Wytchfire (Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

how it ends? Dying either from fever or blood loss, alone on the plains—
    He prayed for a stream where he might sate his thirst and more thoroughly wash his hand and rinse his blood-matted red hair, but the prayer went unanswered. Before long, the sun crisped the back of his neck. His steps faltered. He obsessively checked and rechecked his maimed hand. The skin was still purple—not yellow—but his fingers felt stiff and hurt terribly when he forced himself to flex them.
    Rowen walked and walked until he came upon a farm. The place was far from impressive, consisting of little more than a small field and a lackluster mud hut. He was surprised to see men tending crops so late in the season but then realized that they must be harvesting paupers’ root, as many poor people did. The nutritious stuff could be grown even in winter, though like urusk meat, the taste left much to be desired. “Like grain passed through the bowels of the gods,” his brother used to say.
    But they’ll have water, at least. Rowen forced a friendly smile and waved to them. They tensed at his approach. The farmer and two boys who must have been his sons produced crude bows and spears.
    “I mean you no harm,” Rowen called out. “I’m not a robber, and I don’t have the plague. I just want water, maybe some food. No charity. As the gods are my witness, I’ll work for it—”
    “Move on!” the farmer called.
    Rowen caught an Ivairian accent in the man’s voice. Maybe this family had abandoned their famine-ridden country for the Simurgh Plains, just as Rowen’s family had so long ago.
    “I only want some water,” Rowen called back. “I’m hurt. I just need to clean my wound.” He added, “I’m Ivairian… if that matters.”
    The farmer shouted again. One of the sons joined in, yelling a stream of curses Rowen could not understand through the accent. Rowen switched from Common to Ivairian Tongue, hoping to charm them with their native language, but they would hear none of it. When one of the farmer’s sons fired an arrow into the dirt near Rowen’s feet, its shaft quivering in the afternoon sun, he retreated.
    Rowen weighed his options. He had spotted a little muddy stream behind the farmer’s shack. He had no desire to creep up like a thief and risk his life for a mere drink of water, but circumstances left him no choice.
    Rowen hid behind a line of yew trees, stomach growling, then made his way back to the farm. He chose an approach lined by low hills and mossy rocks and crawled on his hands and knees to keep out of sight. He risked a quick glance. The farmer and his sons were in the field again, though they stopped often and looked around. To his relief, they were looking in the wrong direction. Rowen kept crawling. He tried to favor his maimed hand, turning it so that the pebbles would not grind into his cut, but his eyes still watered from the pain. Dirt and mud caked his clothes. Finally, he reached the stream.
    All shame momentarily vanished as he dipped his hands in the cool water. He drank greedily then washed his maimed hand as best he could. He rinsed his face next, working his fingers through his matted hair. Then he moved farther upstream and refilled his waterskin, half-expecting to feel an arrow in his back at any moment. He delayed leaving to try to rinse some of the grime from his arms and clothing, too.
    Rowen shuddered. Staring back at him from the water was not the proud, aloof visage of a knight, nor even that of a squire, but a penniless, orphaned sellsword. Bitterly, he recalled a line from a Shao poem: What madness, to become only what I had forsaken .
    He heard a cry of alarm. Almost grateful, he got up and ran. As he passed the edge of the field, he grabbed a stalk of ripened paupers’ root and tugged it after him. Dirt flew, releasing the foot-long, twisted root into his grasp. Rowen heard the sound of an arrow whistling through the air and kept running, even after he was well out of bow range.

    Late