Wytchfire (Book 1) Read online

  Rowen had struggled back onto his feet but could do little more. The blow to his head had caught him completely by surprise, stunning him long enough for a second, smaller robber to bind Rowen’s hands behind his back. Rowen might have fought with his feet—on the Lotus Isles, he’d been taught to kick as well as punch—but it took all his willpower just to hold onto consciousness.

  Breaking Dagath’s gaze, Rowen looked around and spotted his shortsword lying nearby: a plain but elegant weapon with a waisted, Ivairian-style blade, all Rowen had left from his old life. Dagath scooped it up and whistled.

  “Not bad. Probably sell for a nice price in one of the cities. Me, I prefer a good club.” Dagath stabbed the shortsword into the earth and stepped so close that Rowen could smell the stink of the man’s breath, like rotten meat bathed in sour milk. Rowen’s eyes fell on his attacker’s cudgel again.

  But the robber did not strike, clearly content to enjoy the moment. He jabbed the tip of his cudgel into Rowen’s chin and pushed his head to eye level. “What, no clever last words? No bribes?” He looked past Rowen at the second robber, still standing behind him. “This is a first!”

  “Whatever coins I’ve got, I imagine you’ll get soon enough,” Rowen said, seething. “You’ve already got my sword. Besides that, all I’ve got left is in my pack. Go have a look.”

  Rowen nodded toward his satchel, which he’d dropped the moment he saw the small man lying on the road, feigning injury. Rowen had seen that trick before: a robber called for help, waited until some hapless traveler got close, then stuck a knife in his throat and took what he wanted. Rowen had been ready for that. But in his overconfidence, he had not seen Dagath sneaking up behind him.

  Dagath turned, reflexively eyeing the pack. Gathering what strength he had left, Rowen pitched forward and drove his knee toward the robber’s groin. With a look of only mild surprise, Dagath twisted and took the blow on his hip instead. Then he swung his cudgel into Rowen’s knee.

  Rowen bit his lip to keep from screaming and fell back down.

  He wondered if he would lose consciousness after all. Might be better that way. But then he cursed and fought back the darkness nipping at his vision. Dagath upended the satchel onto the ground. Small Man, confident that Rowen was going nowhere, hurried forward to inspect the goods. Both looked disappointed.

  Aside from a few articles of clothing, the satchel contained little more than a whetstone, sword-oil, a nearly empty waterskin, a rolled up scrap of parchment, his coin pouch, and two books. Dagath snatched up the coin pouch, yanked it open, and shook out its contents. He gave Rowen a withering look when only three copper coins tumbled out.

  “This it, boy?” He threw them on the ground and used his cudgel to poke through the rest of Rowen’s possessions.

  Small Man retrieved the coins and inspected them. “I think these are Isle coins,” he said quietly, holding up one to the afternoon light and inspecting the seal. “Looks like some kind of bird balancing on one foot.”

  A crane. Rowen kept silent. He had managed to roll onto his side, to keep the weight off his knee. Rowen’s instincts had saved him, allowing him to pivot at the last second. He did not think Dagath’s blow had smashed his kneecap, though the pain was making his eyes water.

  Dagath frowned and snatched the coin from Small Man’s grasp, inspecting it for himself. “You don’t have to be an Isleman to have Isle coins, you dunce! They use ’em all over these days.” He started to discard the copper coin then changed his mind and pocketed it instead.

  “Or maybe he’s an Isle Knight,” Small Man offered. “Might be one giant ransom if he is!”

  Dagath gave his accomplice so cold a look that, for a moment, Rowen wondered if Small Man’s suggestion would be answered by Dagath’s cudgel. Dagath pointed. “Does that look like an Isle Knight to you?” Before Small Man could answer, Dagath returned to where Rowen was still lying in pain. He prodded him with his cudgel. “Well, speak up, boy. You a Knight?”

  Rowen’s face turned almost the same color as the blood drying around his gashed forehead. “I’m no Knight. Never even been to the Isles.” Shame surged through him, but he masked it with anger. “Get on with it. Either kill me or leave me, you bastard.”

  But Dagath’s good eye sparkled. “You’re lying.” He went back to Rowen’s goods and retrieved one of the books. He opened one then laughed coldly. “I can’t read, but I know Lotus Isle scribbles when I see them.” He threw the book to his accomplice. “You’re too grubby to be a Knight, and you’re too pale to be a native Isleman.” He paused, sneering. “Know what I think?”

  Rowen started to close his eyes then stopped himself, trying to meet Dagath’s gaze without emotion. He offered no reply.

  Nevertheless, Dagath laughed. He turned to his accomplice. “Know what we have here, Sneed? Another exile.” He flashed Rowen another toothy, rotten grin. Sneed nodded, but Dagath explained anyway.

  Just to taunt me… and gods know I deserve it!

  “You see, once in a while, some dumb bastard gets it in his head to sail off to the Lotus Isles and be a Knight. Only they don’t take kindly to mainlanders—so if you want to train, you have to pay. A lot.” Dagath pretended to be lost in thought. “I bet this one was a sellsword… probably spent years saving up the coin!” He laughed again. “They took his money. Then, once they were tired of him, they kicked him out.” He grabbed a handful of Rowen’s unruly red hair, jerking up so Rowen was looking at him. “Am I right?”

  Rowen said nothing. Dagath chuckled and returned to Sneed, who had retrieved the second book as well and was busy leafing through them.

  “What are they?” Dagath asked him.

  “Can’t read more than a few words, but this one looks like a whole big list of rules.” Sneed handed the thicker volume back to Dagath, who merely glanced at it then tossed it aside. “This other one”—Sneed half-smiled—“looks like poetry.” He opened a page and held it up. “Pretty pictures, too. Colored ink. There’s a handsome one of a dragon in here somewhere…” He started leafing through the pages again.

  “They worth anything?”

  Sneed shrugged. “Probably some priest in Lyos would buy them—or some rich ambassador from the Isles, if we can find one.” He paused to think it over. “I bet each one’s worth at least as much as that sword of his!”

  Rowen recalled how, on the Isles, illustrated copies of the Codex Lotius could be bought from almost any street vendor for a few copper coins. As for the Codex Viticus, that arduous tome had been forced on him almost as soon as he arrived at Saikaido Temple. Rowen would be glad to be rid of it. If I survive, that is.

  At the mention of Rowen’s shortsword, Dagath had gone and retrieved it with his free hand. By then, the failed squire had sat up, straining vainly against his bonds.

  “Don’t bother. Sneed’s not worth much, but at least he can tie a decent knot.” His smile looked almost genuine. “Almost feel like I should thank you, boy. Any last words? Maybe a plea to the Dragongod?”

  Rowen had already tried to stand and failed, but he knew he had to try again. His mind scrambled for some kind of diversion. Then an idea formed. Though it was ludicrous, he had no choice.

  “My father’s a blacksmith in Harso, not far from here,” he lied. “He’s not rich, mind you, but he’s got a few coins to rub together. He was the one who paid for my training. Gods know what he’ll say when he finds out I got kicked out!” Rowen forced a smile. “Anyway, if it’s ransom you’re after, take me there.”

  Dagath scowled, clearly trying to decide if his captive was telling the truth. Thanks to years of training on the Isles, Rowen had the arms of a blacksmith, though everything else about him—unkempt hair, plain clothes, the fact that he was traveling alone—more closely resembled a sellsword. Dagath glanced down, studying Rowen’s shortsword again. Though unadorned, the crossguard was brass, the blade high quality.

  Kayden gave me that… The thought of his dead brother made Rowen wince, but he hoped Dagath mistook
his grief for fear.

  “He could be telling the truth,” Sneed offered.

  “Or he could be stalling, hoping he can get away—or wait us out until somebody comes along and rescues him.” Dagath lifted the hand holding Rowen’s shortsword and used one dirty thumbnail to scratch at his scarred eye socket. “That it, boy? You think some armored knight’s gonna thunder in and save you?”

  “No,” Rowen said and meant it. He knew as well as his captors that they were too far from the coast, where they might be chanced upon by a patrol of Isle Knights. Lyos was still the closest of the Free Cities, but wanting to be left alone, Rowen had chosen to travel there via the most deserted road—a decision he was deeply regretting.

  Dagath looked down at Rowen’s shortsword again then glanced back at the books, visibly weighing the odds, trying to decide if he should be content with his already-impressive haul or push his luck and hope that Rowen himself could be ransomed.

  This one’s cruel, not stupid, Rowen realized. He knows if he takes a ransom note to a town—whether I’m lying or not—he might wind up dead. Better he sticks with what he already has.

  But greed won out. “Fine, we’ll try it your way. If you’re telling it true, maybe you’ll even have to keep the gods waiting awhile.” Dagath lowered his weapons. “Sneed can write some, but it’s best the note’s in your scribbles. You know letters?”

  Rowen nodded. “I can write.”

  Dagath smirked. “Figures.” He gestured with his cudgel at Rowen’s meager pile of possessions. “I don’t want to tear up them books. Sneed, I saw parchment there. Bring it.”

  Rowen restrained a curse when he realized the scrap of parchment that Dagath was referring to. He wanted to argue but thought better of it. Sneed brought the scrap. He gave Rowen a faint, nearly reassuring smile as he handed the ancient-looking parchment to Dagath. This one’s different. He’s a robber, sure, but not quite a cutthroat.

  Dagath kicked his injured knee to catch his attention. Rowen swore. Dagath said, “Scribble your father, tell him he pays twenty silvers or else he’ll have to bury you in pieces.”

  Rowen knew better than to accept too quickly. “Twenty silvers is a lot. I told you, he’s poor—”

  “And I’m pretty. What of it? Every town needs a blacksmith. The villagers can pass around a gods-damned collection bowl if they need to.”

  “How will you get the letter to him?”

  Dagath shrugged. “Sneed can take it.”

  Rowen saw his opportunity. “Then Sneed will bring the coin back himself?”

  Dagath’s expression changed. Rowen swallowed a smile. You didn’t think of that, you bastard!

  Sneed faced Dagath. “You can trust me...”

  “Fohl’s hells, I can!” Dagath interrupted with a snort. He fell silent. Rowen could imagine what he was thinking. If Sneed did not deliver the letter, then Dagath would have to do it. That would mean leaving Rowen in Sneed’s care.

  He guessed that Dagath had reached the same conclusion. “I’ll take the scribble myself. Harso’s not far.” He turned to Sneed. “Gods hear me, if he’s not here when I get back, I’ll cut out your spine and keep your share.”

  Sneed’s face paled. He tried to respond but stammered.

  Dagath threw the parchment at Rowen’s feet. He waved to Sneed again. “Untie his hands so he can write. But bind up his feet.” He prodded Rowen with his own shortsword. “Guess I don’t have to tell you what happens if you try anything cute.”

  Rowen shook his head.

  Sneed bound Rowen’s feet with a length of rope that Rowen had been using as a belt. Sneed’s trembling hands fussed with the bonds securing his wrists. When the bonds went slack, Rowen resisted the impulse to throw an elbow at Sneed’s jaw. He wouldn’t get far with his legs still tied. He massaged his sore wrists then gingerly touched the gash on his forehead from Dagath’s cudgel. Sneed withdrew meekly.

  Dagath pointed at the parchment. “Write.”

  Rowen hesitated, eyeing the poor but familiar handwriting already covering one whole side of the parchment. “No ink.”

  Dagath frowned.

  “If you start a fire, I can use the ash.”

  “You think I’m stupid, boy? Ash doesn’t last.” Dagath sneered. “Best we use blood.”

  Neither robber offered to bandage Rowen’s slashed palm once the letter had been written. Instead, Dagath ordered Sneed to lash Rowen’s wrists together again. By then, the sun was setting, bloodying the rolling hills to the west. The robbers dragged Rowen far off the road, untying his feet so they wouldn’t have to carry him. They soon reached a copse of trees.

  A paltry campsite indicated that the robbers must have been here before. Sneed bound Rowen’s feet again. He had regained some of his strength, but the sword tip pressed to his throat dissuaded him from attempting escape. That time, they tied him with his back to a tree. Then Sneed built a fire and fixed a simple meal of porridge that smelled of burnt, mashed asparagus, none of which they shared with their captive.

  Rowen tested his bonds and tried to ignore the growling in his stomach. Only three days had passed since he left the Lotus Isles, but he’d already been robbed and beaten, and his stomach was rumbling so ominously that he feared he was starving. He’d been well fed at Saikaido Temple, but once dismissed, he’d been forced to leave with only the few possessions he’d had when he arrived years before. It cost half his remaining coins to board the ship that ferried him across the Burnished Way, back to the mainland. He’d managed to buy some rations and a little lotus wine at a seaside village, but those had not lasted long. In fact, the only thing he had that remotely resembled foodstuffs was a pouch of sweetbitter leaves, chewed to keep teeth from rotting.

  I should offer those to Dagath, Rowen thought spitefully.

  When the highwaymen were done eating, Dagath forced Rowen to provide a detailed description of his father. Just follow the sound of a ringing hammer, Rowen wanted to say. He had already described the imaginary blacksmith twice, but he took care to keep the details the same. It might have been simpler to substitute a description of his true father, but Rowen barely remembered him. Still, Dagath appeared satisfied. With a final slew of threats, the burly killer set off into the night.

  Despite the pain throbbing from his cut palm, Rowen had to stop himself from grinning. Since Dagath could not read, Rowen had considered detailing his subterfuge in the letter so that whoever saw it would know what kind of man Dagath was. However, he’d not wanted to risk Sneed making out enough of the letter to catch the deception, so instead, Rowen kept up the act, penning a pleading letter to a man who did not exist.

  The act itself brought a pang of shame when Rowen remembered the knightly prohibition against lying for any reason. Then he reminded himself that he was not a knight. Besides, so far, lying had served him far better than his fighting prowess.

  Now I just have to find a way to get out of here! The people of Harso would not come to his aid. He meant nothing to them and had only visited the town once, working as a merchant’s bodyguard with his brother, though he doubted anyone would remember. Still, I’m better off than I was before.

  He thought again of Saikaido Temple with its beautiful gardens overflowing with the sweet perfume of dogblossoms, its stores of cool lotus wine, and its extravagant tilting yard, overseen by perhaps the greatest weapons trainers in the world. Maybe I’m not doing so well after all.

  Rowen tested his bonds again. He might saw the rope against the tree bark until he freed his hands and then easily free his legs, but he could do neither while Sneed was watching.

  The small, balding man regarded him without expression, across the dwindling campfire. He sipped from a jug of wine. Rowen’s fears had subsided enough to be replaced by pain. His forehead, knee, and palm filled him with dull pain, punctuated by jolts of agony when he moved, though he was certain that if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep.

  He resisted. Dagath would not return until midday if he returned at all. Sooner
or later, no matter how nervous he was, Sneed was bound to fall asleep. Rowen wondered what he would do once he was free.

  He was tempted to cut down Sneed then rearm himself and make for Harso—not just to reclaim his prized shortsword but to kill Dagath, if the bastard was still alive. The loss of the heirloom stung, but worse still was realization that so soon after leaving the Lotus Isles, Rowen had lost a fight to a common thug with little or no training.

  Sneed’s voice interrupted his grim ruminations. “That letter. Was it a trick?”

  Rowen feigned surprise and shook his head.

  Sneed laughed. “I’m not as dumb as I look. Maybe I don’t know all my letters, but I can read faces well enough. If Dagath makes it back in one piece, you know he won’t just kill you. He’ll slice you into ribbons, make sure you die slow. I’ve seen it before.”

  Rowen thought the man shuddered. “You don’t seem to like him much.”

  Sneed shrugged. “Man doesn’t have to like what he does to stay alive.” He took a long drink.

  “How did you fall in with him?” Rowen did not especially care to hear the robber’s life story, but he knew it would only help his chances of escape if he put the man at ease.

  Sneed lowered the jar. “He’s my half-brother.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Different fathers, same whore of a mother. We’re from Lyos, I guess you could say.”

  “The Dark Quarter?” Rowen doubted either man had been a true citizen of the wealthy city. More likely, they had grown up in the slums at the bottom of the hill. He searched his memory but did not recognize the man before him. Then again, the Dark Quarter has more orphans and beggars than a graveyard has worms!

  Still, Sneed raised one eyebrow. “You too?” Rowen almost said yes before he remembered his lie about being from Harso. Luckily, Sneed did not seem to expect an answer. “Bad place to be a kid.”

  Rowen was inclined to agree. He had no interest in reliving such memories, though. “How many travelers have you robbed like this?”

  Sneed winced. Rowen thought he would refuse to answer. Instead, Sneed said, “Maybe a dozen a year. Maybe more. If there’s guards, we leave ’em alone. Dagath knows how to scrap, but he’s not much for a fair fight.” He took a longer drink of wine. “Folks from the north come down here, too. Ivairians, hair red as yours. Half-starved, unarmed. They’re not much worth the trouble, but once in a while, they have some clothes or a trinket worth taking.” He looked away and pretended to tend the fire. “Women and kids, too. Some of them, Dagath doesn’t kill. Not right away...”