Brahasti lay there: tall, dark haired, and frightfully thin. A young woman was pinned beneath him—probably one of the prostitutes who followed the army, looking for work. Her cheek was bleeding. He was biting her neck now. She stared imploringly at Fadarah.
“Brahasti, get up.”
When the man did not answer, Fadarah snapped one hand into a fist, using magic to wrench the man off the woman and fling him to the ground. The woman leapt up, grabbed her gown off the floor and rushed out—still naked—into the night.
Brahasti rose from the ground, also naked, and laughed. “My apologies, General. I didn’t hear you come in.” He nodded after the woman. “But I’m guessing your entrance made quite an impression on her.”
A chill ran down Fadarah’s spine. Strange. After all I’ve faced, even though I could kill this man with a gesture, something about him frightens me. “I sent for you an hour ago,” Fadarah answered coldly. “If you have such an affinity for torture, perhaps I should impose a Blood Thrall on you.”
“You’ll find I am not as creative a killer when I am under duress.” Brahasti grinned. “Still, I appreciate your fortitude, General. That’s why I serve you.”
Fadarah took a threatening step forward, a fierce violet glow igniting around his body. “You serve me because otherwise, I’ll roast your living organs.” He closed his fist and opened it, summoning tendrils of wytchfire so brilliant and hot that Brahasti drew back. “We have business to discuss.”
Brahasti still had not bothered to cover himself. “Of course, General. How can I be of service?”
Fadarah considered ordering the man to dress then decided he preferred to leave as quickly as possible. “The army is on the verge of revolt. They’ll ask you to lead them against me—if they haven’t already.”
Brahasti nodded, unfazed. “Shall I refuse?”
“No. Tell them you want to revolt, too, but insist they wait until after Lyos has fallen.”
“How long?” Brahasti’s eyes danced with cold amusement.
“One week,” Fadarah answered. “Say you overheard plans for half the Shel’ai to leave the army on another mission of some kind—meaning it will be easier for you to kill the rest of us. Pretend you’re acting out of concern for your men’s lives.”
“And what will you give me in exchange?”
“First,” Fadarah said, “your life. Because if the army does not fight tomorrow, I will blame you. And I promise, you will not die quickly.”
Brahasti examined one fingernail. “I understand.”
He’s not even afraid of me. Kith’el is right. This one is too cruel to control. I could impose a Blood Thrall on him, but he’s right. I need a general, not another mindless guard dog like the Unseen.
Fadarah fought the impulse to draw his greatsword and cleave the man in two. Instead, he decided to bribe him instead. The figure he promised was more gold than Brahasti had ever seen—more gold, in fact, than most kings held in their treasuries. Brahasti’s face brightened. The Dhargot bowed, a touch of mockery in his voice as he said, “I remain your humble servant, General.”
Fadarah whirled and left the tent, dismissing his wytchfire and leaving Brahasti in darkness. His heavy armor clattered as he stomped off into the night. One matter, at least, had been settled. But that left others. As he walked, Fadarah thought of El’rash’lin again. I miss your cunning, old friend.
The plan to pit all the peoples of Ruun against each other, yoking their strength while reducing their threat in the process, had been as much El’rash’lin’s as his own. If El’rash’lin had indeed gone as mad as poor Silwren, he might very well betray their advantage to Lyos. But there was a way to prevent that. The Sorcerer-General sighed with regret. Forgive me, old friend, but you’ve left me no choice.
Jalist Hewn had joined the Throng shortly after the host had marched from the smoldering ruins of Syros and was slowly rumbling toward Cassica. He was, to his knowledge, one of only a half dozen Dwarr in an army of thousands. This he knew only by rumor; he had never sought out or spoken with the other Dwarrs, nor did that trouble him. Jalist had no desire to seek solace among his own kind. He was used to standing out in a crowd.
“Ants on two legs,” Humans sometimes called his kind. While most Dwarrs had red-brown or black hair, which they wore in tight fighting braids, Jalist’s shone like sun-bleached pebbles. A squad leader could spot Jalist from a hundred yards away. An enemy could single him out in the fiercest melee—which happened often. Jalist was used to this, too.
Once, years and years before, Jalist had served as a housecarl under King Fedwyr Thegn of Tarator, where his famed long-axe cut bandits clean out of their saddles. But that was long in the past. His only reminder of his old life was the tattoo of a black dragon on his bicep: the personal insignia of the housecarls.
Jalist had thought of the tattoo the first time he saw the Nightmare. He had heard stories but had not yet actually seen it in action. When he did, he doubted the citizens of Cassica were any more terrified than he was.
No ultimatums, no demands—the Throng simply fanned out beyond the walls of Cassica, cavalry and footmen in neat formation. The Shel’ai formed ranks and stared, just beyond bowshot, as though waiting for something. The hired swords milled around behind them.
Then, the Nightmare roared to life. Friend and foe alike pissed themselves when they saw it. A scaled thing, huge but man shaped… and burning. Always burning. Chains and a blackened steel collar held it in check, its eyes slicing about—yellow, cold, thin as daggers. Then the collar vanished—whisked away by magic, no doubt—and the beast howled.
Jalist had never seen fire demolish stone before, but that was exactly what happened. One blast only, and the walls of Cassica came crashing down.
The Shel’ai swarmed forward, shrouded in their bone-white cloaks, riding their well-bred destriers—Fadarah himself on a huge bloodmare. Jalist followed because he had no choice, swept up with his regiment.
In truth, only one section of wall was demolished, but at the time, it had seemed much worse. Some men were killed in the collapse but not many. The rest huddled, coughing and wide-eyed, and thought they were about to die. Jalist pitied them. But as quickly as it appeared, the Nightmare seemed to disappear—replaced, he swore, by a stooped figure in a cloak, though no one believed him.
Fadarah himself had ridden forward, huge and imposing in his dark armor. A banner displaying his crimson greatwolf snapped overhead. He called out, pledging that any who surrendered would be spared. One by one, Cassica’s defenders threw down their pikes and swords. Fadarah was true to his word. His army looted the city while the white-cloaked Shel’ai maintained order, keeping rape and bloodshed to a minimum. Meanwhile, the soldiers of Cassica were herded together on the plains outside the smashed wall.
“You will find me fair as I am cruel,” Fadarah had said, his voice booming. “The stories are true. Those who oppose me die screaming. But those who swear fealty to my army see their loved ones spared and their pockets filled with gold. Decide now.”
Men exchanged glances, their faces smeared with blood and soot.
Jalist, arrayed with the men of the Throng, took a moment to study the rest of the sorcerers arrayed around the dark-armored general. He had never seen Shel’ai before, but their exotic features mesmerized him as much as their magic. He came back to his senses when he heard the fallen city’s defenders mumbling their pledges of loyalty to the Shel’ai.
Jalist had no doubt that many still had half a mind to rebel just as soon they could, but such desires withered with time. Serving the sorcerers turned out to be better than anyone expected. There was always plenty of stew and bread, and Fadarah paid them well. Every hired sword and conscript earned more coins than they could spend. What’s more, the sorcerers employed priests and priestesses of Tier’Gothma to tend their wounds, plus minstrels and whores for their entertainment. But something had changed. Jalist considered this as he went to see Llassio.
The lad was a Syrosi pikem
an who’d joined the Throng after his own city fell—a freckled, clumsy youth with an easy smile and a guileless nature that made him a target for ridicule among the other sellswords. Though Llassio had technically been with the Throng longer than Jalist had, the lad stood little chance of surviving on his own. Jalist had resolved to keep the lad from harm, though after the fall of Cassica, he wondered if the young man would live to see the sunrise.
Lost in thought, Jalist nearly collided with a squad of Unseen. But he saw them at the last moment and stepped to one side, bowing so deeply that his sand-colored hair nearly touched the ground. The men stalked past him. A few glanced at him and smirked derisively. They wanted nothing more than to start a fight, but the Shel’ai frowned upon such things, and the Shel’ai were the only beings in all of Ruun that the Unseen had to answer to. Jalist scowled at the cruel warriors then hurried on to Llassio.
A gigantic hospital tent had been erected at the center of the camp. The Shel’ai had hired twenty gentle priestesses of Tier’Gothma to employ their skill with herbs and ancient medicines. But their skills had limits. As Jalist entered the tent, his stomach knotted.
Gods, can’t they do something about that smell? Jalist knew better than to pinch his nose around corpses. Instead, he breathed deeply and clogged his senses all the way to the brain with the awful smell of shit and rotting meat, so he would get used to it faster.
Everywhere, straw pallets held the wounded and the dying. Jalist’s heart wrenched with pity when he heard their groans and whimpers of distress. A few of these men he recognized. While the initial battle for Cassica had been nearly bloodless—at least, as far as the Throng was concerned—there had been trouble after. A battalion of Cassican men-at-arms had not been in the city at the time of the attack—gods knew why—but had appeared late, hot for revenge, after the Nightmare had vanished.
Jalist himself had been nearly killed when the fiery scourge swept over everything. He and Llassio had been part of the force sent to reinforce the subcamp. They were rushing to aid the Unseen battling the rebel men-at-arms when flames burst from what was rumored to be a tent full of demons. Jalist pulled Llassio to the ground and threw his wooden, iron-rimmed shield over them. The shield burned to nothing in his hands. But Jalist pressed himself flat against the earth and the flames washed over him, singeing his leather brigandine but leaving him otherwise unharmed. Llassio was not so lucky. The flames had scoured his body, burned off his tunic, and melted the rings of his hauberk into his skin.
Jalist spotted the hospital bed in which Llassio rested and stopped. For a moment, he wanted to run away. But then, Llassio turned his sweating face and grinned. One blackened hand lifted, beckoning weakly. The Dwarr forced a smile and went to join him.
“Hey, lad. You’re looking better.” Jalist hoped he sounded convincing. As he spoke, he tried to keep from looking down. The priestesses had done what they could, using tongs and thin, sharp knives to extract the metal rings melted into Llassio’s flesh. But they could do nothing about the ghastly, open wounds extending from his collarbone to the top of one thigh. They might have used needle and thread to stitch them shut, but there was not enough skin left to sew.
“I... feel better today, believe it or not.” Llassio smiled weakly.
He sounds drugged. Jalist looked up as someone else joined them, an old woman but not a priestess. A good foot taller than he, she wore a bone-white cloak sewn with crimson greatwolves. She smiled at Llassio before nodding politely to Jalist.
Jalist bowed to her. Most Shel’ai treated Humans at best with chilly indifference. Not Que’ann. Gentle and shy, she rarely used her magic for battle, preferring instead to assist the priestesses of Tier’Gothma with healing.
Que’ann whispered soothingly to Llassio as a soft violet glow formed around her. She urged healing energies into Llassio’s body. This further numbed the pain and kept him alive, Jalist guessed, but it could not mend wounds of this extent.
He should never have been moved! But Fadarah had ordered that the campaign continue. So the wounded were loaded in wagons and hauled along with the rest of the army. Que’ann had done much so far to help the dying survive their travel, but she was only easing their suffering. For Llassio, no magic was strong enough—save, perhaps, that of the Nightmare, though Jalist doubted the demon’s repertoire included healing.
The youth looked up at Jalist, his face sweaty and pale. “Que’ann says she’s going to take me to the Wytchforest when this is all done. Can you believe that, Jalist?” Llassio turned to Que’ann. “No Human has been there for... how long?”
“At least ten centuries.” Que’ann answered, her melodic voice betraying her Sylvan accent. “Not since the Shattering War. I myself have not been there since I was little. Perhaps we can go together.”
Jalist blinked back tears. Que’ann was lying. “Good, Llassio,” he said. The Dwarr squeezed a small patch on his friend’s wrist—the only part of his arm that had not been burned. “That sounds good. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
Llassio said, “No need. You’ll come too. Right, Que’ann? A Human and a Dwarr in the Wytchforest. Won’t that be a sight!”
The Shel’ai woman did not answer. The violet glow faded from her body. She had done everything for Llassio that she could. Jalist struggled for words. A throat cleared behind them. When Jalist saw who stood there, he had to resist the urge to draw his sword.
“Good evening, General,” he said instead.
Brahasti el Tarq looked past him, nodding to Que’ann instead. Then, he grimaced at Llassio. “Gods, someone should put that poor wretch out of his misery!”
Que’ann frowned at Brahasti. Jalist went further than that. Grief turned to anger, and before the Dwarr knew what he was doing, he gave the Dhargot a hard shove. The general flew back several steps but kept his footing. Indignant, he raised one hand, as though to backhand Jalist across the face, but drew back at Que’ann’s warning glare.
“Outside, then,” Brahasti grumbled.
Jalist Hewn followed him out, one hand openly holding the hilt of his sword. He had just made a mistake, but he did not care. The black dragon tattoo tensed on his arm. If Brahasti wanted a fight, Jalist would give him one.
But once they were outside, Brahasti’s frown became a thin smile. There were no guards nearby but the Dhargot general glanced in all directions anyway, as though making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.
That told Jalist right away what the general wanted to discuss. Still, he kept one hand on his sword. “Make this quick, General.”
“I could have your hand for shoving me, Dwarr. Do you know that?”
Jalist met the general’s gaze even though Brahasti was a foot taller.
Brahasti shrugged. “No harm done, though. I can see your poor friend is dying. I will come straight to the point, then.”
“Please do.”
Brahasti lowered his voice. “We must postpone the revolt.”
The Dwarr feigned ignorance. “What revolt?”
“Riccard and Eric deserted this morning,” Brahasti said in a low voice. “Lost their nerve—then Eric lost his life when an arrow caught him in the back of the neck. I know that you haven’t been with the Throng very long, but you’re now the most senior sellsword captain. I’ve already spoken with the others. They’ll follow you. And I’m telling you, the revolt must wait!”
“Wait, hells! This foolishness ends tomorrow, whether you say so or not.”
“It’s too soon, my friend.” Brahasti placed a hand on Jalist’s shoulder: an odd gesture, since Jalist stood only as tall as Brahasti’s breastbone. “You must trust me. I am thinking of your life as well as my own.”
The Dwarr shoved the hand off his shoulder. “You’re thinking of your own coin purse.”
“It was your idea to draw me into this. Why not trust me now?”
Jalist said, “Let’s keep this straight, Dhargot: I’ve never trusted you. But you’re smarter than I am, and if we’
re going to do this, we need your help.”
“So you do. But the revolt must wait.” Brahasti lowered his voice further. “In a week, Fadarah and half the Shel’ai are turning back to the Wytchforest. They’re taking the Nightmare with them. The rest of us are supposed to stay and guard Lyos. If we attack after Fadarah has gone, we can overwhelm the remaining sorcerers with ease. More lives can be spared. Maybe our own. Then we can go home.”
Home... Jalist remembered Tarator. Great stone halls scented by roasted meats and spiced ale. Silk banners proudly displaying the hammer and black dragon of the Dwarrs. The housecarls seated at their place of honor, their laughter and boasting rising from the heavy stone table like music. King Fedwyr, proud and strong atop his dark throne. Beside him, Prince Leander Thegn, the king’s eldest son—Leander the Brave, Leander the Horse Tamer. That look the prince gave Jalist when they thought no one was looking. A look soft as lambskin, heady as strong wine.
Jalist concealed his wistfulness behind a scowl. “How do you know this?”
“Because Fadarah asked me to take command of the Unseen while he’s away.” Brahasti grinned. “For a fortune in coin, of course.”
That, Jalist believed. Still, the Dwarr had to be sure. “How do I know that Fadarah didn’t bribe you to betray us?”
Brahasti seemed unfazed by the question. “You don’t. But if you go through with this revolt tonight, you will do so without my help. And all of you will die, which means the Dhargots will raze your homelands while you rot in the earth.”
Jalist pondered this. He did not care about the Dhargots. He cared about the men in his command. Something was amiss. He felt it in his bones. If they did not revolt soon, they would all die.
The Dwarr tried to decipher Brahasti’s expression, but he might as well have tried to decipher blank stone. Eventually, Jalist turned to warm his hands by an abandoned campfire. “One week. No more.”
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 27