Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter Three

A Change in Direction

A
s her group rode south, Silwren glanced to the right. Sylvos, what her new companions called the Wytchforest, was still just a blur on the western horizon, a wall of green gowned in clouds. She doubted the others’ eyes were sharp enough to see it, but the sight of her homeland filled her with dread.

They drove me out. The other Sylvs… my own people… they tried to kill me! They killed my birth parents. Why am I going back?

Fadarah had been fond of saying that the next time an exiled Shel’ai set foot in Sylvos, it would be at the head of an army. She no longer wished to see all her people suffer and her homeland burn, but that did not change one basic fact: Sylvs born with Shel’ai abilities were routinely murdered or, at best, exiled. Her people—if they could be called that—had the direst of crimes to answer for.

But I am only one woman
.
One Shel’ai can neither change their minds nor punish them for their sins.
Then again, she was not quite a Shel’ai anymore. A sense of loneliness flooded her, accompanied by memories of Namundvar’s Well. She fought back a sudden swell of tears, though she could not quite say what had caused them.
She had seen, even been submerged, in the Light. She should still carry some remnant of that joy, that bittersweet serenity. But the raw power drawn from the Light also threatened to drive her mad—if it didn’t kill her first.
Me… and those around me.

Besides, Rowen had gazed into Namundvar’s Well, too. He had seen the Light, just as she had, but he seemed to be devoting all the energy he could spare to not thinking about it. She could not blame him. After viewing paradise and having it torn from his grasp, how could he think about it with anything but despair?

Rowen touched her arm. She jumped then looked where he was pointing. A band of travelers had made camp in the distance.

Her companions tensed. Rowen had one hand on his sword, and Jalist was trying to look casual as he palmed his long axe. There appeared to be about fifty of them: some women and children but mostly old men, all dressed in rags.

Rowen asked, “Refugees from Hesod?”

Jalist shook his head. “Not bloody enough. Clerics and pilgrims, I’d guess. Doesn’t look like many of them are armed.”

“Looks like they follow Tier’Gothma and Armahg,” Rowen said, scrutinizing the emblems on their colored robes. Some had a cluster of grain stalks under a quarter moon, and others a swirl of stars.

“Should we ride around them?” Jalist asked.

“Let’s see if they need help first.” Rowen dismounted and led his horse on foot. He held the reins in one hand, resting the other casually on his sword hilt.

Jalist did the same, pretending to use his long axe as a walking staff. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking, Locke. They do.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you coming, sorceress?”

Silwren caught the wariness and disdain in the Dwarr’s gravelly voice. She wondered if these pilgrims would hate her for what she was, just as so many other Humans had. She wondered if they would threaten her.
If they do, I’ll kill them.

She dismounted and followed after the others. As Rowen’s group drew nearer, the travelers shrank back. A few produced staffs or small knives, but only one—an old man—wore a sword. That man left his sword sheathed and came ahead of the others to greet them. The old man’s robes might once have been blue, but they had long since faded to almost white. He wore the starry, swirling emblem of Armahg, but his gray beard was patchy and uneven. He looked less like a cleric than a beggar, but he smiled warmly. Sunlight glinted off his coppery skin and earrings—he wore several in each ear—and she heard a faint Queshi accent in his voice when he said, “Welcome, friends. Will you share our fire?”

Rowen spoke for them. “If it pleases you. Are you from Hesod?”

The cleric’s smile faded. “No… but we heard the screams while we were traveling. We’re pilgrims from half a dozen towns to the north. We’re bound for Atheion, to visit the Scrollhouse and the temples. If all goes well, we’re hoping to stay there.” He lowered his voice. “We
did
find one refugee from the city, but she’s asleep now.”

Rowen nodded, unkempt red hair hanging in his eyes. “We aren’t clerics, but we might be able to help, if you have wounded who need tending.”

Silwren wondered if he meant for her to heal them. She’d kept her hood drawn so far. Despite her trepidation, she smiled. She could tell how hard Rowen was trying to sound courteous, ever mindful of the balancing crane he wore on his tabard.
If all the Isle Knights were like him, the Lotus Isles might actually become what it claims to be.

The cleric smiled. He looked Rowen up and down. “A Knight of the Crane! Why, I haven’t met anyone from the Isles in years. You don’t have the appearance of an Isleman, though.”

“I’m Ivairian by birth. I trained on the Isles. Knighted less than a month ago.” Rowen introduced himself, then Jalist. “And this”—he gestured, a faint worry in his eyes—“is Silwren, our friend.”

Silwren braced herself and lowered her hood. The cleric’s smile vanished, and he reached for the rusty sickle-sword hanging from his belt. Whatever courtesy had been poised on his lips was replaced by a vulgar oath.

Rowen stepped in front of Silwren, sword half drawn. Jalist followed with a sigh, readying his long axe.

But the cleric held up his hands. “Peace, Knight! You only caught me off guard. My eyes may have been soured from countless hours reading books by firelight, but they still know white-and-purple eyes when they see them.”

An uneasy murmur swept through the company of pilgrims. Some reached for makeshift weapons. Others pulled children close or backed away, muttering curses and oaths.

Rowen said, “We’re travelers. Nothing more. We mean no harm to anyone.”

“Good news for us.” The Queshi priest turned and waved and his companions. “Lower your weapons, brothers. An invitation is an invitation.” He offered Silwren a wary smile. “Whatever blood’s in your veins, you’re free to join us, if you like. But first, you’ll have to forgive me. My addled brain didn’t catch your name as it flew by.”

“Silwren,” Rowen repeated.

The old cleric’s eyes widened. “The Wytch of Lyos?” He grinned and turned to Rowen. “And you’re the Knight who protected her.”

I need no protection now
.

Meanwhile, the Queshi priest laughed. “The Heroes of Lyos, right here in our camp. I should have guessed! We’ve heard your story… a version of it, at least. I’ll wager such tales take on a life of their own, after a time. Perhaps you could tell us the version you like best.”

Rowen smiled slightly. “Perhaps.”

The pilgrims relaxed a little at the sound of their leader’s laughter, though they still gave the trio a wide berth as they followed the cleric to one of many campfires erected in the center of camp. Several priests offered to care for their horses. One offered them a wineskin, though Rowen offered it to the Queshi priest first.

With a forced smile, Rowen said, “Honor does not permit me to drink before our host.”

Silwren concealed a smile. She did not need magic to know that Rowen was lying.

The cleric raised one gray eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Knight. We had no time to poison it before you arrived.” He winked, drank, and passed the wineskin back. Then he turned, issuing orders to bring food for their guests.

Jalist leaned toward Rowen’s ear as the Dwarr accepted the wineskin next. Silwren’s acute Sylvan hearing caught him saying with sarcasm, “The Heroes of Lyos?”

Rowen whispered, “If you could avoid telling them you fought for the other side, I’d appreciate it.” The Knight faced the cleric again. “Forgive me, Father. You’ve shared your wine with us, but not your name.”

The old cleric blushed. “Apologies. I am Matua. I’m originally from Quesh—as you might have guessed by the color of my skin, if your eyes are any better than mine.”

“I’ve been to your lands once, years ago. I remember the red horses your archers ride. ‘Lightning on four legs,’
they say. I’ve never seen anything move so fast!”

Matua laughed. “Bloodmares? Fast, sure, but ill tempered.” He indicated a scar just beneath his jawline. “One gave me a toss when I was a child. If you’re a Queshi, falling off your horse is like being caught stealing from the temple coffers. My prospects as a fighter seemed bleak, so I went north instead. I think my father was glad to see me go. Been moving about the Simurgh Plains ever since, one village to another.” The cleric’s expression sobered. “And
your
story, Lady Silwren?”

Silwren felt all eyes on her. She’d taken the wineskin from Jalist and handed it back to Matua without drinking. “Not one I delight in sharing, if you’ll forgive me.”

Matua nodded, unfazed. “Some stories, especially the painful sort, are better shared. Others, not. As it’s your story, we’ll trust that judgment to you.”

Clerics appeared with bowls of stew. Silwren took hers and smiled at the scowling man who delivered it, but she did not eat.

Rowen said, “I’m surprised you stopped for the night. If anybody got away from Hesod, the Dhargots will be hunting them. They can’t be more than two days away from you.”

“It’s not the Dhargots we’re afraid of. I don’t think they’ll come this far south. But I’ve passed through Nosh before, and I remember the Lochurites have a fondness for attacking camps at night. Better we sleep here, do most of the rest of our traveling tomorrow. Don’t have to worry about being so quiet in daylight.”

As though on cue, a baby began crying somewhere in the camp.

“I heard about the Lochurites while I was in Quesh. They’re midland raiders, right?”

Matua grimaced. “You’re too kind. I’d call them wolves, but that would be cruel to wolves. If you know anything about my order, you know that Armahg cautions us against passing judgments over entire people”—he glanced at Silwren—“but in the Lochurites’ case, I make an exception.” He spat in the fire for emphasis, muttering a Queshi oath over the faint hiss.

Jalist nodded in agreement. Silwren knew of the Stillhammer Mountains, where most Dwarrs made their home on the eastern shore of the midlands, but she had never heard of the Lochurites.

Matua seemed to read her expression. “The Lochurites roam the hills south of the valley. Don’t know where they got their name since they don’t have any cities or towns, much less a king. They just rove about, raping and reaving. They tried invading Quesh not too long ago, but our riders put a quick and bloody stop to that. So they moved on to the Noshans.”

“Sounds like they’d get along well with the Dhargots,” Jalist muttered.

“Lochurites don’t even use iron. They think bronze is some kind of sacred metal sent by gods, so that’s all they’ll use for weapons. They’re fanatics, even worse than dragon worshippers. They don’t mind dying. They swallow some kind of poison before battles. It yellows their eyes and drives them mad.
Berserkers,
some call them. Even their women and children fight.”

Rowen said, “Atheion has a standing army. Why don’t they hunt them down?”

Matua scoffed. “Most Noshans stay near Atheion, tending their herds or trading goods brought in on ships. Lochurites don’t attack cities. They just prowl about, scouring camps and villages, looking for easy prey. So the Noshans don’t have much reason to get worked up about it. But I bet they
are
worried about the Dhargots.”

Silwren said, “They aren’t the only ones.” She looked at Rowen.

Matua leaned forward. “There’s talk of them sweeping across the Simurgh Plains. Makes me wonder, if things don’t work out in Atheion, if we’d even have villages to go back to. And that’s if we even make it to Atheion in one piece!”

Rowen asked, “Doesn’t your group have any fighters?”

Matua laughed. “Guards cost money. We can hardly afford bread. But we’ve got a few weapons, here and there.” He tapped his rusty sickle-sword.

Silwren saw the concern in Rowen’s eyes. She guessed what the Knight was thinking. She could not decide whether to feel irritated by the Human or be proud of him.

“Maybe we could help,” Rowen said. Jalist groaned, but Rowen continued. “We could escort you to Atheion. In the meantime, we don’t have extra weapons, but we can help you carve some spears from old tree limbs. Harden them with fire, and even if they don’t push through a bronze breastplate, they’ll drive the wind out of a man—drugged or no.”

Matua blinked in surprise then grinned. Some of the others looked displeased, but most wore expressions of relief. “You have our thanks, Sir Locke! And you’ll have coin for your troubles—no, don’t refuse it. If you know the Queshi and hospitality, you know that’s an insult. Just nod and give me whatever courteous reply they taught you on the Isles.”

Rowen grinned, and Silwren knew his pleasure came as much from the use of his title as from anything. She did not listen for Rowen’s reply. She looked away.

Rowen, you’re no figure in a tale of hope and heroes. By the Light, you have no idea what you’re risking. We were supposed to make haste through the valley, not act as bodyguards. If there’s a fight, if I lose control…

She studied the faces around her: gnarled priests, fretful old women, a few wide-eyed children gazing upon her with fearful fascination. She wondered how many would die were she forced to unleash her full power to protect Rowen. She spooned some of the stew and raised it to her lips. It was hot but bland. She ate it anyway and tried to smile.