Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (39 page)

Unless…

He touched Knightswrath’s hilt through his cloak again. A slow smile formed on his lips. He watched the siege a moment longer, said a quick prayer in Shao for the women trapped inside and an additional prayer that no more would die before he could get to them, and returned to the inn. He would have to wait until nightfall.

Saanji opened his eyes, blinked, then cursed. “Why in Zet’s name is the ground moving?”

Arnil Royce’s face appeared over him. The First Lancer wore clean, gilded armor. He smiled thinly. “Because you’re in a wagon.”

Saanji managed to sit up, pushing back a bearskin blanket to look for bandaged wounds. Though he was in his underclothes, he appeared uninjured. He tested his right arm. His shoulder ached, stinging so much when he moved it that tears welled in his eyes, but he kept moving it, and the muscles loosened. The pain subsided. Then he remembered his other injury. He lifted his hand and felt nothing but a nub where his right ear had been.

“Blame Zeia,” Royce said. “Or thank her, if you prefer. She healed your shoulder, but she said she couldn’t do anything about the ear besides dull the pain.”

Saanji blinked and looked around. He was surrounded by mounted Dhargots—his Earless. They beamed at the sight of him. Saanji made what he hoped was an unflappable expression and nodded at them. A few saluted. Others cheered. Saanji turned to Royce, who was still riding alongside the wagon.

“Where are we?”

“Riding south. Or have you forgotten how to tell direction?” Royce gestured to the slow-setting sun to his right.

“I mean, why am I in a damn wagon?”

“Because it’s rather difficult for an unconscious man in his underclothes to ride a horse.”

Saanji bit back a curse. “I mean, why am I not resting in a temple or a tavern, being nursed by some pretty cleric with a healthy bosom?”

Though Royce continued smiling, a glint of dark seriousness shown in his eyes. “The Cassicans wanted us gone… enough of them, anyway. We lost a handful of men, but thanks to Zeia, we didn’t have many wounded. Those who couldn’t travel I sent north under guard. Don’t worry. Your wounded Earless will be safe. Everyone else is with us.”

He made a sweeping gesture all around them. “We started out a few hours ago. I wanted to be well underway before the gods decide to throw a blizzard at us. Zeia said you were well enough to be moved. So we moved you.”

Saanji checked his hand—his opal ring was still there. His shortsword lay beside him, clean and sheathed. He spotted his armor lying at the far end of the wagon as well. “How many did we lose?”

Royce’s smile thinned even further. “Fifteen Earless, nineteen Lancers. You lost that officer of yours from the practice yards, too. He followed some of the Cassicans who were about to attack Zeia and forced them to start their rebellion a little early. It could have been worse.”

“Much worse without Zeia, I’m guessing.” Saanji spotted her in the distance. She wore armor over a plain fighting robe with long sleeves. She glanced his way and nodded, her face as expressionless as stone. Saanji nodded back, blushing. He tugged up the bearskin blanket to cover his soft, pale body, suddenly self-conscious. He noted that Zeia appeared to be guiding her horse with her heels. The reins had been looped around her saddlehorn. He was surprised that she had not summoned her hands of fire to hold them, then he reminded himself that such things drained her strength.

Royce said, “Things would have been much worse without you, too. The rebels wanted to assassinate the two of us, plus Zeia, before the rest of the attack began. Your Earless threw them off balance. And you held them in the street long enough for me to get some Lancers together.” Royce paused. “I’m told you did a bit of fighting yourself.”

Saanji snorted. “Just a few lucky swings. I’m only here because my men kept me alive.”
Some of them died doing it, and I never even bothered to learn their names.
He squinted, studying the long line of armored men stretching on behind his uncovered wagon. “How are our numbers?”

“Better than you’d think. Some desertions, but two hundred Cassicans volunteered to come with us. They want revenge on your brother, I think.”

“Don’t we all?” Saanji turned the opal ring on his finger. “By the way, is there a reason you didn’t put me in a covered wagon? I don’t relish the thought of getting dressed while half the army gawks at my backside.”

“It’s your fault for waking too early. Do you want me to surround the tent with shield-bearers? Or maybe I could find an elephant somewhere.”

Saanji glowered at him, wrapping the bearskin blanket around himself like a cloak as he sat on the edge of the wagon and pulled on his boots. The horses and footmen had worn a path through the snow, but the ground was still bumpy. His stomach twisted. “Royce, unless you think it will raise my men’s morale to see their commander retching over the side of a wagon, you best get me some food and wine.”

“I can manage one of those when we stop—which may be soon. I’m told that a few miles south, the snow gets too deep for wagons. We might have to send them back to the city.”

“And what do we do for food?”

“Each man can carry his own provisions.”

Dry rations and water, you mean,
Saanji thought darkly. “Too bad my brother kept all the elephants.” Saanji pulled on his britches, strapped on his greaves, then feigned immodesty and dropped the bearskin blanket to don his tunic. He fumbled with his cuirass, a leather vest covered in scales of blackened steel, unaccustomed to donning his armor without help. He girded his sword last. Turning, he saw that Royce had ridden on ahead to speak with a squad of scouts, who were just returning from the south.

“I’ll walk,” Saanji told the wagon’s drivers. They stopped the wagon. But before he could climb down, one of his Earless brought a saddled horse alongside the wagon and offered him the reins. Saanji considered leaping gallantly from the wagon onto his horse, then realized he would almost certainly fall flat on his face. He climbed down from the wagon, waving off assistance, then mounted his horse. His stomach rumbled again.

Concealing it with a grin, he waved again to his men, provoking scattered cheers, then rode ahead to join Zeia. “That’s the second time you saved my life.”

Zeia’s white pupils became daggers of ice. “When was the first?”

“Two nights ago, in my dreams. I was being chased by an Olg. Big one, big as a house. A chieftain, I think. But you handled him without much trouble.”

Zeia did not laugh—or respond. But hands of flame unfurled from her sleeves, causing the fabric to smolder as she grabbed the reins. She stared straight ahead. Saanji rode beside her, trying to think of something else to say. Finally, he gave up and rode on ahead so that he could pretend to consult with his officers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Stone and Fire

R
owen finished donning his kingsteel cuirass, then he paused and looked at his other pieces of armor. He absentmindedly touched his face, where he’d just finished shaving off the stubble of a red beard. He’d trimmed his unruly red locks as short as he could, cutting them himself with a knife, and he was counting on his helmet to cover the rest. He intended to conceal his cuirass beneath an oversized tunic emblazoned with the impaled dragon of Dhargoth, but his gauntlets, greaves, tassets, spaulders, and vambraces were another matter. The best he could do was wear a large cloak to cover himself, but if a night breeze caught his cloak or a single flicker from a torch or lantern betrayed the telltale shine of kingsteel, he was finished.

He might pretend to have bought or plundered a single piece, but even if they didn’t recognize him as the Isle Knight they were looking for, his armor would draw too much attention. Besides, concealing Knightswrath would be difficult. He planned to turn his belt so that the long-handled sword would be hidden by his cloak, but even that was risky.

I’ll have to leave the rest of my armor here. Same goes for my tabard.
He inspected the torn silk garment, rubbing its azure fabric between his fingers. How many times had that tabard been torn since he donned it less than a year ago? He examined the white sigil on his tabard, trying to make out the shape of a balancing crane through all the tears, bloodstains, and burn marks. He smiled thinly.
I never was much of a Knight. Maybe it’s fitting I leave it here.

He placed the rest of his armor back in the hole, followed by his tunic, then replaced the loose floorboard. He doubted anyone would find it after he left, but just to be safe, he moved the creaking boards and straw that passed for a bed so that they covered the floorboard. Then, with a heavy sigh, he finished getting ready, extinguished the lantern that provided the room’s only illumination, and left.

He emerged from the tavern into a city street already filled with drunken soldiers. He forced himself to smile, pretending to enjoy the spectacle. Since the Hesodi who still enjoyed some measure of freedom knew well enough to stay indoors, the Dhargots mostly fought each other, engaging in drunken brawls until an officer interrupted them. But some had slaves of their own, whom they dragged behind them like leashed dogs. One man had a young girl with him—little more than a child in rags, her face dirty, her eyes dark and expressionless.

The Dhargot caught Rowen’s eye. “Twenty iron crowns for an hour.” He winked.

Rowen tensed. He touched his dagger and remember that in the Dark Quarter, the punishment for men who abused children was a blade between the ribs. He looked around.
Too many eyes.
“No, thanks.” He started to walk away.

The Dhargot grabbed his arm. “Fifteen,” he said. “Or twenty, and she’s yours to keep. I caught her last week, crawling around the sewers. Hardly touched her myself. If you don’t want her for your bed, she’d still make a good house slave.”

“I’m a sellsword. Do I look like I have a house?” Rowen forced himself to smile despite his revulsion.

“Then sell her to someone else.” The Dhargot scratched at stitches in his cheek, which had begun to scab over. “I’m through feeding her, dragging her around. I just want to sit by a fire and drink.”

Rowen eyed the man’s sewn cheek. Something told him the little girl had done that.
Don’t look at her eyes,
Rowen thought. But before he could help it, he felt his gaze drawn to her dark one. She looked back.

“Twelve,” Rowen said. “Twelve, and she’s mine.”

The Dhargot grimaced. “Twelve? By the Dead God, I could drag her over to the slave pens and get thirteen! I was giving you a deal because of the dragon on your chest. If you’re not interested, I’ll find someone who is.” He started to walk away, tugging the rope that joined his wrist to the girl’s throat.

Rowen grabbed the man’s cloak and jerked him to a stop. The man whirled, reaching for his sword. Rowen held up his hands. “Fourteen. That’s all I’ve got. Profit is profit. Do you want it or not?”

The Dhargot made a show of scratching his stitches in deliberation. He looked the little girl up and down. “Fine,” he said finally.

Rowen finished counting coins out of his pouch, careful to conceal how many remained. Though he’d taken twice as much as the Dhargot requested off those he’d killed earlier, he knew that if he let on how much he really had, he would get nothing but a knife in the back. Feigning last-minute reluctance, he gave the Dhargot the coins. The Dhargot handed him the rope then grinned.

“Good luck with this one. Don’t let her near a blade.” The Dhargot pointed at his stitches, laughed, and backed away. He kept one hand on his sword in case Rowen objected. But Rowen only stood there, holding the rope. He waited until the other Dhargots milling in the street lost interest in him, then he started toward the alley, gently tugging the girl after him.

“Don’t run,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not a Dhargot. My name is Rowen. I’m an Isle Knight. Do you know what that is?”

The little girl looked at the ground.

“I can’t set you free, so I’ll have to take you with me, into the sewers. Don’t make a sound.” He considered cutting her free, then decided against it. He led her toward the nearest cistern, looked to make sure they had not been followed, then pried up the lid.

“Not the sewers,” the girl said, her voice barely a whisper.

Rowen hesitated. He wondered if she was afraid of the dark or if the reek bothered her. Then he remembered what her captor had said. “The Dhargots won’t get you. I promise.” Rowen descended into the sewers, leading the girl.

Having been down there once before, Rowen knew the way, but he cursed when he realized he hadn’t thought to bring a torch or lantern. An occasional flicker of torchlight shone through the grates as men passed by on the surface, though it was not enough to see by. The stars and moon were no help at this distance, either.

“What’s your name?” Rowen whispered.

The little girl grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his flesh, but she said nothing.

“I already told you mine. It’s Rowen. I’m from Lyos. Do you know where that is?” As he spoke, Rowen tugged her as gently as he could toward the wall of the sewer, out of the reeking water. He started forward in the darkness.

He kept whispering, hoping less to earn the girl’s trust—which he figured must be impossible, after all she’d gone through—than to keep her distracted enough that she would not scream and draw attention. They’d just edged around the flickering torchlight of a Dhargot who was pissing down a grate when the little girl stopped.

“I know her,” she whispered.

Rowen kept one eye on the grate, fearing the Dhargot had heard her. But the soldier finished his business and walked away. Rowen pulled the little girl away from the grate, just in case. “What?”

“The woman you’re talking about. I know her.”

Rowen had been talking so idly that for a moment, he didn’t realize what she meant.

“Red hair. She has red hair, like you.”

Rowen let go of the rope. He turned to face the little girl in the dark. She had not run. “What’s your name?” he asked again.

“Thessa,” she answered.

“Pretty name,” Rowen answered. “Hold still. Let’s get that rope off you.” He drew his dagger. Reaching out in the dark, he found the rope hanging from her neck and cut it with a single, swift stroke. “Listen, Thessa, I’ll keep you as safe as I can, but you have to stay quiet and stay close. We’re going up to the big temple where the Iron Sisters are. We’re going to free them. We’re going to help them get down into the sewers, then we’re all going to escape from the city. Understand?”

Rowen hoped she would not ask what he intended to do once they were out of Hesod, since he’d not yet figured that out himself. Instead, Thessa said, “The sewers don’t join up with that temple.” She grabbed his arm again.

“I know. But they will soon.” Rowen touched her hand, loosening her fingers when her nails began to dig into his arm again.

They crept on through the sewers. The darkness deepened. No more grates appeared above them. Rowen listened carefully, wondering if they would run into Dhargothi soldiers who had been sent down to inspect the sewers, but all he heard was Thessa’s frightened breathing and the slow drip of water.

We’re close now.

He reached up and touched the low, cold stone ceiling. While the walls of the sewer had been reinforced with bricks, the ceiling was just thick, unshaped rock. “Thessa, I have to do something now. I’m going to make a fire. Don’t be afraid.”

“Are we under the temple now?”

“Yes,” Rowen said.
I hope so
.

“Is Igrid in there?”

Rowen thought of the red-haired woman whose corpse he’d seen. “Maybe,” he lied. “Now remember what I said. Stay quiet. Don’t be afraid.”

Thessa did not answer, but Rowen imagined her nodding. He took a deep breath to steady himself and gently removed her hand from his arm. He stepped away from her. Then he drew Knightswrath and willed it to life.

Violet flames ignited all along the curved kingsteel, bright but silent. Thessa gasped. He glanced at her, half afraid she would run, unsure what he would do if she did. But Thessa stayed, staring at the flaming sword with wide eyes.

“Stay back,” Rowen warned. The dragonbone hilt grew hotter and hotter in his grasp. His pulse quickened. He felt his blood turning to fire. His vision blurred. He blinked, staring at the ceiling. He felt as though he were looking through it, all the way up to the stars. He blinked again.

Knightswrath’s hilt grew hotter still, searing him. Part of him wanted to drop it, but he felt a stronger desire to give in completely, as he had when facing Fadarah in the Wytchforest. He nearly did, then he jerked back from the feeling.
Silwren, help me…

He gritted his teeth and thrust Knightswrath upward. With a great, steely ring, the flaming blade sank into the stone. He pushed hard, expecting to meet more resistance, then stopped when he was hilt deep, the crosspiece flush against the rocky ceiling. Violet flames bled from the ceiling, flowing down his arms and covering his face. The flames clawed at him. Rowen bore it as long as he could then screamed.

He partially withdrew Knightswrath from the rock, braced himself, and swung, as though he were slashing an enemy standing just before him. A ringing sound echoed through the sewers again, even louder than the first time. Dust and pebbles peppered Rowen’s face, but he did not stop. Withdrawing Knightswrath completely, he sidestepped and made a second incision in the rocky ceiling then a third.

By now, he saw nothing but purple fire.

He shouted for Thessa to stay back again, though his own voice suddenly sounded foreign. Blindly, he slashed the rocky ceiling twice more, then stopped. A deep, ominous rumbling overpowered the searing glare of his wytchfire. The world went dark. Icy water closed all around him as though he’d fallen through a crack in the Wintersea. A terrible reek filled his nostrils: the decay of all those he’d failed.

No, I’m still in Hesod. I’m still alive,
he told himself, but he could not remember falling.

He tried to rise, realized that both his hands were empty, and groped in the reeking darkness for Knightswrath. He could not find it. Panic over losing the sword eclipsed his fear of drowning. He reached all around him, groping and clawing at the void.

Silwren, where are you?

Then, all at once, the icy, reeking water receded. In its place came the sound of steel scraping against leather, the angry and fearful shouts of women. Thessa’s voice rose over the din. The child spoke his name then Igrid’s. A woman answered, but Rowen could not make out the words. Then rough hands seized him. He was being dragged through the darkness.

“No. Silwren…”

He resisted a moment then gave in.

Karhaati was inspecting the swordswoman’s wounds when he received the news. He frowned, thinking at first that one of his men had spread some sort of lie, intending to make him look foolish. He considered cutting the messenger’s throat, then noted the genuine fear in the man’s eyes. “What happened?”