Wytchfire (Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

in the afternoon, Rowen came across a dead stag, rotting on the plains. The fantastic slashes in its hide told him that the deed had been done by greatwolves. He looked around but saw nothing. The meat was too rotten to eat, of course, and the stench was such that he had to cover his nose. Still, he lingered. He wished the dead animal were an urusk instead of a stag. Properly treated, urusks’ backbones could be made into good—if gruesome—longbows. Then Rowen had another idea.
    Well, it’s better than nothing . Braving the smell and flies, he seized the decaying corpse by the antlers and, with great difficulty, managed to break off a formidable length of bone. Tearing another strip of cloth from his already tattered clothing, he wrapped one end to fashion a sort of handle.
    His efforts to break off a bit of antler had left its head lying at a horrible angle, mouth agape. Rowen nudged it with his foot to straighten it. Rowen remembered the Shao custom, so favored by many of the Isle Knights, to offer a brief prayer of thanks to the spirit of any beast they harvested. He started to speak the words but then stopped himself.
    “I’m not even a squire anymore,” he reminded himself as he went on his way.

    Rowen’s fortunes took another upturn when, soon after leaving the stag’s corpse, he reached a grove of fig trees. He had barely managed to keep down the bit of paupers’ root, having no fire or spices to make it more palatable, so the figs were as welcome a sight as any Rowen could remember.
    He ate savagely, filling his belly then harvesting the remaining figs into his satchel. Wild mushrooms grew at the base of the trees. Ignoring the mushrooms, he stopped to rest. He felt a little better. He had no coins or steel, but he had food enough to get him to Lyos. There, he might—
    Might what? Rowen had no desire to go back to being a sellsword, but even if he did, in his current state, who would hire him? He considered finding a graveyard and robbing the dead, in the hopes that one of the corpses might be a sellsword buried with coins or patchwork armor, but the thought filled him with revulsion.
    Besides, I doubt there’s a single unlooted grave left anywhere. He was tempted again to turn around and go after Dagath—if the highwayman was still alive—but he remembered his reflection in the stream, and his anger slacked.
    Better I just make for Lyos and put all this behind me. But how? One greatwolf, or another run-in with highwaymen, and I’m a dead man.
    Then he remembered the cave. “Jinn’s name,” he swore, “could it still be there?”
    Like most sellswords, Kayden and he had had no reliable place to stash their meager income. Most of what they earned went to food and drink and the occasional prostitute, or better weapons and clothes when they could afford it. From time to time, though, they had stashed whatever castoff possessions they could not sell in caves, knowing they could reclaim them if their fortunes took a turn for the worse. Provided no one else found them first, that is. One such cave was not far from here, near the town of Breccorry.
    The goods stashed therein had hardly been worth preserving at the time: a few patchwork shirts and britches plus a small knife, a spearhead, and a shortsword flecked with rust. But that was then. Rowen caught his breath, remembering the handful of copper coins Kayden had stashed along with the clothes and weapons. What at the time had been just a fraction of their wages currently seemed like a fortune!
    Rowen set out with newfound purpose. He checked the sun’s position, calculating that he might be there by sundown if he hurried. He soon spotted another farm in the distance, this one no more impressive than the last. This time, though, he gave the place a wide berth and continued on without being spotted.
    He stopped once to rest, draining most of his waterskin and forcing down more of the overripe figs, the latter of which did not taste quite so appealing