Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (12 page)

Jalist braced one hand against the turnip cart and pushed himself up. With great effort, he staggered the rest of the way up King’s Bend. He reflected on the last time he’d been to Lyos. Then, as now, he’d been on the wrong side of the walls—though at the time, he’d been leading a revolt in Fadarah’s Throng, just as it was about to attack the city. But that hadn’t stopped the defenders of Lyos from arresting him afterward. He wondered how they would greet him now, if they recognized him.

He scanned the panicked crowds for a familiar face, hoping to find at least a veteran officer calm enough to listen. The gates of Lyos finally swung open, and the survivors began to surge inside. Then he saw
her
.

Igrid leaned against a wagon, accompanied by an old man wearing the priestly red robes of Maelmohr. Blood matted her red hair. For a moment, he was torn between helping the cleric drag her inside and finishing her off with his own sword.

The priest looked up at his approach. He flinched when he saw Jalist then smiled with relief. “I’ve never been so happy to see a Dwarr in all my life. Please, son, help me carry this poor woman—”

“I’ll carry her, Father. Don’t worry. Get inside. I’ll be right behind you.”

The cleric glanced back at the motionless Jolym and nodded. He stood and made for Lyos without looking back.

Jalist knelt in front of Igrid. “Hello, Iron Sister.”

Igrid looked up, dizzily blinking her green eyes. Then with astonishing quickness, she plucked a stiletto from one sleeve and thrust it at Jalist’s face.

Stunned, the Dwarr leaned back and caught her wrist. He plucked the knife from her grasp and tossed it away. He grabbed her other wrist then eyed the wound at the top of her head, half hidden by her red curls. “Girl, you’re lucky that Jol didn’t split your brains. Can you stand, or do I have to toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes?”

“I can stand,” Igrid hissed through clenched teeth. “But I wouldn’t have to, if that blasted wytch would make herself useful, for once.”

Jalist blinked in confusion.

“What, is she out of wytchfire? Tell her to melt those damn things down.” Igrid looked around.

Jalist finally understood. “Silwren isn’t here. Neither is Rowen. I’m alone.”

Igrid stared at him for a moment. “Sack of potatoes it is, then.”

But before Jalist could gather her up in his arms, the gates slammed shut once more. Jalist straightened, shouting up at the battlements, but a great crash drowned him out. Fireballs and jagged rocks arced over the city walls. Momentarily forgetting their danger, Jalist whirled after the siege missiles.

Some flew wild, but more than a few stones struck the Jolym, eliciting a sound like the ringing of a bell. Meanwhile, clay pots filled with burning pitch shattered at the Jolym’s feet, spreading fire. But the Jolym did not cry out. Those hammered down by rocks sat up and rose to their feet without pause. Despite great dents in their brass and steel bodies, they looked unfazed.

“The eyes, you fools! That’s their only weakness!” Jalist shouted up at the battlements, only to be drowned out by the blaring of trumpets. He guessed that meant the Red Watch was calling in their reserves. Jalist turned back to Igrid. To his surprise, she’d managed to stand, though she leaned heavily on the cart.

“We’ll have to seek refuge in the Dark Quarter.”
Gods, there’s something I never thought I’d say.
“Just so you know, I’m better at carrying people when they don’t stab me in the back.”

Jalist waited until Igrid nodded. Then he wrapped one strong arm around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. Though she was light, his muscles protested, already shaking with weariness. Jalist spotted a few more wounded guardsmen stumbling up King’s Bend, dumbly staggering toward the gates. “No, make for the slums,” he shouted. He started down, fighting to keep his balance.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bones and Dust

C
horlga stood on a hill half a mile outside Lyos, watching the slaughter. Despite the distance, he had no trouble witnessing it, for he could see through each Jol’s eyes as if they were his own. Three hundred Jolym marched into the crowds with icy nonchalance, hacking and cleaving everything in their path.

Chorlga watched stoically as an officer led a second force of defenders down the road and into battle. He felt a pang of respect for the man’s courage. He was tempted to have his Jolym spare the man—he might need officers of quality in his new empire—but decided against it.

Though the new company of defenders outnumbered the Jolym three to one, they fared no better than their comrades. Crossbows shuddered. Swords snapped. The Jolym shrugged off every blow and surged up Pallantine Hill, unhindered. Despite heavy losses, the Lyosi officer led his riders against the Jolym in one reckless, hopeless charge after another. Finally, the Jolym cut him down. The defenders’ courage faltered. Those who remained fled back up the hill and sealed the city gates.

Chorlga had proven his point. With a mere thought, he ordered his Jolym to cease their attack. They stood in tight formation outside the gates, just beyond bow range, lest a lucky arrow strike one of them in the eye. This still left them within range of siege weapons, though. Catapults, trebuchets, and ballistas hurled all manner of stones, spears, and burning pitch at the Jolym—without effect.

Chorlga saw what he knew must be the city’s ruler standing at the battlements, his face ashen. Chorlga would wait a few more minutes for panic to spread, then he would present himself before the Lyosi king and demand the city’s surrender. If they refused, Chorlga would blow open their gates and send in his Jolym.

“But I won’t kill everyone. As Nekiel was so fond of saying, there’s no sense in crowning yourself king of a cemetery.” He turned to the cloaked, ruined man kneeling beside him. “Don’t you agree?”

The Nightmare did not answer.

“Perhaps I should have sent you to burn the Lotus Isles. You aren’t proving to be much of a traveling companion.”

He thought of the next phase of his plan, as far as the Nightmare was concerned. Once Chorlga had secured the loyalty of Lyos and his Jolym had destroyed Fâyu Jinn’s detestable Knighthood—a lost cause, since their rigid code precluded surrender—they would head west. With the Shel’ai all but obliterated and Silwren surely dead, the war Fadarah had started, secretly prodded along by Chorlga, still raged from one coast of Ruun to the other. The chaos sewn by that war would make it easier for Chorlga to finally take control. But to do that, he would have to contend with the strongest remaining faction: the Dhargots. He could either destroy them or subjugate them. He favored the latter.

All Chorlga had to do was present himself before their blood-crazed princes and show them the Nightmare, and they would be his. If any hesitated, he could unleash the Nightmare long enough to destroy a few battalions.

Everything was finally falling into place. Chorlga faced Pallantine Hill again. A cold breeze mingled with the sound of screams kindled a memory ten centuries old. He’d once stood on a hill—perhaps this very one—and watched Nekiel’s forces raze a previous incarnation of Lyos, as repayment for some slight that Chorlga could no longer remember. He’d pleaded with Nekiel to show mercy—the city had housed a woman whom Chorlga fancied. Not even a Dragonkin, she was just a pretty slave girl who had caught his eye.

Chorlga shook off the memory. “Bones and dust,” the Dragonkin snarled.

“As we’ll all be, soon enough.”

It was not the Nightmare who had spoken. The young man was kneeling, blank faced, rocking himself. Beyond him stood an old man in a tattered cloak. His Sylvan features were marred by a patchwork of scars, warts, and sores. His lips were twisted into a permanent sad smile, as though they’d been torn apart then poorly resewn. But the man’s eyes were violet, the pupils bone white.

Chorlga turned to the Nightmare as though he might ask him for confirmation, but the young man’s expression remained unchanged. Finally, Chorlga summoned wytchfire that coursed the length of his arms. “I must learn to be more careful with my spells. I should have known I’d bring you back.”

El’rash’lin stepped forward. He kept his gaze on Chorlga but squeezed the Nightmare’s shoulder, as if in greeting, though the kneeling man did not respond. “There are a great many other things you’ve failed to foresee, Dragonkin. But that’s to be expected when one drinks too often from a poison well.”

Chorlga sneered. “You refer to Namundvar’s Well as poison now? Interesting.”

“All things can be poison, if they’re misused. The same goes for the Light.” El’rash’lin gave Chorlga a piteous look. “I know.
We
used the Well, thinking it would give us enough power to keep all the Shel’ai safe. Instead, it drove Iventine mad and nearly did the same to the rest of us.” He glanced at the silent figure again, who was still rocking himself incessantly.

Chorlga laughed. “Of
course
it didn’t work, you fool. You’re a Shel’ai. I am a Dragonkin. My cup is deeper than yours.”

El’rash’lin gave Chorlga a sad smile. “But you’ve still drunk too much.” El’rash’lin gathered his tattered cloak and sat down, cross-legged, on the plains. He gestured for Chorlga to do the same. When the Dragonkin did not, El’rash’lin said, “The Well didn’t just corrupt my good looks or muck up poor Iventine’s mind. It showed us something we aren’t supposed to see.” He paused. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Chorlga’s fists clenched. Wytchfire leaked between his fingers. “Did you come here to talk metaphysics or to fight?”

“I admit, neither sounds appealing.” El’rash’lin sighed. “There is a reason why the Light does not reveal itself to us, the same way it did to the dragons. That feeling of peace and calm, of unity with something higher… then
losing
that… is more than our kind can handle.”

“
Our
kind?”

El’rash’lin continued without acknowledging Chorlga’s response. “Namundvar’s Well wasn’t built to satisfy your thirst for power. It wasn’t made to look without. It was made to look
within
. That’s the mistake we Shel’ai made.” He paused. “
My
mistake. In that, I suppose I am not so different from my Dragonkin forebears.”

The Nightmare whimpered suddenly, startling them, though his expression remained unchanged. El’rash’lin gave the kneeling man a piteous look then faced Chorlga. The look did not disappear.

“If we’re not careful, we end up mistaking peace for power, then pursuing power at the expense of everything else. That’s what happened to
you
, isn’t it?”

When Chorlga did not answer, El’rash’lin took a step toward him. “I cannot even begin to fathom how lonely you’ve been. So many centuries, trapped on this continent with people you view as little more than animals—”

“You
are
animals!” Plumes of wytchfire writhed between Chorlga’s fingers again. “Do you think the Dragonkin ruled without help? For every Human, Sylv, and Dwarr who fought us, six more were willing to betray their own kind, just to earn our favor. I’ve seen fathers offer up daughters. I’ve seen children stab parents in their sleep. Is
this
the world you’re trying to protect?” Chorlga continued before El’rash’lin could answer. “At least under Dragonkin rule, there was order. No one died of starvation. No plagues. Even our slaves received a measure of justice.”

El’rash’lin’s twisted lips formed a sneer of their own. “Please tell me more about Dragonkin justice.”

Chorlga took a deep breath and let it go. “We both know you aren’t strong enough to oppose me. I haven’t killed you yet because I sense a secret you’ve walled up in your mind. Are you going to tell me, or should I reduce that to ash when I do the same to your bones?”

El’rash’lin did not speak. Then, in a voice suddenly heavy with grief, he said, “Silwren is dead. Only it was not the Sylvan king who killed her.” El’rash’lin’s grief became derision. “Before she died, she rekindled Knightswrath. She entrusted the blade to an Isle Knight, one of an order descended from Fâyu Jinn himself. She died so that he might have the power to destroy you… just as Nâya sacrificed herself, all those centuries ago.” El’rash’lin rose to his feet. “And you didn’t foresee any of this… did you, Dragonkin?”

El’rash’lin took a step forward. Chorlga stepped back.

“You didn’t think Silwren would find Knightswrath in time or that she wouldn’t have the courage to act. That there weren’t any Isle Knights left who could use it, anyway. But you were wrong. The Light chose someone. And he’s coming for you. If I were you, I’d run.”

Chorlga stared, speechless. Sensing his agitation, the Nightmare had risen like some faithful hound, wytchfire burning all around him. But Chorlga did not give the order to attack. He probed El’rash’lin’s mind. The Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin had unwalled his thoughts. Chorlga saw that he was not lying. He shook his head in disbelief.

“This cannot be… I was
in
Sylvos. If the Sword had been there, I would have sensed it. If Silwren had done this—”

“You
should
have sensed it, with all your power. All the control you
think
you have. But you didn’t, did you?” El’rash’lin shook his head. “When you brought Iventine back from the dead, when you drained those poor fey bastards to increase your power. You saw glimpses of what Silwren had done, but you ignored the visions. And what will you do now? Burn cities and frighten children? Is that what you’ve spent the better part of ten centuries planning? Is
this
the lofty empire you hoped to design, Dragonkin?”

As though in answer, a fresh chorus of battle cries echoed across the Simurgh Plains. Instead of panic, these rang out with defiance. Puzzled, Chorlga faced Pallantine Hill. He looked once more through the eyes of a Jol. Puzzlement became disbelief. Another host of defenders was charging his creations, originating not from the gates of Lyos but from the slums far below. What was more, the host was armed with bows and spears. As Chorlga stared, the wretched slum dwellers took aim and loosed a cloud of arrows—aiming for the eyes.

Chorlga winced as one Jol after another fell. He was about to order the rest to charge the slum dwellers when the Jol he was temporarily inhabiting was struck down. A raw jolt sent Chorlga reeling. He quickly regained his senses, but rather than see through yet another Jol’s eyes, he issued a mental command. All the remaining Jolym quietly turned their backs on the arrows and began to march away.

Back on the hill again, fully returned to his own body, Chorlga faced El’rash’lin. Though the latter did not speak, his twisted lips had lifted to form a broader, mocking smile. Chorlga tensed. Wytchfire pulsed from his hands.

“I will cast myself into the Dragonward before I cede this land back to the dogs.”

He brought his hands up. His fingers uncoiled. He expected El’rash’lin to defend himself; the old man simply stared back as wytchfire flowed over his body, burning his shadow into the plains.

Chorlga stood there, his breath ragged. Then he faced the Nightmare. The young man had stopped rocking and was staring at the scorched grass where El’rash’lin had been. Then he started rocking again.

“Follow,” Chorlga called out. He started down the hill, his fingers still clenched into fists.

The small company made its way through the ravaged Wytchforest, where corpses of Sylvs and Olgrym still scattered the forest floor. Fighting the impulse to pinch his nose, Rowen employed an old trick he’d learned as a sellsword. He breathed deep, forcing himself to take in the smell of the surrounding rot without retching, so that it would clog his senses and he would forget it was there more quickly.

“Gods, I thought they’d gathered all the bodies by now.”

“Just the ones near the capital,” Rhos’ari answered. “Too many kin to bury, too many Olgrym to burn.”

“And we still have a kingdom to defend,” Iventine added coldly.

Rowen resisted the urge to reply.

Rhos’ari called out to him, “Wait a moment, Knight.”

Rowen reined in and turned to see Rhos’ari unslinging his bow. The others did the same—all save Kilisti, who drew her shortsword. Rowen marveled that Rhos’ari was able to draw a bow despite the missing fingers on his right hand. Indeed, he held the bow awkwardly and winced, but his arms were steady. Rowen was close enough to Rhos’ari to see a burgundy smear of a poison called quickdeath on the arrow’s tip. It was the strongest, fastest poison the Sylvs had, though like all poisons, even quickdeath had trouble bringing down an Olg.