Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Flight from the Fire

I
t was sunset now, blood-gold light spilling through the trees behind them. All of them shook with exhaustion. Still, not one of the cloaked figures slowed to glance back over their shoulder, let alone rest—none save Shade. The ragged band of Shel’ai had been fleeing since dawn.

Shade turned to scan the forest for signs of pursuit. Hours had passed since they’d blundered into a war band of Wyldkin. For all their magical senses, the Shel’ai had somehow been utterly surprised. Two Shel’ai had died in a hail of arrows, another from a thrown spear, before a blaze of wytchfire had driven off the rest of the Wyldkin.

I should have been more careful. Three more dead—because of me.

Though it further weakened him, Shade had used his magic to enhance his senses. He expected the Wyldkin to call for reinforcements and pursue them, but the only sounds he heard came from faraway battles. He reminded himself that most of the Sylvs were probably still trying desperately to drive the Olgrym out of their homeland.

As they drove us out…
He shook his head.
No, it wasn’t the Sylvs. It was that Isle Knight, the one with
Fâyu Jinn’s sword. And Silwren…

Though a surge of grief threatened to bring tears to his eyes, Shade turned and rejoined the others, who had slowed but not stopped. Four men still carried the litter, their faces slick with perspiration, while two more, both women, scouted ahead. As quickly as he had squelched it, Shade’s feeling of grief returned.
Gods, only six of us left!

“We do not stop until we are clear of the forest,” he said.

The other Shel’ai did not protest. Shade did not have to use his magical aptitude for mind reading to tell that they could not keep up the pace much longer. He hoped they would not have to.

In the distance, the forest began to thin. Here and there, the towering wytchwoods gave way to the sickly trees of the outer world: oaks, yews, and even a few dogblossom trees that must have been brought from the Isles, then forgotten centuries ago. Beyond these trees, snow-flecked hills rolled on beneath a naked blue sky.

Shade shuddered. Already, he missed the shelter of the wytchwood branches soaring hundreds of feet over his head—though even they paled before the World Tree into which the Sylvan capital had been carved.

The city we failed to take.

Memories of the battle washed over him. It had seemed at first as though they had won. The Sylvan forces—a mixture of Wyldkin and a handful of Shal’tiar, plus a frightened multitude of hastily armed conscripts from Shaffrilon, most of them women and children—had been routed. Olgrym swept through the smashed gates, their hulking bodies painted with the blood and entrails of their victims. The Shel’ai followed, led by Fadarah himself.

Between the Shel’ai wytchfire and the Olgrym’s sheer strength, they had decimated the Sylvan armies, thrashing the once-mighty Shal’tiar and burning every fort and village between the capital and the Ash’bana Plains. All that remained was to surge up the walkway into the city and find and slay the Sylvan king—then centuries of injustice would be set to right. The Shel’ai—driven out of the forest, hunted for their innate ability to work magic, and hated for their perceived similarity to the despotic Dragonkin who had ruled a thousand years earlier—would finally have a home.

Then
he
had appeared.

The thought of Rowen Locke caused Shade’s lip to curl in disgust. He clenched one fist, wytchfire smoldering between his fingers, before he felt the magic draining what little strength he had left. He forced himself to relax. Still, the image haunted him: that red-haired Human, the lone Isle Knight, stalking toward them, Knightswrath in hand. The sword’s blade was wreathed in flames… the flames that meant the sword’s ancient power had been rekindled and that Silwren was dead.

“No…” Shade choked on the word then shook himself again, glad the others had not heard. He shifted his attention to the litter the sorcerers were carrying. Hastily constructed out of wytchwood boughs fused by magic, the litter was strong enough to support three grown men. Still, the boughs bent and strained under the weight of the wounded man.

Shade was tempted to check for Fadarah’s pulse since he had not done so for hours, but that would mean stopping. They had already sacrificed as much magic as they could spare, urging healing energies into the Sorcerer-General’s body. They could do nothing more for him. If Fadarah had already died, at least he’d died in the shade of the trees.

And if he’s alive…

Shade’s mind reeled at the thought of what lay ahead. They’d lost their army. They didn’t even have horses. They would have to carry Fadarah for days and days, through savage lands, all the way back to Coldhaven on the perpetually desolate Wintersea. Even the famed Sorcerer-General would never survive such a journey.

Once they rested, the Shel’ai might be able to defend themselves against the Human raiders they would surely encounter along the way, but beyond the magical shelter of the forest was winter. Though the fire in their blood protected the Shel’ai against the cold, they would be forced to forage for food. Shade did not think the Sylvs would pursue them beyond the boundaries of the forest, especially with so many Olgrym left behind, but the Shel’ai had plenty of enemies. No one had forgotten that it was Fadarah’s army, the Throng that had ravaged the Free Cities in the first place.

But since then, they’ve been conquered again by the Dhargots.

Technically, the Dhargots were Fadarah’s allies. But they’d failed to send forces to help Fadarah against the Sylvs. Besides, the Dhargots were the worst of all the Humans. They valued only strength and prestige but nothing else, not even family. In that, they were even worse than the Olgrym. When they saw the great Fadarah’s army reduced to a mere seven sorcerers, ragged and exhausted, assistance would be the last thing on their minds.

No, we’ll have to traverse the Simurgh Plains undetected. That will mean avoiding thousands of Dhargothi warriors, plus everyone they’re fighting.

Shade glanced at Fadarah. Even with the gray tinge afforded by the Sorcerer-General’s half-Olgish parentage, he was too pale. Shade would have expected the big man to be feverish, bathed in sweat, but the Sorcerer-General’s face was frightfully calm.

Panic rose within him, and he ordered the Shel’ai to stop. Grateful for the chance to rest, they gently lowered the litter onto the forest floor and stepped back, all of them collapsing. Shade knelt and held one fist over Fadarah’s armored chest. Ignoring the ghastly, blood-splattered rend in the Sorcerer-General’s armor, he slowly opened his fingers and closed his eyes. Igniting his magic, he probed the Sorcerer-General’s body for a heartbeat.

He searched as though searching for a spark in a pile of wet leaves. At last he found it, though it was weaker than before. Though Rowen’s blazing sword had mostly cauterized the wound, it had sliced through one of Fadarah’s lungs, nicked his heart, and carved a path all the way down to one kidney. Only the other sorcerers’ magic, coupled with Fadarah’s incredible will, had kept him alive. But both had limits.

Shade withdrew his hand. He felt the others’ gazes, though he trusted his tears to answer the question they’d been about to ask.

They should leave him and save themselves—as Fadarah would wish them to do. Shade gestured. Without hesitation, the men picked up Fadarah’s litter again. With renewed strength, they hurried through the trees, as though help were waiting for them beyond the forest. But that was impossible. Even if they got Fadarah to Coldhaven, even if a dozen Shel’ai came sprinting over the hill right then to assist them, it would make no difference. The great Fadarah would die. Shade pushed the thought from his mind and quickened his pace.

An hour later, they passed the final wytchwood tree and set foot on the plains. Shade tugged at his white cloak. The ground was snowier than he’d expected. The snow crunched beneath his boots. A wild hope rose within him.

Humans won’t fight in the winter. If they’ve holed up in their cities, we might be able to slip past undetected.

Then, as though to mock him, a wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon. Too big even for a burning village, it could mean only one thing: an army was camped nearby. Shade fought back a wave of despair.

That’s Prince Ziraari. It has to be.

Like all Dhargots, the crown prince, Karhaati, was paranoid about potential rivals—particularly among his own family. But he also wanted to be close to Lyos, one of the richest cities on the plains. So he’d given his strongest brother, Ziraari, the dubious task of helping the Shel’ai take the Wytchforest. With Fadarah’s host vanquished, Ziraari had no reason to help them. In fact, Dhargots distrusted sorcery as much as other Humans did. Ziraari might well kill them for sport.

Unless…

Shade glanced at Fadarah’s still face. He steeled himself then addressed the others. “Take our father east.” He pointed at a copse of trees in the distance. “Guard him well. If I can, I’ll return before dawn. If not… stay with our father until he breathes his last, then make your own way to Coldhaven. From there on, your lives are your own.”

The others started to protest, but Shade cut them off.

“If I’m not back by dawn, don’t plan a rescue. I’m already dead.”
Not necessarily.
The thought of the Dhargots’ favorite method of slow torture—impalement—sent a shiver down his spine. “What happens to me isn’t important. Stay with our father. When he… when he
dies
”—he choked on the word—“your new responsibility will be to get back to Coldhaven and protect the other Shel’ai, especially the children. Do you understand?”

One by one, the others nodded. Shade faced them for a moment, feeling as though he should say more but lacking the words. After a final glance at Fadarah, he started in the direction of the smoke.

Once Shade was alone, he felt his exhaustion even more profoundly than before. He looked west, staring directly into the setting sun.
I am a Shel’ai, descended from Dragonkin, who gained their power by conquering beings that soared on six wings and breathed fire into the face of the gods. If it’s my will to stay awake, I will do so.

Nevertheless, his steps grew heavier and heavier as he trudged northeast across the snowy plains. He was glad his cloak matched his surroundings because he would eventually encounter sentries. Then he reminded himself that the sigil of the crimson greatwolf sewn into his cloak would be visible from a half mile away. He cursed. Undoing the clasp of his cloak, he let it slip from his shoulders and land on the snowy ground. A chilly breeze made him shudder.

I feel cold. That’s a bad sign.
He loosened his sword in its scabbard and continued in his just his fighting leathers.

He felt a mixture of trepidation and relief when he realized that the Dhargots were making no effort to hide their presence, though little could be done to conceal an army of ten thousand men. Shade could hear the drunken laughter of Dhargothi soldiers mingling with the cries of women being raped. He also heard what sounded like a single man screaming in pain.

How did we ally ourselves with such people?
Shade shook his head. Resisting the urge to turn around,
he rested one hand on the hilt of his sword. The sounds grew louder, especially those of the screaming man. An hour later, in the thickening blue-black haze of twilight, he spotted the first two sentries. Both wore scale armor decorated with tassels of black silk. One leaned on a spear. The other leaned on a stake, onto which a naked man had been impaled. Like the sentries, the impaled man had painted eyes and a braided goatee. He was weeping in agony, pleading for help. The sentries laughed.

Must be a deserter.

Shade stepped behind a tree, glad his superior Sylvan vision had allowed him to spot the sentries before they saw him. Crouching low, he slipped from one tree to the next. When he ran out of trees, he surveyed the twenty feet of snowy grass separating him from the sentries. He came up with three options: he could circle around them; he could step out from hiding, present himself to them, and demand that they take him to see Prince Ziraari; or he could kill them. He tapped the hilt of his sword.

The sentry leaning against the stake munched on an apple. When he was done, he threw the core at the impaled man’s head. Though the impaled man hardly seemed to notice, the other sentry laughed then quickly flipped his spear and jabbed the impaled man in the ribs. Blood spurted from the wound. The man screamed but did not die. Shade realized the wound had not been intended to kill but merely to add to the man’s torment.