Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (17 page)

Well, perhaps not
easily
.

Though Chorlga had intended to use the Nightmare as both weapon and shield, he’d underestimated the Isle Knights. So many arrows and spears had swept in, and so quickly, that his wytchfire could not burn away them all. Two arrows had struck Chorlga—one in the leg, the other in the chest. Though the wounds might not have been mortal, Chorlga had taken no chances. Stretching out his mind, he’d stolen back the life from half a dozen Jolym, instantly healing himself.

But that was too close. I must never underestimate my enemies again.

Chorlga looked down at the Nightmare. The young man’s eyes were as wide as coins and wet with terror. Chorlga shuddered and looked away.

“Now I know why Fadarah never used you against the Sylvs,” Chorlga told the prone figure. “Hard to control, harder still to focus. What is it the Dwarrs say about a greatwolf in a pewter shop?” He watched smoke rise in great, gray plumes off the temple summit. “No matter.”

He turned his back on the Nightmare and was about to walk away when he heard a moan. He turned back.

The Nightmare was looking at him. Though terrified, he looked almost sane. The young man tried to sit up. “Silwren,” he gasped again. “Where… where is…”

Chorlga recovered from his surprise and knelt in front of the young man. He met the Nightmare’s gaze. “Dead. You killed her,” he lied.

The Nightmare’s eyes widened. “No…” He shook his head. “Don’t remember…” He looked around. “Father?”

Chorlga smothered a grin. “Fadarah’s dead, too. So is El’rash’lin. All of them are dead. You killed them all.” He paused. “Don’t you remember?”

Aghast, the Nightmare trembled. Then, as though noticing them for the first time, he touched the arrows in his body. With damp eyes, he looked to Chorlga for help. One bloodied hand reached out. Chorlga pulled back, and the Nightmare whimpered. Chorlga stared a moment longer, then he took the Nightmare’s hand.

“Are you afraid?”

The Nightmare did not answer.

Chorlga watched the Nightmare struggle for breath. He felt a curious stinging in his eyes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Nightmare jerked and went still. Chorlga stared. Then, pulling his hand away, he stood and walked back toward the sea.

The old man woke in the dark. Cold from the stone beneath him seeped through the fabric of a tattered cloak that seemed as much a part of him as his skin. He blinked, wondering if he’d gone blind. His throat tightened. He could not remember how to breathe.

Then he took a breath. Raw pain filled him, twisting like fire through all his extremities. He wept. Groping in the dark, he felt a curved stone structure just in front of him. He slumped heavily against it.

Who am I?

For a moment, he did not move. Then he took another breath and let it go. It did not hurt as badly as his previous attempt. Slowly, he nodded. “El’rash’lin,” he gasped. “My name… is El’rash’lin…”

He clawed the stone well in front of him. He tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him. Slumping back to the floor, he wept. “Silwren… Gods… please help me…”

The chamber echoed with the sound of El’rash’lin’s labored breathing. Then a flash of light caught his eye. El’rash’lin turned and found himself staring into the stone well as the light grew in intensity. El’rash’lin stopped shaking. His breathing slowed.

Calmly, he tipped his head to listen. After a long time, he nodded. “I understand.”

The light dimmed. El’rash’lin took another deep breath. He braced himself against the stone wall. With great effort, he pushed himself up. He waved his hand, and his palm exhaled a weak, fluttering sphere of light. The light illuminated an ancient stairwell across the chamber.

El’rash’lin stared at the stairwell obscured by shadow. The sight of it terrified him. He thought of all he had to do. Momentarily overwhelmed, he nearly wept again. Then he shook his head. He took a step, then another.

As he approached the stairwell, the flickering sphere moved with him. The shadows retreated. El’rash’lin reached the stairwell. “Gods, must I do this again? How many times?” Gasping, he paused, pressing his wrinkled hands against cold stone. Then he began to climb again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

No Flames

W
ith modest effort, Doomsayer wrenched his mace from the skull of the Olg at his feet. Sunrise mingled with blood. Doomsayer lifted his shaggy head, turning slowly from side to side. The motion caused the rodent skulls braided in his hair to clatter, making the only sound besides the faint trickle of blood.

“Who else challenges for chieftain?”

Fifty Olgrym stood before him. Some wore mismatched armor and thick coats of ash on their palms. A few wore vests of crude fur sewn with shards of bone. But most—the Felmauls, the last of his clan—were naked, save for a crust of dried blood that had been painted onto their flesh, along with other, even more unsavory substances.

“Who else challenges?” he repeated. He raised his mace. Blood ran down its shaft and twisted down his wrist. Doomsayer swept his gaze over the warriors of his dwindling host, giving each man a chance to meet his gaze. All looked away. Despite his scowl, Doomsayer was glad. He had lost so many warriors that he did not relish the thought of killing still more of them just to prove a point.

“Now,” he began slowly, “we go on like I said before. We hunt the man with the burning sword. We hunt his magic. We take it for ourselves.”

Doubt flickered in his warriors’ eyes. Many of them wanted to return to the Wytchforest and continue fighting the Sylvs. After all, both the Wyldkin and the Shal’tiar had been all but annihilated. The forest lay open for the first time in centuries. Doomsayer understood this. He had become chieftain of the strongest clan in part because his hatred for the Sylvs burned brighter than any other Olg’s. But things had changed.

Doomsayer thought once again of that sea of violet flames, how the pitiful Human with his burning sword had cut down the mighty Fadarah, and how the very air had seemed to crackle with power. How could he go back to petty skirmishes after that?

But there will be a price. All of our brothers still fighting in the Wytchforest will say we abandoned them. They’ll turn on us. We will not be able to go back to Godsfall… unless we win.

A wild grin spread across the Olg’s taut, gray face. The Shel’ai had proven to be weak allies. The invasion of the Wytchforest had failed. But he imagined rallying the Olgrym a second time—only this time, with terrible magic of his own. He saw himself wading into battle with flaming hands, screaming in pain and triumph as whole legions withered before him.

One of Doomsayer’s warriors stepped forward. Doomsayer hefted his mace again, but the warrior bowed. “Great One, we serve your fury. But how will we catch this Human?”

Doomsayer considered this. At first, he had thought it a blessing from the gods when the Human was spotted outside Shaffrilon, virtually alone. Somehow, though, he’d managed to get clear of the forest before Doomsayer’s warriors could encircle him. Now, the Human was riding north, pressing hard toward the borders of Dhargoth. Doomsayer could not fathom why, nor did he care. He knew only that if he did not catch this Human before the Dhargots did, he might very lose his prize to those small men who painted their eyes and rode elephants to prove their courage.

“We run,” he said finally. “Horses are weak. Men are weak. We are not. We do not sleep. We do not eat. While
they
sleep, we draw closer.” He pointed northeast with his mace. “We do not stop until we taste blood. Let all who fail be forgotten.”

He waited until his warriors nodded. Then, squinting in the rising sun, he began to run. The earth trembled as his warriors fell in behind him.

Rowen and the Sylvan fighters rode quickly from the burnt-out fort of Que’ahl, pressing their horses as hard as they could. With one more rider than they had horses, they rotated frequently to distribute the burden. Rowen glanced over his shoulder many times, heartened by the absence of pursuers. Finally, early in the afternoon, he reined in Snowdark.

“Let the horses rest.” Before anyone could argue, he turned to Rhos’ari. “Sergeant, I want you, Faeli, and Aerios to scout around on foot.” He eyed a copse of trees in the distance. Though it looked too small to conceal a force of Olgrym, he thought he’d seen a wisp of smoke rising from the trees. “Might be a sellsword or two camping there. If they’re no threat, leave them alone.” He pointed westward, toward the gray, rocky horizon. “Cathas, do me a favor and make sure a whole damn army of Olgrym don’t come charging out of Godsfall while I’m not looking.”

He dismounted and turned his back, signaling an end to the conversation.

Kilisti quietly took the reins of the other Sylvs’ horses. Instead of arguing, as Rowen had expected, she went to work caring for the horses while he did the same for Snowdark. When he was finished, he assisted her, which she did not acknowledge. Cathas stood watch, steady despite his bandaged leg, as the others fit arrows to their bowstrings and went to examine the copse of trees.

When the horses had been tended, Rowen considered dining on some of the bland but adequate rations they carried in their saddlebags. He took out the scroll that Silwren had given him, but this was not the proper time or place for reading it.

Kilisti paused and looked over her horse brush. “Are you going to read that or just stare at it?”

“No need. I didn’t have much to do while I was under house arrest in Shaffrilon, so I must have read the damn thing a thousand times.”

“What’s it about?”

“The founding of the Knighthood and the end of the Shattering War.” He hesitated. “And Knightswrath. How and why they made it.”

Kilisti paused then went back to brushing. “Nâya sacrificed herself so that Jinn would have a way to fight the Dragonkin.” She glanced up and smirked. “Sylvs are better than Humans when it comes to remembering things that matter. Funny that we’d know more about your precious Order than you do.”

Rowen bristled, though he had to admit that Kilisti was right. Isle Knights still told stories about Fâyu Jinn, but none of them mentioned Nâya, the Dragonkin he loved. Likewise, they made no mention of Knightswrath. Rowen had speculated that when the sword became tarnished—for its powers were tied to the honor of the Knighthood—the Knights had tried to erase all mention of it. He thought of the small silver dragon inlaid in the blade next to the sword’s name. Once, he had taken that to be the mark of the sword’s maker. He wondered now if that symbol represented Nâya. Then he thought of an insult of his own. “And strange, Sylv, how a people who remember Nâya’s sacrifice still justify the killing of any infant born with white eyes.”

Rowen wondered if he’d gone too far, but Kilisti kept brushing. “I had a sister,” she said after a moment. “Her name was Shi’as. I found her in the forest when I was coming back from that Dhargothi compound. The Sorcerer-General had left that big sword of his in her corpse, left her there like she was nothing.”

She spoke so flatly that it took Rowen a moment to register what she was saying.

“From what I hear, the Shel’ai captured some Knights from your Order,” Kilisti continued. “Forced them to switch sides, to swear an oath they couldn’t break. Your brother was one of them. They made you kill him.”

Rowen considered throwing the scroll casing at Kilisti’s face. Instead, he returned the scroll to his saddlebag. “Enough.” He turned his back on her and stroked Snowdark’s neck. The horse pricked up her ears, sensing his building rage. Rowen saw Cathas watching, too, his expression taut.

“I guess that means I owe you for killing Fadarah,” Kilisti said from behind him, “though really, I’d rather you’d left him for me.”

“He would have killed you in a second.”

“You think so?”

Rowen turned. He looked her up and down. “Yes.”

“Well, I don’t have a burning sword to help me… but given how that thing muddled your brains, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. “I’ve had enough of your goading, Sylv. What say you take a walk?”

With deliberate slowness, Kilisti stowed the horse brush in a saddlebag, patted the final horse’s neck, then sidestepped and crossed her arms. “Or what, Knight? You’ll deny my rations? Or you’ll tell Captain Briel that I took time out of the war to hurt your feelings?”

Rowen forced a cold smile. Releasing Snowdark’s reins, he stalked toward Kilisti until he stood right in front of her, his face hovering inches above hers. He flexed one gauntleted fist and considered striking her. He was being tested, and that would have been the appropriate response for an insubordinate soldier. But Rowen chafed at the idea of striking a woman.

Meanwhile, Kilisti uncrossed her arms but did not blink or waver. A mocking smile spread across her scarred face. “What’s the matter, Knight? Lost your nerve?”

Rowen remembered how Igrid had goaded him similarly. He took a deep breath and released it. Then he answered Kilisti’s smile with one of his own. “If it pleases you to mock me, Sylv, go right ahead. I’m past willing to duel with allies over insults to my honor.”

“Oh, are we allies now?”

“Your king doesn’t think so,” Rowen admitted. “Neither do half your people, probably. But I don’t care about that. I’m riding north to stop the Dhargots. If you want to help, I’m sure we’ll find plenty of men you’ll enjoy killing more than me.”

Kilisti started to laugh. “We’ll see,” she muttered, and turned away. Rowen stepped back. He saw that Cathas had been coming to separate them then seemed to have thought better of it. Rowen returned to Snowdark. He pretended to rummage through his saddlebags so that he could give his hands time to stop shaking.

A few moments later, he heard Cathas swearing in Sylvan. Rowen turned, hand on his sword. Rhos’ari, Aerios, and Faeli were returning from their scouting mission, their expressions taut. All had their swords drawn. Aerios was leading a horse, while the others escorted a prisoner. The man was Human, with a dirty face and torn leather armor. But the braided goatee and smeared paint around his eyes were unmistakable. Despite his predicament, the Dhargot was grinning.

Rowen met them halfway.

“A deserter,” Rhos’ari said. “Says he’s on the way to Quorim. He was alone.” He handed Rowen the Dhargot’s weapons: a shortsword and a dagger, both with matching horse heads carved into the hilts. Rowen noted the necklace hanging around the Dhargot’s neck. He counted three pairs of ears strung to the necklace. One pair looked small, like a child’s.

Before Rowen could speak, the Dhargot gave a low whistle. “A red-haired Isle Knight, traveling in strange company. Not a common sight on the Simurgh Plains.” His grin broadened. “You must be the one who killed Jaanti. My prince was looking for you.”

For a moment, Rowen was speechless. “Who is your prince?”

“Ziraari.” The Dhargot turned and spat on the ground. “Dead now. Shel’ai killed him.”

Kilisti took a step forward, a drawn shortsword in hand. “What are you doing here?”

The Dhargot looked at her. His eyes widened at the sight of her scarred face. “Being prettier than you, it seems.”

Faeli kicked the back of the Dhargot’s leg, driving the man to his knees. The man grunted but did not stop grinning. Faeli tapped the tip of his sword against the Dhargot’s cheek. “Answer her.”

“Gladly,” the Dhargot said. “Running for my life! Most of Ziraari’s men are flocking to Karhaati, getting ready to fight Lyos or Ivairia… whichever he picks first.” He made a curious sign and spat on the ground again.

Rowen committed the names to memory. He’d never heard them before, but he knew enough about Dhargots to remember stories about the assassinations and rivalries common among their princes and officers. “And why aren’t you with them?”

The Dhargot puffed up his chest. “Braanti is first archer on an elephant. That’s a rank of honor. But Karhaati will give Ziraari’s beasts to his own men. I won’t start on foot again, least of all there.”

Kilisti snickered. “Too afraid to fight on equal ground?”

The Dhargot gave her a cold look. “Braanti serves the Dragongod. Braanti loves fighting. But Braanti is no fool. Men have seen the Nightmare in that direction. Only fools fight where demons live.”

Rowen frowned. “You should pay less heed to drunken rumors. The Nightmare is dead.”