Rowen hesitated, fearing the humiliation he’d feel if one of the squires recognized him, but they seemed preoccupied with grooming their armor and trying to look impressive for the female citizens of Lyos. Instead of mail wrought from kingsteel, these squires wore tough leather armor finely embroidered with the sigil of the Knighthood. Also, in place of adamunes, they bore curved shortswords called tashi.
Gods, I almost forgot about Knightswrath! The Codex Viticus forbade squires from wearing adamunes. Aeko had not mentioned it when they last spoke, but it would not help his case if they saw him with it now. He shifted his sword belt so the weapon was concealed by his cloak. Then he approached the battlements. With the other olive-skinned Knights deep in conversation, only Aeko saw his approach. She smiled faintly, but Rowen knew better than to address her. He cleared his throat, his face already flushed, and requested a moment of Sir Ammerhel’s time.
The Knight of the Lotus fixed him in a haughty stare, looking for a moment as though he would refuse. Then, he bowed slightly. “Of course, Corporal. We are your humble servants.”
Somehow, I doubt he means that. For the second time that morning, just as tendrils of sunlight unfurled like bloody ribbons across the battlements, Rowen related his tale. He strove to sound more confident than he had in Captain Ferocles’s office, but his voice faltered. Being in the presence of established Knights unnerved him, reminding him of his disgrace. His only comfort was that he doubted Sir Ammerhel even remembered him from the Isles, anyway.
Before Rowen had finished, Crovis Ammerhel raised one eyebrow. Sir Paltrick Vossmore fought back a grin. Aeko looked away. Rowen decided to leave out the part of the story where Silwren refused to fight the Nightmare. When he concluded, Sir Ammerhel cleared his throat and answered formally. “You speak well, Corporal. Tell me, what is it you ask of us?”
Never had Rowen felt so intimidated, but he knew he could not turn back now. He needed the Knights’ guarantee that Silwren and El’rash’lin would not be harmed. But he had nothing to bargain with.
Honor be damned, he thought. He decided to lie.
“Silwren and El’rash’lin have pledged their aid in defending Lyos, just as the Shel’ai aided the Isle Knights long ago in the days of Fâyu Jinn. In exchange, they ask for your pledge that neither the Knights nor the armies of Lyos will engage this demon on their own. To do so, they say, would be suicide.” He tried to sound nonchalant as he added, “Also, they would like your word that they’ll not be harmed, so that they can carry out their own end of the agreement and keep Lyos safe from harm.”
Sir Ammerhel cleared his throat again. “Thank you, Corporal.”
Baffled, Rowen watched as the Knight of the Lotus simply returned his attention to the battlements, speaking in hushed tones with Sir Vossmore about the defense of the city, as though Rowen had not said a word.
Rowen summoned his courage, reached out, and tugged on Sir Ammerhel’s tabard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aeko give him a warning shake of her head, but he ignored it. “Sir Ammerhel... forgive me, but I must have your answer.”
The Knight of the Lotus faced him with naked irritation. “Must you?” He sized up Rowen with a derisive glance. “I thought to treat you with humility, Corporal, but you are testing my patience. Clearly, these sorcerers have bewytched you. And you insult me if you think to come here this morning and share your curse with us!”
Sir Ammerhel showed him his back. “Go treat with sorcerers and the damned if you like. Your soul is not my province. But the welfare of Lyos is, and you have already taken too much of my time.” He resumed his conversation with Sir Vossmore.
Rowen stood there for a moment, stunned. He could feel the gaze of the Red Watch, squires, and Isle Knights, all momentarily unified in appreciating his humiliation. Rowen wanted to press the matter further. For one wild moment, he even wanted to fight. But Sir Ammerhel could kill him in seconds.
Finally, he slumped from the battlements. Moments later, he heard Aeko call his name. He ignored her. He could tell by her lighter footfalls and the jingling of spurs that she quickened her pace. He jerked away when she touched his arm, heading instead for the morning bustle of the market. Business opened early in Lyos. Already the scents of fish and herbs filled the air, mingling with the sweetness of freshly baked bread.
Aeko called out his name again. This time, when Rowen ignored her, the olive-skinned Knight of the Stag caught his arm and wrenched him to a halt. With surprising strength, she shoved him away from the crowds, into a dirty alley between two inns.
“That was foolish.” She pointed back in the direction of Sir Ammerhel. “What did you think you were going to accomplish there?”
Rowen did not answer. Aeko stood half a foot shorter than he, but the look on her face intimidated him.
“Is it true?” Aeko asked instead. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Did that wytch and her friend curse you?” Her hand moved for the hilt of her adamune.
“I don’t... I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
Rowen threw up his hands. “What is it you want from me, Commander?” He backed away from her. She followed him deeper into the alley.
“I’d like to know why you are so intent on throwing your life away. Did you really think that Crovis Ammerhel, a venerated Knight of the Lotus, was going to accept help from a Sylvan wytch? Or change his mind based on some ranting tale from a mainland corporal?”
Rowen gritted his teeth. “I do not pretend to be wise, Commander. But I am no fool. Silwren may be a wytch, but she is no devil. The same can be said for El’rash’lin. When they say they’ve come to Lyos to protect us, I believe them.”
After a moment, Aeko said, “Then I believe her, too. But it doesn’t matter. None of this matters, Rowen. What Crovis said is true.” She lowered her voice even though the noise of bartering, bustling crowds beyond the alleyway meant they might have shouted and no one would have noticed or overheard them.
“Another bird arrived this morning. Word from our scouts to the west. The Dhargots are sweeping across the Simurgh Plains. Footmen, cavalry, war-elephants...” She winced. “Gods, Locke... They’ve already taken Syros, and they’re marching on Cassica—or what’s left of it. Soon, the Shel’ai will have to turn their army around. They’ll have to look to their rear, or else they’ll lose everything!”
Rowen’s heart sank. He wanted to believe her, but El’rash’lin’s memories returned to him. “El’rash’lin said this would happen. The Throng made a deal with the Dhargots. Fadarah will clear a path. Then the Dhargots will sweep their legions across the Simurgh Plains, all the way to the coast, and the Isle Knights will have to fight them.”
Aeko’s eyes narrowed. “El’rash’lin said this… and you’re only telling me now?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Why would the Dhargots help Fadarah?”
“The Dhargots get the Free Cities—and the Isles, if they can take them—in exchange for helping the Shel’ai take the Wytchforest. By the time it’s all over, the whole damn continent will be drawn into this. It’ll mean fighting unlike Ruun has seen since the Shattering War!”
Aeko took a deep breath and let it go. Rowen sensed her frustration. “Apparently, your mind was drifting when we taught strategy on the Isles. Even a Shel’ai knows better than to trust a Dhargot. Why would Fadarah conquer all this land then just give it away?”
“Because it’s not enough to have an army. The Shel’ai learned that the hard way. Wherever they go, someone tries to kill them. The only way they’ll be at peace is if they break everyone who can hurt them.”
Aeko grimaced. “You almost sound like you agree with them.”
“I’m not entirely sure that I don’t,” he confessed.
Aeko shook her head. “Maybe Ammerhel was right to dismiss you after all.”
Rowen recoiled as though slapped.
Aeko’s face flushed with guilt. “Damn. Forgive me...
” She started to reach for his arm then stopped herself. “But it’s true, Rowen. Can you even conceive of all the planning and strategy that went into winning these battles? If the sorcerers’ goal is to take the Wytchforest, why waste their men’s lives on the plains? Did they think we’d care whether or not they put Sylvs to the sword?” She laughed coldly. “There are few in the Lotus Isles who remember the old stories about all the races fighting together as allies once. Most say those stories are just fairy tales. But even if they were true, the Knighthood would never get involved in a war on the opposite end of the continent!”
She’s right. But she’s wrong, too. Somehow, I know it.
He rubbed his eyes. “You’re thinking of this in terms of numbers, Commander.” He still referred to her by her title, for despite the occasional warmth in her eyes, he had never felt free nor had he been invited to call her by her given name. “Battalions, swords, how many miles men have to march, how much food it takes to feed and armor them. How much they have to pay the mercenaries to keep them from rebelling. Am I right?”
Aeko frowned. “Of course. That’s what all generals must think about.”
“Unless they’re sorcerers,” Rowen answered. “El’rash’lin says this is just a ruse. I know it from his own mind. The Shel’ai aren’t strong enough yet to take the Wytchforest. Besides, they want more than that. They want everything! All of Ruun. They want us all to destroy each other. That’s the only way they can ever be safe.”
Aeko’s expression said she did not believe him, but he was tired of arguing, tired of standing in this alley, which smelled of mud and filth. He was tired of this city. But most of all, he was tired of not saying what he really wanted to say.
“You should have defended me. I was a fine student. If Crovis would not do it, you should have knighted me yourself.”
Aeko blinked in surprise. “That’s a dead custom. Nowadays—”
“What about the Codex Lotius? What about honor?” He shook with rage. “You’re a hero! My brother worshipped you. The peasant girl who became a Knight, who beat five Olgrym single-handed—”
“Three,” Aeko corrected. “There were three, not five. One already had an arrow in his leg. And I almost died fighting them. Anyway, I’m not in Lyos because I’m some fearless hero. I am here because Crovis Ammerhel likes to stare at me. When he isn’t belittling my intelligence and questioning my honor, that is.”
Rowen’s jaw fell in disbelief.
Aeko sighed. “I am sorry I couldn’t do more for you. But let me tell you something about my place in the Knighthood while you’re finally standing still and listening. Crovis despises me. He would strip my title in a second if he could. I bet he dreams of that even more than stripping my armor! You think the Knights are some kind of goodly brotherhood. They’re not. Most of them are like Crovis: honorable to a fault but not like the stories. Not like Fâyu Jinn. Those Knights don’t exist anymore—if they ever did.”
Rowen could think of nothing to say.
Aeko sighed. “Your brother’s name was Kayden—if I recall.”
This caught Rowen further off guard. He had spoken with Aeko on the Isles, but he never mentioned Kayden to anyone there. If he won his Knighthood, he was determined that it be on his own merit, not Kayden’s reputation.
“I remember him,” Aeko said, taking his silence as answer. “You look like him. Crovis didn’t want Kayden knighted, either. I had to call in more favors than I cared to spend to get your brother his adamune.”
Rowen blinked back tears, cursing a sudden surge of emotion. “Kayden wanted me to come to the Isles, but I didn’t have enough coin yet. Then I heard…” He choked then forced a smile. “I had a hard time accepting that. I know it happens. I’ve known other men who fell out of the saddle while drunk and busted an arm or something. And I saw an old man once who split his skull that way. But Kayden was a good rider. To survive all that training, to go through everything he did, then die like that—” Rowen stopped. Something in Aeko’s expression unsettled him.
“The letter,” Rowen began. “The Knighthood sent me a letter, saying he died by bad chance. A snake spooked his horse. He fell… split his head on a rock.” It seemed to Rowen that even as he spoke, he could hear the speed and tone of his own voice changing. “Commander…”
He trailed off. For a long time, he could not speak. When he finally found his voice, he hardly recognized it. “Who killed him?”
Aeko’s answer was quick, as though she were unsurprised by the question. “I cannot tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both,” Aeko said, unfazed. “I understand your grief, Rowen. I do. But I have already hinted at too much, and it is not my place to say more. I was not Kayden’s commander.”
“Then who was?”
“A Knight of the Stag named Matsuo. He was my friend. He died too—along with most of the company.”
“Where?”
Aeko tensed. At last, she said, “The Ash’bana Plains, north of the Wytchforest. Near Godsfall. They were ambushed.”
Rowen’s eyes widened. Godsfall was the land of the Olgrym, probably the most dangerous place in all of Ruun. But the Knights’ destination stunned him most of all. “The Wytchforest! What in Fohl’s hells were they doing there?”
“They were looking for something.” Aeko fell silent.
“No. You have to tell me.” When she did not speak, he seized her arm. “What were they looking for?”
Aeko swore under her breath. She twisted free of his grip but did not leave. They stood a while, awash in the distant, chaotic sounds of the market. At last, she said, “They were looking for the tomb of Fâyu Jinn.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IN THE THRONG
The Throng made camp on the Simurgh Plains just two days’ march from Lyos. Campfires blazed everywhere like flickering orange jewels. Catching the night breeze here and there flew several banners: the crimson greatwolf of Fadarah plus the various emblems of the men’s homelands, now used to distinguish one company from another. Despite the fact that most of the men were conscripts from conquered cities, high pay and relatively good treatment—coupled with fear of the Shel’ai—had kept the ranks in line so far.
But Fadarah could tell that was changing. He gleaned thoughts of rebellion in the minds of nearly every man he passed as he made his way through the camp. Still, all who saw him coming looked away quickly. He felt a touch of smugness as he sensed how they feared him. He stood a good foot taller than any other man in the camp, with a powerful build even the most muscular Humans envied. Tattoos covered most of his exposed skin, including his shaved head. While Fadarah doubted that the men of the Throng understood the full implication of those tattoos, camp gossip had at least informed them of the brutal truth: in his youth, Fadarah had tattooed his body with the names of the Olgrym he’d killed.
As he paced the camp tonight, Fadarah also used his magic to amplify his hearing. He could tell that word of the latest developments had spread. The Dhargots were marching onto the plains, threatening the same homelands that the soldiers thought they could protect by pledging themselves to Fadarah’s banner in the first place. Some men wanted to rebel outright. Others wanted to try and desert, though anyone caught attempting such a thing was burned alive by wytchfire. No one could believe that Fadarah, who had proven himself on countless occasions to be a cunning strategist, seemed unperturbed by the Dhargots advancing behind them, seizing for themselves all the lands that the Throng had taken just months before.
Even when the occasional Human officer got up the nerve to ask, neither Fadarah nor the other Shel’ai offered any explanation. Many will not want to fight tomorrow. He had already paid these men a fortune, but they wanted more than wealth. They wanted their lives. They wanted to go back and defend their homelands from the Dhargots.
Fadarah did not begrudge them this. For all their sins, he could not bring himself to share Kith’el’s infamous hatred of Humans. He could imagine what it must be li
ke to have a home and to see it in danger. Any soldier who survived the coming battle would be released. Of course, Fadarah did not expect many of them to survive.
He felt a pang of guilt but reminded himself, as he had countless times before, that he had no choice. If the men were released to go back and defend their homelands, they might actually succeed in slowing the Dhargots’ advance. Fadarah’s bargain with the one they called the Red Emperor—an alliance that would eventually help Fadarah claim the Wytchforest—meant giving the Dhargots free run of the Simurgh Plains, clear to the Burnished Way if possible.
He looked up. Clouds veiled the heavens, including the great starry swirl of Armahg’s Eye, which many of these superstitious Humans called an ill omen. That gave them all the more reason to revolt, and his Shel’ai were already hard-pressed, guarding against deserters. Add to that the strain of keeping the Nightmare in check, and the Shel’ai were nearing their breaking point. But he only needed them for one more day. And so he went to see Brahasti.
The thought of dealing with the exiled Dhargot momentarily sickened him, but for all his despicable qualities, Brahasti was still the best strategist gold could buy.
Fadarah paused outside the man’s tent. Guards tensed, their expressions uneasy, but Fadarah dismissed them. Then he listened and scowled. A woman cried from within Brahasti’s tent.
Didn’t I warn him about that? Fadarah scowled. Violence born of necessity was one thing, but this was quite another. He and the other Shel’ai did not tolerate such things, even among high-ranking officers like Brahasti. Fadarah threw open the tent flap and strode inside.
Darkness and the reek of sweat filled the tent. Fadarah waved his hand, conjuring a sphere of wytchfire that hovered in the air in front of him. Relics cluttered the tent—trinkets from sacked towns and cities, plus chests of gold coins Fadarah paid to retain the man’s loyalty. Looking past these, Fadarah’s eyes fell on a straw pallet.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 26
