Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (19 page)

Jalist touched the jeweled dagger in his belt as he studied the king. “Sire, I’m a sellsword. I fought
with
the Throng, for a time. The nobles of Lyos—”

“Will do as I command, since they’re too terrified to leave their mansions without pissing themselves,” Typherius finished. He cast a sidelong glance at the old men across the room.

“But the clerics—”

“Mostly disapprove, which might concern me, if I could spare the energy to care.” The king snickered. “Some were open to the idea, but the clerics of Maelmohr in particular seem to think that Dwarrs are a lesser race, some form of demon, what with their gray skin and dark eyes. Ironic, since if memory serves, the Firegod is the one
your
race worships.”

“Worship might be too strong a word for it.” Jalist drank. “Sire—”

“Five hundred cranáfi now, another thousand when you bring Silwren back,” Typherius interrupted. “You and Lady Igrid can divide that between you, however you like. Somehow, I’ll find fifty men to act as your bodyguards. And when you come back, you have my word that each month, I’ll pay you twice what I paid the last two captains.”

“You mean, the last two men who got themselves killed?”

Typherius started to smile then snapped his fingers. Half a dozen palace guards melted out from behind the shadowed statues, stone faced, all holding crossbows. Jalist could tell by the look on Igrid’s face that she was as surprised as he was.

The king cleared his throat. “And since I’m feeling about as desperate as I am blunt, if you say
no
one more time, or if either of you betray me, I’ll pay Fen-Shea whatever I’ve got left in the treasury to peel off your skin and bury you in a salt pile.” He took a long drink, set his cup down, and fixed his gaze on Jalist. “That clear enough, Dwarr?”

Jalist forced himself to stop gripping the hilt of the jeweled dagger. “One death is as good as another these days, I suppose. Only there’s no sense pinning all your hopes on me. You’ve got to know I don’t have a prayer of making it past all those Dhargots swarming on the Simurgh Plains. And unless the Olgrym have been beaten, I doubt Locke will come back with me, anyway. He’s still trying to keep that sword of his out of the Knights’ hands.”

Typherius shook his head. “Dwarr, right now, I couldn’t care less about one Isle Knight and his symbolic sword. I’m sending you after Silwren, not Locke. I need Silwren because she can turn armies into ash. If Locke wants to stay in the Wytchforest, let him.”

Poor Locke. The more he tries, the less anyone gives a damn.
“Fine, I’ll go.” Jalist glanced at Igrid. “But I’ll go alone. I’ll have a better chance of slipping through that way.”

Igrid opened her mouth to protest, but the king spoke first. “No. Leave most of the soldiers, if you like, but I’m still sending two men to keep an eye on you. And this woman goes with you, too. She may be pretty, and I know she knows Locke and Silwren, but she’s cut a few too many purse strings for my liking.” The king stood up. “My quartermaster is expecting you. He’ll pay you and give you horses and whatever else you need. I don’t think I have to explain what will happen if you’re both still here at sundown.”

Igrid managed to look so believably hurt and offended that Jalist laughed. But the king stood and walked away. His stewards hurried to follow. The crossbowmen congregated around the council table. Jalist stood up and toasted them. “Nicely done.” He set down his cup and started to walk away.

Igrid followed. She grabbed his arm a moment later. Her green eyes flashed with rage. One hand held the king’s cup. She threw the remainder of its contents into Jalist’s face. Then, casting a sidelong glance at the crossbowmen following just a few paces behind them, she whispered, “You idiot, he would have paid us
twice
that.”

Jalist wiped his face with his sleeve. “The good king can promise us all the coins in Ruun. That doesn’t mean either of us will live long enough to collect them.” He smirked. “Besides, Iron Sister, he’s paying me. Not you.”

Igrid’s right hand blurred, plucking a stiletto seemingly out of thin air. She pressed it to Jalist’s throat. The crossbowmen tensed, but Jalist waved them back.

Igrid leaned so close that Jalist could smell her perfume. “Dwarr, you can sleep with fleas and live off paupers’ root, if it pleases you. But by the time this war’s over, I mean to be a rich woman. Don’t get in the way of that again.” The stiletto disappeared. She smiled sweetly. “I’ll meet you at the front gates in half an hour.” She turned and walked ahead of him.

Jalist followed more slowly. “Fine woman,” he grumbled. As he left the palace, blinking in the sun’s glare, he remembered the tavern he’d seen earlier. He considered stopping off there first, but the crossbowmen seemed to have other ideas.

Aeko Shingawa reined in her horse and paused to stare at the broad, snow-flecked Noshan Valley. Somewhere to the south lay Atheion, the famed City-on-the-Sea. Though she had never been there, she’d heard stories about enormous skiffs of some magical design that pre-dated the Shattering War, on which the city’s marvelous stone buildings floated on water.

She wondered if she should lead her Isle Knights south. The Simurgh Plains were still swarming with Dhargots, and Rowen could have passed through Atheion on his way to the Wytchforest. But Noshans were not known for their hospitality, and she doubted their king would be terribly excited to have one hundred foreign Knights riding toward his capital.

Then again, an angry king might be preferable to dealing with the Nightmare.

Glancing over her shoulder, she half expected to see the demon hurtling out of the northern sky, but she saw only blue clouds lording over distant, rolling hills. She wanted to believe that what she’d heard days ago had not been the same demon that had single-handedly torn through half the Free Cities and very nearly destroyed all of them at Lyos. But she trusted her own ears.

Crovis Ammerhel rode down the column of Knights and joined her. “What will it be, Captain? Do we regroup at Atheion or continue west in search of Locke?”

Aeko sensed the disdain behind Crovis’s cordiality. She had not forgotten that while her intention was to find Rowen Locke and protect him, Crovis was only interested in Knightswrath. That alone tempted her to lead the expedition toward Atheion, if only to give Rowen more time to get away, but Aeko reminded herself about the message they’d received.

Dispatched by raven to find them on the plains, the message told of Jolym assaulting both Lyos and the Lotus Isles. Aeko might have thought the message some kind of jest had she not recognized Bokuden’s signature at the bottom. If the Jolym had indeed emerged from some dark fairytale, just as the Nightmare appeared to have sloughed back from Fohl’s hells to torment them, time was of the essence.

Aeko shook her head. “We ride west. But send a man south to warn the Noshan king of…” She hesitated. “Of every damned crazy thing that’s happened.” She thought of the message she’d sent back to Bokuden, using his own raven, to warn him about the Nightmare. She hoped he received it before the demon had a chance to act.

Crovis cleared his throat, visibly displeased. “Captain, why warn the Noshan king? What is he to us?”

“An ally, maybe, if we need one.”

Looking unconvinced, Crovis sighed. “As you say, Captain.”

Beyond a group of nearby Knights, who were eavesdropping, Aeko spotted a telltale glint of armor on the horizon. Her eyes narrowed.

Crovis followed her gaze, and the derision melted from his eyes. He snapped his fingers. “Sir Wei, your spyglass.”

While the young Knight rummaged in his saddlebag, another Knight raised one gauntleted hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

“Dhargots?” he asked.

Aeko shook her head. Dhargots preferred scale or leather armor covered in black silk. Besides, they usually rode in chariots or on the backs of horses or elephants. The force in the distance looked more like a broad column of men in full-plate armor. They might have been Lancers, though she couldn’t imagine why they would be on foot so far south. She turned to Crovis, who was raising a spyglass to one eye. “Any banners?”

Crovis squinted then lowered the spyglass, shaking his head. “No tabards, either.”

Aeko’s pulse quickened. “What kind of armor?”

Crovis pressed the spyglass to his eye again. “Full plate. Looks like steel, some brass. No horses. All have their weapons drawn.”

Aeko caught his meaning. Crovis handed her the spyglass then cursed when his horse turned skittish, as though smelling something foul in the air. Other Knights’ horses did the same. Aeko steadied her own mount then lifted the spyglass. A moment later, she lowered it. “Damn.”

Crovis angled his horse closer and lowered his voice. “I confess, I was hoping our dear Grand Marshal had simply lost his mind.” He drew his sword. Facing the column, he called out, “In Jinn’s name, stand ready!”

The Isle Knights reacted at once. Some drew swords while others produced bows. A few wielding polearms moved ahead of the others, forming a defensive perimeter.

Crovis faced Aeko again. “Fight or run?”

She could tell by the look on Crovis’s face which option he favored. “I think they’re after Atheion, not us.”

“Does that mean the captain would prefer to run? Or attempt a parley, perhaps?”

Aeko gave Crovis a withering look. “I count about twenty.”

Crovis nodded. “Not much of a challenge, I know, but it might offer the men some sport.”

Even from this distance, it was obvious that each Jolym stood well over six feet tall. While the Knights outnumbered them four to one, legends spoke of the Jolym mowing down armies ten times their size. If Bokuden was right, each Jol could only be slain by a strike through the eyeholes of its facemask. But even for fighters as well trained as Isle Knights, that was easier said than done. The curved blades of adamunes and Isle polearms were better suited for quick, devastating slashes than precise thrusts. Bows and arrows were their best bet, and all Knights were trained to fire from horseback, Queshi-style, but they were unaccustomed to aiming solely at an enemy’s eyes.

The column of Knights bristled, anxious to charge. But that tactic would only get them killed, and they had no time to erect a palisade. Aeko turned back to Crovis.

“The demands of honor are clear. Locke is our priority, but we can’t leave Atheion to these… things.”

Though Aeko doubted that Crovis cared anything for the Noshans, the prospect of battle made him smile. “As you say, Captain. I suggest we divide our forces. I’ll lead a frontal assault while you lead a flanking maneuver.” He turned to wheel his horse, but Aeko grabbed his arm.

“Not here. Not now. We’ll ride for Atheion and fortify there.”

Crovis’s expression darkened. “Captain, sending a messenger to the Noshan king is one thing. Riding into his city with a hundred armed men is another. If he doesn’t believe us, we might end up fighting the same people we’re trying to protect.”

Maybe, but it’s what Rowen would do.
“Then I suggest you send our fastest rider on ahead. He can announce us.” She glanced at the steely column of Jolym on the horizon. Already, it looked significantly closer. “Choose your rider while I scribble a message for the Noshan king.”

Crovis glanced at the Jolym then turned back to Aeko. “No need, Captain. I choose myself. If I’m not waiting for you outside the city by the time you get there, the Noshans have killed me.” He bowed. Then, wheeling southward, he spurred his horse to full gallop.

Aeko noted the look of approval on the faces of the other Knights. She sighed.
Well played, Ammerhel.
Then she waved for the Knights’ attention. She ordered them to sheathe their weapons, form ranks, and follow her. They obeyed with obvious reluctance. She wondered how Bokuden had lived so long, suffering such foolishness.

Some Knight of the Lotus I am! If my own men don’t rebel against me, sooner or later, Crovis will challenge me on some matter of honor and cut me to ribbons.

As she turned her horse southward, Aeko half hoped that Crovis would be unsuccessful in his appeal to the Noshan king.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Reunions

R
owen Locke frowned at the faint plume of dust on the horizon. While similar plumes of smoke to the northwest corresponded to the city of Quorim, which Rowen had every intention of avoiding, these dust plumes came from the south. He shuddered. It had just begun to snow. “Looks like our pursuit hasn’t given up after all.” He glanced at Rhos’ari. “I don’t suppose you brought a Soroccan spyglass, did you?”

Faeli answered before the Sylvan sergeant could respond. “Sylvs do not pollute themselves with objects from other cultures.”

But you’ll accept the horse of an enemy and help from an Isle Knight.
Rowen wished his friend, Hráthbam, were there. He had a feeling that the Soroccan merchant would have enjoyed lecturing the Sylv on the advancements of culture.

Sergeant Rhos’ari shielded his eyes from the sun. “Looks to be a whole war party. I’ve heard of Olgrym running themselves half to death, but we’re too far ahead for them to catch up.”

Kilisti, seated on a nearby boulder, glanced up from sharpening her shortsword. A gust of wind stirred her hair away from her scarred face and missing nose. “Don’t count on it.”

“I could try to lead them away again,” Aerios offered. “If they get closer, I mean.”

Rhos’ari examined his maimed hand, wrapping clean bandages over the stubs of his severed fingers. “Don’t bother. If they get too close, we’ll take the horses to full gallop.”

“They won’t,” Faeli said. He caught a falling snowflake on the edge of his knife then handed Rhos’ari an open wineskin. The sergeant poured wine over his hand without wincing, then took a drink. Rowen thought of how Knightswrath had healed his wounds before. He wondered if it could do the same for Rhos’ari—not to mention Cathas, who was changing the dressing on his thigh. But the thought of igniting Knightswrath’s powers frightened him. He decided not to mention it.

Cathas looked up from his wound. “Might be easier to trick them now. From this distance, they might think one or two horses are all of us.”

“Fohl’s hells,” Kilisti muttered. She pocketed her sharpening stone, stood up, and nodded at the dust plume. “They’re hunting us, fey as mad dogs. They won’t stop. Either we lose the horses and travel on foot so the Olgrym can’t track us, or else we ride the horses until they burst.”

Rowen glanced at Snowdark. He patted the horse’s neck. Though he’d fought Olgrym before, he had no doubt that Kilisti’s battle experience exceeded his own. Still, with the Olgrym so far behind—and on foot—he didn’t see how they could possibly catch up. Then again, he did not relish the idea of covering the rest of the way to the Dhargothi compound on foot, especially if they needed to flee from the Dhargots in a hurry.

Jinn’s name, even if we free these captives, how are we supposed to get them safely back to the Wytchforest?

He faced Aerios again. “All right, try to lead them away. Take Faeli with you. If they don’t follow, circle back and join us. If they
do
follow, ride east or south, as far and as fast as you can.” Ignoring Faeli’s scowl and Kilisti’s look of disgust, he touched Aerios’s shoulder. “Don’t get close enough to fight. Just loose a few burning arrows and ride like the hells are behind you… because if this works, they will be. Understood?”

The two young Sylvs exchanged looks. Aerios nodded. To Rowen’s surprise, Faeli did not protest. “Faeli, take Cathas’s horse. You’ll do better with a Sylvan mount if you have to be quick.”

Faeli stopped to exchange hushed, terse words with Rhos’ari then cast an icy look in Rowen’s direction before mounting his new horse. Aerios readied his own mount. The two Sylvs checked their bows.

Rhos’ari came closer to Rowen. “Knight, let me go with them. Or send me in their place. I’m the better rider.”

Rowen cast a meaningful look at Rhos’ari’s freshly bandaged hand then shook his head. He faced Faeli and Aerios again. “Don’t get careless. A few arrows, then ride. They’ll either follow, or they won’t.”

“Understood, Knight,” Faeli grumbled. “Try not to die while we’re gone.” He turned his horse southward and started off. Aerios followed. Rowen watched them go then returned to Snowdark.

“The horses have rested enough. Let’s cover some more ground before sunset.”

Rhos’ari and Cathas mounted without comment, but Kilisti cast Rowen a cold look. “Even if we get away from the Olgrym, Knight, we’re going to have a hard time slaughtering all the Dhargots in that compound with just four swords.”

Rowen shook his head. “Faeli and Aerios will be fine. And this was always going to come down to crawling and throat-slitting, anyway.”
Though that, too, would be easier if half my men weren’t already wounded.
He glanced in the direction of the Olgrym again. He hoped he’d made the right decision.

“We don’t stop until dark.” He flicked the reins.

Rowen finally called for a halt at twilight, though earlier than he’d hoped. The flanks of their horses ran with sweat and shuddered from cold. The snowfall had swallowed the green plains before them. Rowen had sent Kilisti to scout the way ahead. At first, he’d feared they would have to camp in a blizzard, but she rode back and reported a small copse of trees in the distance.

“Not much for shelter, but it’s better than nothing.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke.

Rowen reminded himself that even the Shal’tiar had little experience with true winter, living as close as they did to the eternal summer of the Wytchforest.

“Dry rations,” he said. “No fire.”

Cathas cast a worried look at the preponderance of wolf tracks woven between the trees. “Are you sure?”

A frigid gust almost changed Rowen’s mind, but he shook his head. “Even without the Olgrym chasing us, these are bad lands for travelers, probably worse after Syros fell. Best we don’t draw attention to ourselves. Besides, wolves will keep away when they smell how many we are.”

Kilisti gave him a dour look. “What about bears and greatwolves?”

Rowen said, “I’ll take first watch.” He dragged off Snowdark’s saddle and hauled it to the edge of the camp, intending to use it as a chair. The horses seemed only slightly less displeased than their riders with their new surroundings. The boughs of the trees afforded them a little protection from the falling snow. They wrapped themselves in all the cloaks they could find, but Rowen realized the Sylvs had not packed clothes adequate for the wilderness. Even Kilisti, who had been in these lands, had not realized how cold they were about to become.

Rowen thought back to the winters in Lyos, where he’d spent his childhood. As loathsome as the Dark Quarter had been, at least the winters had been mild. He could have said the same for the Lotus Isles. And the Wytchforest seemed immune to cold. But the rest of the Simurgh Plains was another story. The lands bordering Dhargoth threatened to become impassible before long, nearly as frigid as Stillhammer.

Though Rowen had never been to Stillhammer, he’d heard that its harsh winters were prefaced by heavy thunderstorms. A hearty folk, the Dwarrs suffered the winters without complaint. But Jalist had been living in the wilderness for many years, even before Rowen had met him. Rowen smiled, imagining the endless stream of curses that Jalist would have muttered as he tried to keep warm. Rowen hoped his Dwarr friend had found his lover and was hunched near a roaring fire, sipping mead in some Dwarrish great hall. As much as Rowen could have used Jalist’s help, this was not the Dwarr’s fight. He deserved some happiness.

He glanced back at the shivering Sylvs. “Sleep sitting up,” Rowen advised them. “At least parts of you will stay dry.”

Rhos’ari and Cathas obeyed, but Kilisti cursed and got up. She came to join him, carrying a sheathed shortsword.

Rowen laid Knightswrath across his knees, still in its scabbard. “Not going to try and stab me again, are you?”

“Not just yet.” Kilisti’s azure eyes scanned the snowy darkness. When next she spoke, she’d lowered her voice. “If Faeli doesn’t come back, watch yourself with Rhos’ari. I think they’re… friends.”

Rowen nodded slowly. He scrutinized Kilisti’s ravaged face in the dark. “You think we should have kept moving.”

“Doesn’t matter. This was never going to end well, anyway.” Kilisti sighed. “One man dead, two maimed before we even left the forest. In the old days, Captain Essidel would have sent a whole company of Shal’tiar to free the captives and hang all the rapists by their entrails. Instead, Briel gives me a maimed sergeant and his lover, a few recruits, and one crazed Knight who’s probably as dangerous to us as he is to his enemies.”

Rowen gestured. “Then go. Walk away. I won’t stop you.”

Kilisti snickered. “We Shal’tiar have a code, Knight. They took some of our own. We either take them back, or we die trying.” She shrugged. “Always figured I’d die fighting Olgrym, under trees instead of cold stars. But death is death, I suppose.”

She shivered. Rowen wondered if it was from cold or fear. He started to peel off his cloak and offer it to her. She stopped him with a withering look. But before she could speak, something else caught her attention.

She turned eastward, her features taut. A gesture warned Rhos’ari and Cathas, who quietly rose to their feet and reached for their bows. Meanwhile, Kilisti drew her sword between her fingers to muffle the sound. Rowen had risen, too, but he saw nothing beyond their camp except dark, snowy trees. As quietly as he could, he whispered, “How many?”

Kilisti held up a single finger and pointed. A moment later, Rowen saw a single cloaked figure stumble toward them, moving heavily through the snow. Rowen hoped that it was either Aerios or Faeli coming to rejoin them, with the other following a little farther behind. Then he recognized the stranger’s stooped, weary gait as that of an old man.

“Must be a merchant who survived a raid,” Rowen offered. “I’ll go talk to him. Watch for bandits coming up behind us.”

Kilisti nodded. She sheathed her shortsword, picked up her bow, and took up position behind a tree. Cathas and Rhos’ari did likewise. Rowen girded his sword and strode out of the clearing to greet the stranger.

He expected the old man to cry out in surprise at the sight of him. Instead, the old man bowed. As he straightened, two gnarled hands came up and lowered his tattered hood. The old man stood in silence, hands folded in front of him like a cleric.

Rowen blinked in disbelief. Then he drew his sword. “A trick…”

The old man smiled with twisted lips. “No trick, Knight of the Crane. And no kindness, either.”

Rowen remembered Kilisti and the others, still watching from behind trees. He held up his hand. “Don’t fire,” he called over his shoulder, even as he wondered what use arrows would be against El’rash’lin, anyway.

“Arrows kill me the same way they kill you. The difference is I have some small choice in the matter.” El’rash’lin took a step forward. He smiled again. “You must learn to guard your mind, Knight. You never know who might be listening.”

Rowen glanced back and saw the Sylvs moving slowly out from cover, arrows still fit to their bowstrings. Rhos’ari swore. Kilisti spat on the snow and raised her bow.

“I said, don’t fire,” Rowen repeated, stepping into their path. “Don’t you know who this is?”

“He’s a Shel’ai,” Kilisti answered, “which means I’ll be using his blood to paint my arrows. Step aside.” When Rowen did not move, she sidestepped.

Rowen followed, blocking her again. “He
was
a Shel’ai. Then he became a Dragonkin.” Rowen paused. “This is El’rash’lin.” To his surprise, Kilisti’s expression did not change, as though she did not recognize the name. “He turned against Fadarah,” Rowen said. “He saved us at Lyos. He’s not your enemy.”

Kilisti’s arrow did not waver. “The eyes say otherwise.”

“He’s my friend,” Rowen said. “Lower your bow, or I’ll cut it out of your hands.” He gripped Knightswrath and loosened it in its scabbard, ready to draw it the rest of the way. He noted the hilt’s warmth and wondered if the sword was responding to El’rash’lin’s presence.

Kilisti raised one eyebrow. “You’re fast, Knight, but you’re not
that
fast.” Nevertheless, she took a step backward. She glanced at Rhos’ari and Cathas, who had already lowered their bows but still held them at the ready. Slowly, she followed suit.