Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

King Typherius came forward, his expression stoic. In place of kingly robes, he wore an extravagant doublet over gleaming ringmail, along with a gilded bastard sword. The king crossed his arms. “My scouts report that whatever tore my army in half has retreated west, toward Cadavash.” He paused. “Meanwhile, my officers told me about the letter you made them send.”

Jalist needed a moment to realize what the king was talking about. When he finally remembered, he nodded. “A warning. The Isles needed to be warned. The other, bigger force was heading their way. Might already be too late.”

“So I hear.”

Jalist rubbed his eyes. “You sent them, right? The messenger birds… you sent all the ones you could, right?”

“We did,” the king said. “I sent emissaries on my fastest horses, too. If the Isle Knights don’t know yet how to destroy those… abominations, they will by morning.”

“If their keeps haven’t already been torn down by then.”

“Birds and emissaries will get there faster than my army, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The severity in the king’s voice made Jalist try again to stand up. This time, he succeeded. With the king standing at the bottom of the stairwell and Jalist three steps above him, they were almost the same height. “No, Sire.” The Dwarr reminded himself that, Rowen Locke notwithstanding, there was no love lost between Lyos and the Lotus Isles.

“Now,” the king said, “I’m told you know what those abominations were. I intended to speak with you at the palace, once I was done conferring with my captains and comforting widows, but you wandered off. So we’ll talk here.”

Jalist had a look at the king’s captains. They followed him with such urgency that at first, he’d mistaken them for bodyguards. All looked young and untried, some barely old enough to shave. Jalist wondered how that could be, then he remembered that the Jolym had sent most of the veterans of the Red Watch to the funeral pyres.

“Well?” The king gave him a piercing look.

Jalist looked away. “I don’t know what they are any more than you do.”

“But I’m told you called them Jolym when my captains asked what they were.”

Jalist shrugged. “That’s what they look like to me.”

“No Jolym have been seen since the days of the Dragonkin. I’m told they have a few husks on display in Atheion, but most people don’t think they were ever more than an old wives’ tale told about living men in armor.”

Jalist felt his anger rising. “Tell that to what’s left of the Red Watch.”

The king scowled. “Jolym or not, how about you tell me how you knew how to kill them?”

Jalist snickered coldly. “The first time I met one, it nearly cut me to pieces. I got lucky. Nothing else worked, so I tried sticking it in the eyes after I got it down on the ground.”

Behind the king, his bodyguards exchanged looks and whispers of disbelief. Jalist could guess why. Each Jol stood at least six feet tall, most seven. They were hollow, but their thick armor made them twice the weight of the stoutest warrior. During his first battle against them, Jalist had managed to hoist one off its feet and dump it on the ground, then stab it through the eyes before it could get back up.

The king gave his men a scolding glance. “Continue,” he told Jalist.

He hesitated. Grief stung his eyes. He had no wish to proceed, but he had no choice. “Those things… Jolym, if you believe the fairytales… they ravaged my homeland, not one week ago.”

The king blinked. “My father traded with King Fedwyr Thegn a long time ago—even met him once, before he became king. He always said it’s good the Dwarrs aren’t our enemies, because Stillhammer is impenetrable… especially the fortress at Tarator.”

Jalist wished he had another wineskin. “Had you asked a week ago, I would have told you the same.”

“Where is your king now?”

Jalist thought of Leander. The night air chilled Jalist’s damp face. The Dwarr wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Dead, probably. So are all his Housecarls.”
And his son…

The king shifted uneasily. “And… a few hundred of these things, these Jolym, did that?”

“Closer to a thousand, maybe more. The rest veered east, for the Isles. Didn’t I tell you that?” Jalist took a deep breath and let it go. “Sire, I need a drink and a bed. I’ve told you all I know.”

The king raised one eyebrow at Jalist’s bravado. “I doubt it, Dwarr. You said you’re Rowen Locke’s friend. The last time I saw Rowen Locke, he had a certain kingsteel heirloom that the other Isle Knights very much wanted to take from him.” The king took a step forward and uncrossed his arms. He touched Jalist’s shoulder. “Where’s Locke now?”

“The Wytchforest.”

The king hesitated. “And… Silwren?”

Jalist shrugged. “With him, waist deep in Olg blood, I suppose.”

The king looked about to say more, then apparently thought better of it. He stepped back and gestured to one of his officers. “Get this man a room at the palace.” He faced Jalist. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” Then king turned to go then stopped. “You saved my city. Why ever you did it… thank you, Dwarr.” He bowed.

Jalist returned the gesture, almost toppling off the temple steps. Once the king was gone, two men of the Red Watch seized him—more gently, this time—and guided him back to the palace. After that, Jalist was vaguely aware of one servant helping him out of his leather armor while another offered him food and a bath. Instead, Jalist pushed past them to the bed. He lay down, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he slept.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Long Night

S
aanji sat at the head of a long oak table surrounded by chairs. Various officers, who had been forced into his army as punishment, filled the chairs. They had been summoned from their slumber near midnight. Saanji shivered, though he was not sure whether the cause was the contents of the letter or the cold wind whipping through the flap of his tent. The wind stirred the flap again, revealing the darkness beyond.

Gods, what am I doing? Why didn’t I think about this until morning, at least?

Saanji shook his head. To dwell any longer on what he planned to do would only sap what little courage he had managed to rouse. Still, the stares and growing anxiety from his officers unnerved him. He could not remember the last time he’d spoken to them without being drunk. He looked down, pretending to read the letter once again, then back up. “What’s our latest report on Royce?”

The captains shifted uncomfortably. Saanji could have obtained the information earlier, had he made a point of frequenting such meetings, without dragging them all out of bed.

Finally, one captain answered, “Little has changed, my prince. Sir Royce is somewhere in the Ivairian foothills, but his force is small and quick and familiar with these lands. So far, they’ve eluded us.”

“What kind of losses have we had?”

“None, my prince,” another captain continued. “Royce seems to prefer to skirt us and go on harassing your brother’s supply lines.”

The first captain picked up where the second had left off. “Sire, we might still trap them in the foothills and wipe them all out in one battle. If we just marched in force and—”

Saanji shook his head. “I think not… for reasons that will become clear in just a moment.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “This might come as a shock to some of you, but it seems my dear brother, Ziraari, has contracted an incurable case of death.”

Eyes widened. Men exchanged quick looks. A few touched their sword hilts. No one spoke.

After a moment, Saanji continued. “If this letter is to be believed, he forged an alliance with Shade, Fadarah’s right hand.” He held up his hand as everyone started talking at once. “Yes, I know how that sounds. Shade and the other Shel’ai turned on him, somehow ghosted past the guards, and killed Ziraari in his sleep.” He added, “Apparently, my dear brother was found with… parts of him missing.”

Despite the terror knotting his gut, Saanji fought the impulse to smile.

His officers, on the other hand, looked as if they were torn between fainting and bolting. Saanji understood. One asked, “Did… Prince Karhaati send the letter himself?”

Saanji laughed. “Gods, no. I’m sure he would have preferred I know nothing. Only one of Ziraari’s captains appears to have sent letters not just to me and my dear living brother but our loving father back in Dhargoth.” He pretended to study the parchment. “Apparently, Ziraari actually expired some time ago, but his captains were afraid to send word because they feared they’d be punished for letting the killers get away.” He looked up. “We’re lucky. I don’t have to tell you what would have happened had Karhaati received this letter while we were still in Cassica.”

His captains exchanged looks. Once again, no one spoke.

“As it is,” Saanji continued, “I’m sure an emissary will arrive in a day or two, kindly demanding that I return to Cassica. There might even be a letter telling me that Karhaati had to ride off to battle, and he needs me to take command of the city. Something about rebellion and needing my soft hand to sway the populace.” He smiled thinly. “But the moment I set foot in Cassica, Karhaati will have me stripped naked and impaled on a stake. I can only assume he will do the same to my captains since—let’s be honest—none of you are exactly crucial to his campaign.”

His captains exchanged glances again. Saanji had spoken with open contempt for his brothers before, but never so strongly. Saanji studied their faces. Then, looking down, he saw that his hands were shaking. He dropped the parchment on the table and rose to his feet.

“None of Ziraari’s generals are foolish enough to try and take his place. Some will go back to Dhargoth to rejoin my father. But most will flock to Karhaati. By the end of the month, he’ll have half again as many men, horses, chariots, and war elephants as he does now. And I don’t have to remind you that Karhaati already outnumbers us four to one.”

A captain said, “Prince Karhaati sent us to protect his northern flank against Arnil Royce and his Lancers. Perhaps if we could capture or even kill Royce—”

“My dear brother will reward our courage and welcome us back into his good graces?” Saanji smirked. “He kept me alive in case he needed me against Ziraari. Now, Ziraari’s dead. Time to finish pruning the family tree.”

An officer cleared his throat. “Maybe we should go back to Dhargoth. With Prince Karhaati getting this strong, the emperor might be worried. Could be he’ll welcome us back on our own terms.”

“Not bloody likely,” someone muttered. Grumbles of agreement followed.

“Then what do we do?” someone asked.

Saanji said, “Let me tell you a little story about my brother. That might help you decide.” His heart leapt into his throat at the thought of what he was about to do, but he pressed on anyway. “When I was a boy, I fell in love with my cousin. Her name was Maryssa.” He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened, trying to steady his hands. “I know what you’re thinking. Women don’t mean much where we’re from. I doubt any of you can name your own mothers any more than I could name mine. But Maryssa…” Saanji choked. He looked down, afraid to meet his captains’ gaze. “She wasn’t especially beautiful, I suppose, but I was fat and weak, and she was kind. So while my brothers were following our dear father’s example and proving their manhood by raping all the slaves, I sat with Maryssa and talked.” Saanji smiled despite the lump in his throat. “We read books on what Dhargoth was like just after the Shattering War, before famines and in-fighting convinced our ancestors that the Way of Ears was a good idea, and nobody gave enough of a damn to stop them.”

Saanji felt unsteady. He wished he were drunk. “One day, Karhaati found us together…” Saanji started to shake again and realized he could not continue. He took a deep breath, let it go, then looked up. He smiled faintly at the lack of expression on his captains’ faces. Saanji knew that stoicism well, for he’d practiced it in the mirror many times, training himself not to retch when their father made them watch an interrogation or stroll beneath ghastly rows of men who had been impaled for some dereliction of duty.

“I wanted revenge. One day, I took a little bottle of poison from the armory. I brushed it onto a caltrop and slipped the damn thing into his boot while he was asleep, way down at the bottom. Only I lost my nerve. I took it out. Gods, if I hadn’t…” He trailed off, realizing he was losing his way.

“Let’s try this.” He straightened. “You’re all here for the same reason I am… namely, because no one’s killed you yet.”

The remark brought scattered smirks.

“You haven’t distinguished yourself by plundering the islands, kidnapping women from the Free Cities, or sticking a knife in the gut of somebody who gave you a sour look. They call you Earless because you wear no trophies around your neck. They think you’re weak. I think they’re wrong. I think the problem is just that you haven’t been given the chance to kill the right person.”

The captains bristled. No one answered, but Saanji could see that he was getting through to them. He pressed on with renewed hope. Piece by piece, he told them his plan. Though he’d been formulating it for weeks and fine-tuning it for days, it still sounded absurd when he said it aloud.

When he was done, his captains sat in stunned silence. Saanji saw at once that some would refuse. Those, he knew, might have to be put to death before they could escape the camp and get word to his brother. But the rest looked intrigued, if nothing else.

Well, that’s a start.

As the captains began to argue some of the finer points, Saanji toyed with the opal ring—a woman’s ring—on the little finger of his left hand. Maryssa had given it to him a moment before she’d flung herself off the parapets—choosing death over giving birth to Karhaati’s child. Saanji shuddered. He was glad the captains were no longer watching him. He seized a pitcher of wine and filled his goblet until it overflowed.

Brahasti el Tarq paced the outskirts of his compound, eyeing the slave pit in particular. Despite the late hour, he could not sleep. But it was not the screams that kept him awake. He was used to the screams. After all, he had made more than a few captives scream himself. It was the silence he found disconcerting.

For weeks, the Sylvan women held captive in the pit had fought off Brahasti’s men with admirable resolve. Some of them had been forest dwellers, but most were Wyldkin, already accustomed to a hard life spent fighting Olgrym. A few had even been killed when they came close to fighting their way free with bare hands. Ever since Chorlga’s visit, though, things had been different. The Dragonkin had given Brahasti a recipe for an ancient, noxious elixir, with orders that the women be forced to drink it on a daily basis. Chorlga claimed it would greatly increase the women’s fertility, as well as the chance that they would give birth to Shel’ai.

Brahasti had been skeptical. The elixir’s exotic ingredients, ranging from snowthistle, queensroot, and frogleaf to the bone marrow of an urusk, included ingredients like felberries, which Brahasti knew were poisonous. Yet Chorlga had been true to his word. Unfortunately, the foul elixir had had another effect that Chorlga had not mentioned: it had sapped the women’s will, dulled their wits, and left them like walking dead.

Brahasti sighed with disappointment. The women’s eyes resembled wet stones. They made almost no sound—not when Brahasti’s men descended into the pits for a bit of fun, not even when they noticed their bellies beginning to swell. Brahasti wondered if any of the women still had the presence of mind to realize that they were pregnant. He decided it did not matter. Nearly all thirty of the Sylvan females were with child—which was good, since the sport had gone out of it.

Brahasti was starting to wonder if there was even any sense in guarding the pit anymore. Days before, a careless warrior had dropped a knife within easy reach of a Sylvan girl while climbing out of the pit. The girl might have easily snatched it up and stabbed him in the back—she surely would have weeks earlier—but the girl simply rocked herself, oblivious to the weapon at her feet. Brahasti did not expect that any of the women could have escaped even if his men weren’t there, thanks to the Jolym.

He lifted his gaze from the pit to its tireless sentries. He shuddered. Two Jolym stood at opposite edges of the pit. A third guarded the only gateway into the compound. Before the elixir had taken effect, he’d seen a Jol move with surprising quickness to seize a Sylvan girl who had been about to climb to freedom. Another time, as a test, Brahasti had ordered one of them to tear a man in half for disobeying an order. Without speaking and without the slightest hesitation, it seized the condemned man, displaying strength that rivaled an Olg’s.

If Karhaati ever calls me back to the front, I have to take these three with me. Even the Bloody Prince wouldn’t be able to threaten me then.

Brahasti shook his head.
Why go back to the front at all?
He’d loaned his strategic brilliance to Prince Karhaati, just as he’d loaned it to Fadarah before that, and that had gotten him very little. Chorlga was another matter: he was the first true Dragonkin that Brahasti had ever seen, maybe the last one left alive. Based on what Brahasti had witnessed already, Chorlga’s power easily surpassed that of any of the Shel’ai, including Fadarah.

Brahasti faced one of the Jol. Moonlight reflected off its armored chest. He scrutinized it for the slightest movement but saw none. It still looked like a propped-up suit of armor.

Chorlga gave them life. And he has a whole army of these things to the east!

Brahasti smiled. Chorlga was the true power on Ruun, the worthy master he had been waiting for. He appreciated Brahasti’s talents in a way that none of his previous masters—the Red Emperor, the Sorcerer-General, the Bloody Prince—had managed to do. All Brahasti had to do now was be himself, and the rewards and recognition he so richly deserved would rain down on him.