Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

The hours wore on. They were still far from Atheion, though the strange inland sea known as Armahg’s Tears, upon which the city resided, was in view. It shone on the eastern horizon like a broad, blurry sheen. Rowen could hardly believe the size of it. He had not seen such a thing since he’d stood on the Lotus Isles and stared at the ocean—though in the case of the ocean, the mists of the Dragon’s Veil kept him from really seeing it.

But I’ll see Armahg’s Tears
.
I’ll stand on the shores and watch the fishing skiffs come in. I’ll see the city with streets of water.

He glanced up at Armahg’s Eye. The starry swirls gleamed faintly in daylight. He thought how fine it would be to have so many beautiful things named in his honor then flushed with embarrassment at the thought. He walked ahead of the others and found Matua again. Tired of discussing Haesha, he asked about the distant sea.

The Queshi priest smiled. If Rowen had lost any favor by failing to show adequate ill will toward prostitution, he regained that and more by asking the right question. “The sea was formed from the tears shed by Armahg when the other gods cast her lover, Zet, also called the Dragongod, from the heavens. Some say that the sea was even used by Zet’s dragons to wash his bones. And when Armahg’s tears moistened those bones, they blossomed and gave birth to all the races of the world.”

Rowen nodded carefully. He wondered if the cleric actually believed the preposterous tale. He remembered discussing such matters with Hráthbam, the dark-skinned Soroccan merchant who gave him Knightswrath, who agreed that most priestly tales were childish nonsense.

Rowen was about to ask about Atheion’s famous Scrollhouse when he heard a familiar voice shouting his name. He whirled, Knightswrath already half drawn, and saw Jalist thundering toward him. Unwilling to surrender his own horse, as Rowen had, the Dwarr had taken to patrolling the surrounding lands. He rode back to the column so quickly that his horse’s hooves kicked up a flurry of dirt.

Matua blanched. “Trouble?”

Rowen sheathed Knightswrath but reclaimed Snowdark and rode to meet Jalist. “Dhargots?”

Jalist shook his head. “Berserkers. But hear me out before you draw that sword and go charging off!”

Priests and pilgrims crowded closer, some gripping their new spears.

Jalist lowered his voice. “There’s only about six of them. Looks like they just got done fighting somebody else, maybe those goatherds we saw earlier, because two of them are bloody. But when they saw me, they howled like jackals and charged.”

Rowen looked over Jalist’s shoulder. “How far away?”

“A quarter mile. Now listen, I know we can take six madmen, especially if Silwren helps, but there might not be a need. I’m the only one they saw. They’re on foot. You take this bunch on ahead, and I’ll lead the wildmen south. Once they’re out of breath, I’ll ride back and find you. Agreed?”

Matua was busy trying to calm his companions. Rowen spotted Silwren riding toward them. Priests and pilgrims hurried to get out of her way. Those close enough to overhear what Jalist had said nodded their agreement.

“No,” Rowen said finally. “We let these berserkers get away, and they’ll just hurt someone else. You said it yourself—there are only six of them. Two already wounded. Better we just kill them.”

Jalist scowled. He looked as though he wanted to argue then shrugged. “Fair enough, Sir Locke.” He reached for his long axe.

Rowen turned to Silwren just as she joined them. “Jalist saw—”

“I know.” She turned to Jalist. “Stay with these others. Both of you. I’ll deal with these barbarians myself.” Before Rowen had time to answer, she turned in the saddle and looked down at Matua. “Father, lead these people on. I promise, no harm shall befall them. But be quick.” As she spoke, wytchfire flared from her hands, turning in bright purple bands around her fingers. The reins smoldered.

Matua paled again but raced to the front of the column, shouting for the others to follow him.

Rowen faced Silwren. “You’re not going alone.”

“It’s better if I do.”

“Why?”

“Let her go,” Jalist snarled. “She doesn’t need your help, and frankly, I can herd these people better with you on the other side.”

“I don’t need your help,” Silwren echoed. She smiled faintly.

Finally, Rowen nodded. “Be careful.” He guided Snowdark out of the way.

Without a word, Silwren rode off toward the berserkers. Rowen watched her go then turned back to the column. Everyone had moved on except Haesha. The priestess stood in the distance, frowning, knife in hand. Despite the wine pitcher in her other hand, she appeared as sober as the clerics racing away from her did.

Rowen called, “Get going!” When she did not move, he rode over to her and offered his hand.

Haesha sheathed her knife in her belt. Though she took his hand, she leapt in front of him almost entirely on her own. She pressed against him in the saddle. “Keep your hands to yourself, Knight, or I’ll cut them off,” she hissed over one shoulder. She took the reins from him and urged the horse after the column.

Silwren had no trouble finding them. As soon as she rode away from the column, she used her magic to momentarily heighten her senses until they trumped even those of the strongest Shel’ai. Her nostrils, suddenly more sensitive than a greatwolf’s, caught the scent of blood. When she spotted the barbarians, she reined in. She sat high in the saddle for a moment, waiting until they’d seen her before she dismounted. A quick mental command ensured that her horse would not move without her.

Her pulse quickened, warmed by magic she ached to unleash. Turning her back on her horse, she started toward the berserkers. Though the spell she’d cast to heighten her senses had already begun to fade, she could still see them as if they were right in front of her when they were hundreds of feet away.

The intensity of their emotions washed over her before she could shield herself against it. The berserkers—three men, two women, and a young girl—had just finished launching a sneak attack on a small group of Noshan farmers. Out there, though, the farmers had been prepared. Bows had sung in the morning air. Those six were all that remained of a party twice its size. But that did not matter. The farmers lay slain. The berserkers had paid dutiful homage to Fohl, the Undergod. They’d dipped their bronze blades in blood. Survival was their reward—and Silwren was merely another chance to prey.

Unwilling to see more, Silwren closed off her mind, but not before she sensed a glint of madness, even worse than what she’d sensed from the fey priests and dragon worshippers infesting Cadavash. She shuddered. As they howled and drew closer, she studied their gaunt, dirty bodies and yellowed eyes. All six were naked, armed with knives and hatchets of hammered bronze. Even the little girl screeched like a feral animal.

Silwren’s rage waned. Killing murderous Humans was one thing; killing children was another. The mobs who butchered Shel’ai infants did that. But if Silwren spared her, the girl would only find others of her kind and go on killing. Silwren had already glimpsed enough of the child’s mind to know she had already been thoroughly corrupted by the same madness as the others. She was past saving.

Like the Nightmare…
“No.” Too many innocents had already died. She would save the child from these wretched people then use whatever magic it took to draw the poison out of her mind.

Silwren strode forward. Wytchfire blazed from her fingertips, coursing along her arms. Brighter and brighter it flared. The Lochurites stopped, wide eyed.

A man stepped ahead of the others then knelt on the grass. “Are you Fohl’s daughter?”

Silwren went closer to him. She wondered if this man was the girl’s father and what he’d done to her. She considered extending her mind into his, but the thought repulsed her so much that she nearly vomited. So she stretched out one hand and held it over the man’s face. Wytchfire snaked past her reach, caressing the man’s face.

He screamed. His body tipped sideways, blackened and dead before he struck the grass. Silwren stepped past him.

Another man, a woman, and the little girl knelt, arms wide in supplication, but the others charged. Silwren did not know whether they were seeking revenge for their slain comrade or the simple favor of their god by dying in battle. She decided it made no difference. She lifted both hands. Twin blasts of wytchfire flung a man and a woman off their feet, turning them to ash before they hit the ground.

Silwren reeled. Magic coursed through her blood, faster and faster, blurring her senses. Panic rose within her, melding with wild exhilaration. Before she realized what she was doing, she turned on the kneeling ones. She blasted the man and woman into cinders then turned to face the child. Darkness clawed at the edges of her sight. The ground roiled beneath her. She lost her footing then fell. On her knees, too, she found herself looking into wide yellow eyes. Then those eyes became her own.

Silwren screamed. She lifted her hands and burned away the sight. The force of the fiery exhalation drove her backward. She lay on her back for a moment, staring up at the passing clouds. The clouds blurred. A horrible smell flooded her nostrils.

She closed her eyes, turned onto her side, and forced herself to stand. She stumbled away from the charred reek. After a few steps, she opened her eyes.

A Human in blue silk and bright armor stood before her, eyes wide. Part of her recognized him, but before she could remember, the long curved sword gleaming in his hands drew her eyes. The sword’s glint terrified her. She lifted her hands again. Wytchfire spilled from her fingertips before she could stop it. The armored man shouted and leapt backward. Somehow, his sword drew in all the flames. Cinders dripped off its blade like blood.

Silwren stared for a moment. Then, with a strangled sob, she pitched forward into darkness.

Chapter Five

Needed Rest

R
owen stood still for a moment, his sword drawn, staring at Silwren. He’d changed his mind, left Haesha with the column, and ridden back to help Silwren just in time to see her burn one of the Lochurites—a child—to cinders. Though she lay unconscious, her eyes were wide open. Around her lay scorched, ash-strewn plains. He trembled.

She tried to kill me.
He did not think she’d even recognized him.
Gods, maybe Jalist was right! Maybe I can’t trust her after all. Maybe I should just leave her.

He stared at her a moment longer then sheathed Knightswrath. Searing waves of heat continued to radiate from the blade, warming him even through the sword’s plain leather scabbard. He knelt to gather Silwren in his arms as he had done at Cadavash and at Lyos. She felt so warm that were it not for his armor, he might have dropped her. She seemed practically weightless, though, as he carried her to his horse.

Despite Snowdark’s sudden reluctance to carry the unconscious sorceress, Rowen held Silwren in the saddle in front of him, where Haesha had been moments before. Silwren whimpered but did not wake. Her platinum curls smelled of smoke and charred flesh. Slowly, afraid to wake Silwren, Rowen rode back to find the others.

Jalist met him halfway. “Is she dead?”

Rowen felt a lump in his throat. “No.”

“Then close her eyes before she gives me even more nightmares than she already has.” Jalist rode closer. When Rowen did not move, the Dwarr switched his long axe to his other hand, reached out, and, with surprising gentleness, closed Silwren’s eyes. “What happened?”

Rowen shook his head, unwilling to answer.

“The Lochurites?”

“Dead.”

“Good. I don’t see any blood. Did they hurt her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why is she unconscious?”

Rowen tried to edge his horse around Jalist’s, but the Dwarr grabbed his arm. “Locke, you’re pale as a shade. What happened?”

“Nothing. The wildmen are dead. We’re safe. Let’s just stop for a while and let her sleep, then we’ll move on.”

Jalist’s eyes narrowed. “It’s almost sunset. You sure you want to stop? The way things are going, we might not get any farther today if we do.”

Rowen remembered the barbarian child’s face, wide with awe and terror, a moment before she died. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though he could no longer tell if the heat came from Knightswrath or Silwren. He resisted the urge to push her off his horse completely. “We have to stop.”

Jalist nodded and moved out of the way. Rowen felt the stares of the priests and pilgrims as he rejoined the column. Haesha stood in the distance, frowning, knife in hand, but he rode toward Matua and dismounted. He stepped close to the old cleric and whispered, “Silwren needs to sleep. We need to keep her out of sight. Are there any tents?”

Matua blinked. “Yes. That is, no, but we can make one out of cloaks and spears, if needs be.” He turned to Silwren, who had slumped against Snowdark’s neck, prompting the horse’s eyes to go wide. “Is she hurt?”

“She just needs to sleep.” Rowen pulled Silwren down from his horse. While Matua took the reins, Rowen carried the prone sorceress toward a soft patch of grass. “She needs to be left alone,” he said loudly.

Matua followed hesitantly. “Does that mean we’re stopping for the night? Your friend spoke of Lochurites—”

“They’re all dead. We’re safe. We just need to stop.”
And the next person to ask me why is going to get a split skull
. Luckily, Matua did not press the matter, and despite their fear of the Lochurites, the others seemed relieved for the rest. As Silwren lay on the grass, shaking in short, unsettling spasms, Rowen gathered cloaks and spears. The priests and pilgrims seemed reluctant to part with their cloaks, even if only for a while, but Rowen’s expression, coupled with Matua’s urgings, persuaded them otherwise.

Rowen carried everything back to where Silwren lay. Jalist helped, silent for once, though the others kept their distance. The two jammed spears in the ground, forming an outline around her body, then draped the spears with cloaks. Shadows covered her. Rowen stepped back.

Jalist whispered, “Locke, you’re still as pale as the bone handle on that sword of yours. Would you mind—”

“We can’t take her to the Wytchforest like this.” Rowen glanced toward the setting sun. “I know we don’t have time to waste, but we can’t go west until she’s… better. We need time. Atheion’s as good a place to wait as any.”

Jalist cleared his throat. “That’s… a change from what you’ve been saying.”

Rowen turned to face him.

Jalist held up his hands. “All right, Locke, don’t bristle. Atheion it is. I’ve always wanted to see the City-on-the-Sea anyway. Maybe I’ll even spend some time in the Scrollhouse, make myself smart, become a merchant. Who knows? Maybe—”

Rowen walked away, ignoring the rest.

As the sun set, darkness swallowed the camp, keeping pace with Rowen’s mood. The others lit fires, but Rowen stuck to the edge of the camp, careful to avoid letting the fire spoil his night vision as he scanned the darkness for enemies. He’d left Jalist to keep an eye on Silwren, though Rowen was certain that the others were too afraid of her to risk getting close enough to harm her.

Maybe they’re smarter than I am.

Rowen walked the perimeter of the camp over and over again. Though he still wore Knightswrath, he used a fire-hardened spear as a walking stick. From time to time, fresh pulses of heat radiated off the sheathed sword, sometimes so painful that he wanted to ungird it and leave it behind.

Something was happening to the sword. Whatever had begun in Lyos, where the sword had transformed seemingly of its own accord from tarnished and rusted to bright and flawless, had accelerated. He suspected it had to do with Silwren, though he could not decide if it was because of the wytchfire the sword had absorbed—which it had done before, when Shade attacked him—or Silwren’s mere presence. He had the terrible thought that as Silwren’s power and unpredictability grew, the sword was trying to warn him.

Maybe I should just give the damn thing to Crovis Ammerhel after all. I might not need it to kill Fadarah anyway. Even without it, I might be able to invoke the Oath of Kin with the Sylvs.

He moved his hand to the buckle of his sword belt. He started to remove it, changed his mind, and paced the perimeter again. In the distance, a baby cried. Two old men argued over which of the gods was the strongest. Haesha threatened to kill someone for something they’d just said to her. Then Silwren emerged quietly from the darkness right in front of him, her pale skin a stark contrast to her blue-black cloak. He thought for a moment that she was a ghost or a hallucination and that the real Silwren was still asleep in the camp.

“It’s me,” she whispered, holding up her empty hands.

Rowen realized he’d rested a hand on his sword hilt. He removed it. “Are you all right?”

Silwren nodded then drew closer. Before he could stop himself, Rowen took a step back.

Silwren winced. “Are you?”

Rowen nodded stiffly.

Silwren stared for a moment, unblinking. “I’m sorry. I hardly remember… what happened. Just jumbled images. But…”

Rowen thought of the Lochurite child again. He wondered if he should tell her, then he washed the child’s face from his mind in case Silwren was reading his thoughts. “You should sleep. We’ll leave at first light and get to Atheion by sundown. We can start west the morning after.”

Silwren turned to stare off into the night. “You’re right. I can’t go west yet. If you want my help, we should go more slowly. If not, you should go on your own.”

Before Rowen could answer, Silwren vanished into darkness. He cursed, wondering if he should follow. Instead, he returned to the camp. Jalist rose from a fire, a flask in hand, and met him.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on her,” Rowen said dourly.

Jalist shrugged. “She woke. She walked off. I wasn’t about to argue.” He offered Rowen the flask.

Rowen ignored the flask and made his way to the heart of the camp. Priests and pilgrims were talking, but he silenced them with a look. After ungirding Knightswrath, he laid it on the ground at his feet. He forced a smile. “We’re close to Atheion, but we still have a long day’s journey tomorrow. There’s still danger. We gave you those spears, but we haven’t had time yet to teach you how to use them. If you like, I’ll teach you now.”

Some stared at him. Others went back to talking in low whispers. No one stood up. Jalist smirked.

“Listen, if not tomorrow, maybe you’ll face a Lochurite or a robber or some other cutthroat a week or a month or a year from now. When you do, you’ll be glad for this practice.”

Some of his listeners copied Jalist’s smirk. He cursed inwardly, reminding himself that many of these clerics were old and probably meant to live out the rest of their lives in Atheion. The other refugees—women and children—would likely do the same. The only person who indicated any interest in learning to use a spear was a little boy who stood up and was promptly restrained and hushed by his mother.

Rowen hoped the darkness hid his embarrassment as he felt himself blush. He tried to think of some joke to save face, but his mind was blank. He jabbed his spear into the earth and was about to sit down when a voice called out.

“If you’re giving lessons on how to kill, Knight, call me your student.”

Haesha pushed past the others and stood before him. She plucked Rowen’s spear from the earth and threw it hard. He barely caught it before it hit him in the nose. She grabbed one for herself from a nearby pile. She twirled it between her fingers, making a deft circle, then nodded to herself. She threw off her cloak. A few more travelers chuckled. Others, like Matua, made sounds of disapproval.

Haesha’s new clothes, smaller and badly torn, left her midriff exposed. Her slender waist glistened in the firelight, and Rowen caught a flash of jewelry in her navel. He eyed her with a mixture of arousal and loathing. If her breasts did not jostle free the first time she made a quick move, it would be a miracle.

“Only a fool fights while drunk,” Rowen told her.

“Haven’t touched a drop for hours. Kiss me and taste for yourself.” She took a few brazen steps toward him. Then she lunged with her spear.

Caught off guard, Rowen backpedaled. The fire-hardened point stabbed at his face again—not with a clumsy lunge but a quick, balanced strike. Rowen parried with the tip of his spear, considered stabbing her in the gut, and sidestepped. She pivoted, as agile as a shadow, and swung at him, but he was out of range. She recovered easily.

Rowen noted her graceful footwork and easy grip. Though a spear was not his weapon of choice, he’d trained with them. He could tell right away that Haesha was at least his equal.
A cleric who knows how to use a spear? What is this madwoman’s story?

Haesha regarded him with cold green eyes. Then she flashed a crooked smile and attacked. Rowen ducked, parried, sidestepped, and parried again. He was glad the onlookers had left him room to maneuver. He was glad he was still wearing his armor, too, when the tip of Haesha’s spear jabbed hard against his kingsteel cuirass, further snagging his tabard.

Rowen risked a sidelong glance at Jalist and saw the Dwarr’s unconcealed expression of amusement. He hefted his long axe a little, indicating his willingness to intervene. Rowen shook his head. He used the spear like a quarterstaff, striking Haesha just above the elbow. He put only enough force behind the blow to catch her attention.

“Settle down,” he warned.

Haesha’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. Unfazed by the strike to her arm, she attacked again. She, too, used her spear like a quarterstaff. Rowen blocked a strike at his knee, sidestepped to avoid a broken jaw, then grunted when Haesha spun and thrust the butt of her spear into his stomach, hard enough that he felt the impact through his armor.

Anger withered his restraint. He drove the butt of his spear toward her ankle. But she moved away nimbly and struck his shoulder far harder than he’d struck her arm.

“
You’re
looking a bit
too
settled, good Sir Knight.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Rowen glowered at her. “This is getting out of hand, Priestess.”

“Let it.” Haesha came at him again.

He blocked each of her strikes, but her fury drove him back again. He bumped into an onlooker and narrowly parried a spear point from his throat. Rowen’s anger turned to rage, seasoned with profound irritation. He could not imagine that the madwoman really meant to kill him for no reason.

When she attacked again, he sidestepped and delivered a hard blow to the outside of her thigh. He took another sidestep and struck her even harder across the buttocks.

Haesha cursed and nearly fell then turned, grinning. “Were I still a whore, I’d charge you two silvers for that.”

“Enough.” Rowen used the butt of his spear to push her back a step. “I offered instruction out of kindness. If you want to kill something, go wander the countryside and find a Lochurite to tussle with.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to rattle the skulls of pompous Knights.” Haesha sank in a low crouch and sprang up, twisting. The movement caused her ample bosom to sway. A pink nipple caught his eye.

Too late, Rowen recognized her tactic. Before he could wrest his eyes from the distraction, Haesha’s spear slammed into his groin. His armor absorbed most of the force, but he still doubled over. “Fohl take you!” He looked up to see her spear point angling toward his throat again.

But Jalist stepped between them. The Dwarr blocked the strike with his long axe and countered, lopping off the sharpened tip of her spear. He gave the priestess a cold stare. “Like he said… enough.”

Haesha took a step back. Then she smirked and twirled the remains of her spear before tossing it at Jalist’s feet. She faced the onlookers. “Some protector you’ve hired.”