Wytchfire (Book 1)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  No matter how good he is with a blade though, it’s still strange that he doesn’t have guards with him. Surely he could afford a few swordsmen for protection. Rowen’s hopes grew. If this merchant was indeed alone, Rowen’s services might be welcome. But mercenaries had to be as careful choosing their employers as did the merchants who hired them. Rowen continued his scrutiny.

  The merchant’s hair hung in dark, intricate braids. He sported a long, braided goatee and bright green eyes that flashed with mirth as he drank. Empty plates, bowls, and mugs crowded the merchant’s table. Even alone, the man wore an easy grin that Rowen was not sure whether to attribute to drunkenness or good nature. He hoped, for bargaining’s sake, that it might be both.

  The man answered his scrutiny with a friendly nod.

  Rowen barely spoke enough Soroccan to introduce himself, though he assumed the merchant must speak Common Tongue if he was doing business so many weeks’ travel from home. Still, Rowen hesitated. He thought again of his plain attire and unruly red hair. He looked more like a gravedigger than a mercenary. What sort of impression would I make like this?

  The old woman returned from the kitchen with Rowen’s stew. She placed the bowl on the table, along with a worn wooden fork. Rowen was about to ask her about the merchant, but at that moment, the Soroccan motioned with his empty mug. The old woman hurried to the merchant’s table instead. The two spoke briefly, too softly to hear, then the woman rushed off to get the merchant another ale. Always the rich ones who get the best service.

  Rowen turned his attention to the stew. Unlike the bland ale, the stew smelled excellent, strongly peppered and heaped with lamb, potatoes, carrots, and sweet roasted onions. Rowen had not eaten since that morning, and he tore into the stew with a vengeance, emptying the entire bowl in minutes. Then he washed it down with the last of his ale. His head felt a bit swimmy from the ale, and his stomach warmed, but he was not yet sated.

  He brought out the last coin in his pocket and pondered what to do next. More townsfolk crowded the inn. Talk and laughter rose in the night. Someone even brought out a mandolin and began to strum a simple, lively melody. Rowen saw the old woman talking to the innkeeper, both of them glancing in his direction. He flushed with shame when he guessed the meaning of their conversation.

  The tables were filling up. If he wasn’t buying, he would have to go.

  The old woman approached him.

  Rowen’s stomach growled, despite the stew he had just eaten. He considered spending his last coin on the roasted urusk the old woman had mentioned before. He was not in the mood to leave, but the stew had been excellent, and he did not want to spoil its memory with the bitter, acrid taste of urusk meat, either.

  The old woman set down a full mug of ale.

  Rowen stared down at it thirstily. “I’m sorry. I can’t pay for that.”

  “Don’t have to.” The old woman gestured toward the Soroccan merchant. “It’s on him. He said to bring you more stew too, if you want it.”

  It took Rowen a few seconds to recover enough to nod.

  The old woman left for the kitchen. Rowen turned toward the dark-skinned merchant and saw the man smiling. Rowen waved gratefully. The merchant responded with a light wave of his own then turned his attention back to his own drink.

  The old woman reappeared with a second bowl of stew and set it down in front of Rowen. She brought bread as well. The ale had loosened Rowen’s worries and quickened his appetite, and this second bowl of stew tasted even better than the first. This time, the stew came with fresh bread crusted with a sweet but unfamiliar spice. While Rowen ate, the old woman brought him a third mug.

  “He says join him when you’re done.” She nodded toward the Soroccan. Rowen blinked, finished eating, then took the third mug of ale and rose unsteadily. He was not drunk yet, but his legs felt loose, and he nearly tripped as he made his way toward the merchant’s table. As an afterthought, he fished a leaf of sweetbitter from his satchel, hastily chewed, and swallowed.

  The man stood at his approach. He was taller than Rowen had guessed. The man extended one hand, his plump forearm decorated with gold bracelets, and shook Rowen’s hand in a grip like iron.

  “I trust you enjoyed your meal! The fare here is not extravagant, but Dyoni knows I’ve had worse since I left home.” The man’s voice was thick with the staccato accent of his people. He added, “Forgive me if this table is too close to the fire. The heat reminds me of home.” Despite all the empty mugs on the merchant’s table, he still sounded sober.

  Rowen sat, spilling some of his own ale in the process. The Soroccan did not seem to notice. But Rowen saw that in addition to heaps of empty mugs and bowls, the man’s table was littered with coins! Like most merchants, this man was prepared to travel anywhere. Most of the coins were copper, but Rowen saw a few silver cranáfi too, along with some bronze ones bearing the galleon insignia of Sorocco, even a handful of iron crowns from Dhargoth, stamped with the sigil of a dragon. Unlike the comical dragon painted on the sign outside the inn, though, the Dhargoth’s dragon was a ghastly thing impaled on a long spear, its maw open and screaming.

  The Soroccan said, “May I ask your name?”

  “Rowen Locke.”

  The Soroccan merchant smiled. “I hear an Ivairian cadence. Are you as far from home as I am?”

  Rowen hesitated. The ale had loosened his tongue, but he had no desire to share his entire history with a stranger. “Not quite. My family moved to the plains before I was born. I grew up in Lyos.”

  The Soroccan seemed to sense Rowen’s unease and did not press. Instead, he touched his own chest with one well-ringed hand. “I am Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas.” He bowed. “By Dyoni’s grace, you may call me Hráthbam.”

  Rowen bowed too. “Al mos haláka.”

  Hráthbam’s dark face broke into a wide grin. “You speak my language?”

  “No better than a child of your lands,” Rowen said. “I used to be a sellsword. I learned enough to get by.”

  Hráthbam grinned. “It is true: our children often have the vocabulary of mercenaries.”

  Rowen bristled then forced himself to smile back. He lifted his ale. “Thank you for this. And for the food.”

  “Of course. Call it an advance payment.”

  Did he already hire me, and I forgot? If so, I’m drunker than I thought!

  The merchant laughed at Rowen’s expression. “I need guards. I’ve been lodging here two days, hoping someone of mettle would pass through. You are the first I’ve seen wearing a sword.” The Soroccan rubbed his green eyes. “I must apologize. I usually drink wine. Or hláshba. Anything else fogs my wits.” He laughed and emptied his mug and then used one silk sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Straight to it, then. I hired two men when I passed through Phaegos, but they turned on me—would have cut my throat if I hadn’t cut them first.” Despite the statement, the mirth in his voice remained unchanged. “I’m tired of waiting. So I’ll pay you what I took back from them: one hundred coppers. Two men’s wage, at least. And all you have to do is keep me breathing and unbloodied for the next month. Maybe less if the road favors us. After that, if I still need you, we can talk.”

  Rowen’s eyes widened. For that much, he would guard the man all the way to the Wintersea! Trying his best to appear unimpressed, he asked, “Where are you bound?”

  Hráthbam raised his mug, found it empty, and set it down with a disappointed look. “That’s the part you won’t like. I’m going to Cadavash.”

  Rowen’s surprise became instant trepidation. The dragon graveyard...

  Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Since when did the dragon priests need silk?” He feared Hráthbam would take offense, but the Soroccan answered with a deep belly laugh that resounded through the inn and drew curious stares from the patrons.

  “They don’t,” Hráthbam admitted. “But they do have something I need. Dragonbone. I want to buy as much I can, cart it off somewhere, and sell it. Maybe Atheion, depending on which directi
on I wake up facing.” He added, “At the moment, you’ll find my wagon all but empty: not one bolt of silk, if you have a heart for robbery.”

  Rowen’s face flushed. “I’m no thief.”

  Hráthbam nodded soberly. “Of course not. Isle Knights rarely are.”

  It took Rowen a moment to form a reply. “I’m no Isle Knight. Not a squire, either.”

  Hráthbam shrugged and waved his hand, fat gold rings sparkling in the lamp-lit inn. “Squire, Knight… makes no difference to me, so long as you’re worth your steel.” His eyes narrowed. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes! I mean...” Rowen hesitated. He remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius that characterized bragging as an act of dishonor. But Rowen had already been a fair swordsman before going to the Lotus Isles, almost as good as Kayden. The Isle Knights had made him better. In the tilting yards of Saikaido Temple, sparring with bamboo swords against the other squires, Rowen had won more matches than he’d lost.

  “I’m good with steel. Good with my hands and feet, too, if the fight goes to ground. And I’m fair with a bow—although mine’s still branched to a tree at the moment.”

  Hráthbam grinned, clearly appreciating the joke. “That settles it!” He tried to drink out of his empty mug again. “Standard contract, my friend: ten coppers now—the rest when the job’s done.”

  “Didn’t you say you paid your last guards all in advance?”

  Hráthbam raised one eyebrow. “Yes, and look what it got me! Ten now, ninety later. That, my friend, is my final offer. Do you agree, or did I buy your ales for nothing?”

  Rowen had never been to Cadavash, but its priests were infamous for their fanaticism. Rowen could not imagine that men who worshipped the ghosts of dead dragons would be willing to sell the very bones of their gods to a gaudy silk merchant. But one hundred copper cranáfi for a month’s work was more than generous. Maybe Hráthbam would even extend his employment for another trip. Best of all, it meant Rowen could avoid going back to Lyos—at least for a while. He raised his mug. “Agreed.”

  “Excellent! I’ll buy your room. We’ll drink our fill and leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  Keep drinking like that, and you’ll be lucky to make it out of your bed by sundown! Not that I’ll be much better…

  The old woman returned to the merchant’s table and brought him and Hráthbam more ale. Without waiting for an invitation, she scooped up four copper coins off the table and tucked them into her stew-stained apron.

  The merchant drank and talked nonstop, telling Rowen all about his travels through Phaegos, the mistake he’d made in hiring two charming wagon guards who later tried to strangle him, the fortune that could be made from the silk trade (if people knew what they were doing), and the wealth Hráthbam hoped to gain off dragonbone. Then, the Soroccan began describing the various attributes and peccadilloes of his wives and the annoyance of their own separate husbands.

  Rowen was halfway through his fourth ale. “How many wives do you have?”

  “Ten.” Hráthbam held up both of his hands. His gold rings sparkled again. “One for each finger! When I have enough for each of my toes, I’ll know it’s time to stop.”

  He spoke more about his wives and children until Rowen was thoroughly confused by a seemingly endless series of long, foreign names. Then, the Soroccan changed topics completely.

  “I should have mentioned this before. I’ll have to test your mettle first. Nothing serious—just a little sparring to make sure you’re worth your copper. Meet me outside the stables at dawn. And bring your sword!”

  Rowen nodded through his confusion. Merchants commonly tested the fighting abilities of sellswords by pitting them in mock combat against one of their best guards, but Rowen had never known a merchant to engage in this combat himself. Then again, if I’m his only guard, what choice does he have?

  Rowen sipped his fourth ale and tried to focus well enough to size up his opponent. The Soroccan, despite his padded build, must have been a skilled warrior once. Rowen believed his story about besting the guards who tried to kill him, but for all Hráthbam’s obvious strength, he could not be very fast. And when it came to wielding steel, speed counted for more than strength. Besides, if he keeps drinking like that, he won’t even be able to lift his sword tomorrow!

  Rowen finished his fourth ale, paused a moment to comment on the mug’s engraving of a drunken dragon, then nodded when Hráthbam mirthfully insisted on buying another round.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DRAGON WAKES

  Morning sunlight stung Rowen’s eyes as he stood outside the stables and tried to keep his balance. That was not easy, given how the earth rippled like water beneath his boots. “Gods!” Rowen swore, rubbing his eyes. “I’d like to know if that’s spice they use in their ale or—”

  A two-foot curve of sharp, naked steel flashed toward Rowen’s neck. Wide-eyed, he ducked then backed away, clumsily unsheathing his own blade. Hráthbam advanced, laughing heartily.

  “Come, my pale friend! Surely those chicken limbs can move faster than that!” Hráthbam’s eyes shone clear, and his face looked well rested despite having helped Rowen polish off what he suspected was the Drunken Dragon’s entire stock.

  Rowen’s face reddened, but he knew better than to respond with an insult of his own.

  Hráthbam darted forward, nimble as a dancer despite his bulk, and swung his scimitar at Rowen’s shoulder. Rowen raised his shortsword to block, barely remembering to keep his grip loose before the force of the Soroccan’s blow sent a raw jolt through his arms. Rowen tried to push the scimitar down, but Hráthbam twisted free and lunged instead. Rowen managed to clumsily chop the blade out of the way, but it took all the strength he had.

  I’m going to lose… Rowen shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  The two circled each other. Rowen’s face burned. Breccorry’s early-risers stopped in the streets and doorways to watch the fight. Most were farmers; others, young women on their way to the brothel to begin their day’s sordid work. The old innkeeper and his wife watched through the window of the Drunken Dragon. Rowen wondered if they were about to see him get chopped in half.

  Hráthbam advanced again. They traded a rapid flurry of blows, then Rowen backpedaled again. This time, Hráthbam followed. The Soroccan gripped his scimitar with one hand while the other held up the hem of his pompous robes to keep him from tripping. Instead of boots, the merchant wore thin silk slippers. Rowen wondered how the man kept himself from yelping in pain whenever he stepped on a rock.

  The rest of the merchant’s clothing was just as preposterous. He wore a white turban today. Unlike the black and violet robes he had worn the previous night, his new ones were bright crimson. The color stung Rowen’s eyes as badly as the morning sun.

  “Gods, I have a headache! How are you so damned sharp?”

  Hráthbam laughed heartily again. “Ten wives raises one’s tolerance for pain, my friend!” He leveled his scimitar and lunged a second time. Rowen realized with shame that the Soroccan was going easy on him. A scimitar was no lunging weapon. Surely Hráthbam knew that.

  If I want his respect, I have to put a stop to this. This time, instead of parrying, Rowen sidestepped, grabbed Hráthbam’s sword arm to hold it immobile, then stepped in, angling his shortsword for Hráthbam’s throat. He intended to stop short, just to get the blade close enough to prove his point.

  But the Soroccan was too fast. He twisted away and kicked the back of Rowen’s left knee, nearly sweeping his legs out from under him. By the time Rowen recovered his balance, the dreadful scimitar was sweeping toward him again.

  Rowen cursed, blocked, then answered with a swing of his own. The two struggled back and forth, their swords clattering loudly in the morning air. As though sensing that Rowen had gained his composure, Hráthbam fought harder.

  Sweat beaded on Rowen’s forehead. “I thought... this was just a test!”

  Hráthbam grinned. The scimitar whirled in his grip. “Are you telling me thes
e paltry dance steps are the best an Isle Knight can offer?”

  Rowen flushed then sprang to the attack. “I told you”—he feinted high, twisted his blade in midair, and nearly took Hráthbam’s head off—“I am not a Knight!”

  Hráthbam’s face turned serious as Rowen drove the bigger man backward, toward the stable. Hráthbam caught the heel of one silk slipper on a rut and lost his footing. Rowen might have pressed the attack, but he caught his breath instead, giving his opponent plenty of time to recover.

  “See?” Hráthbam noted. “Even enraged, the Isle Knight maintains his honor!”

  Rowen flinched then realized too late that the merchant was only trying to distract him. The scimitar slashed, changed direction, lured Rowen’s blade the wrong way, then changed back and slipped beneath his guard. Rowen grunted as the dull side of the scimitar slapped him hard in the gut. Then the scimitar flashed up. This time, the dull side cracked his right elbow.

  Rowen cursed. He swung wildly to keep his opponent at bay. Then he backed up, his arm throbbing. If he wanted to, he could have used the sharp side and cut me to pieces by now.

  “You should do something about that temper, my friend,” Hráthbam advised, suddenly grave. “It disrupts your focus.” He swung his scimitar in tight circles before him. “Tell me I am wrong, and by Dyoni’s grace, I will apologize.”

  Rowen gritted his teeth but said nothing. He changed his shortsword to his left hand. His stomach ached, and numbness flooded his right arm. He wanted this contest to be over, but he knew he needed to redeem himself first. But that was not all. Suddenly, he wanted to kill this man!

  Then, shamefully, he realized the Soroccan was right. On the Lotus Isles, Knights taught squires to channel their emotions, to clear their minds in the face of death. Rowen had absorbed much of the Isle Knights’ tactics but still relied on anger.