Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (52 page)

Her eyes widened. She could see fighting in the streets. A few rooftops burned. Crowds rushed to and fro. She could not tell from this distance who was fighting, but the screams of the dying were unmistakable. Igrid wondered if she shouldn’t try to find the strength to go out and fight after all. Then the screaming changed.

What had been shouts of battle just moments before, intermingled with cries of pain, became a collective cry of panic. The streets flooded with people all running in the same direction: back toward the palace. Igrid lifted her gaze.

“Sweet gods…”

She dropped the crossbow. It discharged. The bolt glanced off the stone terrace and clattered off in the corner, though Igrid hardly realized it. A great winged, burning thing swept across the sky. She shook her head, unwilling to believe her eyes. But then the dragon’s bony maw opened, and great sheets of purple flame poured out, scouring one street after another.

Igrid wondered where the flames were coming from, since the dragon appeared to have neither scales nor flesh. Then she noticed something equally curious: whenever the dragon turned and banked back over the eastern wall, spears joined to ropes and nets flew into the air. Most fell short, but a few rattled between its bones. Soon, the dragon was tangled.

Its mouth opened as though to scream with rage, but no sound issued forth. Only then did Igrid realized that aside from the strange rattling of chains that hung from its bones, the dragon made no sound whatsoever. Yet its fleshless wings flexed, somehow beating against the air.

For a moment, it looked as though all the ropes and nets had finally tangled its wings too much to move. Then the thing flared with wytchfire that seared along all its bones, burning away the ropes and nets. The dragon rose higher. It belched a seemingly endless sea of purple flame over the eastern walls, then turned back on the city. It chose a new direction and started flying again—heading for the palace.

Igrid lifted her crossbow, remembering too late that it had already gone off. She cursed, fumbling with the winch. Her hands shook. By the time she’d nocked another bolt, the dragon was nearly upon her. Great, dark eyes with pupils of purple flame seemed to stare right at her. Igrid lifted her crossbow. Then she laughed at the absurdity of killing such a creature with such a weapon.

Still, she pulled the trigger. The crossbow shuddered. The bolt leapt forward into the winter air. It fell short. The dragon continued soaring toward her, filling up her vision. She wanted to run but could not tear her gaze away. She fell to her knees and waited for the end.

But the dragon stalled in midair. Purple flames blazed along its bones, brighter than ever. The dragon jerked, flapped its wings, and twisted its head from side to side as though screaming. The flames grew brighter still, until Igrid had to look away.

When she looked back, she saw the dragon plummeting out of the sky. Chains flailed and rattled. The bones separated, jumbled, and crashed onto the city streets. A blinding glare caught her eye. Igrid turned her head just in time to see an enormous ball of flame rising into the eastern sky, traveling faster than thought.

“What…”

Before she could complete the thought, Igrid felt a wave of numbness sweep throughout her entire body, emanating from her wounds. She winced. Then she fell against the railing as everything went dark.

Rowen felt a terrible heat sweep past him, different somehow from any other wytchfire he’d ever seen. The glare blinded him. He lost sight of Chorlga. Forced to shield his eyes, he fell back. The glare seared through his eyelids, scalding into his mind the impression of flames that poured endlessly like water into a dark, empty hole.

When all the flames had been swallowed, the glare vanished. He opened his eyes. Chorlga still sat on his throne of dragonbones. His robes smoldered, almost entirely burned away. Most of his flesh remained charred or crusted with dried blood, but he was still alive.

Rowen hefted Knightswrath and started toward him. The hilt felt red hot in his hands, but he could not let go. He could not stop until Chorlga was dead. Somehow, though, he seemed to be moving in slow motion. Before he had gone halfway, Chorlga stood. The Dragonkin’s eyes dulled to the color of stone.

“So much lost. And still, here we are.”

The ghost of a smile formed on Chorlga’s lips. Then his body blurred, grayed, and disappeared altogether. Where he had been, the air shimmered then returned to normal. Knightswrath pulsed with scalding heat, then the flames vanished from its blade.

Rowen stood, breathing hard, staring at the empty throne. Wytchfire had scorched the bones. At the foot of the throne lay Shade, facedown. His clothes had been mostly burned away, leaving nothing but blackened flesh. Rowen figured he must be dead. He considered stabbing him to be sure but shook his head.

Gods, what did I do? He was my ally…

“And Kayden’s tormentor,” he muttered.

He turned to see Zeia stumbling toward him. No hands of fire capped her scarred wrists. Nevertheless, Rowen lifted Knightswrath and stepped into a guarded position.

Zeia smiled slightly. “It seems we still have a long way to go before we trust each other, Human.” She lowered her gaze to Shade. Her expression softened. Slowly, she knelt and turned him over. Rowen winced when he saw the massive, scorched wound he’d made in Shade’s chest. He knelt, placing Knightswrath on the floor to one side. Zeia held Shade’s head with a scarred wrist, then ignited one flaming hand and closed his staring eyes. The hand flickered and disappeared. She continued to support his head with her wrist then lowered his head back to the floor.

“Chorlga isn’t dead yet. We have to follow him. We have to finish it.” Her voice sounded flat, exhausted.

Rowen glanced down at Knightswrath. No blood showed on the blade. Zeia’s face reflected in the steel. For a moment, she looked like Silwren. Rowen picked up the sword, moved it to the crook of his arm, and offered Zeia his hand.

“I’ll find him.”

Zeia regarded him in silence then stretched out one arm. A hand of violet flame reappeared, fluttering weakly from her wrist. Rowen hesitated, then grasped it and hauled Zeia to her feet.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The Dragonward

R
owen stared out at the vast, icy expanse, red with sunset. Aside from dreams and visions, this was the first time he had ever actually been this far north. For a moment, he felt utterly alone—despite the great army massed behind him.

Someone touched his arm. He turned. Igrid appeared next to him. She wore the gleaming mail and tabard of an Iron Sister. Her red hair hung in short war-braids from the back of her helmet. It had been three months since he’d entered Hesod with the armies of Prince Saanji and found Igrid in the palace, near death. He’d used Knightswrath to save her, but she was still weak. He’d pleaded with her to stay behind—but she’d refused simply by flashing her crooked smile.

“It’s almost over,” Rowen whispered. “He’s just ahead. I can feel him…”

Igrid started to embrace him then stopped. Her crooked smile looked forced. “Is one allowed to hug a Sword Marshal without permission?”

Rowen scoffed. The title, bestowed upon him only six days ago, seemed as ludicrous as the extravagant new armor he was wearing. In place of a crane balancing on one leg, the azure tabard hung over his cuirass showed a white, nine-petaled flower with a golden heart. But the armor never seemed to fit as well as what he’d had before.

Funny
.
I never thought that armor fit, either.

He squeezed Igrid’s hand and turned north again. He wondered what the others saw.
Probably nothing,
he realized. To him, though, the Dragonward appeared as a broad, soaring wall of pale purple fire. The closer he drew to it, the more his senses tingled. He felt a dreadful heat welling up within Knightswrath, too, warming the entire sword as it hung at his side. He fought the impulse to draw it. He had not drawn the sword in weeks. Nor did he intend to now—not until he faced Chorlga.

Someone else stepped forward and joined them. “How do you know he won’t teleport away?”

Rowen turned and regarded Jalist. The Dwarr wore the Lyos-red uniform of a Captain of the Guard, bestowed upon him when they’d passed through the city days ago. But Jalist looked no more comfortable in his new uniform than Rowen figured he looked in the armor of a Knight of the Lotus.

No, it’s more than that,
Rowen realized. Some of the mirth had gone out of Jalist’s eyes. They looked dark now, even for a Dwarr’s. Rowen glanced at the luminstone hanging around Jalist’s neck, bound in a silver chain, and wondered again if leaving it on Leander’s body had been the right thing to do.

“He won’t,” Rowen said. “He can’t anymore. He used up all the power he’d taken from Godsbane just to heal himself. He used up most of his own since then, trying to get away.”

Jalist grunted. “Well, he won’t get away this time.” He turned and looked behind them.

Rowen turned, too. He stared at the vast, rippling host of armored riders waiting behind him. Mostly Lancers and men from the Free Cities, the men had been with him almost since he’d left Hesod. But others were new.

Small forces of Dwarrs and Queshi had joined him a few weeks ago, as eager as anyone to avenge their slain princes and countrymen. After them came two hundred Sylvs, sent by Captain Briel himself. Kilisti led them, mounted on Snowdark—whom she announced she had no intention of relinquishing.

Others were noticeably absent. Prince Saanji had gone west with his Earless. His father, the Red Emperor, was still alive—and he still had ten thousand fanatical Dhargots in his service. Saanji’s war had only just begun. Rowen intended to help, eventually. In the meantime, to everyone’s surprise, Zeia had elected to go with Saanji. So had a contingent of Iron Sisters, led by Haesha.

Rowen was not entirely certain yet whether all the men who followed him were truly his allies. Days ago, as they marched along the coast near the Burnished Way, nearly a thousand Isle Knights had come to join them, accompanied by an equal number of squires and Noshan militia-men. Their leader, Wyn Kai, said they’d been sent by Crovis Ammerhel, the new Grand Marshal of the Lotus Isles. With a strained smile, Sir Kai had gone on to say that the new Grand Marshal had formally validated Aeko Shingawa’s recent promotion of Rowen to Knight of the Lotus. Furthermore, Crovis had declared that he be made a Sword Marshal and invited back to the Isles to take command of Saikaido Temple.

“He’s calling you back for a reason, Squire,” Aeko had insisted. “Stay away. I’ll go back and see what’s happening on the Isles while you chase the Dragonkin.”

So Aeko had gone, too. A week had passed, and there had been no word from her since.

Perhaps strangest of all his new would-be allies, though, were the Shel’ai. At Zeia’s suggestion, he’d offered amnesty and protection to any Shel’ai who wished to return and join him in his final push against Chorlga. Most had refused. But a few had returned, dressed in bone-white cloaks that now bore a new sigil: a hand of purple flame.

Though these Shel’ai had been vital allies in helping him track Chorlga from one end of Ruun to the other, their presence had caused no small amount of unrest in the army. Once Chorlga was gone, Rowen had no doubt that most of the Shel’ai would disappear again.

Most… but not all.

There were still matters to attend to in the Wytchforest as well. But first, he had to deal with Chorlga.

Rowen glanced east, far out beyond the ice, where a line of ships was just barely visible. One of them was the
Winter Prayer,
commanded by his old friend, Hráthbam. While Kilisti and the Sylvs patrolled to the west, Hráthbam and a small host of Soroccan sailors did the same to the east, bolstered by Sang Wei, a squad of Isle Knights, and a handful of the best archers the Queshi had left. But Rowen doubted any of that would be necessary.

He turned to face the Dragonward again. “It’ll end there, with me,” he said wearily. “I’m going on alone.”

“Wrong,” Jalist said.

“Right,” Rowen said. He squeezed the Dwarr’s shoulder. “For once, listen to me. Stay here, my friend. You’re in command while I’m gone.”

Jalist gave him a sour look. “Presuming that even half these people will listen to what I say, what should I do if Chorlga attacks us? I don’t remember hearing about axes and arrows being of much use against a Dragonkin.”

Rowen smiled slightly. “Chorlga is weak now—weak enough that it wouldn’t take magic to kill him. But he won’t attack you, because to do that, he’d have to get past me. And he won’t.”

Jalist and Igrid exchanged looks. “Fine,” Jalist said finally. “I’ll stay with this camp of rabid Locke-worshippers and stave off frostbite while you two go give the Dragonkin a proper burial.”

Rowen turned to face Igrid. “No.”

Igrid flashed a crooked grin and said nothing. She just turned north and started walking. Jalist chuckled. Rowen swore. Then he hurried after her.

“When we find him, stay behind me,” Rowen said.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Igrid snapped.

Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. “I know. But you can be set on fire. I can’t.”

Igrid raised one eyebrow. She rapped her knuckles against his armored left arm, where the skin from shoulder to elbow had been left permanently red and wrinkled from Chorlga’s wytchfire. For some reason, Knightswrath could not heal the itching, sometimes maddening burn.

“That’s different,” Rowen insisted.

“If you say so.” Igrid faced north again. “But if you want to be my shield, Sir Fey, feel free.”

Rowen gave her a sour look. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” She’d been using that name sporadically ever since she’d heard Prince Saanji use it.

“At least I don’t call you that in front of your men.”

“Actually, you do.”

Igrid shrugged. They continued in silence for a while, then she stopped. Her expression turned deathly serious. She pointed.

“I know.” Rowen squeezed her arm and stepped in front of her. One hand rested on Knightswrath’s dragonbone pommel. He started forward again, easing toward the cloaked figure.

Dressed in a gray cloak, Chorlga stood motionless, back turned, nearly invisible against the ice. As Rowen drew closer, the Dragonkin still did not move. Rowen did not draw Knightswrath despite the growing heat of the hilt.

Chorlga stood so still, facing the silent, roiling wall of fire that was the Dragonward, that Rowen began to wonder if the Dragonkin had fashioned a new Jol in his own image. Then Chorlga lowered his hood and turned. Despite himself, Rowen winced.

Chorlga’s face remained burnt, his features ruined and twisted. He grinned nonetheless. “Good evening, Sir Locke. It seems you have found me at last.”

Rowen took one step forward, then another. He heard Igrid moving a short distance behind him. He was glad that for once, she’d listened to him and stayed back. He flexed his fingers around Knightswrath’s hilt, ready to draw it the moment Chorlga moved to attack.

But Chorlga tucked his burnt hands back into the sleeves of his gray robe. “After Cadavash, I went to Godsfall, then to the Dead Shores.”

“I know,” Rowen said. “I followed you.”

“I thought I could get the Olgrym to fight for me,” Chorlga continued. “They followed Fadarah. They followed Shade. Why not me?” His grin faded. “But no one would listen. Even those who were afraid of me. Why do you suppose that is?”

Rowen eased even closer, turning his eyes slightly left, then right. He searched their surroundings for some sign of a trap. He saw only bare, empty ice.

“I’m surprised the wytch is not with you,” Chorlga continued. “The one with no hands.”

Rowen thought he caught a hint of admiration in the Dragonkin’s voice. “Shall I deliver a message for you?”

Chorlga appeared to seriously consider it. “No,” he said finally. He removed his hands from his sleeves. Rowen tensed, but the Dragonkin merely lowered his arms to his sides. He regarded Rowen in silence then slowly turned westward. “Twelve centuries I’ve walked this wretched continent, and this is to be my last sunset. Strange that it ends here, on the Wintersea. Fitting, though, I suppose.”

Rowen measured the distance between them. He was nearly close enough to slash the Dragonkin in a quick draw, but he hesitated to step any closer because that would also leave him less room to defend himself if Chorlga attacked with wytchfire. Besides, he didn’t just have to defend himself. He had to protect Igrid, too.

But I can’t let him get away. I can’t let him get past me.

Rowen waited. Meanwhile, Chorlga stared, unblinking, into the sunset. Then the Dragonkin closed his eyes and tipped his head back. The grin returned. Slowly, he turned back to Rowen. He opened his eyes. This time, the pupils looked as gray as granite.

“Well fought, Sir Locke.”

Without waiting for a response, Chorlga turned toward the Dragonward, raging just a few yards beyond. He stretched out his arms and walked forward. He kept walking. As Rowen watched, Chorlga stepped right into the Dragonward.

Pale purple flames washed over him. Chorlga shuddered but did not scream. He kept walking. The flames brightened. Chorlga’s whole body shuddered then withered into ash. For one moment, his ashes flared in the Dragonward like stars—then they, too, burned away.

For a long time, Rowen stared.

Finally, backing away, he wrested his hand off Knightswrath’s hilt. He reached down and took Igrid’s hand. “Let’s go,” he said, unable to say more.