Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

He expected to see Silwren standing there, madly triumphant, her body still washed in tendrils of light and wytchfire. Instead, a hooded man wearing a white cloak sewn with crimson greatwolves turned from the cinders of the Olgrym to Silwren, who was crumpled on the earth, stunned but alive.

Gods, who is that?
Rowen could not see the man’s face, but it made no difference. Aside from Silwren and El’rash’lin, Rowen had never met a single Shel’ai who had not promptly tried to kill him. He glanced past the cloaked man and saw the corpse of the third Wyldkin woman nearby, a longbow still clutched in her hands. Panting, Jalist stood in front of the Sylvan children, a dead Olg at his feet. Beyond him lay the portion of the wall that Jalist had been attempting to cut through, chipped but still largely intact.

Rowen caught Jalist’s eye. They both looked at the cloaked Shel’ai again. Then they hefted their weapons and started forward.

The cloaked Shel’ai lowered his hood, revealing coldly handsome features and a vague, wolfish smile. “I was supposed to help them reduce this fort to ashes. Instead, I saved you again. I should not have done that, my love. Why do you think I did that?”

Rowen froze in his tracks. It was Shade, Silwren’s one-time husband, the one sorcerer who had pitted Rowen in battle against his own brother. Raw anger filled him, enough to drive him mad. Rowen charged, heaving the axe over his head, howling for blood.

Shade turned, his face registering only the slightest hint of surprise. Slender wrists came up, igniting with tendrils of wytchfire. Rowen saw his doom in those tendrils, but he did not slow.

“No,” Silwren said. She rose, a wisp of wytchfire sputtering weakly from one palm.

Shade frowned. Though his white pupils were fixed on his former wife, he waved his hand in Rowen’s direction.

Rowen’s legs flew out from under him. The fall drove all the air from his lungs. The ponderous axe flew from his grasp. Rowen cursed in his mind, lacking the breath to form the words, and tried to lift himself.

While the Sylvan children cowered or stared with wide eyes, Rowen heard the Sylvan fighters mopping up the remaining Olgrym in the distance. Shade had not yet seen Jalist. The Dwarr was crouched low and circling, moving through ash and cinders, his bloody long axe glinting in the torchlight.

“You won’t kill me,” Shade said confidently. Rowen feared for a moment that he was addressing Jalist then realized he was speaking to Silwren. She did not answer, though wytchfire continued to flicker weakly from one hand.

Shade began to circle her, never taking his eyes off her. Bright tendrils of wytchfire still coursed the length of his forearms. “How many times have I saved you, my love?”

“As often as you have tried to kill me,
my love.
”

“A vexed heart does strange things.” Shade lowered his wrists, though he did not dismiss the wytchfire. “Enough. Had it been anyone else overseeing this attack, you would be dead now. But it wasn’t. It was me.”

Silwren retreated a step but smiled coldly. “I do not think the Light brought you here, husband.”

“I healed you after Atheion. Even now, I’d welcome you back. So would the others. So would our father, if you would let him.”

Jalist was close.
Just a few more seconds…
Silwren must have seen the Dwarr’s approach as well. Rowen wondered for a moment if she would warn Shade.

If she does, I will kill her.
Rowen rose to his feet, shaking with the fury of his own conviction.
Silwren, if you can hear my thoughts, hear this: let him die. Shade dies tonight, or by the gods, I will come after you. And unless you kill me, too, I’ll cut out your heart and squeeze out the blood like water from a washrag. I swear it.

He saw her shudder and wondered if she heard him.

Jalist broke into a mad dash. He raised his axe with both of his strong hands, a terrible fierceness in his eyes. The glinting axe fell. Rowen waited for the spray of blood.

It did not come. A huge, armored shape appeared, as though emerging from behind an invisible curtain, directly in Jalist’s path. Fadarah caught the shaft of Jalist’s axe and stopped it in mid-air. Before the stunned Dwarr could react, the armored figure flung him aside.

Shade jerked away, startled by the sound. “Father!”

Fadarah gazed down at the axe he had wrenched from Jalist’s hands. Wytchfire poured from his grasp. Wood turned to ash. Steel melted. Fadarah turned and regarded Silwren. “Hello, my daughter.”

Silwren retreated another step, her face pale. Aside from the din of battle still raging in Que’ahl’s streets, the only sound belonged to the frightened, crying children. They had retreated and pressed themselves against the wall as far as they could go.

Rowen faced Silwren. He meant only to think his words, hoping she would hear them, but he shouted them instead. “End this. For gods’ sake, kill them.
Kill them both!
”

Fadarah smiled. “What now, my daughter? Do we three kill each other?”

“Go,” Silwren commanded, her voice breaking. Her wrists came up, wytchfire igniting at her fingertips. Weak at first, the tendrils brightened. Fire became light that flickered and pulsed around her body, forming the vague outline of a dragon.

They can’t kill her
.
She’s too powerful… but she can kill them!
But she had not even called upon her magic to defend herself against the Olgrym, too afraid that she would lose control and kill everyone around her. What would happen when she did?
Do it, Silwren,
he thought, hoping she heard him.
Unleash hell. Gods, kill us all if it will end this. Do you hear me?

She turned to him and shook her head. She turned back to Fadarah. “Go.” Her voice did not break. She waved her hands. Both Fadarah and Shade disappeared.

Rowen yelled in furious disappointment, but a fresh chorus of screams reached his ears. He turned in time to see a handful of Olgrym driven into view, hard-pressed by a swarm of Sylvan swordsmen. Though many had already been slashed or cleaved by swords and arrows, they raged on as though the only thing that mattered to them was killing as many Sylvs as they could before they were finally killed themselves.

The Sylvs seemed happy to oblige. Even dwarfed by their enemies, each Sylvan warrior charged like a madman. Rowen got the impression that they would have done so even if the Olgrym had had the upper hand. Rowen had meant at first to join the battle, but he stood and stared, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the fighting. He even forgot the sudden rush of anger he’d felt when Silwren let Shade and Fadarah go. He gaped as the two forces hacked themselves to ribbons.

“Gods, I’ve never seen anything like that…” Jalist said, joining Rowen. “Not even at Lyos. You?”

Rowen could not wrest his eyes from the scene. “No.”

Only one Olg remained. The beast howled in defiance and swung his greatsword in a massive, two-handed swing. The Sylvs were too close to dodge the blow, and blocking it was impossible. Three Sylvs fell in bloody heaps. But the blow was costly. Before the Olg could recover for another swing, the Sylvs swarmed him, stabbing and slashing. They kept slashing, even after the Olg had fallen.

One Sylv lifted his head and spotted Rowen and Jalist. He gave them a ragged look, separated from the rest, and approached. Torchlight played off his chilling expression and black brigandine further darkened by blood. So much blood covered his face that Rowen did not recognize him. Then the Sylv wiped his face on his sleeve and regarded Rowen with ice-blue eyes. “Hello, Knight.”

Rowen knotted his fingers into fists. “Captain Essidel, it seems you’ve borrowed my sword.”

Essidel lifted Knightswrath and gave the adamune
a critical glance. The curved blade glistened with Olgish blood. Essidel wiped that on his sleeve, too. “Damn thing’s sharp. Good balance. And unbreakable, as far as I can tell. Too bad you’re not selling it.”

Rowen wondered if he would have to fight the Sylv for it. He risked a quick glance at Jalist, who had lost his long axe, thanks to Fadarah, but he touched the pommel of the shortsword at his belt. Rowen glanced back at Silwren. She lay on the ground, crumpled and naked. Resisting the urge to run to her, he faced Essidel again.

He considered rushing the Sylv, but he sensed a lethal quickness in the man. He remembered what Briel had said on the walls: if anyone could cut his way out of a trap, it was Essidel. The captain had done more than that. He’d brought reinforcements and saved his stronghold, apparently without taking a single wound.

He’ll cut me in half if I try.
“My sword, please.” Rowen held out his hand.

“Calm down, Knight. I’m many things, but I’m no thief.” Essidel sheathed the sword but kept one hand on the dragonbone pommel as he surveyed the devastation around them. “Quite a night. Tell me, have you ever danced with Olgrym before?”

Rowen thought of the battle on the Wintersea, the one that still haunted his dreams. He nodded. “Nothing like this. What happened to the rest?”

“We drove them back. But it cost us. Four strongholds burned. The next time, they’ll roll right over us.” Essidel gave him a critical look then grunted, as though satisfied. “I’m about to do something very stupid, Human. I trust you won’t make me regret it.” He unbuckled Knightswrath and, with an edge of reluctance, handed it over.

Rowen girded the sword at once. “Don’t worry, Captain. If I wanted to kill Sylvs, I could have joined with the Olgrym.”

“I don’t think they’d have you. You’re a bit short. Besides, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t just come back here with reinforcements. General Seravin, my cousin, ordered me to kill you.”

Essidel spoke so easily that Rowen needed a moment for the words to sink in. Jalist recoiled, trying to flank the captain, while Rowen’s grip tensed on Knightswrath’s pommel.

“If I wanted the three of you dead, I’d have filled your bodies with arrows long before now.”

Silwren had gotten to her feet and was wrapped in a dead Wyldkin’s cloak, comforting the Sylvan children she had done almost nothing to save.

“The last time your archers tried that—”

Essidel waved him off. “No need for threats, Knight. I’m letting you go. Just turn your back on the World Tree and keep walking until you reach the Isles. I want you gone before I’ve finished my bath.”

Jalist nodded. Instead, Rowen shook his head. “I’m not going.”

Essidel shrugged. “Fine. Grab a shovel and help us dig graves. Dig yours first.”

Other Sylvan warriors were closing in, stone faced but visibly tense and bloody from fighting. Essidel took a step back. Briel appeared, bloody and wild eyed, a sword in each hand. He gave Essidel one of them.

Rowen said, “I
must
speak with your king. If your general won’t take us into the Wytchforest, guide us yourself.”

“I’d love to, Knight, but I’m in the middle of a war just now.”

“Then give us an escort—”

“You have an odd concept of war for a man who seems fairly good at killing. The whole Olgish race appears to be sweeping down on us. I need thrice as many fighters as I have left just to sufficiently man this fort, let alone drive the Olgrym back. I can spare no one.”

“Then we’ll go alone. Give us a letter authorizing safe passage. We’ll present it to the first border guards we see—”

“They’d fill you with arrows before you could pull it from your pocket. And if you’re still here when my cousin arrives, he’ll do the same. I might not agree with him, but he’s the general, not me.”

Rowen flushed. He could feel Jalist’s eyes boring into him, but he refused to meet the Dwarr’s gaze. “Then I’ll talk to him myself. This general—”

“Seravin. And
no,
you won’t talk to him. You’ll die
in front
of him. But that’s your business. Not mine. I wish you’d displayed this level of ignorance before I put a sword in your hands. Now I’ll have to take it off your corpse.” He began issuing orders to his men in their own language.

Rowen distinguished enough of the Sylvan words to catch the captain’s intentions: he meant to have them imprisoned until General Seravin arrived, to do with them as he wished. Meanwhile, fuming, Jalist muttered a string of creative insults as he palmed the hilt of his shortsword and awaited Rowen’s orders.

Finally, face burning, Rowen said, “Stop. Enough. We’ll go.”

Essidel gestured for his men to step back. “I’m glad we agree. My men will return your horses. Where you ride them is your concern, though I’d prefer you not take them south and get them killed, along with yourselves.” He added, “It would make me feel better about my decision if your wytch could use some of that terrible magic to heal my men’s wounds and keep a dozen or so of them from dying. Might even be enough to dissuade my cousin from chasing after you.”

That’s not likely
. “I’ll tell her.”

“Do that. Either way, I want all of you gone in an hour.” Essidel left without another word.

Jalist gave a low whistle. “Want to explain to me what in all the hells happened tonight?”

“Wish I could.” Rowen glanced back at Silwren. Other Sylvs had gathered the children and were leading them away from her. She stood alone, shaking, staring at the ground. “We better hurry,” Rowen said, heading toward her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Lancer and the Iron Sister

I
grid suggested that they travel at night. Arnil Royce agreed, so she returned to the battlefield, where riderless horses still milled about, and found a stray Ivairian rouncey for him. She helped him into the saddle. The Lancer voiced no complaint, but in the moonlight, she could see the strain on his face. She was glad he had agreed to leave off his armor, though he still wore the kingsteel bastard sword at his side.

Glancing at the expensive sword, Igrid wondered how much use Arnil would be in a fight. He needed more time to rest. She was amazed his wounds had not reopened, let alone festered, but at the same time, she knew they could not afford to stay there any longer.

It was clear that even if any other Lancers or squires had survived, they had no intention of returning to the battlefield to search for him. Given the sheer number of the Dhargothi cavalry, though, and the chance that Dhargots might patrol the empty lands south of the conquered cities, their best bet was to make for Lyos as quickly as possible.

“I know what my plans are once we get there.” Igrid patted her purse of coins and glanced over her shoulder at the three additional horses she had caught on the plains and intended to sell. “What about you?”

Arnil warily scanned the darkness all around them as they rode. “I’ll ask the Lyosi king for safe escort back to Ivairia. Then I’ll tell my own king what’s happened, in case he doesn’t already know, and see if I can convince him to lend me a few thousand Lancers so I can repay the Dhargots in kind.”

Igrid remembered the short work the First Lancer had made of the Dhargots she’d seen him fighting, and she smiled at the thought of what he might do with a substantial army at his back. “Do you think he’ll agree?”

“Which king do you mean?”

“Either,” Igrid said.

“I knew the old Lyosi king, Pelleas—at least, I knew
of
him. A decent man, if not a particularly bold one. But from what we heard up north, Fadarah’s sorcerers deviled their way into the city during that last battle and slaughtered him and most of his family. I don’t know the son who rules now.” Arnil shrugged. “Gods know he has no great reason to help me. Ivairia has certainly never come to the aid of Lyos before. Then again, if this new king has any sense, he knows the Dhargots have taken nearly all the Free Cities. Soon, Lyos may be under its second siege in less than a year. And this time, I doubt the Isle Knights will be so anxious to ride to his defense. He could use all the friends he can get.”

“And
your
king?”

Arnil scratched his chin. “Rodrick Whitetower could marshal three thousand lances and maybe four times as many footmen. Not enough to beat the Bloody Prince but enough to give him pause… especially if he forms an alliance with Lyos or the Lotus Isles. But…”

“You don’t think he’ll do it.”

Arnil was slow to answer. “I don’t know what they taught you of strategy, Iron Sister, but wars aren’t as simple as they appear in brothel songs.”

Igrid considered kicking him in his wounds. “Perhaps the good knight would deign to instruct me in such matters.” She bowed in the saddle.

Arnil could not have missed her sarcasm, but he responded seriously. “The Bloody Prince has twenty thousand men and a herd of armored elephants at his command. I know. I saw them. There’s another fifteen thousand reinforcing and supplying his rear, not counting however many thousands are still massed at Hesod. If that weren’t enough, there’s Fadarah and his sorcerers in the west and rumors of Lochurite wildmen running amok in the midlands. And the Olgrym, too, if they pick a side in this.”

“All the more reason to join forces against them.”

Arnil snickered. “Tell me, Iron Sister, did Hesod appeal to the other Free Cities for aid? Of course not. No one trusts each other. No one wants to fight for anyone else.”

Igrid thought of Rowen’s absurd plan to try to invoke what he called the Oath of Kin. “Maybe they will if they have to.”

“Let’s say they did. Let’s say we slaughtered the Dhargots, killed Fadarah and his sorcerers, then set fire to Godsfall—a blaze not seen since Zet fell from the heavens. How many lives would that cost us?” He shook his head. “Death in battle is just the beginning, Iron Sister. Bodies rot. Crops burn or wither with no one left to tend them. That means plagues and famines, which means rats and greatwolves and highwaymen, worse than either of us can imagine.”

I can imagine more than you think
. “Then why tell your king what’s happened? You could just lose yourself in wine and quim and let them think you’re dead. Why fight the Dhargots at all?”

A shadow of surprise passed over his expression. Finally, he said, “Even that kind of destruction beats living under Dhargothi rule. Besides, they killed my men. Maybe Whitetower won’t let me ride all the way to Imperian and shove my sword up the Red Emperor’s cock hole, but he can at least let me bloody his sons’ noses a bit.”

The Lancer’s bravado wore away her indignation and put a faint smile on her face. They rode on through the night, encountered no more signs of battle between the Dhargots and Arnil’s Lancers, and made camp in a copse of dogblossom trees just as dawn was whitening the night sky.

Though Arnil had refused all offers to stop and rest, she could see that he was exhausted and pale. As she helped him down from the saddle, he swooned and clung to her like a child. “It seems… you have the advantage over me,” he jested weakly.

Igrid tended the horses and built a fire. Then she helped him change the dressings on his wounds. Blood seeped through the bandages, but the smell was not overly putrid.
A good sign
.
He might yet live.

Both were too tired to eat, but Igrid offered him strong wine, which he accepted with a grunt of thanks. She had a mind to talk to him more about his plans, anxious to hear about anything that involved the suffering of Dhargots, but he had hardly passed the wineskin back to her before he fell asleep.

He didn’t even offer to take a watch…
That surprised her. Though she certainly did not expect someone in his state to stand guard, she would have thought that his lordly sense of honor required he offer, at least. Then again, she could not begin to imagine how tired he must have been. The wounds he’d taken would have killed most other men.

She wondered if Rowen Locke would have survived that. She yawned. She did not know why that mattered to her, so she shook her head, trying to clear her mind. The night was cold, but the fire warmed her. She had half a mind to keep watch a while longer, but weariness sapped what remained of her strength. So she took another long swig of wine, tucked a drawn knife under her bedroll, and went to sleep.

She woke at midday to see that Arnil had already risen and was saddling the horses. Some of his color had returned.

He said, “We’re close enough now that I figured we could ride straight there. I’ve already filled our canteens. There’s a stream a little ways east if you want to wash up. I promise I’ll stay away this time.”

“You shouldn’t be moving so much.”

“And you have red hair.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I thought we were both just stating the obvious.” He rubbed his side and grimaced. “I’ll prepare food while you’re gone. It won’t be much, but at least it will taste bad.”

She concealed a grin by frowning at him again. “You’re in good spirits for a man whose insides might be bleeding to death.”

“I jest when I’m nervous.” Arnil girded his sword. “I’ve been known to laugh like a hyena in battle. Thankfully, my men took it for a sign of courage.” He waved her on. “We can be at Lyos by sundown. Hurry, and I’ll get you a room at the finest inn in the city.”

“Not likely. I have all your gold.” But she hurried anyway.

Through the bright haze of the midday sun, Igrid saw the great green swell of Pallantine Hill bustling with activity. Men and women in togas and sarongs moved amid carts and vendors in plain clothes. She smiled. She imagined the king’s palace and that fine manicured city with its high walls, thriving market, and tiled roofs. She had to admit, her life as a prostitute in Lyos had not been all bad. Lyos was a better city than Hesod, provided one had the wealth to enjoy it.

Below the city, surrounding the hill and scattered on outcroppings of soil and rock, was the Dark Quarter. She shuddered to think of it. Mercifully, she had not been forced to work there as a prostitute, though she had heard plenty of stories of girls who had worked in the slums—none of them good.

Rowen had grown up in the Dark Quarter. He’d become a hero among the Lyosi.

Not sure what use that is to me, though.
After all, even though the Lyosi could not possibly know that she had betrayed their favorite heroes, they also had no reason to trust her if she claimed to be Locke’s wayward ally. Surely, others had already made such claims in the hope of advancing their fortunes in what, following the fall of Syros, was the greatest of the Free Cities. No, better to keep that to herself.

She thought of something else: though she could not say what had possessed her to do so, she’d told Arnil everything about her association with Locke. If he mentioned it to the Lyosi king, the king might punish her for betraying one of Lyos’s champions. She glanced at the Lancer as he rode beside her, tempted to request his promise of discretion, but that struck her as akin to admitting a weakness. That was the last thing she wanted.

“You think the Dhargots are closing on Lyos already?”

“Not yet. Too early. They need to shore up the lands they’ve already taken, or else they’ll lose them, just as Fadarah did.” He looked around. “It’s autumn, Iron Sister. No way the Bloody Prince can take Lyos before the snows come. Soon enough, he’ll have to pull back and winter at one of the conquered cities. And that’s if he doesn’t decide to steer for Atheion and the midlands.”

Igrid said, “You don’t sound convinced.”

Arnil answered by quickening his pace. They rode on in silence. Within an hour, they reined in before Pallantine Hill. The cobblestone road that was King’s Bend gleamed red gold in the half light. In anticipation of introducing himself to the king, Arnil insisted on donning his armor, though he required Igrid’s help to do so. She worried about the strain reopening his wounds but knew better than to argue with him.

They started up King’s Bend. The path was crowded with traders, citizens, and prostitutes.
Not to mention pickpockets,
Igrid thought, making sure her coin purse was well hidden. Arnil led with a fierce look, though, and they went unchallenged. Igrid scanned the crowds with sharp eyes but saw far fewer thieves than she’d expected. She glanced at the reeking slums of the Dark Quarter and was surprised to see that they appeared less wretched than she recalled.
Exactly what did you do to this city, Locke?

They rode up to the gates of Lyos itself, where Arnil boldly approached the watch captain, introduced himself, and said he had business with the king. Igrid followed, hoping she might be introduced to the king as well. Arnil’s voice sounded unusually haughty.

The men of the Red Watch glanced at each other uneasily, but the captain immediately sent one to take word to the palace. “If you’ll wait a moment, Sir Royce.”

Arnil answered with a curt nod.

Igrid smirked then grew uncomfortable when Arnil did not even acknowledge her.
Has the smug bastard already forgotten the part where I saved his life?
She glanced at her attire, which was plain but a bit revealing.
No, the great knight just doesn’t want to be mistaken for cavorting with a common whore.

She considered grabbing the Lancer and shaking him but had the sudden feeling that he might respond by introducing her to that kingsteel bastard sword of his. Fuming, she waited. After what felt like hours, the Red Watch soldier returned with one of the king’s ministers. The latter spoke with Arnil in a hushed voice that Igrid could not hear. Arnil nodded and followed the man into the city. A squad of Red Watch closed around him.

Igrid tried to follow, but when Arnil did not even look at her, the guardsmen blocked her path. “There’s an inn down the street,” the captain said pointedly. “I’ll tell Sir Royce where you’ve gone.”

Igrid bit back an insult and nodded. A man of the Red Watch took her horses while another led her to a modest two-story inn that did not appear nearly as extravagant as she’d hoped, but she reminded herself that it was better if people did not realize the wealth she had hidden under her cloak. She rented a room, hid her possessions, then left for the stables.