Wytchfire (Book 1)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  That man must not have been a Shel’ai. He had the eyes… but that kind of magic could only come from a Dragonkin. Rowen shook his head at the absurdity of this thought. The man had the ghostly eyes of a sorcerer, but his magic was simply too great to be anything less than a Dragonkin—which seemed equally impossible. Hadn’t the Dragonkin vanished a thousand years ago, killed or banished from Ruun during the Shattering War?

  Even if one had survived, why would he be here, at just the right time and place to help them? And what did he mean about danger, that if something went wrong, he’d lose control and we’d all die?

  Rowen decided to search for answers elsewhere. Producing the weathered Codex Lotius, he scanned the pages as he walked, combing through oaths and poetry for some mention of the Shel’ai or their Dragonkin predecessors. After a while, bored, Hráthbam told him to read the words aloud. Embarrassed, Rowen did as he was ordered. The flowery speech, which Rowen had always loved to read, seemed mangled when he heard it in his own voice. He might have stopped, but Hráthbam urged him on, stopping him from time to time to ask a question about the Isle Knights. By and by, Rowen told how a wandering sellsword named Fâyu Jinn came to the Lotus Isles seeking training. How all the Shao masters refused him—all save one, who treated Fâyu Jinn like a son. How Fâyu Jinn, in turn, founded the Order of the Crane and persuaded the Shao masters to join with him, just in time to turn the tide of the Shattering War.

  Hráthbam interrupted him. “The adamune! I may not be dead, but I still want you to have it.” The Soroccan stopped the horses and vanished inside his wagon for a moment. Rowen heard the sound of trunks being opened and wares tossed every which way.

  His pulse quickened. He had not seen or held an adamune since leaving the Lotus Isles. True, the Codex Lotius barred expelled squires from owning such splendid weapons, but who was to know? If I can’t be a Knight, at least I might look like one!

  When Hráthbam returned, Rowen’s spirits sank. The grinning Soroccan did indeed hold an adamune, but the weapon looked far from impressive. The curved scabbard was made of cracked wood, wrapped in faded leather that looked like a good shake would send it falling to the earth in tatters. The hilt of the adamune was worse, bound in leather so stained and ratty that Rowen did not even want to touch it. But he was not about to refuse his employer’s gift.

  Forcing a smile, Rowen accepted the weapon. The sword’s crosspiece—a brass oval and quillons designed to resemble interlocking crane and dragon wings, rising to grasp the blade—was horribly tarnished. He drew the sword a little and suppressed a groan.

  The trouble with mainland swords was that the more you sharpened them, the weaker and more brittle they became—not true for adamunes. The favored weapons of the Isle Knights were forged from kingsteel, a blend of three metals joined in a secret way, sharpened to a razor’s edge without sacrificing strength and resilience. The hammering and folding of the Shao forge masters left a fingerprint: deep, snow-white swirls buried deep in the metal.

  Those swirls were nowhere evident in the blade he now held. True adamunes were impervious to rust, but rust had eaten parts of this blade clean through. He suspected the sword was just one of countless cheap imitations sold on the mainland. In such a state, this blade would surely shatter at the slightest strike, as though made of glass.

  He inspected the sword more closely and saw a darker stain just above the crosspiece, along with an inscription he could barely make out. Though written in Shao, he had seen other imitation adamunes bearing Shao script as well: an attempt to make the cheap blades look more authentic.

  “Fel-Nâya,” he read aloud. He almost laughed.

  “What does that mean?” Hráthbam asked.

  “It’s the sword’s name, I think.” Rowen tried to keep a straight face. “It means ‘Knight’s rage.’ Or ‘Knightswrath,’ though I suspect the fire went out of this wrath a long time ago.” He immediately regretted saying it. “A fine gift, though. I’m sure its name was well earned in its day.”

  Hráthbam shrugged. “Not much to look at, I know. It belonged to my father. He always said he won it in a dice game with a Sylv. We never believed him. But I figured even an antique adamune must be worth something to somebody! Gods know you deserve better, lad, but it’s yours if you want it.”

  “I’ll treasure it,” Rowen lied. “This sword has history. Thank you.” He bowed. Hráthbam took the horses’ bridles and got the wagon moving again. Rowen waited until the merchant was looking away before he sighed with disappointment. He scrutinized his new weapon again. He realized he probably deserved no better.

  Given their ill fortune thus far, Rowen had expected the cracked wagon wheels to split apart long before they reached Cadavash, or even for them to be attacked again by greatwolves or bandits, but luck favored them. They traveled without incident until the Simurgh Plains gave way to a gray, wasted circle of land in the distance.

  Hráthbam looked disappointed. “Don’t tell me that is Cadavash...”

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,” Rowen offered.

  “Something tells me it’s worse than it looks!”

  Rowen was inclined to agree. They slowed the wagon a moment and stopped to look. Ahead of them, the Simurgh Plains sank farther and farther before they eventually gave way to a gray, rocky fissure that resembled a great, open sore. Lean-tos filled with shabbily dressed pilgrims crowded the mouth of the fissure, shadowed by a gaudy temple. The temple walls and pillars looked as though they had originally been painted blood red and then were touched up whenever patches of color wore off, but the work had been done unevenly, so the temple had the appearance of being unintentionally two-tone. Priests congregated around it. They wore extravagant robes and jewelry that shone even from this distance with gold and precious stones.

  “Business must be good,” Rowen muttered.

  Well-armed men patrolled the mouth of the fissure. Like the priests, all wore the green emblem of a man’s body with a dragon’s head and wings. Whenever one passed by, Rowen saw a fey look in their unnaturally wide eyes. He wondered if they were drugged, mad, or both.

  “Watch yourself,” he warned. “I don’t like the look of the guards.” He reached down and loosened his recently borrowed shortsword. Knightswrath was strapped across his back now—purely for appearances, since the sword was too long to draw that way, even if he wanted to. He wished he’d left it in the wagon, as it would only be in the way if a fight started.

  “I see.” Hráthbam loosened his scimitar then sighed. “Come, my friend. Let us do our business and be gone from here.”

  They started forward cautiously. The plains sank so rapidly toward the fissure that Rowen’s stomach lurched. He had to struggle to control the horses and keep the wagon from barreling on ahead of them. When they got closer to the fissure, Rowen heard a wailing that chilled him to the bone.

  “Dyoni’s bane, what are they up to?” Hráthbam asked.

  Rowen gritted his teeth. “That’s how they pray, I think.” He pointed toward a cluster of priests. The men wept and lamented theatrically, tossing themselves upon the hard earth, often cutting their bodies against the rough stones. Rowen had met Zet worshippers before in Lyos, but never had he seen them behave like this. “I think they’re crying for Zet. Or the dragons.”

  A squad of guards approached them, led by a young, green-robed priest with a cruel jaw and wide, mad eyes. Though the man was Human, he looked so fey that Rowen wondered for a moment if he hadn’t just seen some entirely new race for the first time. The priest fixed them in a severe, unblinking look.

  “Worship or trade?”

  Hráthbam patted Right’s neck to soothe the horse, who was suddenly more anxious than usual. “Trade.”

  The priest nodded. “Twenty copper cranáfi to approach the graveyard of the holy.” He added, “Or if you’re paying in iron crowns, thirty.”

  Hráthbam bristled at this. The priest’s guards noticed, too. Several drew their swords. Rowen resisted the impulse to draw his
own. Clearing his throat, he nodded slightly.

  Hráthbam scowled, counted out twenty copper cranáfi, and passed them to the priest, who counted them again. “Follow.” He turned on his heel and started toward the fissure. Half the guards fell in behind him. The rest waited, swords and pikes glinting in the daylight. Rowen guessed they would fall in behind the wagon. He did not like the thought of mad, armed men behind him, but it was too late.

  As they drew closer to the fissure, the lamentation increased. Rowen resisted the impulse to plug his ears—in part because he feared the gesture might be taken as offensive, but also to keep his hands free in case the guards attacked. He and Hráthbam were no dunces when it came to swordplay, but what chance did they have against the ten armed men surrounding them—especially if Hráthbam took a wound without blood-powder or a Dragonkin handy to assist him? Besides, even if they cut their way through, dozens more were scattered along the fissure or pacing the painted stone steps of the gaudy temple.

  “Looks like we’ll have to take our chances,” Hráthbam muttered, echoing Rowen’s thoughts.

  Rowen grunted in reply. Ahead of them, the priest and guards stopped. Rowen tensed. But they did not attack. Instead, the priest pointed. A broad stone stairwell descended into the depths of the fissure. Pilgrims crowded the stairs, often moving shoulder to shoulder. The fissure itself resembled a great, open mineshaft.

  Rowen shuddered. A foul, sulfurous odor wafted from the fissure. But worst of all was the wailing. Here, the cries and screaming prayers of priests and pilgrims bounced off the high walls of stone, echoing frightfully. Rowen touched his short hilt, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. Pilgrims and priests jostled into him, and it took all his restraint not to shove them back.

  Hráthbam caught his arm and whispered, “Dragon ivory be damned. Locke, let’s get out of here!”

  The priest held up his hand, stopping them. Rowen wondered if the priest had overheard or simply read the Soroccan’s expression. “You may not leave before paying proper tribute to the winged dead.” All around them, guards who had not already drawn their weapons did so.

  Hráthbam scowled. Rowen feared the merchant was about to reference the twenty copper coins they had already paid in tribute. “Do the dragonbones come from this mine?” Hráthbam asked instead.

  The mad priest smiled at the question. “Long ago, when the Dragonkin sucked dry the holy lifeforce of the winged ones, they buried their bones deep within the earth. We recover them. With tears and bloody hands, we lift back into sunlight the remnants of Zet’s winged children.”

  And sell them.

  The priest gave them so severe a look that Rowen feared he’d read his mind. Instead, the priest said, “You must leave your wagon.”

  Hráthbam scoffed. “Not likely.” He quickly added, patting Right’s neck, “This horse will go mad if she sees me go down there. She doesn’t like to be left alone, you understand.”

  “Horses are not welcome in such a holy place. You can be assured that the guards will protect you from any thievery.”

  Hráthbam consented. They backed up the wagon as far as they could from the crowds and cries around the fissure, unhitched the wagon and tended the skittish horses, and turned them over to the nearest stable. Then, they reluctantly allowed the guards to lead them into the chilly bowels of the dragon graveyard.

  The depths of Cadavash were even more disconcerting than the surface: a bizarre combination of temple and marketplace staged on the dark, dank floor of a huge, man-made fissure. Walls of dirt and rough-hewn stone bristled with the remnants of trees whose dead roots had been left in the earth.

  The smell of sweat and lantern oil filled the air. Priests, pilgrims, and guards paced and wailed like madmen. Here and there, men, women, and even children were bleeding. A few held cloths to their wounds but most seemed ignorant of their own bloodshed. Rowen could not tell if their wounds had come from fighting or prostrating themselves on the stones before them. They passed a cluster of wide-eyed priests who tugged up their sleeves, feverishly chanted some kind of unintelligible prayer, and took turns ritualistically cutting themselves. Rowen shied away. Hráthbam did likewise. Rowen wondered if the merchant was wary of all those flashing knives, given his blood condition.

  I should be watching him more closely. I’m his bodyguard. I’m not here to gawk.

  So theatrical were the worshippers that it wasn’t until he gazed past them that Rowen saw the gigantic dragonbones displayed in every direction—not just single bones, but full skeletons with outspread wings as wide as a farmer’s field. Most of the dragons had two wings, but some had four. Then he saw the unfurled remnants of a six-winged dragon suspended on huge iron chains whose creaking could be heard even over the lamentation of the pilgrims clustered around it. The skeleton was completely intact, down to its leering skull and four limbs ending in scimitar-sized claws. Jinn’s name, that thing could have carried off two elephants at a time!

  The priest and guards who had led them into Cadavash had already lost interest in them and wandered back to the surface, but a different priest—an old man with half a hundred scars on his face—caught Rowen staring up at the ceiling and smiled wolfishly.

  “Behold, Godsbane, the greatest of Zet’s children!”

  Hráthbam waited until the priest continued walking, then he leaned in. “I know that’s something I’ll tell my grandchildren about, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ve seen enough.”

  Rowen wrested his gaze off the remains of Godsbane and forced himself to move on. He shifted his scrutiny from worshippers and dragonbones to all the merchants. Though easy to miss at first, given their comparatively subdued demeanor, there were plenty of them. All looked just as ill at ease as Rowen and Hráthbam, suggesting that they were equally new to this ghastly place. Rowen also saw food vendors, tradesmen, and prostitutes, nearly as mad as the priests around them, stumbling along in the twisted light of torches and the sound of tortured wailing.

  “They’re mad,” Hráthbam hissed in his ear. “All of them!”

  “Drugged, too, by the look of it. Let’s just buy your damned ivory and go.”

  But that was easier said than done.

  The priests of Zet demanded outlandish prices. On one dais, Rowen saw the horse-sized skull of a dragon for which a priest and his guards wanted more wealth than all the coin Rowen had ever held in his life! Even finger-length bits of bones cost double what Hráthbam had anticipated. But looking over the merchant’s shoulder, Rowen had to admit that the ivory was impressive—stark-white in color but swirled with brilliant veins of red.

  He could not exactly say why, but something about the bones spoke of power and lost history. The priest wrapped the wing bones in black cloth, which Hráthbam accepted. “You need more?”

  Hráthbam hesitated. “Maybe. I’ll have to charge a fortune for what I’ve got already, just to break even. If I can’t find buyers willing to pay…”

  Rowen heard a fresh chorus of wailing, saw a dazed child walk by with bloody arms, and fought the impulse to turn and run. Forcing a smile, he said, “I’m your servant. Lead on. You do your best to get rich, and I’ll do what I can to keep you safe from all this.”

  Hráthbam smirked and answered with a jest that was drowned out by more wailing.

  They continued to explore the market. The two men quickly realized, to their horror, that the depths of Cadavash extended much farther than they had anticipated. Crowded stairwells descended deeper and deeper into the earth. When Rowen stopped one of the priests and asked about this, the madman beamed.

  “The true temple to the winged dead lies beneath your feet!” he said, louder than he needed to, then moved on, weeping.

  Rowen and Hráthbam exchanged looks of trepidation. “Should we really go down there?” the Soroccan asked.

  Rowen took a deep breath, one hand on the hilt of his borrowed shortsword. “We came this far. We may as well do this right.” He added, as confidently as he could, “I told you, I’ll keep you
safe.”

  “Like you did against that damn greatwolf?” He clapped Rowen on the shoulder then started for the stairs.

  Rowen and Hráthbam expected the subterranean levels of Cadavash to consist of dank caves and claustrophobic tunnels crowded with more fey-eyed dragon worshippers. But once again, what they found surprised and chilled them. The priest had spoken the truth.

  The true Temple of the Winged Dead existed not on the surface but in the earth.

  “Jinn’s name,” Rowen gasped, shaking his head. “This is a city!” He had heard stories of the Dwarrs building vast dwellings under the earth, hollowing out mountains for their homes, but he doubted even they would have approved of this.

  Cadavash stretched in all directions: a dark, fire-lit metropolis of stone and gruesome winged monuments forsaken by the sun. Massive shafts cut in the stone allowed for a measure of fresh air, but despite these great feats of engineering, the air in Cadavash’s subterrain remained dank and stale. Priests and guards stood everywhere, even more crazed than their brethren on the surface, alongside hollow-eyed merchants and tradesmen. More worshippers wailed and injured themselves in the name of their bizarre faith, some carving themselves with thin knives while others whipped themselves bloody with thick flails of knotted leather. But that was not what chilled Rowen’s heart the most.

  Both on the Lotus Isles and in Lyos, people had an open attitude toward prostitution. Cadavash took this to a frightful extreme. Women sold themselves—or were sold—then used on the open street. But the men’s eyes burned with hatred, not lust. Again and again, Rowen was tempted to draw his shortsword and stab someone who deserved it. He did not have to look hard to see corpses here and there, ignored and untended, and he marveled that this place had not been overcome by disease. Tears stung his eyes.

  Hráthbam said, “I thought I’d take a look around first then haul my wares down here and trade them, only I don’t relish the idea of setting up a table in this place.” When Rowen did not answer, he added, “Are you all right, my friend?”