Wytchfire (Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

hands and then easily free his legs, but he could do neither while Sneed was watching.
    The small, balding man regarded him without expression, across the dwindling campfire. He sipped from a jug of wine. Rowen’s fears had subsided enough to be replaced by pain. His forehead, knee, and palm filled him with dull pain, punctuated by jolts of agony when he moved, though he was certain that if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep.
    He resisted. Dagath would not return until midday if he returned at all. Sooner or later, no matter how nervous he was, Sneed was bound to fall asleep. Rowen wondered what he would do once he was free.
    He was tempted to cut down Sneed then rearm himself and make for Harso—not just to reclaim his prized shortsword but to kill Dagath, if the bastard was still alive. The loss of the heirloom stung, but worse still was realization that so soon after leaving the Lotus Isles, Rowen had lost a fight to a common thug with little or no training.
    Sneed’s voice interrupted his grim ruminations. “That letter. Was it a trick?”
    Rowen feigned surprise and shook his head.
    Sneed laughed. “I’m not as dumb as I look. Maybe I don’t know all my letters, but I can read faces well enough. If Dagath makes it back in one piece, you know he won’t just kill you. He’ll slice you into ribbons, make sure you die slow. I’ve seen it before.”
    Rowen thought the man shuddered. “You don’t seem to like him much.”
    Sneed shrugged. “Man doesn’t have to like what he does to stay alive.” He took a long drink.
    “How did you fall in with him?” Rowen did not especially care to hear the robber’s life story, but he knew it would only help his chances of escape if he put the man at ease.
    Sneed lowered the jar. “He’s my half-brother.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Different fathers, same whore of a mother. We’re from Lyos, I guess you could say.”
    “The Dark Quarter?” Rowen doubted either man had been a true citizen of the wealthy city. More likely, they had grown up in the slums at the bottom of the hill. He searched his memory but did not recognize the man before him. Then again, the Dark Quarter has more orphans and beggars than a graveyard has worms!
    Still, Sneed raised one eyebrow. “You too?” Rowen almost said yes before he remembered his lie about being from Harso. Luckily, Sneed did not seem to expect an answer. “Bad place to be a kid.”
    Rowen was inclined to agree. He had no interest in reliving such memories, though. “How many travelers have you robbed like this?”
    Sneed winced. Rowen thought he would refuse to answer. Instead, Sneed said, “Maybe a dozen a year. Maybe more. If there’s guards, we leave ’em alone. Dagath knows how to scrap, but he’s not much for a fair fight.” He took a longer drink of wine. “Folks from the north come down here, too. Ivairians, hair red as yours. Half-starved, unarmed. They’re not much worth the trouble, but once in a while, they have some clothes or a trinket worth taking.” He looked away and pretended to tend the fire. “Women and kids, too. Some of them, Dagath doesn’t kill. Not right away...”
    Memories of Rowen’s own childhood in the slums flooded him, unbidden. He remembered hiding from the gangs with his brother, stealing to stay alive, doing whatever he could to stay out of sight of those who had no qualms about forcing certain vile acts upon boys as well as girls.
    An old, raw terror sprang up inside him. It took all his willpower to keep from trying to break free of his bonds right then and there. Dimly, he remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius. Singchai ushó fey— no courage without fear—but the words brought no comfort.
    A faint, sad smile played on Sneed’s face. “It’s a wretched world, ain’t it?” He stabbed the fire with a knife. “So what was written on that letter? I mean, before.”
    Rowen started to lie then changed his mind. “It was a letter from my brother, telling me