Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (13 page)

Before Rowen could ask what they were doing, Rhos’ari took aim and loosed an arrow into the corpse of a nearby Olg. The arrow met its target with a sickening thud. The corpse did not stir. The other Sylvan warriors loosed arrows of their own, each choosing a separate target. Rowen finally understood. He’d seen the trick before: a man lay on a battlefield, surrounded by the slain, pretending to be one of them. Then he attacked whoever ventured near. Rowen remembered how a variation on this strategy had nearly gotten him killed by a cruel, one-eyed sellsword named Dagath. He drew Knightswrath.

“Everything smells dead here.” Still, he scrutinized the fallen Olgrym for movement. As he did so, he felt a pang of sorrow. Their hulking forms looked obscene, almost surreal in contrast to the sleepy beauty of the surrounding trees. Their ash-gray skin, pulled taut over muscular bodies, was crusted with dried blood, bristling with arrows. A few stared up at the leafy canopy with wide, fey eyes.

Rowen thought back to the Olgrym’s night charge on the Shal’tiar fort of Que’ahl, when all the Olgrym had howled like rabid beasts and some even lit their own bodies on fire. The Shal’tiar and their Wyldkin allies had succeeded in defending Que’ahl that night, albeit at great cost, but the Olgrym’s pent-up fury had been enough to wash over the Wytchforest.

He was still contemplating this when, to his left, Rhos’ari took aim at another Olg. This one kneeled against a tree about thirty feet away. Though it was covered in dried blood, no arrows protruded from its body—it wasn’t moving. But when Rhos’ari’s arrow struck its shoulder, the Olg howled and straightened. One bloody arm retrieved a spear from the forest floor.

Rhos’ari reached for another arrow. “Damn.” Despite his age, he moved with lightning speed, nocking his arrow as the Olg charged. He fired. Two other Sylvs fired, too. Three poisoned arrows punched fresh holes in the Olg’s chest. Still, he did not slow. One great arm flexed, hauling back the spear, then snapped forward.

Rowen’s heart leapt into his throat as he moved Snowdark into the Olg’s path. The spear struck him full in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Rowen grunted as the earth hammered the breath from his lungs. Dimly, he heard the snap of another bowstring, then another. Snowdark screamed. A Sylv screamed—in rage first, then panic. Rowen fumbled for his sword, realized he was still holding it, and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

One of the Sylvan warriors dangled between the Olg’s fists. The Olg had crushed his skull with his bare hands, despite the fresh arrows in his chest and arms. Rhos’ari and another Sylv named Faeli flanked the Olg on horseback, swords drawn. The Olg howled again. He drew a blade from the dead Sylv’s belt, turned, and cut Rhos’ari’s horse out from under him.

Rowen swore and pushed himself to his feet, using Knightswrath as a crutch. He spotted Snowdark in the distance, unharmed. He took a step toward the battle, but a jag of pain swept through his chest, driving him to one knee. Rowen swore again, leaning heavily on Knightswrath. His kingsteel breastplate had kept the Olg’s spear from hurtling clean through his body, but the force had still broken his ribs. If he kept moving, he might pierce a lung. He looked up.

The wounded Olg was on his knees. Kilisti stood behind, coolly dragging her shortsword from the back of the Olg’s neck. The Olg toppled face first onto the forest floor, atop the corpse of Rhos’ari’s horse. Rowen spotted movement behind Kilisti. He tried to shout a warning but coughed blood.

A second Olg charged out from the trees. This one did not howl. Instead, he pounced to the attack, an axe in each hand. But Faeli was already in motion. The Sylv wheeled his horse around, and the beast reared up. Flailing hooves caught the Olg in the face. Somehow, the Olg swung anyway. Faeli leapt clear of the saddle before his horse could fall. The Olg swung again, missing Faeli’s head by a hair’s breadth. Wide-eyed, Faeli fumbled for a weapon, trying to crawl out of the Olg’s reach.

I have to help…

Rowen took another step. A fresh jolt of pain swept over him. He fought the wild impulse to tear away his armor and tried to keep going, but staying on his feet took all his resolve. Knightswrath wavered in his grasp.

Rhos’ari was still struggling to rise. The other two Sylvan warriors dismounted and drew their swords then hesitated. But Kilisti was a blur of motion. She leapt past Faeli, feigned a lunge at the Olg’s face, then danced back. The two circled each other. Rowen watched, dismayed. The Olg towered over her. Blood from Faeli’s horse ran from the Olg’s axes.

But Kilisti’s ice-blue eyes did not blink. She ducked beneath the Olg’s first swing then another. Then she leapt sideways and slashed the Olg’s thigh. Instead of falling, the Olg answered with a sound like laughter and followed her, still swinging. Kilisti dodged one blow, ducked beneath a second, then rolled to escape a third. The Olg kicked her in the ribs as she did so. Rowen winced, imagining her pain so vividly that he forgot his own. He hefted Knightswrath, lowering his eyes to its kingsteel blade. He willed it to life.

He feared for a moment that it would not work. After all, his attack against Fadarah had been instinct. But the adamune turned searing hot in his grasp, so suddenly that he almost dropped it. Violet flames blossomed from Knightswrath’s blade. Heat raced up his arm, into his chest. The pain in his ribs disappeared, replaced by a dizzying warmth. Rowen laughed without knowing why. Then, with a wild shout, he broke into a run.

The Olg faced Rowen, eyes wide. Dimly, Rowen was aware of the Olg’s towering height, bulging muscles, and bloody axes. Then he swung. The Olg swung one axe to counter. Knightswrath cleaved through steel as easily as air, then kept going.

The Olg howled in pain and looked down to see his own chest burning.

Rowen stepped forward and stuck Knightswrath in the Olg’s chest again. Wytchfire poured and pulsed from the blade. The Olg shuddered. Then flames leaked from his eyes, his nostrils, and his open mouth. But before he could howl, his entire body collapsed into ash.

Rowen stood over the scorched grass, shaking with exhilaration. Ashes blew in his face. Knightswrath’s burning blade pulsed, brightened, then dimmed. He stared at it, laughed with giddy warmth, and sheathed it.

Only then did he see the others staring at him, horrified.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Earless

S
aanji shifted uncomfortably as he paced the battlements of Cassica, tugging at his robe. Built for a warrior, the garment did not fit him properly. Too large in the chest and arms, it hugged his gut, making him look like a ripe tomato. But Saanji still preferred that to armor.

Sweet gods, how am I still alive?

He’d been asking himself that question for days. He’d marched his disgraced force to Cassica two weeks ago, per his brother’s orders, fully expecting Karhaati to kill him as soon as he arrived. That was, after all, the Dhargothi way. Karhaati was strong; Saanji was not. But the days had turned into weeks, and instead of having him impaled or strangling him in front of the men for a bit of sport, Karhaati had simply ignored him. For the Bloody Prince, that was practically a loving gesture.

Saanji contemplated this as he strolled along the walls of the conquered city, followed by half a dozen bodyguards. He tapped the hilt of his shortsword, still unaccustomed to the weight on his belt. Though Saanji trusted his bodyguards to protect him from any would-be assassins hiding among the conquered people of Cassica, he did not think they would protect him from his brother.

Saanji paused, glanced over the walls, and wondered how his own men were faring. He’d received no further reports since that great fire blazed up to the south, accompanied by a sinister cry. Karhaati had ordered Saanji’s men north, to camp a mile from the city, almost as soon as they’d reached Cassica, insisting it was necessary to protect his border from Lancers.

But Saanji knew that was a half truth. Karhaati had ordered Saanji’s men away because they disgusted him, just as they disgusted the rest of the Dhargots in Cassica. Like Saanji himself, the so-called Earless had rejected the usual Dhargothi ways. Another time, they would have been killed for that. Yet Saanji’s men—some, the noted veterans of past wars; others, the cowardly sons of noblemen—were important enough that, for now, Karhaati preferred to let them live on in humiliation. But that didn’t explain why Karhaati hadn’t improved his standing by wringing the life out of the Tomato Prince.

Saanji reminded himself that Karhaati might not even be his greatest threat, given what he’d witnessed on the walls the other night. He’d seen the flames with his own eyes. That had been no mere wildfire or the doing of the Shel’ai, since they were all still fighting in the Wytchforest. It could mean one thing: the Nightmare had returned.

But who is that demon fighting for? Fadarah’s in the south—if he’s even still alive. Why would the Nightmare be here?

Saanji wondered if it had something to do with their father. The emperor had made a deal with Fadarah, sure, but he’d ordered Karhaati and his other sons to break it should the Shel’ai display any sign of weakness. Perhaps the emperor had a secret plan of his own, to rid himself of all three sons before one could try to wrest the crown off his aging head. He might have expected the Red Emperor to be that cruel, but not that clever.

Saanji heard footsteps. He tensed. Then he turned, saw who was coming, and forced himself to relax, if only to avoid giving Karhaati another excuse to kill him. “Good afternoon, Brother.” He nodded. His bodyguards moved aside at Karhaati’s approach—a little too quickly for Saanji’s liking—and bowed.

Ignoring them, Karhaati stood before Saanji. Not for the first time, Saanji marveled at how different they were. Though not as large as his other brother, Ziraari, Karhaati was almost as tall, with muscles that strained beneath his scale armor. An impressive necklace of dried ears hung around his neck. Unlike Saanji’s shortsword, which he’d simply snatched at random from the armory, Karhaati’s had a dragon-shaped pommel with rubies for eyes. Karhaati’s eyes were darkly painted and beamed coldly, so that Saanji felt as though he were being scrutinized by a wolf.

Karhaati smiled. “Well met, brother.” Karhaati embraced him.

Surprised, Saanji returned the gesture, only slightly heartened by the fact that Karhaati did not have a knife in his hands.

“I was just napping when I dreamt of a field choked with dead men. A great victory had just been won for our father.” Karhaati paused. “
You
won that victory.”

Looking past his brother, Saanji thought he saw some of the bodyguards snicker. He could not blame them. “Tell me, in your dream, did our dear father’s heart swell with pride or burst from surprise?”

Karhaati tensed. Saanji wondered if his brother would strike him. Karhaati waved his hand, dismissing Saanji’s bodyguards as well as his own. The two squads fell back to a discreet distance, mingling until the two forces were indistinguishable. Karhaati squeezed Saanji’s shoulder. “You should not speak so, especially in front of the men. You are a prince in the Dhargothi Empire. You should conduct yourself accordingly.”

Saanji feigned a look of shame. “You are right, dear brother. I ask your forgiveness.”

“Better you beg the Dead God for courage. You will need it soon.”

Saanji had been about to make another joke—one acknowledging the absurdity of praying to any god with
dead
in his title—but Karhaati’s final statement gave him pause. “What do you mean?”

“Those Lancers attacked our supply lines again last night. Somehow, they slipped right past your men.” A faint, mocking smile touched Karhaati’s lips. “Royce is proving to be more of a nuisance than I can ignore. I’d go after him myself, but those Isle Knights are still out there somewhere, trying to evade capture after they killed my emissary. And I have Lyos to worry about. And… there have been strange reports of late.”

Saanji wondered if his brother was referring to the Nightmare.

“So I’m sending you.” He smiled as Saanji felt the blood drain from his body. “What’s the matter, brother? You’re out of wine, and Cassican women smell like dogs. I thought you’d be thrilled to leave here and have a bit of fun.”

“Chasing after a bunch of mad Lancers isn’t my idea of fun.”

“Not chasing.
Hunting.
Royce has only two hundred men with him. You’ll have five thousand. They might as well be rabbits.”

Rabbits with twelve-foot claws.
“Maybe you could find some other ill-suited task for me to perform. Cleaning the stalls for your war elephants, perhaps?”

Karhaati tapped his sword hilt for emphasis. “I think not. Ride north, take command of your force, and hunt Royce down. Chase him into Ivairia. Chase him to the Wintersea, if you have to. But I want an example made of him—or his corpse, if you can’t take him alive.” Karhaati paused. “I don’t think I need to tell you what the men say behind your back. This will be your chance to change their opinion of you.”

Saanji nodded contemplatively. “You might be right. Can’t waste my whole life with wine and whores, can I?” He started to walk away, but Karhaati grabbed him. All pretense of kindness evaporated from the Bloody Prince’s expression. He leaned in so close that Saanji could smell the faint musk of decay wafting off Karhaati’s gruesome necklace.

“Enough of your playacting, brother. You’re a Dhargot, not some book-loving fop from Atheion. Understand?” His hand squeezed around Saanji’s upper arm, almost completely encircling it.

Saanji looked past Karhaati’s shoulder and saw the bodyguards grinning in the distance. He forced an obliging smile. “As you say, brother.”

But Karhaati did not let him go. “I’m sending you to kill an enemy. Succeed, and you’ll find me a kinder ally than Ziraari. I swear it on the Dead God.” He seized Saanji’s face, pinching his jaw so hard that Saanji’s eyes watered. “Fail, and you’d better hope Royce opens your fat belly with his kingsteel longsword. Or else I’ll do something far, far worse.” He paused. “If you doubt me, dig up Maryssa’s bones.”

Saanji’s fear turned to rage. He fingered the small opal ring on the little finger of his left hand. He wanted to curse his brother for daring to speak his lover’s name, but he could not speak. Karhaati held his face a moment longer, squeezing harder and harder until Saanji thought his jaw would shatter. Then Karhaati smiled and let go. He embraced Saanji again, as though nothing had happened.

“Good luck, my brother. If the Dead God wills it, we’ll embrace again.”

“Thank you,” Saanji managed. He felt the dragon head on Karhaati’s sword hilt pressing into his gut. He started to reach for it. He imagined drawing that sword and pushing it into his brother’s neck, turning it until Karhaati’s eyes went dark. But then he changed his mind.

Karhaati stepped back. His painted eyes fixed on Saanji, giving Saanji the awful feeling that his brother knew exactly what he’d nearly done. Something flickered in Karhaati’s eyes. Saanji thought it looked like disappointment. Then the Bloody Prince shook his head and walked away.

Chorlga shuddered. The cold stone chamber lay before him, dark and empty. He could sense that he was alone. Still, this place frightened him as it never had before. A wave of his hand summoned a sphere of light that floated up to the ceiling and hung there, but its ghostly light only made things worse. Fanatics from the surface of Cadavash had clearly been to the chamber. Though they’d hauled away the dead dragonpriests and burned incense in their wake, they’d left stains on the stone floor.

Chorlga stepped carefully around them and made his way to Namundvar’s Well. He was glad that he’d ordered the Nightmare to remain above. Chorlga had a feeling that he would need all his energy and focus for what he was about to do.

He knelt slowly, afraid to look inside, even though he knew that it would only be so much dark, dry stone until he used his magic to activate it. El’rash’lin’s words rang in his mind:
You should have sensed it, with all your power. All the control you think you have…

With his right fist, Chorlga struck the ancient stone structure, ignoring the jolt of pain when the rough stone bloodied his knuckles. How many times since the Shattering War had he ignited the Well’s magic? How many times had he drawn power from the Light to increase his own? Through the Well, he’d peered into Fadarah’s mind. He’d learned of Brahasti’s secret plan to breed Shel’ai. He’d even subjected himself to the tortured thoughts of the Nightmare. After all that, after enduring so much, how could he have committed such blunders?

“Maybe El’rash’lin was lying,” he muttered. The Dragonkin had often speculated that if one believed their own lie with enough fervor, it might appear true to anyone reading his mind. With fresh hope, he closed his eyes and held one hand over the well’s dark mouth.

He imagined that bottomless void filling slowly with mist, water, then finally, light. All his senses began to tingle. His pulse quickened. He felt a familiar knotting in his chest: a curious amalgamation of terror, calm, joy, and dread. Raw knowledge washed over him, filling him and erasing everything he knew. A swirling, contradictory rush of emotions surged up within him. He wept—in pleasure or sorrow, he could not tell—but he kept his eyes shut. He held fast to a single piece of information—his own name—and repeated it like a mantra.

He felt the Light’s displeasure, but he clung to this strategy as he always had, repeating his own name until the void withdrew and his memories and identity returned. Keeping his eyes shut, he floated on the Light like a raft on the ocean. He dipped his hands in the water and drank.

Namundvar’s Well wasn’t made to satisfy your thirst for power. It wasn’t made to look without. It was made to look
within
.

Chorlga laughed. He leaned over the raft and faced his own reflection. “I am no quivering priest, no weeping beggar clutching his bowl. Do you hear me? I am a Dragonkin, the right hand of Nekiel. I am a god.”

His reflection rippled and disappeared. The waters dimmed. The ocean went dark. Chorlga felt another surge of panic, but he fought through it.

“Show me,” he called out to the dark waters. “Show me all that you have kept hidden. Show me Knightswrath. Show me who carries it.”

The Light resisted. Never had he made such direct demands of it. He sensed the danger: if he lost focus, the Light would rend him to pieces.

“But I will
not
lose focus,” Chorlga whispered. “I beat you. You cannot refuse me. Not here, not now.”