spine.
Surprised that she made no effort to cover herself, Rowen forced himself to keep his eyes on hers. “Did they... hurt you?”
“You mean, did they rape me?” the sorceress said with bemusement. The melodic quality of her Sylvan voice startled him though he had heard it before. “No. I saw in their minds that a few considered it, but they were too busy being afraid.”
Rowen looked away, searching for something she could wear. “I’m sorry for the stench down here. I’ll see if I can find you something.” He wished he wore a cloak so that he could give it to her. His own cell looked as filthy as the guards promised, but in another empty cell some distance from theirs, he found a relatively clean blanket forgotten amid the straw. He brought it to her. He hesitated, realizing as he offered it how shabby it looked. But Silwren accepted the blanket through the cell bars and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.” She was quiet for a moment. “You are the one who saved me.”
Rowen nodded dumbly. “If you want to call it that. I came to Lyos, thinking I’d find you here. You said you were coming to warn the city. Did you?”
“They would not have listened.”
Rowen frowned. “So why are you here? What were you doing up on Beggar’s Drop?” Now that she was covered, his arousal was turning to rage. “Can’t you hear what’s happening out there? People are dying because of you!”
“They are dying because of their own fear and stupidity. I pose no threat to them. I swear this upon the Light.”
Rowen swallowed his temper. “But others do. Others of your kind.”
She nodded. “As others of your kind would do me harm. Are you suggesting I burn you to cinders solely on the basis of your appearance?”
Rowen drew back a step. “I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to help.”
Silwren faced him a moment longer, then turned. “We fight those who hate us. We fight to save ourselves. Would you do differently?”
“Don’t fence with me, wytch. Either you let me help you or you let them kill you. Which will it be?”
Instead of answering, she knelt again, resuming her meditation.
Rowen snapped. He struck the bars of her cell, ignoring the pain that lanced through his knuckles. “What have we ever done to the Shel’ai? Whatever’s happened is between you and the Sylvs!” When she did not answer, he said, “What about the Free Cities your kind have already smashed?
This is not defense. It’s conquest! It’s murder!”
Silwren faced him, her gaze hardening. “Name one place, Human. Take your time. Think hard. Name one place in all of Ruun where the Shel’ai would be welcomed. Do that, and we will go there.” She paused. “We are not a separate race, as you might think. We are Sylvs. Only we are born with magic in our blood, a throwback to the days of the Dragonkin. For that, we are banished from Sylvos and the World Tree… that place you call the Wytchforest—a kingdom itself forged of magic.”
The way she trembled made Rowen’s rage go slack. He backed up, wondering if he’d gone too far and she was about to kill him. Instead, she continued.
“At birth, you were given the color of your hair and the roots of your temper. We were given magic. We had no more say in this than you did. But for what we are, the Sylvs hate us. And you Humans are no better. If you think it’s only the Sylvs who have shed our blood, you are wrong.”
Rowen had traveled throughout many of the kingdoms of Ruun, and never had he found one that regarded the Shel’ai as anything but a frightful abomination, comparable to the wicked Dragonkin of old. While the Lotus Isles had a kinder view, that was due mainly to fairytales that few even believed anymore.
“Even if that were true,” Rowen protested, “Ruun is just one continent. Isn’t there a whole world beyond? Find a forest of your own. Find a desert if you want. Live there. The other races will leave you alone.”
Silwren snickered. “It’s always someone else who must give up their home, isn’t it? Besides, we’ve tried. Always, we are followed. Hunted.”
Rowen scowled. “So your kind’s answer is to kill everyone who might possibly threaten
you?”
Silwren’s voice grew quiet. “It will not come to that.”
This is getting nowhere. But what else can I do? Rowen glanced into the open cell that was to be his new home. The cell contained an overturned chamber pot, a small washing basin, a straw bed, and a chair. His few, meager possessions had already been delivered there. The guards had taken the liberty of pissing on them.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 22
