Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (21 page)

“I did. Pretty sure that was them screaming just now.”

Brahasti smiled in grudging admiration. “Seems I underestimated Fadarah’s fury. Very well. Assemble all your men in the courtyard, armed with crossbows. We’ll—”

A fresh chorus of screams interrupted him. Men fled by his door, ignoring Dagath’s shouts. The sellsword captain moved out into the hallway, shield held before him. He threw down his torch and brandished a broadsword. “He’s coming this way,” he called back to Brahasti.

The Dhargot hesitated then rushed out into the hallway, careful to keep Dagath in front of him. Beyond the captain, another sellsword turned the corner at the far end of the hall. A moment later, the man screamed and fell as wytchfire flowed over him.

Brahasti said, “Out the other way. We’ll circle around to the courtyard.” He glanced back at the Sylvan woman and decided to leave her there.

Shade shuddered as night air touched him, cooling the blood splashed across his face. Though El’rash’lin had seemed intent on doing all the fighting himself, a terrible strain showed beneath his twisted features, and Shade could feel both the old man’s exhaustion and his fraying sanity. When Shade had extended his mind into El’rash’lin’s in order to determine if the old man really had come back from the dead, he’d promptly recoiled. What he felt in El’rash’lin’s mind reminded him too much of the Nightmare.

So Shade had scooped up a fallen sword, gritted his teeth, and charged the nearest guard. Luckily, he was able to summon enough wytchfire that he did not have to rely solely on his weakened sword arm. As the fatally burned sellsword lurched and fell against a stone wall, dead before he could cry out, Shade followed. Rage blinded his senses, and he swung his sword with both hands, slashing until his sword shattered against the stone wall. He stared at the hilt, then cast it down and picked up another.

“Does your heart still quicken at the sight of blood?”

Shade blinked. He took it for a jest until he saw the seriousness of El’rash’lin’s expression. He chose not to answer.

They searched all the basement cells, but Zeia was in none of them. El’rash’lin insisted that she was still alive, though Shade had no notion how the man knew this. In one room, they found a Sylvan woman lying conscious in a bed—nude, blank faced, and visibly pregnant. She offered no acknowledgment when El’rash’lin covered her with a sheet.

“What’s been done to her?”

El’rash’lin closed her eyes with almost grandfatherly affection. He pressed one hand over her eyes and the other to her stomach. He nodded. Then he pressed one hand to each side of her face. Wytchfire flared from her fingertips. Shade thought that El’rash’lin was killing her in an act of mercy, but the flames vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. The woman blinked. El’rash’lin withdrew his hands.

“Come,” he said. “When she regains her senses, she will not think us allies.”

They left the room and stalked through the rest of the compound one room at a time, scouring the place with wytchfire, killing everyone who either stood against them or was too slow to run away. Finally, they emerged into the courtyard.

To one side, the gates and one whole curtain wall blazed with wytchfire. Men had given up trying to extinguish the blaze. Empty buckets lay on their sides, abandoned in the snow. El’rash’lin turned his back on the flames. Despite his size and apparent frailty, his violet eyes kindled with such wrath and focus that Shade finally understood why Fadarah had once held this man in such high esteem.

Before them lay a broad, dark pit. Shade guessed the pit contained Zeia and the Sylvan captives, though to his amazement, none made a sound. On the other side of the pit stood Brahasti. Shade cursed at the sight of him. The Dhargothi general wore a nightgown, despite the sword girded about his waist. He sat in a chair, surrounded by guards. Shade counted at least ten, all holding crossbows.

“Too many,” Shade said in a low voice. “I can’t ward off all the bolts if they fire. Better we draw them back downstairs, make them fight us one at a time. Maybe I can—”

El’rash’lin lifted his hands. His fingertips exhaled no wytchfire, but a moment later, all the men’s crossbows burst into flames. Screaming with surprise, they cast them away. A few discharged, sending bolts thudding harmlessly into the snow. Some of the men drew their swords, but most fell back and sank to their knees, pleading for mercy.

Shade stared at El’rash’lin in awe. Like whatever he had done to the Sylvan woman, this use of magic was totally foreign to him—and complicated, it appeared. El’rash’lin winced, and Shade had no need to delve into his mind to see that he was rapidly losing control.

Shade stepped in front of El’rash’lin and strode forward. At the edge of the pit, he managed a flicker of wytchfire around his hands. The rest of the guards threw down their swords. With the only way out of the compound blocked by flames, they joined the other crude Humans in their pleas for mercy—all but two.

Brahasti was on his feet now. He blinked at the crossbows as they burned to ash in the snow. Far from afraid, he looked merely startled. Then he smirked. Next to him stood the huge man with a patch over one eye. He was crouching low behind a shield.

Shade wanted to kill them right away but doubted he had the strength. He turned and saw ladders stacked in the snow. He called to the guards who had just surrendered. “Lower those into the pit. Let the women out.”

The men hesitated then obeyed. Brahasti and the one-eyed man watched quietly. The one-eyed man spat on the snow and clattered his sword against the edge of his shield in challenge. Shade ignored it.

Shade kept his eyes on Brahasti. “Climb out,” he called down into the pit. He glanced back at El’rash’lin. In mindspeak, he asked,
“If they know we’re Shel’ai, will they listen?”

“That’s the only thing they can do,”
El’rash’lin answered. Even telepathically, his voice echoed with sadness. He started forward, circling the far side of the pit.

Sure enough, a moment later, Shade heard one ladder creak, then another. One by one, Sylvan women emerged from the pit. Though snow had obviously fallen within, soaking through their meager, tattered clothing, none of the women shuddered. A few blinked in the glare from the burning wall in the distance, but none screamed or pointed at their tormentors and demanded justice. They stood like a cluster of sadly painted statues. Shade counted twenty-nine of them. Most had swollen bellies.

“Gods…”

He shook himself. Zeia was not among them. He glanced into the pit: a figure lay curled in the snow. He called out to her. She did not stir. He addressed her in mindspeak. Though she did not answer, Zeia slowly lifted her head. Shade saw blood on her clothes. She had her arms pressed against her stomach.

Shade addressed El’rash’lin.
“I’ve found Zeia
.
She’s hurt but alive. She can’t climb out on her own. I’ll get her out.”

“Wait,” El’rash’lin said, but Shade ignored him.

He pointed at the surrendered guards again. “Two of you go down there and bring her up…
gently
, or I’ll teach you a new definition for pain.”

The guards exchanged glances. They seemed even more hesitant than they’d been to release the Sylvan captives, but a moment later, they descended into the pit. Shade watched as best he could, still glancing up frequently, lest Brahasti and the one-eyed sellsword try to fly while he was distracted. Neither had moved, though like the surrendered guards, both looked fearful now.

The one-eyed sellsword was growing desperate. He berated the other guards, ordering them to retrieve their weapons and fight. When no one obeyed, he edged away from Brahasti and stood with the guards. He kicked one and struck another with the pommel of his sword. Still, no one joined him.

Shade considered stopping him anyway, then movement caught his eye. It was the Sylvan woman they had found below. She stumbled into the courtyard, wide eyed, still wrapped in a sheet that was knotted above her breasts. In one hand, a sword glinted with vengeful coldness. Azure eyes met Shade’s violet ones.

Shade said,
“I won’t hurt you.”
The woman’s eyes widened when Shade’s voice rang out in her mind.
“I won’t hurt you,”
Shade repeated.
“The war’s over. I came to set you free.”

The woman turned. Shade followed her gaze to Brahasti. Too late, he read her intent. The pregnant woman gave an animal-like howl and charged. The one-eyed man might have blocked her, but he stepped back, apparently deciding not to interfere. Brahasti barely had time to draw his own sword before the woman was upon him.

Shade watched the two fight. Though smaller, the woman fought like a Wyldkin. Her sword blurred, faster than Brahasti’s. The Dhargot backpedaled. He called out for the one-eyed sellsword to help him. The sellsword gave Shade a questioning look. Shade shook his head.

The Wyldkin woman drove Brahasti steadily backward. Despite her fury, her attack had focus. She blocked each of Brahasti’s desperate swings then opened a bright red slash on the Dhargot’s forearm. With surprising deftness, Brahasti switched his sword to his other hand, then switched it back when the Wyldkin pressed her advantage too quickly.

The woman threw her head back, but the tip of Brahasti’s blade still cut her, jaw to forehead. She did not scream. Their shortswords clashed again. They struggled in swordlock. Brahasti grabbed the woman’s throat with his free hand. He squeezed.

The woman’s eyes widened. She tried in vain to break Brahasti’s grip. Shade lifted one hand. He wondered if he could burn Brahasti without hitting the woman, too.

But before he could act, the woman kicked Brahasti’s knee, drove her own knee into his groin, then kneed him again. Brahasti’s grip went slack. The woman twisted free, still holding Brahasti’s hand, and bit his finger. Brahasti howled. He managed to swing his sword, but the woman ducked and slashed his groin. Brahasti fell to his knees. His torn robe slipped, revealing one bone-pale shoulder. Brahasti glanced at the woman. Then, facing Shade, he pleaded for his life.

I should kill him myself,
Shade thought.
I promised I would.
He shook his head again.

The woman loomed over Brahasti. She gave the Dhargot an icy look. She no longer seemed aware that there was anyone else in the courtyard besides Brahasti. She stood naked in the snow, blood running from the terrible gash in the side of her face. But she breathed easily as she slowly pushed her sword into Brahasti’s throat, twisted it, then dragged it free.

“Brahasti el Tarq…” Shade turned and spat on the snow. He heard a crunch in the snow that meant someone was coming to stand next to him. He tensed, but it was only El’rash’lin, whom Shade had all but forgotten. Rather than watch the battle, the old man fixed his eyes on the pit.

Shade remembered Zeia. The guards were helping her out, pushing her up one rung at a time. Shade frowned. Instead of using her hands to climb, Zeia still had her arms folded tightly against her stomach. Her head drooped indignantly against the ladder. If not for the slow, awkward lifting of her feet, he would have thought her unconscious.

“Let me help you, Sister.” Shade moved to the edge of the pit, smiled, and held out his hand. Zeia looked up weakly, her face frightfully pale. She did not reach for him, so Shade caught her under the arms and hauled her the rest of the way out. He lowered her onto the snow. She quietly doubled over. Her jaw clenched, as though she were trying not to scream.

“They never bandaged her wounds,” Shade called back to El’rash’lin. “Gods, it’s a wonder she’s still alive.” He leaned closer to Zeia. “They probably cut your stomach. That’s why it hurts so much. But don’t worry. You’ll be all right now.”

He sent the two guards back to join the rest. Shade saw them eyeing the still-burning gates, as though they meant to make a run for it. He snickered at the thought. Then he watched the one-eyed sellsword move quietly over to Brahasti’s corpse and retrieve the dead general’s shortsword.

“I don’t care that they’ve surrendered,” Shade said to El’rash’lin. “We’re not letting them go. None of them.”

“Look to Zeia,” El’rash’lin said. His voice sounded weary, resigned.

Shade cast a warning look at the Wyldkin woman, who had gone to help the still-blank-faced Sylvan women who had climbed out of the pit, then turned his attention back to Zeia. Blood had frozen in her clothes, making them nearly as rigid as the rest of her. He tried to inspect her stomach, but she would not move her arms. He seized her wrists so that he might pry them apart. Then he gasped and let go.

“Gods…” He whirled to face El’rash’lin. “Did you know?”

El’rash’lin answered with a slight, sad nod.

Shade faced Zeia again. He stared. He had been in error before. Brahasti’s men had bandaged Zeia’s wounds after all, though she’d bled so much that the wraps were barely visible. But most of the blood had not come from the deep gash to her side. Her hands had been cut off.

Shade trembled. He leaned in and kissed Zeia’s forehead. “I’m so sorry…” He straightened and faced El’rash’lin. “Help her.”

El’rash’lin said nothing as he approached and knelt beside Zeia. Shade stepped away. He faced the prisoners. All were kneeling again—all save the one-eyed sellsword, who abruptly turned and sprinted for the gate. Shade tried to burn him down, but the sellsword caught the wytchfire on his shield. Shade burned away the shield, but the man kept running, howling, his arm on fire. Then he leapt through the burning gate.

Shade did not know if he’d made it through. He turned to face the remaining guards. They were still kneeling. He took a step toward them. “Which one of you cut off her hands?”

For a while, nobody answered. Then one trembling guard lifted his hand and pointed after the one-eyed sellsword. “Not us! It was him…”

Shade glanced at the flames, then at Brahasti’s corpse, then at Zeia trembling in the snow. His gaze fell on the wretched Sylvan women, all but one of whom remained as still as statues.

He faced the guards again. “No matter.” His hands came up, unleashing death.