Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (23 page)

Igrid shrugged. “Royce might. But from what I hear, the Ivairian king is even more of a simpering idiot than you are.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

The winds quickened, and the snowfall intensified. Near sunset, Jalist was relieved beyond words when he spotted a village in the distance. He slowed his horse, reminding himself that caution was called for, but he saw no sign of Dhargothi occupation. “Surprised they left this place standing.”

Braggo rode ahead to find an inn while the others lingered at the edge of the village. The tall man returned soon enough and informed them that the inn was deserted. Apparently, all the villagers had fled. But shelter was shelter, so Jalist declared that they would spend the night in the inn.

“I’ll check the larders for food.” He glanced at Igrid. “If you’d like to search the town for valuables, feel free.”

Igrid answered with a withering look before following him into the inn. Braggo and Vardan led the horses toward the adjacent stables, loosening their swords as they went, just in case the village turned out to be less abandoned than it seemed. Jalist realized that now would be a good time to flee, but he did not relish the idea of navigating through snow and darkness on foot.

The squat inn, with its dirt-floor common room, three adjoining rooms, and a small kitchen, looked to have been picked clean before the villagers fled. Jalist and Igrid quietly split up and searched, but found nothing but broken chairs, a child’s ragdoll, and a cast-iron pot that must have been too heavy to carry.

Jalist lamented the lack of wine but shrugged. “Dry rations, it is. At least the walls will keep the winds out.”

“At this point, I’d settle for a slab of charred urusk meat and a bowl of paupers’ root.”

Jalist spotted a small pile of dried wood and set about starting a fire in the hearth. Twilight had darkened the inn, but soon, a fire drove back the shadows.

“A far cry from Lyos,” Igrid muttered, watching a fat spider wriggle along the bare, dusty bar. She took a sip from her waterskin and looked around. “Gods, whoever heard of an inn without music? Empty towns make my skin crawl.”

Jalist had sat down on one of the few surviving chairs, but he leaned forward on his long axe. “Saw plenty like this in Stillhammer.” He looked away from her and pretended to study the fire.

“Did you… know anyone there?”

“Of course.”

“Did anyone get away?”

Gods, is she trying to make conversation now?
Jalist gripped his axe. “Don’t know. Didn’t see another living soul the whole time I was there, unless you count the Jolym.”

“Not really.” Igrid walked over and passed him the waterskin. “Somebody must have made it out. Even the Jolym couldn’t wipe out an entire kingdom. Gods, there must have been ten thousand Dwarr there!”

“Ten thousand in Tarator alone.”

Igrid whistled. “You said the whole Jolym force was only about—what? A hundred? No matter how tough they are, there’s no way—”

“Probably had a lot more than a hundred, starting out.” Jalist jabbed the fire with the shaft of his long axe. “I didn’t see any dead Jolym, but they could have hid them. Can’t believe my people wouldn’t have made an account of themselves.”

“I didn’t say they didn’t.”

Jalist scowled at her then shrugged. “If anybody got away, they didn’t go north, or we’d have seen them.”

“South, then?”

“Dendain is south. I doubt they’d run into the damn desert.”

“I meant west of there, into Quesh.”

“Where the Queshi would probably riddle them with arrows for trespassing.” Jalist started to lift the waterskin then changed his mind and passed it back. “When this war’s over, maybe I’ll go look for them.”

Igrid answered with a crooked smile. “You don’t really think either of us will survive this war, do you?”

Before Jalist could answer, the inn door opened. Vardan and Braggo returned, uncomplaining, despite their pale skin and the snow in their hair and beards. Jalist waved them toward the fire. “See anything out there?”

Vardan shook his head.

Braggo said, “A couple stray dogs. Poor things looked hungry.” He pulled off his gloves and held his hands over the fire. “Might take them some food once I’ve thawed out a bit.”

“No point in that,” Vardan snapped. “They don’t learn to fend for themselves, they’ll be dead inside a month, anyway.”

Braggo glared at him but said nothing.

“We’ll leave at first light,” Jalist said. He pointed. “That room has two beds… well, two pallets of straw. But it’s all yours.”

Vardan cracked his neck then flexed and unflexed his fingers over the fire. “I’ll sleep out here on the floor so I can watch the door.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jalist said. “We can bar the door. Get some rest.”

Vardan looked angry then smiled. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I’ll sleep better if I know my ears aren’t going to end up tied around a Dhargot’s neck.”

“Same here,” Braggo said. He nibbled a slab of dried, heavily peppered meat then accepted Igrid’s waterskin with a gruff nod of thanks. When he was finished with it, he passed it to Vardan.

Vardan drank, then asked, “Do we keep straight west or veer south? Nosh might be safer.”

“But out of the way,” Braggo countered.

“And we didn’t exactly leave Nosh on friendly terms last time we were there.” Jalist cast a sidelong glance at Igrid. “We need to find Silwren fast. The quickest way to the Wytchforest is straight west, past Hesod.”

Igrid tensed at the mention of her former home, but Braggo was already protesting. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but the Dhargots are bound to spot us.”

“They’ll see us, but they won’t stop us. We’re going to run into the Dhargots sooner or later, so we might as well do it now.”

Igrid cocked her head. “Just what in the fey hells are you talking about, Dwarr?”

“Uniforms,” Jalist answered. “We find some Dhargots… officers, preferably… and take their uniforms. We pretend we’re escorting a prisoner back to Dhargoth.” He gave Igrid a pointed look.

Igrid’s green eyes flashed with rage. “No.”

Braggo and Vardan exchanged looks. “Might work,” Braggo mused.

“Or they might think we’re deserters and shove our asses down on sharpened stakes,” Vardan growled. “I’d rather join a dragon cult.”

“Whoever heard of deserters escorting a prisoner?” Jalist countered. “Besides, I can write. I’ll scribble some orders from a general giving us safe passage back to Dhargoth. If we
are
challenged, that’ll take care of it.”

“Like hells it will!” Igrid backed away, touching her sword. “Look in a mirror, Dwarr. You look about as Dhargothi as I do.”

“True. But Dhargots hire sellswords sometimes.”
I should know. I’ve worked for them before
. He glanced at Vardan and Braggo. “As for these two, paint their eyes and dress them in black scale armor, and nobody will be the wiser.”

But Igrid was already shaking her head. “I told you, no. Go stand in the fire, Dwarr. I won’t go along with this.”

“We’d need ears,” Braggo mused. “Enough for a few necklaces.”

Jalist smirked. “Well, if we’re bothering Dhargots for uniforms, we might as well take their ears, too.”

“Perfect,” Vardan grunted. “Now, we just need to find a squad of Dhargots small and dumb enough that the four of us can kill them without dying in the process.”

Braggo looked doubtful. “Captain, maybe Nosh
is
a better idea. If the Noshans come after us, we can press the horses and outrun them.”

Jalist thought about the Lochurite berserkers they’d fought while passing through the valley. A bizarre clan of barbarians that roamed Nosh, the Lochurites—men, women, even children—imbibed mysterious drugs that gave them great strength and ferocity but also drove them mad. He had no desire to encounter them again.

But heading to the Wytchforest by way of Nosh would take us by Quesh…
Jalist thought of Leander—maybe he could still find Dwarrish refugees in the south. With great effort, he pushed the thought from his mind.

“My way is faster and safer. The Dhargots have other things to worry about. They won’t pull a hair for a few bored soldiers escorting a prisoner.”

Igrid took a step toward him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Easy for you to say. You won’t be the one in chains.”

“More like rope. I don’t have any chains, unless you brought some with you.” Jalist laughed. No one joined him.

“Tell me,” Igrid said, “how long did you spend coming up with this brilliant plan of yours?”

“About as long as we’ve been talking about it,” Jalist confessed. “Doesn’t make it a bad one. Anyway, once we’re past Hesod, we turn south and ride for the Wytchforest like Fohl himself is chasing us.”

“Straight through Godsfall,” Vardan mused. “Now you want us to risk the Olgrym, too?”

“The Olgrym are who Silwren is fighting,” Jalist countered. “We find them, we find her.”

Igrid threw up her hands in exasperation. “Even if we find the wytch, what makes you think she’ll
stop
fighting the Olgrym to help us instead?”

“That was always going to be the last stone in our path. But Locke will talk her into it. If Lyos is in danger, he’ll come.”

No one spoke. Jalist sensed that he had nearly convinced the two men, but he suspected that Igrid would only go along at swordpoint. But that was a concern for another day. “Rest,” he said. “We’ll leave at first light. I’m sure we can argue more about it then.” Without saying more, he turned and headed for one of the empty rooms to sleep.

“Locke, my friend, you better still be alive,” Jalist muttered as he lay down, still armored, his long axe resting on the straw beside him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Questions and Loyalties

S
hade woke in a bed, staring up at a roof. He thought for a moment that he was dreaming. Then he turned and found El’rash’lin sitting in a chair, smiling faintly. The old man’s twisted features looked even more ghastly for the dark circles under his eyes.

“Good morning, Kith’el. I must say, you have a remarkable knack for staying alive.”

Shade closed his eyes, testing the magic inside him. He felt it roil through his blood. He opened his eyes again and considered attacking El’rash’lin, then reminded himself that even at full strength, he was no match for a Dragonkin. “Where are we?”

“A town, east of Brahasti’s compound. I can’t tell you the name because everyone was gone when we got here. Looks like the Dhargots passed through.” He added, “You almost killed yourself, burning those guards.”

“Where’s Zeia?”

“Still asleep. I induced it. She’ll stay that way, for the time being. The Light knows she needs the rest.”

Shade got out of bed and found a fresh change of clothes on a nearby table next to a washbasin. He started to dress.

El’rash’lin said, “If you need to use the chamber pot, I’ll step out.”

Shade could not tell if he was joking. “Am I your prisoner?”

“I’d prefer to think of you as my ally.”

Shade spotted a sheathed longsword lying nearby. He wondered if El’rash’lin had left that for him or if it had simply been left behind by the room’s last occupant. He touched the cold, wire-wrapped hilt. “I have questions.”

“I figured as much.”

“But first, have you restored Zeia’s hands?”

El’rash’lin shook his head.

Shade frowned. While restoring severed limbs was well beyond the limits of Shel’ai magic, he imagined such feats were simple for Dragonkin. “Can you?”

“I can,” El’rash’lin said, “but I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll explain that later.”

“You’ll explain that now.”

El’rash’lin smiled. “No, Kith’el, I won’t. For now, just trust that Zeia is not in pain. I saved her life and stopped the bleeding.”

“But without her hands—”

“She can’t summon wytchfire,” El’rash’lin interrupted. “Is that what you were about to say?”

“In part.”

“No need. For now, she’s safe. We all are.”

Shade’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound too sure of that.” When El’rash’lin did not answer, Shade asked, “What about the Sylvs?”

“I restored their will. Their minds are their own again.”

Shade turned back to the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection. “I couldn’t care less about their minds. I’m more concerned with what’s in their bellies.”

“The ones who aren’t pregnant have left,” El’rash’lin said. “I tried to talk them out of it, but they chose to take their chances in the wild. They might have tried to kill me, but Keswen stopped them.”

Shade turned.

El’rash’lin said, “That’s the one who killed Brahasti.”

Shade answered with a noncommittal grunt and continued buckling the sword around his waist.

“All the Sylvan women who are pregnant are carrying Shel’ai babies.”

Shade froze, mid-buckle. “How is that possible?”

“Chorlga’s devilry. But I don’t suppose you know who Chorlga is yet, do you?”

“I can guess. A Dragonkin. A
true
Dragonkin. He made Jolym and took over Brahasti’s… breeding program.”

El’rash’lin nodded slowly. “He’s done a lot more than that. He’s been moving in the shadows for centuries. We didn’t even know he was there. But all the while, ever since the Shattering War, he’s been stoking the fires of hatred against the Shel’ai.”

Shade thought of all the Shel’ai he’d seen murdered, including Rhas’ero, the old man who had adopted and raised him. “I doubt the races needed much help.” He sensed that El’rash’lin was about to argue with him and decided to change the subject. “Why did they stay?”

“The pregnant Sylvs?” When Shade nodded, El’rash’lin said, “I think because they knew they would not be welcomed back in Sylvos. They knew they’d be hated by their own people. One even drowned herself.” The old man’s voice was filled with grief.

So they finally understand.
Shade almost laughed. “Where will they go?”

“I’m taking them to Coldhaven.”

Shade’s smile vanished. “No, you’re not.”

“Do you know a better place for them?”

“For the Shel’ai babies they’ll have, no. But I don’t relish the idea of letting Sylvs see where we’ve been hiding. What if they run back to Sylvos and tell their king?”

“They won’t betray us.”

“Even if they don’t, Coldhaven isn’t safe anymore.”

“It never was. But I agree that we’ll need a new place, somewhere Chorlga can’t reach.”

Shade hesitated. “Zeia talked about getting a boat on Sorocco and leaving Ruun altogether.”

The idea sounded absurd when he said it out loud, but El’rash’lin nodded. “Fadarah and I argued about that many times. He said it was cowardice to flee a land we should we ruling.” He smiled slightly. “I should have argued harder. If I had, thousands might still be alive.”

Shade sensed the old man’s despair but had no desire to comfort him. “So we gather all the Shel’ai who are left… plus these Sylvan women, if we must… and flee. We find some island off the coast and hope the Dragonward is real enough to keep Chorlga from following us. Is
that
your plan?”

“The Dragonward is real. We’ll have to trust in that if Rowen Locke loses.”

He will.
“Will you stay and help him?”

El’rash’lin shook his head. “The Isle Knight needs me… but I can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not the only Dragonkin that Chorlga brought back from the dead. In fact, my resurrection was an accident. Chorlga only intended to bring back one other.”

Shade frowned. Then his eyes widened. “The Nightmare…”

El’rash’lin nodded. “While one of us lives, the other cannot stay dead. We will keep coming back to life until the spell is broken.”

Shade was quiet for a time. “If we could yoke his strength again, like before…”

“You can’t,” El’rash’lin snapped. “Have you learned nothing?”

Shade ignored the question. “Where is he?”

“He’s here on Ruun somewhere. His madness affects his resurrection so that every time he comes back to life, he appears somewhere else. Chorlga will have to find him.” El’rash’lin calmed himself. “Chorlga can see through the eyes of his Jolym, so he knows I’m alive. He’ll surmise the same about Iventine. Once he finds him, with Iventine’s power added to the strength of the Jolym and the Dhargots, Chorlga will be too powerful.”

“Powerful enough to kill all the enemies we leave behind.”

“So everyone on Ruun is your enemy now?”

“Near enough.” Shade saw a pair of boots. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled them on. “We should get moving. If this Dragonkin knows about you—”

“He won’t come himself. He’s much too busy thrashing every kingdom south of here.”

Shade tested the fit of his new boots. They were a little loose but adequate. “If you’re so worried about the people of Ruun, stay and help them. I don’t particularly want you with us, anyway.”

“I’m not staying on Ruun,” El’rash’lin said, “but I’m not sailing beyond it, either. There’s only one way I can help Rowen Locke, and that’s by eliminating Iventine. To do that, I have to eliminate myself.”

Shade tapped the pommel of his new sword. “I’d be happy to assist you.”

El’rash’lin smiled thinly. “It wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t die for good. But I think I know of a different way…”

“The Dragonward,” Shade said finally. “You’re going to throw yourself into it.”

El’rash’lin did not answer.

A pitcher of wine was sitting on the end table. Shade filled a cup and drank. “If you want me to try and talk you out of this, you’re going to have a long wait.”

El’rash’lin turned to the window and watched a slant of setting sunlight move along the floor. “The Isle Knight needs help,” he said at last. “I can’t send him you. So I have to send him Zeia.”

Shade lowered his cup. “You’re sending him a Shel’ai with no hands?”

“I’ve already spoken with her. She knows what’s at stake. She’s agreed to stay behind.”

Shade raised one eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. Up until a few weeks ago, she was fighting
with
Fadarah against the Sylvs and everyone else.”

“So were you. Then you turned Fadarah’s skull to ash.”

Gods, how did he know that?
Shade drained his cup and said nothing.

“We Shel’ai have lost this war. But another, bigger war rages in its place. We each must do our part.” El’rash’lin paused. “Silwren understood that.”

Shade considered throwing his cup at El’rash’lin. “Don’t talk to me about Silwren.”

El’rash’lin nodded. “Then I’ll talk to you about Zeia. She’s staying because there are still Shel’ai in Ruun. They will keep being born in Sylvos, to Sylvan parents, one birth in a thousand. And there are others in hiding, ones Fadarah and I never found. If Locke survives the war, he’ll do what he can. But they will still need a Shel’ai protector. Just as you will safeguard all those who sail beyond Ruun, Zeia will protect all those left behind.”

Shade thought of the Shel’ai he’d left in Ziraari’s camp. After freeing Zeia, he’d warned them through mindspeak to flee, as well, lest they be blamed for Ziraari’s murder. But by then, they’d discovered that Shade had killed Fadarah. “There may be Shel’ai in Coldhaven who want me dead.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain there will be. But I’ll be with you.”

“They probably want
you
dead, too.”

“Then we’ll have to rely on Zeia to talk them out of it.”

“I thought you were sending her to help the Isle Knight.”

“I am. But she’ll have to go to Coldhaven first… not just to keep us alive but to give her time to train.”

Shade scoffed. “Train for what? You honestly think a lone Shel’ai woman who can’t even defend herself will be able to travel all the way back from the Wintersea to… wherever that Isle Knight is? The first Dhargot, Olg, or Human bandit she comes across will make her wish she was dead.”

El’rash’lin offered a frustrating, knowing smile. “Even without her hands, Zeia can defend herself.”

“I doubt it.” Shade remembered her pale, stricken face and the blood-soaked rags around the stumps of her wrists. “Wytchfire is our strongest form of attack. She can’t summon it without her hands—which
you
won’t restore.”

“She still has her mind.”

“Yes,” Shade conceded. “She’ll be able to read thoughts, maybe move small objects or confuse some dull-witted enemy, if she concentrates hard enough. That’s still less useful than a squad of trained swordsmen.”

El’rash’lin shook his head. “For centuries, no Shel’ai has bothered to develop other magical forms of attack, relying instead on their wytchfire. Now, without her hands, Zeia will have to correct this. That will make her unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable, but still weak,” Shade countered. “It would’ve been better if Brahasti had just killed her. Restore her hands or put her out of her misery.” He refilled his glass, took a drink, and glanced up. “Don’t look at me like I’m a monster, old man. I saved her life.”

“You only saved her so she’d help you free the Sylvs.”

“Exactly.” Shade raised his glass. “So she’d help me free
enemies
who were being treated unjustly. How monstrous of me.”

El’rash’lin rose from his chair. “I must check on Zeia. Feel free to wander around the compound, but if I were you, I’d stay well away from the Sylvs. They have as much cause to hate you as you have to hate them.” He started for the door.

Shade looked down at the contents of his glass. He thought of the Sylvan women, imagined how they must be feeling given all they’d endured, and decided not to argue.

Chorlga stood alone in Cadavash, having ordered the rest of his disciples to wait for him on the surface. The eerie depths of the dragon graveyard lay before him, a dizzying mass of temples and excavated tunnels. For centuries, Chorlga had preferred the silence of the deeper, secret chamber that housed Namundvar’s Well. He’d visited it in secret, using it to tap into the Light and add to his own considerable magic.

No more.

Chorlga understood that the Well had a will of its own—the will of the Light. Though Chorlga had conquered that will countless times, something had changed recently. Somehow, the Well had learned how to defy him. He could no longer use it to draw power from the Light or use it for divination.

Still, days ago, through the eyes of his Jolym, Chorlga had seen El’rash’lin. The sight of the twisted old man had forced Chorlga to admit that somehow, he’d misjudged the nuances of that resurrection spell even more horribly than he’d first thought. If El’rash’lin was alive, so was the Nightmare. But the Well would not help Chorlga find either of them, let alone the Isle Knight who carried Knightswrath.

Chorlga had considered teleporting himself to Brahasti’s compound, capturing El’rash’lin, and studying him to better understand what had gone wrong with the resurrection spell—or, at the very least, in order to prevent the old man from interfering any further with his conquests. But even for a Dragonkin, teleportation was difficult. Without access to Namundvar’s Well, recovering his full strength could take days.

Of course, that left the Nightmare. He’d tried to locate the Nightmare on his own, but somehow, the madman remained hidden. That, too, should have been impossible, meaning either that Chorlga had made still more mistakes in the resurrection spell—mistakes of which he was still unaware—or else the gods themselves must be interfering.