Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (48 page)

“This isn’t good news,” the Isle Knight said. “If you kill your brother, what Chorlga will send after you in retribution will be far worse than either the Jolym or the Nightmare. But it’s the only way we’re going to win.”

Saanji rubbed his eyes. “Maybe you should start this particular mad tale at the beginning. And do it fast, before the room turns so much that I get sick again.”

The Isle Knight explained. Saanji listened. The tale sounded so absurd that Saanji made him repeat it. When the Knight was finished, Saanji frowned. “You’re even more crazed than I thought.”

“I swear, everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

“Ah, yes. The favorite mantra of madmen.”

“So it is.” The Isle Knight smiled faintly. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

Saanji laughed. “Trust you? Knight, I don’t even know you! The only knight I knew who was worth trusting just got his whole damn head split open.”

“And on the third sunrise, you’re going to avenge him.”

Saanji glanced down at his opal ring. He suddenly felt more sober than he wanted to. “I have plenty of reason to kill my brother, Sir Fey. I just don’t have the skill—or the guts, if you want to know the truth.” He stood up and started pacing again. “If you want him dead so bad, why don’t
you
kill him? I hear you’re good with a blade. Or get that dark-haired she-Knight to do it.”

“My business is with Chorlga. Yours is with the Bloody Prince. Besides, when Aeko finds out I’m gone, she’ll come after me.”

“So I take it you aren’t going to tell her.”

The Isle Knight shook his head. “Jalist and Aeko can’t know. They’ve suffered enough for me.”

“But apparently, I haven’t.” Saanji bowed, waving Royce’s sword. “My apologies, Sir Fey! I can’t imagine what was going through my mind.” Saanji realized that his feet were cold. Saanji took his boots back to the chair, stuck Royce’s sword in the ground, sat down, and started to tug his boots on. Midway through, he stopped. He stared at one of his boots, dangling halfway off his foot. A slow smile formed on his lips.

“Know what I think, Sir Fey? I think you’re about to go get yourself killed. And I think I will, too. But at least we’ll both find out if the gods are actually real.” He kicked off his boot, hopped off his chair, and lurched toward the Isle Knight, sword in hand. He presented the sword. The Isle Knight backed up, stretched out his hands, and cut himself free.

Saanji grinned. Then he wiped the grin from his face, stepped back, and offered a grave salute with Royce’s sword. “Die well, Sir Fey. You know, that’s important to Dhargots—a good death. I never thought I’d get one. Did you?” Before the Isle Knight could answer, Saanji shouted for his bodyguards. They rushed back into the tent, swords drawn. They moved to seize the Isle Knight, but Saanji shook his head.

“Forget him. Just escort him to the eastern edge of the camp and put him on a horse. Don’t ask questions.” He looked past his bodyguards at the servant who had awakened him. “As for you, I have some things I’d like you to get.”

Rowen shivered as he guided his borrowed horse away from the camp. As the light and heat from the sentries’ fires faded behind him, a cold chill took their place. Though he’d dressed in three cloaks, the chill stole through his clothes and armor and wrapped itself tight around his bones. His horse neighed in protest despite the thick blanket stretched beneath the saddle.

The Ivairian palfrey whose name he did not know reminded him of Snowdark. He presumed that Kilisti had taken his piebald horse back to the Wytchforest. He hoped both were safe. He tugged at his cloaks and looked up at the dark sky. Armahg’s Eye shown high above, beautiful but indifferent.

Nevertheless, Rowen said a prayer of thanks that neither Jalist nor Aeko had been in his tent when Shade had arrived. Though Aeko had left two Isle Knights standing watch outside Rowen’s tent, Shade had rendered both of them unconscious. By the time they regained their senses or one of his friends came to check on him, Rowen would be long gone.

He knew they would follow him, though he dreaded what would happen when Jalist in particular encountered the grisly sight that Rowen suspected must be waiting farther to the east.
Unless it hasn’t happened yet. Unless I still have time to warn them…

He urged the horse to move faster through the thick snow. As he rode, he glanced around, scanning the shadows for a sign of Shade. He knew the Shel’ai was out there somewhere, probably nearby, perhaps just a little way ahead of him. The thought unsettled him, but he reminded himself that he was following Shade’s plan. The Shel’ai had nothing to gain by killing him now.

Besides, if this works, I can always kill him once it’s over.

Rowen lifted his gaze and saw a faint orange sheen on the eastern horizon. He might have mistaken it for the first hint of sunrise, but he checked the position of the sliver moon and saw that it was still several hours too early. He narrowed his eyes. For the first time, he saw a pale smear of violet beneath the orange glow, as though one had given birth to the other. He slowed his horse and closed his eyes. Forgetting the cold, he whispered another prayer. Then, remembering Shade, he opened his eyes and listened for the slightest sound as he continued riding.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Buried in Snow

A
ll day, Rowen rode alone across the snowy expanse that was the Simurgh Plains. He stopped only when he had to, determined to end the trek as soon as possible. The cold was nearly unbearable. At sundown, he built a fire. He’d hoped to find a village with an inn, but all he’d passed was a burnt-out cottage hours earlier. As he sat by his low fire, trying desperately to warm himself, he heard the distant cry of wolves.

He wished he’d thought to bring a crossbow. He thought of the last time he’d fought a greatwolf and considered the possibility that he would die in the frozen wild, slain not by a Dragonkin or one of his great henchmen but by a simple ferocious beast with a hungry belly. For some reason, the thought made him smile. Nevertheless, he slept with both swords within easy reach.

He woke at dawn, shivering and hungry, and pressed on. He’d traveled less than an hour before he came upon the remains of three massive greatwolves lying together in a grisly heap, their maws wide, their bodies half buried in snow. All had been charred. None had been eaten. The tracks of lesser wolves led off in the distance, as though an entire pack of wolves had fled for their lives.

Rowen looked around, searching the wilderness for signs of a man in a dark cloak. “Don’t expect me to thank you,” he muttered into the cold air, and rode on.

Late in the afternoon, he came upon the remains of a burned village. Only a few scorched walls and charred wagons remained. Ashes blew amid the sound of burnt, creaking wood. The telltale smell of charred flesh reached his nostrils, reminding him of the funeral pyres that had blazed day and night after the Battle of Lyos. He whispered a prayer and rode on.

Near sunset, he came upon two thirds of the Army of Three Princes.

They filled a nameless, snowy valley. A few banners flew in the breeze. A handful of axes and blades still glinted in the snow alongside a few broken lances. Wind-blown pieces of singed fabric hinted that once, tents had filled the valley. Here and there, a forlorn red horse pawed at the snow, saddled but riderless.

Rowen stared. The smell of smoke and charred meat filled his nostrils, making his eyes water. Resisting the urge to ride on, he dismounted. He led his horse through the devastation, trudging through ankle-deep snow. Retrieving a blackened lance, he used it as a staff to help him along.

Near the center of the valley, a violet light caught his eyes. He traced it to a tangle of charred bodies half covered by soot—a luminstone.

Rowen started to reach for it then thought of Jalist. He wondered if it was kinder to pass on word of what he’d seen or let his friend see for himself. He told himself that he probably would not live to carry word back to Jalist anyway. Slowly, of its own accord, the luminstone dimmed. Rowen waited until it had gone utterly dark, then mounted his horse and resumed his slow eastern ride.

Dawn found Saanji standing in front of the high city walls, shivering in his armor. It was snowing again. Royce’s kingsteel sword hung at his side. He stood alone, well ahead of what remained of his army. He waited. The sun rose behind him, faintly warming his neck. All along the battlements above, Dhargots went on jeering at him—as they had for the past half hour and the three days before. A few fired crossbow bolts into the snow a few yards away, but none dared fire directly at him. Saanji did his best not to flinch at the sounds. Then, all at once, the Dhargots fell silent.

A moment later, the gates of Hesod rumbled open. Karhaati finally emerged from the city just as the snow stopped falling. He moved slowly, his armor jingling with every step. His thick necklace of ears swayed as he moved. At least two of them looked fresh, still crusted with dried blood. Saanji felt a lump in his throat.

Karhaati approached with a yawn, a familiar sword glinting in the crook of his arm. When just a few yards separated them, Karhaati stopped. He looked around. “Seems you’ve lost your army, dear brother.”

“Only some of it,” Saanji managed.

“Looks like most of it. I wonder what the rest of these men will do once you’re dead. Do you think they’ll join me?”

“I doubt it.”

Karhaati nodded. “I didn’t think so. That’s fine. I don’t want them, anyway.” He raised his voice, shouting to be heard by all. “But I’ll cut their ears off myself. Then I’ll impale each of these traitors, one at a time.”

He made a sweeping gesture with Widowswail then returned it to the crook of his arm. He cocked his head, looked at Saanji, and smiled again. “I must say, Brother, I’m surprised. I thought you’d run or maybe send assassins. I even thought you might beg for my forgiveness after I killed your friend. But here you are. Father would be impressed.”

Saanji swallowed hard. “Oh, I’m sure he would. Tell me, should we embrace before we kill each other?”

Karhaati smirked. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He glanced past Saanji again. “Tell me, is the Isle Knight with you?”

“Which one? There are so many running about these days, in their pretty armor and bright-blue tabards.”

Karhaati’s expression turned serious. “You know who I’m talking about.” He stepped forward. “Emperor Chorlga spoke to me last night. I heard his voice in my head, as clearly as I hear yours.”

“Chorlga is an emperor now? How exciting!”

“Guard your tongue. He might be listening. He is more than a Dragonkin, you know. He’s practically a god now.” Karhaati paused. “Shall I tell you what he said?”

“That depends. Was it poetic and frightening?”

Karhaati took yet another step forward. “He told me he’s destroyed the rest of your army—everyone you sent east. They’re all ashes now. And he told me… he
showed
me… how he did it.” Karhaati shook his head. “That kind of power, it’s too much for anyone.”

Saanji thought of Rowen Locke. He forced a smile. “Probably. We’ll see.”

“One of us will, anyway.” Karhaati gave Widowswail a wide, slow swing. “You know I can’t forgive you, Brother. Not this time.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your forgiveness.”

“That’s good.”

Saanji tapped his sword hilt. He swallowed hard. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Why hurry?” Karhaati held out his arms, closed his eyes, and turned slowly in the crisp morning air, as though daring Saanji to charge while his back was turned. When he faced Saanji again, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I wish I’d met Ziraari this way. I would have liked to kill him. He deserved that. But you will suffice.”

Saanji took a deep breath, held it, and drew Royce’s sword. “I’ll do my best.”

“We’ll see. If you like, I’ll let you keep your ears. Looks like you’ve already lost one, anyway.” He took a few more steps then froze. His smirk vanished. He looked down and saw the tip of a caltrop poking through his boot. His weight had just born the barbed tip clear through the sole of his boot, then his entire foot. In addition to blood, the tip wore a telltale, burgundy smear.

Karhaati blanched.

Taking a few deep breaths, Saanji swallowed the lump in his throat. “I believe the Sylvs call that quickdeath. They use it to bring down Olgrym. At least, that’s what
you
told me.” He whirled Royce’s sword in a deliberate circle, letting its kingsteel blade catch the sunlight. He waved it at the city walls, too, where Karhaati’s men watched with uneasy puzzlement, unable to discern why the Bloody Prince had stopped moving.

Saanji said, “Take another step, if you like. I have five more caltrops hidden in the snow all around you. One should do the trick, though.”

Flushed with rage, Karhaati hefted his sword and took a step forward, his expression so furious that Saanji shrank back. But then Karhaati paled again. He tripped and almost fell.

“Saanji…” The sword fell from Karhaati’s hands. The Bloody Prince swooned. From the battlements of Hesod came a rumble of shock and disappointment. Behind Saanji, men cheered.

Saanji took a step forward, staring at his brother. Finally, he said, “For Maryssa,” and lifted Royce’s sword.

Karhaati’s eyes widened. He tried to back up, stumbled, and fell. He looked up and winced as the sun shone in his eyes. Saanji followed, blocking the light.

“Not like this,” Karhaati gasped. “Please, brother, my men are watching. Please—”

Saanji stared, unblinking. Then he stretched out his sword and cut off the Bloody Prince’s necklace. Dried ears fell to the snow. Karhaati looked down at them then back up at Saanji. His expression hardened. “You have no honor.”

“And no more siblings. Whatever shall I do?” Gripping Royce’s sword with both hands, Saanji swung hard. Karhaati’s head fell to the snow. The body followed.

Saanji turned his back on the stained snow and walked back toward his camp. His men cheered louder. Saanji lowered his face, clenched his eyes shut for a moment, then lifted his head. He forced a wild grin and waved his bloody sword over his head.

Dagath watched his second Dhargothi master fall. He leaned on the battlements, taking in the stunned silence all around him. Then, grunting, he headed for the stairs. He had no time to waste. With the Bloody Prince slain, the city would fall into upheaval. Dhargothi officers would start killing each other in their mad scramble for power. Sooner or later, a friend of the late General Umaari would take advantage of the chaos to stab Dagath in the back.

If Sneed were here, he’d know what to do.
The thought of his half brother made him jerk. He’d been missing for many months—probably killed by the squire they’d captured on the road when the latter escaped. Dagath’s eyes stung as though an arrow had pricked him through his armor. He shook off the feeling and hurried on toward the palace, thinking of the promise he’d made. Remembering how the red-haired woman had made his blood boil, he considered breaking his vow, then he glanced down at the jeweled rings on his fingers.

He’d already defied the gods enough for one lifetime. Better he get one last look at the woman before slitting her throat, fill his pockets with whatever he could take from the palace, and be on his way. And he knew just how he would get out.

After the Iron Sisters’ initial escape from the dungeons beneath the palace, the Bloody Prince had ordered the entrance into the sewers be bricked off. But Dagath had issued different orders an hour later, telling the builders that the prince had simply changed his mind. The entrance into the sewers was blocked only by a heavy, locked trapdoor, to which Dagath had the key. Once in the sewers, he just had to find a tunnel that emptied outside the city—one that had not already been discovered and blocked off.

But what if there isn’t one?

At least the streets were deserted. A few Hesodi, plus a handful of Dhargots with their slaves, milled about, but none challenged him. The people did not know yet that Karhaati had been slain. Though Dagath had been in Hesod just a short while, everyone knew that Dagath was the Prince’s man. And he already had a reputation for enacting swift justice on anybody who failed to respect his station. Still, he felt relieved at the sight of the palace in the distance.

Evergreen trees and wells lined a long walkway. Dagath hurried along beneath the canopy of leaves. He paused beside one of the wells and glanced inside. He could not see to the bottom, but ice clung to the sides of the well. He had the odd thought that if the water were frozen, he might lower himself down into the well and simply walk on ice, out of the city.

He shook his head at the absurdity of the thought and hurried into the palace. He passed two guards and one of the Bloody Prince’s few remaining healers. He ignored their questions and proceeded up the stairs to the second floor. He passed a heavily perfumed slave. The young man stood aside and bowed, but for no particular reason, Dagath knifed him, then headed up to the third level. Karhaati’s room sat at the end of another long hallway. All the other rooms on the floor had been deserted. Two guards lay on the floor outside Karhaati’s door, slain.

Dagath stepped to one side, in case someone was creeping up behind him, and drew his shortsword. He turned sideways. He listened carefully but heard no sound. All the doors were closed. He started forward. When he reached the guards, he noted that one had been stabbed in the back while his sword was still sheathed. The other had managed to draw his blade before someone slashed his throat so deeply that his head had nearly been cut clean off.