Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (16 page)

Careful,
the Dhargot warned himself.
Fadarah got overconfident. Look what happened to him.

Brahasti decided to check on things at the gate of his compound. He headed away from the slave pit, ignored the lazy salute of a couple sellswords who stood up from their campfire at his approach, and waved to Dagath. The one-eyed sellsword was just coming into the compound, a pitcher of wine in hand.

Brahasti frowned. “Drinking on duty again?”

“No, General. It’s Farl’s watch. See for yourself.” Dagath gestured vaguely at the gate.

Brahasti tensed. He was willing to be lax with Dagath because the man got results, but boredom was making the sellsword captain too impudent. “Farl’s watch just started. You sound like you’ve been drinking since sundown.” He paused. “Remember what the Jolym did to Pate? Drink on duty again, and I’ll have them do the same to you.”

Dagath winced. He lifted the patch off his eye and scratched the dead, scarred socket. “Won’t happen again.” He took a step then stopped so suddenly that he almost lost his balance. “Will that be all, General?”

“Almost.” Brahasti nodded back toward the slave pit. “Pick me out a girl. Whichever one has the most fight left in her. I’ll take her in my room when I’m done inspecting the grounds.”

When Dagath was gone, Brahasti turned on his heel and walked out the gates. Two more sellswords stood watch. Both reeked of
fran-té
, but they stood and saluted as he passed. Brahasti decided to deal with them later. He crossed over the dry moat and stopped in the shadow of a wooden watchtower. A grubby sellsword descended a ladder in time to meet him.

“G’evening, General.”

Brahasti considered backhanding the man for forgetting to salute, then he noticed the shortsword hanging from the man’s belt. He drew it and examined it, appreciating its simple but fine craftsmanship. “Isn’t this Dagath’s?”

“Was.” Farl grinned. “I won it in a dice game.”

“You beat Dagath in a dice game, and he didn’t gut you in your sleep?”

Farl blushed. “I told him I’d give him a chance to win it back tomorrow. Wasn’t Dagath’s, anyway. He says he stole it off some dumb squire he met on the road.”

This caught Brahasti off guard. “A squire?”

Farl nodded. “Like, from the Lotus Isles.”

“Did Dagath kill him?”

“Didn’t sound like. He got away somehow. Dagath thinks he killed his half brother or something. Swears he’ll catch up and get revenge someday.” Farl chuckled softly.

“Where was this?”

Farl shrugged. “East of here, I think he said. South of Lyos, near the Burnished Way.”

Brahasti glanced at the shortsword again, noting its fine balance and bright, waisted blade. It was unmistakably Ivairian. Brahasti remembered the letter he’d received weeks ago from Prince Ziraari. The letter claimed that a cousin of the Dhargothi princes had gone missing. There were rumors that he’d died in a duel with an Isle Knight of Ivairian descent.

Could be a coincidence.
Either way, it never hurt to have powerful friends. Capturing the Ivairian and sending him to Prince Ziraari as a token of friendship might go a long way to helping him establish his position.
Or else I could send him to Karhaati as a peace offering. Depends on which prince seems stronger once the snows melt, I suppose.

Brahasti flipped the sword, caught it by the hilt, and slid it into his belt. He walked out to where the third Jol stood. It looked so dark in the absence of torchlight that Brahasti might have mistaken it for a ghastly tree.

“Too bad I can’t send one of
you
to look for this Isle Knight,” Brahasti muttered. “Gods know how I’d ever find him, anyway.”

Shade almost could not believe his eyes, let alone his luck.

As they lay on the dew-damp plains, surveying the compound, a single figure stepped off the bridge and joined the armored Olg keeping watch beyond. Rays of moonlight fell upon coldly handsome, familiar features.

“That’s Brahasti,”
he told Zeia through mindspeak.
“If we kill him first, his men will be leaderless.”

Shade sensed Zeia’s doubt before she replied.
“A scream is a scream. By the time we’re done killing those three, the rest will be warned.”

He almost laughed.
“See? The little one is going back inside the compound. Are you telling me that two Shel’ai can’t dispose of two guards without making noise?”

“Two Human guards, yes.”
Zeia gave him a cold look.
“But Brahasti’s friend appears to be an Olg in full armor. Or did you somehow fail to notice?”

Shade hesitated.
“Wytchfire can burn through armor.”

“Yes… but not quickly. And whoever takes down that Olg will be a lot weaker for it.”

Shade took a deep breath and let it go. Zeia was right. Still, when Brahasti turned and started back into the compound, it took all of Shade’s willpower not to stand up and kill him right then.

Zeia touched his arm.
“We’re not here for revenge. We’re here to make amends for Fadarah’s sins.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”
Shade scowled at the necessary reminder.
“Muddle the Olg’s senses so we can get past it. I’ll do the same to the two guards on the other side. We won’t start killing until we have to.”
Slowly, quietly, he rose to his feet.
“Remember: if we’re spotted, don’t hesitate.”

Zeia stood, too.
“This isn’t my first battle.”
She undid her cloak and let it fall. Shade did likewise. They moved stealthily through the shadows. Crouching low, they approached the Olg from the side. When they were close enough, Zeia touched Shade’s arm. Both Shel’ai sank to one knee.

Zeia closed her eyes, and Shade imagined her carefully extending her consciousness into the Olg’s mind, confusing its sense of hearing so that its ears would not register the sound of their footsteps as they crept past it. Shade smirked. He had the harder job: muddling both the hearing and the eyesight of the two guards who were looking right in their direction.

Shade prepared himself, willing his mind through certain thought exercises designed to improve his focus. He was nearly ready when Zeia grabbed his arm.
“Something’s wrong.”

Before Shade could answer, the Olg turned to face them. Both hands came up, each one holding a blade. Instead of shouting a challenge or howling a warning to the other guards, the Olg charged.

“So much for stealth,” Shade muttered. One hand came up, already trailing wytchfire. He unleashed a blast that struck the Olg’s chest with the force of a crossbow bolt. Instead of crashing to the ground, the Olg shuddered, righted himself, and kept charging. Moonlight glimmered off blackened armor.

“Tough bastard,” Shade conceded. He took a step backward and unleashed a second blast. Zeia joined him. Twin streams of wytchfire rammed into the Olg’s chest. Armor rang as though struck by a hammer.

The Olg stopped, as though he had just run headlong into a solid stone wall. Though the Olg still had not screamed, Shade imagined the force of their blows resounding through armor, shattering ribs like glass. He imagined the magical heat of their wytchfire seeping in, transforming the Olg’s armor into an oven and broiling his organs. But still the Olg did not fall.

Armored legs carried it forward in great strides, devouring the final few feet that separated the combatants. Blades glistened. For the first time, Shade noticed that the Olg wore an eerily placid facemask wrought entirely of brass.

Shade shoved Zeia one direction then dove in the other. He bit back a scream as something cold and sharp kissed the back of his thigh. He sent out another blast of wytchfire, striking the Olg’s knee.

The Olg’s leg buckled but did not fold. Then the Olg swung both blades at the same time. One angled for Shade’s face. The other stabbed down toward Zeia’s back with uncanny precision as she rolled away.

Shade leapt backward, drew his sword, and unleashed another torrent of wytchfire. He targeted the blade in the Olg’s other hand, turning it just enough so that it missed Zeia’s back and sank into the earth. Then Shade swung his sword in a hard, fast arc. He meant to drive the Olg’s remaining weapon out of the way and push his sword beneath the Olg’s facemask. However, his sword turned off the Olg’s, unable to force it down.

Shade stepped back again. Hearing shouts, he looked past the Olg and saw men running across the bridge, their swords drawn. He counted six, all Human. Rather than rush to the Olg’s aid, they hung back and watched.

Bad choice,
Shade thought. As the Olg swung at Zeia, she backpedaled, both of her hands spouting wytchfire. Shade side-stepped, spotted a dark gap in the Olg’s armor, and thrust his sword into the back of the Olg’s thigh. He pushed hard. “Now we’re even,” he muttered.

The Olg whirled with frightful speed. Unable to free his sword in time, Shade ducked then leapt sideways to avoid another swing. He cursed as his wounded leg gave out. He fell hard but managed to roll away. He brought both hands up, fingers splayed, and poured more wytchfire onto his enemy. “Die, damn you!”

He unleashed more and more flames, driving the Olg back. He maintained the deadly outpour until he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A dull, jarring pain swept through his brain—he was running out of strength. If he kept fighting with magic, he could die of exhaustion.

Shade pressed his hand to his wounded thigh. Wincing, he forced himself onto his feet. The armored Olg was still standing. Somehow, it had died on its feet, Shade’s sword still jammed into the back of one leg. The Olg’s cuirass glowed red hot.

Shade turned to face the rest of the guards. Zeia struck first, unleashing a blast of wytchfire that burned down one and scattered them like leaves. Then, glancing at Shade, she took notice of his wound. She started toward him. As she passed the Olg, one of the Olg’s blades flew up. Zeia screamed. As she fell, she blasted the Olg one last time. The Olg’s cuirass flared even brighter. Still, the Olg stepped forward and thrust a second blade next to the first.

For a moment, Shade could only stare. With frightful nonchalance, the Olg dragged both blades free, turned, and faced him. Moonlight shown off its grinning brass facemask. Dark, unblinking eyes regarded him in silence.

Zeia lifted her head. Blood ran from her lips. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Not an Olg…”

Shade nodded dumbly. His opponent charged, its blades dripping Zeia’s blood into the dark grass. With no time to dive clear and shaking with exhaustion, Shade lifted both his hands. Wytchfire exploded from his fingertips, splashed over the brass facemask, and clawed at the eye holes.

The armored figure jerked then pitched forward. Shade pressed his hands against it, but its weight bore him down. He feared he would be crushed, but both blades stuck in the earth, one on each side of him, propping it up. Wincing, Shade crawled free.

“Not an Olg,” he repeated. He crawled toward Zeia. She had managed to roll onto her side, both hands pressed just beneath her ribcage, but she could not sit up. Shade got behind her and positioned her head on his lap. He looked up.

Sellswords watched them from a distance. More had crossed the bridge. At least twenty milled near the watchtower. Brahasti was among them, a wolfish grin on his face.

Shade stared back. Forcing a defiant smile, he motioned for Brahasti to come closer. The general laughed. He said something that Shade could not hear. The sellswords laughed, too. Then Shade spotted two more huge figures crossing the bridge, their armor gleaming coldly. They took up position in front of Brahasti and the others. Some of the sellswords produced crossbows and loaded them but kept the armored figures between the Shel’ai and themselves.

Derision turned to panic. “Two more… Zeia, I can’t…” Shade shook her. “Can you stand? We have to run.”

Zeia did not answer.

Shade looked down at her. He blinked then gently lowered her head onto the ground. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the cold earth and tried to stand. He’d risen only halfway before he fell back down. He glanced up. The gleaming steel was almost on top of him. Shade clenched his eyes shut then opened them. With the last of his fading strength, he pushed himself to his feet and faced his attackers.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Out of the Water, Out of the Dark

B
okuden watched as sunrise gilded the grove of dogwood trees south of Saikaido Temple, burning away the mist known for centuries as the Dragon’s Veil. He imagined the clearing where he’d faced off against his fellow squires so many years ago, sparring with wooden swords. He thought of the salmon pond where he used to sit as a boy, reading and rereading the ancient legends of Fâyu Jinn when he should have been studying the ponderous dogma of the Codex Viticus. He turned his attention back to the temple, scrutinizing the one thousand clean, white steps carved painstakingly into the bluff. He smiled faintly, remembering those mornings as a squire when he’d lamented those thousand steps and the Shao masters who’d made him climb them.

I can’t climb them so well anymore, either.
One wrinkled hand touched the hilt of his adamune then slid down to the scabbard, touching the long row of notches representing the men he’d slain in battle.
But I’m not dead yet.

The Grand Marshal turned his gaze westward, out beyond the island, to the blue waters of the Burnished Way. Cranes and seagulls cavorted in the morning mist. There was no sign of the Jolym yet. But he knew they were coming.

“We’re ready for them.”

The officers standing nearby, all Knights of the Lotus, must have thought he was trying to reassure them. Several bowed in agreement. Others recited oaths in Shao. Bokuden smothered a grin, wondering if he looked as scared and unconvinced as they did.

The Grand Marshal directed his gaze back to Saikaido Temple’s defenses. Everything was in place. Beyond pit traps dug along the beach, hundreds of Isle Knights waited with spears. Higher along the shore, hundreds more stood armed with longbows. All had strict orders: aim for the eyes. Anything less was a waste of effort.

A reserve force of a thousand squires was prepared to make short work of any Jolym that fell into the pits. The squires were also set to attack any Jolym that avoided the pits and the Knights. They had been given coils of rope fitted to metal hooks. Once the Jolym had been caught, they would be tethered to horses and dragged on their backs round and round the island, until the Knights could finish them off.

Bokuden permitted himself a thin smile.

The Jolym had already annihilated two smaller islands and massacred an entire garrison of Isle Knights and squires that had been caught unaware. The Jolym had simply walked out of the sea by the hundreds, dripping in water, as quiet as death, and swept like a scythe through one Isle village after another. But no more. Word of the Jolym’s weakness had reached them from Lyos—nearly as strange a message as the one Bokuden had received weeks earlier, supposedly from the Wytchforest, warning that a Dragonkin had returned to Ruun.

Bokuden had ignored the message about the Dragonkin at first, thinking it must be someone’s idea of a jest—especially since it mentioned the name of Rowen Locke—but he’d reexamined it after receiving the message from Lyos. Then he’d tested the advice sent by the Lyosi by sending out a squad of his best archers. The archers reported that the Jolym dropped stone dead when shot through the eyes, though such a shot was profoundly difficult for even the most skilled of archers.

It would be even more difficult with the Jolym’s entire force surging up the beach, but Isle Knights were trained to stay calm in battle, to control their passions, and aim true. Besides, numbers were on their side. Bokuden had called in the garrisons from every temple throughout the Isles. Practically the entire Knighthood was gathered before him. For every Jol that shambled up the beach, forty Knights and squires waited to kill it.

Everyone will want to be able to say afterward that they killed a Jol single-handed.
Bokuden smiled again.
Let them. So long as the Isles are safe, they can be as vainglorious as they damn well please.

He wondered if Aeko Shingawa would agree with that sentiment. He had already dispatched a messenger raven to give her word of what had happened, though he wondered if she would believe it. She and the other Knights might not have heard about the Jolym yet. In her place, Bokuden might very well have dismissed word of the Jolym as the ravings of a senile Knight.

Bokuden smiled. He wondered how the newly minted Knight of the Lotus was faring, especially in the presence of Crovis Ammerhel. Bokuden had to admit that he would have felt better if she were with him. Even Crovis—admittedly, as fearless as he was arrogant—would have been welcome. But finding Rowen Locke was more important, especially if Jolym were walking the earth for the first time in nearly a thousand years.

By the Light, where did these damn things come from?

He’d heard terrible stories of Shel’ai magic, but Fadarah and the rest were supposed to be in the west, fighting for control of the Wytchforest. Legend had it that the Dragonkin possessed the power to make Jolym… but thanks to the Dragonward, all of those ancient, cruel sorcerers had been exiled from Ruun.

The Grand Marshal shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He surveyed the rows of armored Knights and horses massed below. Then one of the younger Knights to his right cried out and pointed. Bokuden’s heart leapt in his throat. He followed the Knight’s gesture and saw a broad glint of steel, rising slowly from the misty water.

Cranes and seagulls scattered. Someone blew a horn, sounding the alarm. Another followed, then another. A great, restless murmur swept through the Knights’ ranks. Well-trained war horses shifted and screamed; some even threw their riders, as though they could sense what was coming.

Bokuden clapped a shaking hand around his sword hilt. “Steady, men,” he shouted down the temple steps. A few Knights turned to look back at him. Bokuden fixed a grizzled snarl to his face. He had intended to remain at the top of the steps with his officers so that he could monitor the battle and coordinate troop movements with horns and signal flags. Now, though, something called him down, urging him to join his Knights.

He hesitated then drew his sword. The curved blade gleamed wickedly in the rising sunlight. “All right, lads,” he called out to his officers. “Why should these young Knights get all the fun?”

He started down the steps. A few of his officers laughed. All drew swords and fell in around him. Meanwhile, a few of the Knights on the temple steps turned around again and saw the Grand Marshal’s approach. Someone began to chant Bokuden’s name. Others took up the chant. By the time Bokuden had descended a hundred steps, the entire army had joined in the chant.

Bokuden grinned. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he did not feel old. All the aches and pains had disappeared. His sword felt lighter. His footsteps quickened. He raised his sword into the air and shouted his battle cry. Others took up the shout. Blood pounded in his ears. He wished he could launch himself into the air like a dragon, fly over his entire army and face the Jolym himself.

Then someone grabbed his arm. A Knight shouted in his ear, but Bokuden still could not hear him over the din. He pulled away with a rush of irritation, then his eyes followed the Knight’s gesture.

The Jolym had stopped on the Burnished Way, spread out in a row, side by side, knee deep in the surf. For all their size and strength, they looked small, even pitiful from a distance.

“They’re afraid,” Bokuden cried. “See, lads? The iron bastards are afraid of us!”

Thousands upon thousands of Knights and squires erupted into a wild cheer. Many lost their composure and shouted taunts out at the sea, anxious to draw the Jolym into a fight. Others bashed their swords against their armor. The crashing sound spread across the ranks, from one end of the beach to the other.

Still, the Jolym did not move.

Bokuden bashed the flat of his sword against his cuirass, adding his own challenge to the din. As he did so, though, he wondered what they would do if the Jolym refused to fight. Marching his Knights around their own pit-traps and sending them into the surf to do battle would have been foolish. But he could not let the Jolym go, either.

No, once he’d destroyed the abominations before him, he would march westward and hunt down the others that had threatened Lyos as well. And if the Dhargots objected to his presence on the mainland, they could meet him on the battlefield, too.

By the Light, I may just take this army all the way to the Wytchforest!

Then, to his right, a Knight of the Lotus fell forward and tumbled down the temple steps before Bokuden could catch him. Bokuden thought the man had simply lost his footing. Then another Knight, on his left, fell. A third Knight staggered. Bokuden dropped his sword and grabbed the man. He was too heavy to hold up, but Bokuden managed to lower him to the steps. The man bore no wounds that Bokuden could see, but his eyes were wide and lifeless.

Bokuden retrieved his sword and spun around. Three Knights still stood with him. Confused, they turned, too. Then, one by one, they fell. Bokuden still heard thousands of Knights and squires shouting and chanting behind him, oblivious to what was happening. But for the moment, the Grand Marshal stood alone.

His eyes fixed on two cloaked, hooded figures descending the temple steps. One stumbled as though dazed, but the other strode with slow, chilling purpose. When only ten steps separated them, they stopped. The taller figure regarded Bokuden, then swept back his hood. Haughty, Sylvan features shown in the morning light.

Bokuden tightened his grip on his sword and stared into the other man’s violet eyes. “Are you Fadarah?”

The other man sneered. “You mistake the stray dog for the hungry greatwolf.” He took another step. “So
this
is Jinn’s legacy.” He looked around, smiling. “How kind of you to gather all your mighty Knights in one place.” His mist-white pupils fixed on Bokuden, unblinking.

Bokuden did not answer. He thought of the message from the Wytchforest.
Chorlga…
Then he heard shouts of a different sort coming from the Knights behind him. They’d seen the danger their Grand Marshal was in. Dozens raced up the temple steps, swords drawn. But Bokuden knew they would never make it.

With his free hand, he touched the notches carved into his scabbard again.
“Singchai ushó fey,”
he said. He raised his sword and saluted.

The Dragonkin snickered. “Fine words, Human. Here is my response.” He moved behind the man crouched next to him and touched his shoulder. The man jerked then straightened and threw off his cloak. Cold, mad eyes fixed on Bokuden. Wytchfire unfurled from the man’s hands, his eyes, and even his nostrils.

Bokuden shouted with defiance and forced himself to charge up the steps. Steel glinted in his fist. His armor flashed. He made it halfway before the flames washed over him.

Chorlga surveyed the destruction before him. Burnt flesh and blackened steel littered the ground amid heaps of ash and piles of discarded weapons. The moaning had stopped. The wounded had either succumbed to their injuries or crawled to safety. All the cranes and seagulls had flown away. The only sounds came from the rolling surf and the labored breathing of the cloaked form lying at his feet.

I should be happy…

Chorlga scowled down at the Nightmare. Though he knew it was too late, he wondered if he should try to do more to help him. The Nightmare’s wytchfire had burned up whole squads of men like dry leaves, shredding the great army that had tried to clamber up the temple steps and avenge their slain Grand Marshal.

But even the Nightmare was not inexhaustible. As the young man’s strength waned, a few arrows had weathered the firestorm and made it through. The Nightmare had been struck three times. That, plus his near-fatal level of exhaustion, made Chorlga wondered how the young madman was still alive.

Perhaps I should drain him, devour what’s left of his essence, the way my ancestors fed off dragons.
He shook his head. There were laws—a Dragonkin did not absorb the energies of another Dragonkin. True, the Nightmare had been born a Shel’ai, but the line had to be drawn somewhere. Besides, he risked imbibing the Nightmare’s madness along with his remaining power. He remembered the bitter taste left after he’d absorbed the life force of the dragonpriests at Cadavash.

Chorlga lifted his gaze to the ruined temple. His Jolym had just finished scouring the island, killing all they could and scattering the rest. Soon, he would send them west, back to Cadavash. Meanwhile, the Jolym he’d withdrawn from Lyos had been diverted south, toward Atheion. He had no intention of damaging the famous Scrollhouse, of course, but nothing else about the City-on-the-Sea interested him. He would destroy a good portion of it then give its citizens the option of servitude. He had no doubt they would take it. Dwarrs and Isle Knights might not surrender, but they were the exceptions to the rule—and easily disposed of.