Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Bloody Prince

K
arhaati sat astride his bloodmare on the snowy fields outside Cassica, listening to the lingering cries of the dying. He wondered whether he should curse or celebrate his recent shift in fortune. Thanks to Ziraari’s death, nearly all the Dhargots garrisoned in the south had marched north to swear fealty to him. Karhaati’s host had already swelled by five thousand footmen, two hundred cavalry, and half a dozen armored elephants, but more streamed in every day. Karhaati had never commanded such power.

But strange rumors had reached him, telling of an attack on Lyos that had decimated most of its famed Red Watch. Equally strange were the stories of a massive invasion of the Lotus Isles and pitched battles that had somehow crippled the mighty Knighthood. That might be cause to celebrate, too, but what was this new force that had so easily dispatched Karhaati’s strongest enemies?

And then, of course, there was Saanji.

Karhaati spat on the snow at the thought of his last surviving brother. Then he lifted his head to grimly survey what his men had appropriately dubbed the Field of Shame. In the wake of Saanji’s betrayal, Karhaati had culled from his ranks every coward, every weakling, and the men too wounded to serve the Dhargothi Empire. This did not only strengthen his army; it also served as a warning.

By now, most of the screams and pleading had stopped, though the greased, bloody stakes stretched on for half a mile, creaking in the winter wind.
Saanji will be here, too. And so will Brahasti, if he doesn’t obey.

Karhaati had reluctantly swallowed his pride and requested that Brahasti rejoin him on the front. Of course, the request had been voiced as a command, laced with threats, but he knew that Brahasti would see it for what it was. The thought of asking for Brahasti’s help filled Karhaati with shame, but he had no choice—Brahasti’s tactical brilliance was second to none. Brahasti had helped Ziraari break the Iron Sisters after a long stalemate. He had won Cassica almost without a fight. Surely, with superior numbers, he could take care of Saanji.

But Karhaati knew that was easier said than done. In an act of surprising defiance and resolve, Saanji and his misfit host had formed an alliance with the very men they’d been assigned to hunt down. Now, aided by two hundred lightning-fast Lancers, despite being outnumbered and forced to fight in the snow, Saanji’s renegade Dhargots had wreaked havoc on Karhaati’s supply lines, killed hundreds of his scouts and foragers, and even infiltrated his camp long enough to poison four of his prized elephants.

But those acts had not gone unanswered. After Saanji fled into the northern foothills, Karhaati had sent thousands of vengeful troops into Ivairia. They torched one village after another, took countless slaves, and left impaled victims like a ghastly forest in their wake. He’d even demolished a small stronghold, disemboweling the Ivairian lord and his entire family, despite their protests that they’d had nothing to do with Royce’s Lancers.

Karhaati hoped this bloody act would drive a wedge into the alliance. He’d hoped that, at the very least, it would compel Arnil Royce and his Lancers to return to Ivairia in order to safeguard their homeland. It had created the opposite effect. More and more Lancers had ridden south. Karhaati estimated that, in addition to Saanji’s four thousand renegades, Arnil Royce had close to a thousand Lancers and twice as many footmen.

But that won’t save him if I take my entire army into Ivairia.
Karhaati wondered if he should. That would mean postponing his attack on Lyos and braving the even harsher winters of the north, but there would be benefits, too. The island nation of Sorocco was rich and easily accessible from Ivairia’s coast. Karhaati had no navy, but once Saanji and the Lancers were dealt with, come spring, he could build one.

Or else Karhaati could abandon the north entirely and march south, for Atheion. The City-on-the-Sea was a tempting target, too. Ziraari had been poised to invade it before; now that he was gone and his army had joined Karhaati’s, sacking wealthy Atheion made sense.

Karhaati cursed. Power and plunder, he understood. But when it came to complicated military campaigns, with all their convoluted tactical elements, one direction seemed as good to him as another.
Maybe I’ll leave it up to Brahasti… provided I don’t have to have him impaled for violating orders.

Karhaati’s bloodmare reared up so suddenly that he nearly fell from the saddle. He tugged at the reins and raked the beast’s flanks with his spurs. He managed to regain control of his war horse, but then a commotion drew his attention. He glanced over his shoulder to find his bodyguards—all mounted—in a similar predicament. Some had already been thrown from their saddles and lay on the ground, struggling to rise. One had even been trampled to death by his own horse.

By the Dead God, what’s happening?

Though his bodyguards’ destriers were accustomed to the smells of blood, rot, and filth that perfumed the Field of Shame, they might still have been spooked by the smell of a wolf or the sight of a snake. Not so for Karhaati’s bloodmare, though. That unnerved him. He looked about, scanning the ghastly forest of dead men for a threat. A moment later, he found it.

A column of footmen approached from the south. Sun glinted off full armor, but Karhaati saw no banners. Karhaati frowned. He withdrew a Soroccan spyglass from his saddlebag. His frown deepened when he lowered the spyglass a moment later. He snapped his fingers. The captain of his bodyguards rode forward. The man had been thrown from his horse and had just climbed back into the saddle despite blood running from his forehead.

“I see a hundred fools where they aren’t supposed to be.”

“Yes, my prince. Shall we get you inside and call the archers?”

Karhaati resisted the urge to strike the man. “I want three hundred cavalrymen outside the city gates, on the double. I’ll lead the charges myself. Meanwhile, have the watch captain send fifty chariots to cut off the trespassers’ escape.”

The bodyguard saluted and rode away at once.

Karhaati scrutinized the distant column of footmen. It writhed across the plains like a metallic serpent, seemingly unhindered by the snow. Though he could not fathom what a hundred heavily armored men were doing on foot, let alone where they’d come from, it made no difference. They were on his lands.

Karhaati rode down to the gates to await his men. Dimly, he realized that his orders—which the captain of his bodyguards had not questioned—were a mistake. The snows would definitely slow his cavalry, but they would do worse to the chariots. The wheels would get stuck almost as soon as they were outside the gates. His charioteers would be lucky to make it onto the battlefield in time to witness the fighting, let alone cut off the trespassers’ escape.

The Bloody Prince considered amending his orders, then decided against it. He could not appear flawed before a Dhargothi host. That would only embolden all his would-be assassins. Better he claim that he’d given the order to test the charioteers’ loyalty or to amuse himself as he watched them struggle in the snow.

Karhaati drew his sword and fixed his gaze on the steely serpent glinting in the distance. One hand idly touched the ears hung around his neck. He wondered how many he would add before the end of the day. Grinning, he savored the familiar, reliable heft of his sword and braced for battle.

Jalist tugged at his hood, wishing he’d been able to leave Lyos a day or two later. A fierce chill had set in almost as soon as they passed through the gates and rode onto the Simurgh Plains. Jalist’s lungs burned, and the skin on his face felt as taut as a wind-blown flag. But delaying his departure had not been an option. The king of Lyos was adamant that Jalist set out at once on his fool’s errand to find Silwren, and his so-called bodyguards seemed more concerned with getting him out of the city than with actually protecting him.

Jalist glanced over his shoulder at Vardan and Braggo. They rode just behind him, stone quiet, their faces wrapped against the cold. Over chainmail surcoats and the scarlet tabards of the Red Watch, the men wore heavy cloaks that covered their weapons: matching crossbows and longswords, which they carried with the ease of men who knew how to use them. They’d hardly spoken since leaving Lyos, offering not so much as a curse when the winter wind clawed at the four riders. But Jalist did not mind the quiet.

Though Braggo was tall and lean, obviously a full-blooded Human, Vardan looked to have some Dwarrish blood somewhere in his ancestry. He was shorter and stockier, with arms almost as thickly muscled as Jalist’s. His eyes were so brown that they were almost black, and his skin had a faint gray tinge. Both men were middle-aged. Jalist was surprised that the king had sent two of his last surviving veterans to shepherd him on his way, but he reminded himself that if the Jolym or a Dragonkin—or both—returned to attack Lyos, a couple of extra swords would make no difference.

Jalist glanced down at his new tabard, faded scarlet and patched in places. Its sigil was still unmistakable—the falcon of Lyos.
What would Rowen say if he saw me like this?

Turning westward again, he surveyed the snowy, rolling hills that dominated the horizon.
Maelmohr’s cock, how am I supposed to find Silwren in all this?
Distant wisps of smoke, too big to come from villages, told him that the Dhargots were already everywhere.

He looked over his shoulder again, glancing past the two men of the Red Watch, to where Igrid brought up the rear. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing. She was certainly dressed for the part. Before leaving Lyos, the Iron Sister had exchanged wispy gowns for a brigandine, matching greaves, tassets, and vambraces, a helmet with a noseguard, a pair of shortswords, and most surprising of all, a Queshi composite bow.

Jalist concealed a smile. As a sellsword, he was familiar with Queshi bows. Explosively powerful, their elegant, curving design was ideal for firing on horseback. But they were made of laminated wood and bone in a process that took an entire year to complete. A good Queshi bow cost as much as a war horse. Jalist wondered if Igrid had stolen the composite bow from the armory or taken it off a wall in the palace one afternoon when no one was looking.

The Dwarr rubbed his temple. “Gods, I need a drink!”

“I think you’ve drunk enough lately, Dwarr.”

Jalist turned to scowl at Igrid, concealing his surprise that she’d managed to ride up beside him without him noticing. “Not by half, Iron Sister. These days, I don’t drink, my hands shake. That’s dangerous when you’re swinging a big damn axe.”

Igrid scowled back at him, even as the cold winds died down a little. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

Jalist shrugged. “I’ll stop calling you Iron Sister when you stop calling me Dwarr.”

“I wasn’t
born
an Iron Sister, you dunce. Gods, I was only in Hesod for a year.”

Jalist did not miss the spark of grief and anger in her voice. He wondered if she was remembering how that year had ended: with the brutal siege of Hesod, which had culminated in the killing or brutalizing of nearly all her fellow swordswomen. Igrid had escaped that by disguising herself as a priestess and running south, into the valley of Nosh, where she’d chanced upon Rowen, Jalist, and Silwren.

I’m not sure this one’s ever stopped running
. He felt a pang of sympathy for Igrid, even as he made sure his coin purse was tucked well out of her reach. “How’s your skull?”

“Thick as ever,” Igrid answered with a smirk that instantly reminded Jalist of Rowen. “Sore, I guess, but nearly mended. Those Lyosi clerics can work wonders if you pay them enough.”

“I won’t ask where you found the coin for that.” Jalist chuckled. “So tell me about that Ivairian captain of yours.”

Igrid shifted uncomfortably, obviously caught off guard. “What about him?”

“You said you met him south of here, near the Red Steppes. That must have put you close to Stillhammer.”

“I never saw your homeland, if that’s what you mean.”

“I never said you did.” Jalist gestured with his thumb back to Vardan. “That one says there’s rumors of a Lancer lord riding around in the snow with no more sense than we have, nipping the Dhargots wherever he can. Just wondered if it’s the same man.”

Igrid just said, “Probably.”

“You think the Lancers will form some kind of alliance with Lyos?”