Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (14 page)

Whether they struggled for a thousand years or only for a moment, Chorlga could not tell. But the ocean brightened again, as though some unquenchable fire raged far beneath the water. Gradually, something took shape. He gazed down upon a great forest that stretched in all directions, as though propagated somehow by a gigantic, even greater tree blossoming at its heart. But then the forest gave way to broad, sweeping grasslands. To the north, he saw a land of barren, blasted rock.

“Godsfall? He’s gone to Godsfall?” Chorlga found that hard to believe. He’d expected to find Knightswrath housed in Shaffrilon or perhaps to see an Isle Knight carrying it east, back toward the Lotus Isles. But he reminded himself that the Olgrym had just been laying siege to the Sylvan capital. Perhaps the Isle Knight, having thwarted them and driven them from the forest, was pursuing them to their own homeland, hoping to vanquish them.

Chorlga willed the image to sharpen. He had the sudden feeling that he was falling from a great height, plummeting toward the rocky realm. But he controlled his fear and kept his focus. A moment before it seemed he would be dashed to pieces, his descent slowed. A new image formed beneath him. Chorlga stared. Then he laughed.

His control began to slip. He’d been in the well too long—far longer than he ever had before. He was weakening. But it made no difference. Chorlga imagined floating on the ocean again. He lay on the raft and closed his eyes. He repeated his own name, over and over. Slowly, he opened his eyes—his
real
eyes—and found himself kneeling beside Namundvar’s Well again.

Chorlga stared into the dimming light then took a breath. His lungs ached. Raw pain wracked his chest as though he’d never breathed before. But Chorlga was used to the feeling. He calmed his senses and waited until the feeling passed. He took another breath. Finally, when he could, he laughed again.

He pictured the Isle Knight as he’d seen him a moment before. He’d expected some proud, armored hero riding at the front of a great, gleaming legion, burning sword in hand. He’d expected someone like Fâyu Jinn, the fearsome mortal who’d forged a vengeful army out of warring slave-tribes, who had made even Nekiel quake with fear. Instead, the Light had shown him a ragged, dirty sellsword hiding in the rubble, hunted by friends and enemies alike. The man was roiling with doubts and self-loathing, both terrified of and intoxicated by his newfound power, as likely to destroy himself as an enemy.

Chorlga stood. Straightening to full height, he cast a derisive look into the well’s dark mouth. “I’ve led armies of a hundred thousand men, all chanting my name. I’ve watched nations burn. I’ve spat in the face of the gods. And
that
is the champion you send against me?”

He spat into the well then strode away, leaving the sphere of light he’d summoned earlier to burn itself out, slowly returning the chamber to grave-like darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Shadows in the Ruins

B
linking up at the stars, Rowen fumbled in the darkness for his sword. His hand closed on Knightswrath’s hilt. The dragonbone felt so cold that he jumped.

“Easy, Knight. Don’t worry. We didn’t steal your precious bit of devilry.”

Rowen realized that he was lying in a ruined temple, surrounded by broken statues. Stars shown through a shattered ceiling. He was still wearing his armor. He sat up, groaning with soreness. He turned and saw Kilisti sitting on a toppled statue across from him. A drawn shortsword lay across her knees.

“Where are the others?”

“Outside, keeping watch.” Kilisti stood. Rowen tensed, but she sheathed her sword. “Nice armor you’ve got there. I thought that Olg’s spear would sail right through you.”

Rowen examined his breastplate. The kingsteel was dented, his tabard torn, but he did not think his ribs were broken anymore. He glanced down at Knightswrath. Its blade gleamed in the soft blue light of a single luminstone at Kilisti’s feet. Rowen sheathed his own sword and stood.

Kilisti’s scarred face gave him a long, unfathomable look. Then she tossed him a wineskin. “You scared the wild piss out of the boys, you know. Faeli wanted to kill you while you were passed out. Even Rhos’ari looked like he was giving it some serious thought.”

Rowen took a long drink. “And you?”

Kilisti shrugged. “Briel said take you north. Shal’tiar follow orders.”

“I guess I’ll have to settle for that.” Rowen tossed the wineskin back. “What happened to the Olgrym?”

“You mean the two dead ones, or the three we killed carrying you to Que’ahl?”

Rowen tensed. “Three?”

Kilisti nodded. “Luckily, we had more warning this time. Brought them down with arrows. Young Cathas took a scrape but nothing serious.”

Rowen nodded, relieved. He looked around again. “We’re in Que’ahl?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Just surprised you didn’t leave me in the forest to die. Anybody else hurt?”

Kilisti shook her head. She took a drink from the wineskin. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Rowen had no idea how to answer her question. “I will if you will.”

Kilisti moved one hand as though about to cover her face then stopped herself. “Not much to tell. I was scouting. Got careless. An Olg caught me, started cutting me up, got so wrapped up in his fun, he didn’t see Captain Essidel coming up behind him.” She returned the wineskin to her pack. “Now you.”

Rowen shuddered at the coldness in her voice.

“Don’t know. I willed the sword to life, it started on fire, and I swung the damn thing. What more do you want to know?”

“What it did to
you
, for starters.” Kilisti tapped her sword hilt. “I’ve seen men laugh like that, when the bloodlust takes hold. Only you don’t seem the type. So if that thing you’re carrying can change you like that, that makes you dangerous to this mission… and to me.”

Rowen ignored the not-so-subtle threat. “This
thing
is also what let me kill Fadarah, drive off the Shel’ai and the Olgrym, and save your entire city.”

“So I hear.” Kilisti drummed her fingers on her sword hilt as though deciding what to do next. “I don’t know a damn thing about magic, besides that it can’t be trusted. That means
you
can’t be trusted. Only I saw that compound where we’re going, swarming with armed men. More than just the six of us can handle, no matter how quiet we creep in.”

Rowen looked down at Kilisti’s luminstone. He had seen such enchanted stones in abundance at Shaffrilon. He had seen a few at Atheion, too, probably obtained by trade or theft many ages before. But he had not seen any of them at Que’ahl. He remembered hearing something about how they were forbidden beyond the forest and wondered if Kilisti had stolen it. Then his thoughts turned to more important matters.

We’ve only just set out, and I’ve already lost a man.
“The one who died—”

“Seth’el.”

Rowen repeated the name to himself. “Did you bury him?”

“Didn’t have time. Besides, your horse got skittish. All the noise she made, we didn’t dare stay in one place too long.”

Rowen hesitated. He wondered if he should apologize. Glancing at Kilisti, he had the feeling she’d take it as an insult. He massaged a crick in his neck.

“There’s more,” Kilisti said. “We’re being followed.”

Gods, of course we are
. “How many?”

“Can’t tell. They’re keeping their distance—strange, for Olgrym. We tried to lose them. Rhos’ari and Aerios even tried leading them off our trail, but the bastards are persistent. A dozen at least, though. Couldn’t tell which clan. But whoever’s leading them, he’s smarter than the usual skull busters we deal with.”

“A smart Olg. Just what we need.”

Kilisti’s sour look said that for once, they were of the same mind. “Looks like they won’t come near Que’ahl, like you said. That might be all it is. But you can believe they’ll be after us again, once we start out.” She added, “Faeli thinks we should send someone back to the capital for reinforcements.”

“That would take too long. Besides, I doubt Briel has any to give us. We’ll have to try and outrun them. But we only have five horses left, if memory serves.”

“Might be enough, so long as we don’t stop for tea and sweet rolls.”

With great effort, Rowen kept himself from smiling. “If we hug the Dead Shores, we’ll have to pass right through Godsfall. That’s suicide. But if we avoid Godsfall, we’ll have to go around Quorim, which belongs to the Dhargots now.” Rowen pictured a map in his mind. “So we go east around Godsfall, then west along the Dead Shores, then east after we pass Quorim—”

“Or straight north,” Kilisti interrupted. “It’ll take us right between Hesod and Quorim, but we have a better chance of avoiding the Olgrym.”

“But not the Dhargots.” Rowen cursed. “Either way, sooner or later, we’re bound to run into someone.”

“Well, it’s that, or you go chop at them with your burning sword while the rest of us go on without you.”

Rowen gave her a hard look, unable to tell if she was joking. “We should go. We’ve been here long enough. Tell the men—”

Kilisti left the shattered temple before he could finish.

Rowen watched her go. “I think that one will try and kill me, before this is over,” he muttered. His voice echoed in the temple, sending a shiver down his spine. The last time he’d been in Que’ahl, he’d been fighting Olgrym, but at least he’d had Jalist and Silwren with him.

He wondered where the Dwarr was. It was a long, dangerous road, but he hoped that Jalist had made it back to Stillhammer, into the arms of his lover. He deserved that.

Rowen picked up Kilisti’s luminstone and studied its blue glow. When he covered it with both hands, it darkened. The stone looked like nothing more than a plain stone, noteworthy only for its perfect roundness and silk-smooth texture. He considered giving it back to Kilisti then decided that if she wanted it, she could ask for it. Sliding the stone into his pocket, he thought of Igrid. He wasn’t sure what she deserved, but wherever she was, he hoped she was safe.

The Sylvs turned collectively as Rowen left the temple. Their azure eyes scrutinized him in the ghostly darkness of the burned-out fortress. Rhos’ari gave him a slight nod, but no one spoke. Aside from the jingle of the horses’ harnesses, there was no sound.

I should say something, thank them for carrying me here or at least express my condolences for Seth’el…

Rowen went to Snowdark. Faeli handed him the reins without comment. Rowen hoisted himself into the saddle, and the others mounted. Cathas, his left thigh wrapped in a red-stained bandaged, shared a horse with Kilisti. All the Sylvs stared at him, their expressions cold in the moonlight.

Finally, Sergeant Rhos’ari cleared his throat. “Ride on, Knight. We’ll follow you.”

Rowen nodded, hesitant. Then he pointed Snowdark north and guided her through the darkened ruins.

Jalist drained his wine glass, wiped his beard, then refilled his cup. He took a drink as he scrutinized the figure lying on the bed before him. “You know, if it was so important, you’d think somebody would have written down how to kill those bastards.”

When his companion did not answer, Jalist said, “Or maybe they did. Books don’t last forever. Or maybe they just figured with the Dragonkin gone, there wasn’t any point. But that gets me wondering where the Jolym came from. No Dragonkin left to make them.”

“What about Rowen’s wytch?”

“I suppose you could call her a Dragonkin, based on what she could do. But she didn’t do this. And the others… El’rash’lin, the Nightmare… they’re all dead.”

“Maybe it was the gods.” Igrid’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Jalist grunted. “Gods, it wasn’t enough that I had to survive all that foolishness with the Locke brothers, tromping all over Ruun from Quesh to the Wintersea. Now I’ve got to go and keep living through battles that should have ended with my skull split open.” He took another drink. “We Dwarr have a saying.” He frowned. “Must not be very important since I can’t remember exactly how it goes, but here’s the gist of it: whatever Lady Luck gives you, you’ll have to pay it back before the end.” He took another drink. “Which goddess is paired with luck, anyway? Dyoni, right?”

Igrid groaned, though Jalist could not tell if her distress had to do with the tightness of the bandages wrapped around her head or with his late-night attempt at conversation. “Dyoni’s a
man
, you fop.”

“Is he?” Jalist took another drink. “Doesn’t matter. Only one
my
people pray to is Maelmohr… though I have to say, the Firegod hasn’t been too great about answering prayers lately.” He stared into his cup.

Igrid leaned on one elbow. Though the sheet slid off her bosom, she made no move to cover herself. “Go somewhere else, Dwarr. I’m not going to die—at least, not tonight—and I don’t need a damn bodyguard.”

Jalist smirked. A young cleric of Tier’Gothma paused on his rounds and stared at Igrid, wide eyed, from across the great chamber that had been converted into a hospital. Jalist seized the sheet and covered Igrid, wondering if she was immodest or had already guessed that his tastes precluded her gender. “I’m not your bodyguard, Iron Sister. More like your jailor.”

Igrid reached for the nearest weapon—a candleholder—but Jalist held up his hands. “Peace, you humorless wench! I just mean, I plan on keeping track of you until Locke shows up.”

Igrid tapped her fingernail on the candleholder. “And… when will that be?”

“Whenever he’s done fighting the Sylvs’ war for them, I suppose. But he’ll pass through here on his way back to the Lotus Isles. He has to.”

“Him and that crazed, platinum-haired wytch of his.” Igrid tugged at her bandages.

Jalist stared into his cup again. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Last he heard, I was on my way to Stillhammer.”

“Then why aren’t you there now?”

Jalist blinked. He thought of all he’d seen. It seemed impossible that Igrid didn’t know.
Then again, why would she?
He had not told her, and any Dwarrs lucky enough to have escaped the Jolym would not have come so far north, into Human lands. The only Dwarrs in such parts were either wanderers or outcasts. Jalist had spotted a few from a distance, in Lyos after the battle, and had resisted the impulse to inform them of what had happened to their homeland.

Let them find out on their own
.

Jalist looked up. He realized that Igrid was still waiting for an answer. He forced a smile. “I’ll talk about that once, to the king or one of his captains, but that’s it. Get your answers from them.” He stood. “Sleep well, Iron Sister.”

He left before she could reply.

Outside the temple, Jalist paused between matching statues of Tier’Gothma and breathed in the night air. Lyos was finally quiet. Two temple guards nodded to him. Jalist returned their gesture with a shake of his wineskin. He knew he should be enjoying his newfound fame, but the thought of his homeland had drained all the joy from him.

After Jalist had insisted that he was friends with Rowen Locke, which Igrid, dazed as she was, managed to vouch for, the gangs had taken his advice and managed to drive the Jolym off Pallantine Hill. Three Jolym had even been struck down. The heavy shells they’d left behind—armor wrought of steel and brass, each piece joined by intricate straps and hinges—were lashed to mules and dragged into the city for inspection. After collecting their dead, what remained of the Red Watch had ridden down into the Dark Quarter and demanded that the gang leader, Fen-Shea, tell them how he’d driven off the Jolym.

Fen-Shea had directed them to Jalist. Half hero, half prisoner, the Dwarr had been taken to the palace of King Typherius to await questioning. But after waiting until sundown, Jalist decided he’d had enough. He’d slipped out of the palace so that he could check on the wounded, but he had no doubt that by then, word of his whereabouts had reached the king.

Well, they can give me a medal, or they can clap me in irons. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference anymore.
He raised his wineskin to the sky.
I saved your damn city, Locke. You’re welcome.
He tipped the wineskin and drank until wine ran down his chin, then he threw the empty wineskin on the temple stairs. An acolyte quietly hurried over and picked it up. Jalist sat on the temple stairs and put his head in his hands. He was still sitting like that when he heard boots marching in unison. Nevertheless, he did not look up until someone cleared his throat. Jalist frowned, shielding his face from the glare of their torches.

“Gods, are you trying to see me or burn me blind?”

Two men seized him by the arms and dragged him to his feet, but a voice rang out, ordering them to let him go. Jalist was sorry when they did, because he fell back into a sitting position on the temple steps. He tried unsuccessfully to stand. Finally, he bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”