Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (51 page)

This time, it was too much.

Fel-Nâya drank in most of the flames, but some spilled over, scorching the Isle Knight’s arms. He screamed and staggered. Then he took another step. Chorlga wrapped one arm around Shade’s throat. Shade’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Somehow, he was still alive.

“Stay back, Knight. Stay back, or I swear, your friend—”

The Isle Knight took one final step forward and thrust his burning blade clear through Shade’s chest, into Chorlga’s. The Dragonkin’s eyes widened. Zeia thought she saw Shade snicker. The Isle Knight stood there a moment, stone faced, pushing the sword even deeper. Then, slowly, he dragged it out.

Chorlga and Shade stood together, smoldering. Then Shade fell to the floor. Chorlga teetered backward. Aiming blindly, he unleashed another blast of wytchfire. It sailed clear of the Isle Knight and struck a statue of Zet in the distance. The statue toppled and shattered. Chorlga clutched one hand to his chest. He tried to take a step and collapsed backward into his throne of dragonbones.

Rowen Locke followed.

Chorlga turned, his face blackened and crying. His eyes met Zeia’s. She thought he actually meant to plead for help. But then the Dragonkin turned back to the Isle Knight. Blood bubbled between his lips. Nevertheless, he grinned.

“In my world, Knight, what is given can always be taken back.”

The Isle Knight frowned.

Zeia pushed herself up. “Kill him!” she screamed.

Shaking himself free of his daze, the Isle Knight drew Fel-Nâya back, holding it with both hands. But before he could plunge it into Chorlga’s heart, one whole wall of the temple evaporated in a radiant sea of fire.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

What Was Given

S
aanji sat in a chair at the edge of the camp, a glass of strong wine in hand, and watched smoke rise over the battlements of Hesod. Bodyguards milled around him, many holding shields thick enough to ward off crossbow bolts, in case the city gates swung open and the Dhargots charged onto the field. But Saanji doubted that would happen.

Only a few hours had passed since he’d slain his brother, and already, he could hear the city devolving into chaos. He imagined his brother’s officers fighting each other for dominance. Inevitably, the soldiers they commanded would be forced to choose sides. With luck, enough would die in the ensuing melee that the slaves and captives throughout Hesod would be emboldened to rise up and revolt again.

If the gods were truly kind for once, whichever general eventually assumed command might even be willing to surrender the city to Saanji, provided that he and the Earless let them slink back to Dhargoth unharmed. Saanji smiled at the thought. Then the smile vanished.

He remembered what Sir Fey—he could not remember the man’s real name—had said about Chorlga’s dragon. Saanji had woken the next day and, to his own surprise, still felt determined to follow through on his plan to confront Karhaati, but certain, at least, that
that
part of Sir Fey’s tale had been ludicrous. There were no more dragons in Ruun, let alone dragons reanimated by the same magical processes—whatever those were—that had created the Jolym.

But word had reached him of some new devilry thrashing the lands to the north, scorching men by the hundreds. He almost pitied the Lancers who had deserted him, since they would only be returning to whatever smoldering ruins Chorlga’s newest champion had left behind.

And if Sir Fey is right, that thing will be coming here!

Saanji doubted it, but he’d taken precautions just in case. Ballistae had been made ready to fire ropes and nets lashed to weights, in the hopes that they might tangle a dragon’s wings and drag it down from the sky. In case the dragon operated anything like the other Jolym, Saanji had squadrons of spearmen ready to try to stab the thing through the eyes.

Though his Earless had initially mocked him for these preparations, the jeering had stopped once they started hearing reports of the dragon. Now, they praised him. Even the dark-haired she-Knight, Aeko Shingawa, appeared to approve of his plan—before she, her Isle Knights, and the Dwarrish sellsword had deserted him, too.

Saanji felt a rush of irritation, then he thought of where they were going and decided to drink in their honor. No matter how skilled they were, a handful of Isle Knights and one Dwarr could hardly have made so great a difference in the siege. Besides, he still had a few hundred Iron Sisters on his side.

“Where is Captain Haesha?” He looked around and saw only his own men. “I don’t see any Iron Sisters. Why aren’t they watching?”

One of his bodyguards cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Prince, but we already told you. They’ve gone to sneak back into the city. They’ve attacked the sewers where they’re sealed off—”

Saanji frowned. “Lousy plan. My dear brother’s army is still too strong. Why didn’t I try to talk them out of it?”

“You did, m’lord. Captain Haesha wouldn’t listen. She said there were captives and citizens who couldn’t wait. You said if she opened up a path into the city, you’d send in a thousand men to assist her.”

Saanji’s frown deepened. “Gods, I need to stop making promises to beautiful women.”

“She said she’d make you their Iron Prince if you helped her take the city,” someone said.

Saanji decided to ignore the touch of mockery in the man’s voice. He watched smoke rise over the city. Then he stood up, tottered, and caught his balance before one of his bodyguards had to assist him.

“If the gods want another bloodbath, they can make one up themselves. I say let’s let our men grow fat, old, and shameful.” He looked around for agreement. When no one spoke, he continued. “If the Iron Sisters actually do cut a way into the city, we’ll mass at the palace and work our way out from there. In the meantime, write a message, tie it to an arrow, and fire it over the walls. Blunt the tip so it doesn’t kill anybody. Hard to read an offer for truce if it’s got blood on it.”

He took a drink, turned, and saw one of his servants poised with a quill and parchment. He wondered why then remembered. “On the message, write—”

A warbling trumpet blast cut the winter air.

Saanji had been trying to memorize the meaning behind all the various pennants, gestures, and trumpet blasts employed by an army, but this one eluded him. He only knew that the blast had come from behind him, in his own camp. “What is that?”

“Attack from the rear,” someone said.

Maybe the Jolym are still alive.
Saanji dropped his wine and reached for Royce’s sword. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He wished, too, that he’d wiped his brother’s blood off the blade.

Another, slightly different trumpet blast sounded. He turned to his bodyguards. They frowned. One said, “Doesn’t make sense. The sentry must be a fool.”

“Why?”

“He’s warning of an attack from above, but we’re too far from the city walls—” The bodyguard broke off, eyes widening. Men exchanged terrified looks.

Saanji turned to a table that had been placed beside his chair in the snow. His helmet rested on the table. Suddenly, though, it had become three helmets. He chose the one in the middle. As he slipped it on, he looked around. Everywhere, horses screamed, and men panicked.

Cursing, Saanji surprised himself by climbing onto his chair then stepping onto his table. He waved his arms to get men’s attention, nearly falling off the table. “Well, lads, look on the bright side. You’re about to see something nobody’s seen in more centuries than Zet had inches on his cock. Think of how popular you’ll be in taverns!”

A few men laughed.

“Stay calm. Remember the plan. Remember what I told you…” Saanji trailed off, wondering if he’d remembered to make sure his strategy had been fully discussed throughout the camp. He decided that if he hadn’t, it was too late to worry about that.

“Right about now, my dear brother’s soul is crisping in one of Fohl’s hells. So are lots of men who wanted you dead. One day, maybe we’ll see them again. If so, let’s tell the bastards that before
we
died, we managed to bring a gods-damned dragon out of the sky!”

Men cheered. Saanji waved Royce’s sword then leapt off the table. Somehow, he managed to land without falling. One of his bodyguards brought his new horse: a spirited bloodmare left for him as a present by the Queshi prince. The bloodmare’s dark eyes regarded him suspiciously. It pawed the ground.

Sighing, Saanji took the reins. He tried to fit his foot into the stirrup. It took three tries, but then he pulled himself up into the saddle with hardly any help. Straightening, he looked up. At first, he saw nothing but clouds. Then he spotted the most fearful thing he’d ever seen winging in from the east.

He paled. He considered turning south and riding as fast as his bloodmare could carry him. Instead, he howled and rode east through the camp, waving his sword. As he did so, he wondered if his men found his appearance emboldening or if they merely thought he’d gone as mad as Sir Fey. He hoped it was the former.

As someone rolled the dead man off her and helped her up, Igrid wiped the blood from her eyes.

“Is that yours or a Dhargot’s?”

Igrid glanced at the speaker, a familiar Iron Sister, and said, “Hard to say. Same color.”

Haesha put Igrid’s sword back in her hands then carefully peeled away the bloody cloak that Igrid had wrapped around her naked body. Haesha whistled. “I’ve seen raw meat bleed less than this. Lie down. We’ll finish this. I’ll leave a Sister to guard you.”

“Like hells, you will. Just wrap me up tight and cover me in armor.”

Haesha raised one eyebrow then gestured. Iron Sisters streamed past her, charging up the steps that led into the palace. Haesha took off her own tabard and put it on Igrid. Removing her own sword belt, she wrapped it around Igrid’s waist and cinched it tight.

Igrid winced and looked down. Already, blood was soaking through the tabard. “I’ll be fine,” she said before Haesha could speak. “I’ll be no safer here than I’ll be in the city streets.”

“Then go down through the sewers. You can make it out. It cost us, but we cleared a path.”

“And I’m sure dragging my open wounds through sewer water will do wonders for my health.” Igrid grasped the belt and cinched it even tighter. “Armor.”

Haesha went to the nearest slain Dhargot and peeled off his cuirass. She helped Igrid don it. “If you want greaves and vambraces, fuss with those yourself. I have a city to take back.”

Igrid nodded weakly. She was tempted to ask Haesha what was happening outside the city. From eavesdropping on the lecherous Dhargothi healers, she’d heard rumors that Arnil Royce was there, along with Rowen Locke. But Haesha was already bounding up the stairs after the other Iron Sisters.

Igrid took a moment to catch her breath, then stripped the Dhargot of his armor. She winced with every motion, feeling as though her insides were spilling out. She wondered if she should reconsider Haesha’s advice and try to slip out of the city through the sewers. That had been her original plan before she’d chanced across a mass of Iron Sisters, just as they were trying to batter their way back into the dungeon.

She stopped and listened to the sounds of battle raging in the palace above her. From what the Iron Sisters had told her in the few moments they’d been together, Igrid knew that the Bloody Prince had been killed. His officers were fighting each other for supremacy, even as the city itself was under siege.

The Bloody Prince is dead…

The thought provoked a strange ambivalence within her. She had not forgotten what the despicable prince had done to Ailynn. She’d wanted to kill him herself and would have done so without hesitation. But he
had
saved her.

“Whatever he did, he did for his own reasons,” she muttered. Finished donning her armor, she considered a helmet then decided against it. Better that she leave her hair uncovered. At the moment, the last thing she wanted was to be mistaken for a Dhargot. Leaning against the wall for support, she started up the stairs.

As she moved, she thought of the one-eyed sellsword. She’d seen him earlier. He’d either been killed by the other Iron Sisters or fled for his life. She hoped he was not still in the palace, hunting her. Another time, she might have welcomed the challenge of such an obviously skilled opponent, but right now, she was hardly at her best.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she realized that the sounds of battle were growing more and more distant. The Iron Sisters must have cleared the palace of enemies and moved out to the city beyond. She should be there, with them. She tried to hurry, but the pain made her stop again.

I’ll be useless in a swordfight,
she realized. She remembered hearing that this palace had once housed three armories. One was supposed to be on the same floor as Queen Sharra’s bedroom, filled with her trophies of war. If she could make her way there and find a crossbow, she might still be of use.

Though she dreaded the thought of climbing so many stairs, Igrid decided she had no choice. She made her way cautiously through the palace, still leaning against the wall for support. She passed dead Dhargots and Iron Sisters alike, along with a handful of slaves who might very well have been killed by the Dhargots for sport or at the hands of Iron Sisters by mistake. She tried not to look at their faces. Near one end table, she spotted a pitcher of wine.

Muttering a prayer of thanks, she took a long drink, then she poured the rest of the pitcher’s contents beneath her cuirass, hoping it might clean her wounds. She winced at the sting, then tossed aside the pitcher and kept going.

By the time she reached the topmost floor of the palace and located a crossbow, she hardly had enough strength left to move. Nevertheless, she used a winch to arm the crossbow and dragged it down to the hall, to Queen Sharra’s bedchamber. With some hesitation, she reentered the room that had been her prison, edging around the guards she’d killed earlier. She dragged the crossbow out to the terrace. She looked out over the city.