Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

Pirates, no doubt. But which faction? And why this far inland? Both the Red Sails with their vast fleets, and the Baedyeds with their stealthier seafire attacks, kept their invasions close to shore.

Yet both slaughtered, both enslaved. Like war and rainstorms, there was no escaping the dominance men asserted on each other. There was, however, attempting to sneak past it, which was why Aeduan skulked onward. It was simple self-preservation. He needed to know whom he and the Threadwitch might encounter in the Contested Lands. He needed to know which route these pirates might be taking out of the valley beyond.

Especially if the Red Sails were involved.

So after reversing his Carawen cloak just as the Threadwitch had, he hurried around pines and saplings before finally clambering up a massive goshorn oak. There, he hunkered onto a branch to watch who passed the mud-trampled earth below.

It was not the Red Sails that came clipping into view. The advance rider wore drab clothes, but his auburn mare was strapped with a distinctly Baedyed saddle, a tasseled cloth style from their native Sand Sea.

After the first scout, two more Baedyeds on horseback ambled by. Then came foot soldiers—something Aeduan hadn’t known the Baedyeds possessed within their ranks. Yet here they marched, man after man after woman in a long single-file line. Small steps, but strong. Sabers clanking at their hips.

And more than a few witches in their midst; Aeduan smelled storms and stones, fires and floods.

Aeduan sniffed harder at the air, just in case. But no, the clear waters and frozen winters were lost again. He should have known by now that hunting that ghost would never lead him true. A futile errand, every time. A distraction.

While Aeduan toyed with the idea of divesting one of these beautiful steeds from his Baedyed rider, he caught sight of twenty men on horseback clomping into the line. No order to their steps, no organization to their cluster. They had whips, and their horses bore open sores on flank and limb.

Red Sails.

Instantly, Aeduan’s hackles rose. Though no man wanted his village or tribe hit by pirates, at least the Baedyeds followed a moral code. The Red Sails, Aeduan knew firsthand, did not.

What left Aeduan frowning—what sent him straining forward to gain a better view—was why these two factions were traveling together. They were enemies, constantly at war for more territory, more slaves, more coins. Yet here was an entire contingent of them marching as one.

An answer came moments later, for right as the Red Sails ambled below Aeduan’s spying branch, a Baedyed trotted back to meet them.

“Where are the rest of your men?” The Baedyed spoke to the foulest Red Sail of them all.

Of all the wickedness below, this man delighted the most in the horror. It was there, in the furrows of his blood-scent. Broken knuckles and torn-off fingernails.

This man’s blood marked him as a monster; his red saddle marked him as the leader.

“We caught wind of our bounty,” the man said with complete disdain and disinterest.

Whatever alliance was happening here, it was not a strong one.

“Hell-fires scorch you,” the Baedyed spat. His mare stamped anxiously. “We must reach the Purist compound by tomorrow. Do you expect us to wait?”

“If they do not rejoin us soon, then yes.”

The Baedyed swore again, this time in a language Aeduan didn’t recognize. But as he reined his horse back around, he spat, “The king will hear of this. I promise.”

“And I promise he will not care.”

Right after the Baedyed had cantered back toward the front of the marching line, another Red Sail appeared on horseback. Burned hair and smoking flesh. Autumn pyres and mercy screams.

A Firewitch. Aeduan’s skin prickled. Fire … unsettled him.

The leader spotted the Firewitch too. “You are late,” he called. “Go help the others. They are almost to the Falls, I want this Threadwitch caught today.”

Threadwitch. Falls. The words solidified in Aeduan’s mind, and a heartbeat later, he was moving. Scrabbling silently back across his branch.

Until something spooked within the leaves—a dark bird with enormous wings. The rook took flight, squawking into the sky.

The Firewitch looked up. His eyes met Aeduan’s through a gap in the leaves. He smiled. He clapped. The goshorn oak caught fire.

From one moment to the next, the tree ignited, and within seconds, every inch of it crackled and popped and blazed. If Aeduan hadn’t worn his salamander cloak, he’d have erupted too.

He did have his cloak, though, and he managed to leap to the ground. There, he fastened his fire-flap across his mouth, fingers shaking.

Run, my child, run.

He glanced back. A mistake, for the Firewitch approached, hands rising—and the flames building in response. All around Aeduan they licked and spat. A conflagration to bring him down.

Aeduan couldn’t fight this. He could barely think, barely see, much less try to kill the Firewitch before the flames won. Already his legs trembled. Already it was too much like that morning all those years ago.

Without another thought or another glance at the Firewitch, Aeduan reeled about and ran.

NINETEEN

At the sound of the tenth chimes, Merik awoke to Cam tromping about the tenement in her new boots. Merik had placed them by the bed for her before crawling onto the other side and collapsing into a deep sleep of his own.

The girl moved like a newborn colt, stiff and jerky with her stride strangely long as she counted each step.

“Have you never worn shoes before?” Merik asked, his voice grating like a blade on the whetstone. “Or are those too small?”