Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (24 page)

The latter prospect made him shudder. Never in all the bloody ages of Dragonkin rule had the gods done such a thing. Then again, he might have brought it upon himself. The gods were children of the Light, and Chorlga had directly defied the Light countless times.

Chorlga shook his head, trying to wash the doubts from his mind by focusing on what lay before him: the bones of a dragon. While most of the excavations at Cadavash had encountered just a few fragments of dragonbone, occasionally parts of a skull, or a webbing of wing bones, the skeleton before him was entirely intact. And it was huge.

“Godsbane…” Despite his growing anxiety, Chorlga smiled as he spoke the name. Discovered centuries ago, its awful visage had supposedly been the impetus for the founding of the dragonpriests’ order. They thought the discovery of the dragon’s skeleton was a message from the gods. Chorlga could not blame them. The dragonpriests had suspended the massive skeleton from the chamber ceiling, using gigantic chains of brass and iron. Each link of the chain was as thick as a man’s wrist. Enough metal to arm and shield an entire army had gone into the making of those chains. Nevertheless, the dragonbones creaked as though they might fall free from their own weight at any second.

Though the great dragon had died countless millennia before Chorlga’s time, he’d heard tales of it all his life. Born in an age before the gods had pacified the dragons out of jealousy and fear, Godsbane had been the terror of the skies. Supposedly, even Zet had feared her.

For centuries, the dragonpriests had starved and mutilated their own bodies to show their affection for the dragons whose bones they’d uncovered. Though Chorlga had drained the life force of hundreds of them, more arrived every day. It was possible that their life force would be enough to sustain him without the well. But the risk would be great—greater, even, than all he’d risked with the Nightmare.

But if I stop, I have only what I have now…

He eyed his surroundings—stone, darkness, and corpses—and shook his head. This was not enough. There had to be more. He had to try. The gods left him no choice.

“No choice…”

Godsbane’s massive skeleton creaked and swayed on its chains as though in answer.

Rowen knelt in the ruins, warmed his hands over the fire, and tried to ignore the looks from the Sylvan captives. Despite El’rash’lin’s insistence that Rowen must go south, the sorcerer had strangely directed the women toward Rowen’s camp shortly after their rescue. Now, they sat around the fire, regarding him—some suspicious, some murderous, all pained. He could only imagine what they had gone through. But they were far from the Wytchforest, surrounded by enemies. He did not have the heart to tell them that in all likelihood, their torments were far from over.

Kilisti joined him a moment later, standing before the fire. Several Sylvan women looked away at the sight of Kilisti’s mutilated features, but she paid them no mind. She offered Rowen a wineskin. Rowen shook his head.

“Are they still arguing?” Rowen asked, even though he could hear for himself.

He spoke in Sylvan, hoping that might endear him to the Sylvan captives, but Kilisti answered in Common. “Rhos’ari thinks they should head southeast toward Hesod to avoid the Olgrym, then turn southwest for Sylvos.”

“Hesod belongs to the Dhargots now. It’s no safer than Quorim.”

“That’s what I said. But Faeli says the Dhargots are a safer bet than the Olgrym.”

Rowen glanced at the far end of the ruins, where Rhos’ari and the other Sylvan fighters were locked in a heated debate over which route to take to the Wytchforest. Cathas had pointed out that they had gained six more fighters, as all the Sylvan women had arrived well armed. What’s more, the women, who had been captured by Olgrym but chiefly tormented by Dhargots, were pressing for the quickest route back to the Wytchforest.

To everyone’s amazement, Faeli had come back—but he’d come back alone. Aerios had fallen after they’d run out of arrows, and Aerios’s horse had lost its footing. Faeli had nearly died, too, when the Olgrym came close to surrounding him time and time again. They’d gotten so close that Faeli could identify their leader as Doomsayer himself. Finally, he’d managed to escape.

Or else he was let go so he could lead the Olgrym back to us.

“There’s no route that’s worth a damn,” Kilisti said. “Either the Olgrym hack us to pieces, or the Dhargots make those women slaves.”

That’s if they don’t kill us now because of this damn fire.
Though Rowen had initially forbade a fire, some of the women were so close to freezing to death that he had to reconsider. He had to admit, too, that he preferred facing death while he was still warm. He ran his hands through his unkempt red hair, shaking out the snowflakes. “Dhargoth isn’t formally at war with the Lotus Isles. Not yet, anyway. They might think twice about kidnapping Sylvs if I’m with them.”

Kilisti snickered. “I think you think a bit too highly of yourself, Knight. And anyway, it sounds like you have your own problems to worry about.”

Rowen glanced at the Sylvan women. A glint in their eyes reminded him of trapped animals. He thought again of what they must have endured in captivity, and shuddered. “I promised Captain Briel I’d get these women safely back to Sylvos. That’s what I intend to do.”

Kilisti eyed him with curiosity. “Don’t think I’ve ever met a Human who called it that.”

“What?”

“Sylvos. Only Sylvs call it that. And Shel’ai, I suppose. Everyone else just calls it the Wytchforest.”

Rowen considered telling the woman about how El’rash’lin had magically infused some of his memories into Rowen’s mind, then he reminded himself that Kilisti detested anything associated with magic. “Must be El’rash’lin’s influence.”

Kilisti nodded slowly. She looked skeptical. “Strange old man. Dead, but not dead. Half one thing, half something else.”

I wonder if the same couldn’t be said about me.
Rowen glanced down at Knightswrath. “He’s a friend, and one of the bravest men I’ve ever known.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that.”

Rowen glared at her. “Easy, Sylv. I’m not forgetting that he started out fighting on the same side as Fadarah. So did Silwren. But people make mistakes. The gods know I have.”

“And you’re about to make another.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not going back to Sylvos.” Kilisti knelt and drew her shortsword.

Rowen tensed but forced himself to relax when she simply began to sharpen the blade. “I wasn’t aware you could tell the future.”

Kilisti shrugged. “Don’t need magic to see what’s on your face. What that old Shel’ai said spooked you. All this business with Dragonkin aside, from what I could understand, you’ve got friends in the east. Maybe they’re dead; maybe they’re not. But you’re leaving to find out.”

Leaving for where?
Rowen chewed the inside of his lip. “If all of you came with me, I could get you shelter in Lyos. You’d be safe there until the war’s over.”

“Safe in a Human city on the other side of the continent, surrounded by metal-skinned demons?” Kilisti laughed. “I think not. Rhos’ari and Faeli will give up soon. This bunch will head straight south and take their chances with the Olgrym.”

Rowen eyed the other Sylvan women. He saw a few nod almost imperceptibly, touching their weapons. They were ready to fight. They
wanted
to fight. Some had probably even fought Olgrym before. Still, they had no chance.

Rowen faced Kilisti again. “Sounds like you’re not going with them.”

“I’m not. I’m going with you.”

Rowen blinked, speechless.

“Don’t take it personal. I haven’t fallen in love with you, Knight. I’m just not stupid. Only way any of these poor bastards get home is if you lead the Olgrym away.”

Rowen looked into the fire. “We’ve already tried that.”

“
We
tried it.” Kilisti gestured at the Sylvan fighters. “
You
didn’t.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I know Olgrym, Knight. They love and fear magic. That’s why they’re chasing us. They’re after
you
. So give them what they want.”

Rowen kicked an ember with his foot. “Are you suggesting I surrender to Doomsayer or just tie up Knightswrath with a ribbon and leave it in the snow for him?”

Kilisti shook her head. “I’m saying the Knight with the burning sword should stand on a hill tonight and wave the damn thing against the dark sky until every Olg for a hundred miles comes running.”

Rowen laughed. “Well, that’s certainly
one
course of action.”

“It’s the
only
course of action.” Kilisti stopped sharpening and looked up from her blade. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Rowen said nothing for a moment, then he answered, “If getting myself killed is the only way to save everyone else, why are
you
staying?”

“Because I lied earlier. Truth is, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you.” Kilisti snickered. “Or maybe it’s just because I want to kill every Olg and Dhargot I can before I die, and staying close to you seems like a good way to do it.” She rose to her feet and slid her sword blade back into its well-oiled scabbard. “Shall we, lover?”

Rowen’s heart leapt at the thought of using Knightswrath, though he could not tell whether it was excitement or panic. He glanced at the setting sun, imagined how bright the violet flames would appear against the dark sky, and rose to his feet. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Tomato Prince

S
aanji read the message a second time then a third. He looked up. “Royce, is this one of your men’s idea of a joke?” He passed the message to one of his own officers seated beside him.

Arnil Royce answered with a mirthless smile. “I might have thought so, Prince, if it weren’t for the reports we’ve received of the Jolym.”

Saanji glanced at the tiny scrap of paper.
What’s an Isle Knight doing in the Wytchforest?
“That doesn’t say anything about Jolym.”

“But it
does
say something about a Dragonkin. A raven brought that message to my king, and he threw it away, thinking it was one of his children playing around. Luckily, his steward saw it and sent it to me. And speaking of disconcerting scraps of paper, here’s another.”

Royce pushed a larger piece of parchment toward Saanji, whose eyes widened when he read it. “At the risk of repeating myself…”

“Not a joke,” Royce promised. He gestured to another of the Lancers seated around the council table.

The man, a white-haired veteran with a stoic expression despite the bloody bandages wrapped around his arm and forehead, answered for him. “I saw it myself, m’lord. Your brother’s entire army marches southwest, toward Hesod. Footmen, cavalry, elephants—everything but the chariots, which they appear to have left behind. At the head of their army march several hundred of those same men seen returning from the Lotus Isles—giant men covered in steel and brass. Alive, but not.”

Jolym,
Saanji thought in disbelief.
Gods, what fey times are we living in?

The Lancers whispered to each other, but when Arnil Royce stood, all fell silent. Saanji concealed a grin. Royce hardly seemed like an impressive figure—medium height, plain faced, he had a receding hairline—but his men worshipped him. Saanji had a feeling that not all their admiration had to do with Royce’s tactical expertise and brilliant swordsmanship.

I wonder if my men will ever look on me that way.
Saanji almost laughed at the sheer impossibility.

Arnil Royce sighed, resting one hand on the pommel of his kingsteel longsword. “Cassica has been abandoned. Likewise, the threat has been removed from Ivairia’s border. Furthermore, scouts report that the Dhargots occupying Syros are marching south, too. No word yet on what’s happening in Quorim, but for now, it seems we’ve won.” The statement prompted no cheers. Indeed, the Lancer-Captain’s voice sounded flat and joyless.

“This makes no sense,” Saanji protested. “It’s the middle of winter. My brother had Cassica ground under his boot. Same with Syros. We’re nowhere near breaking him. Why would he retreat?”

“Perhaps his reputation as a warrior was undeserved,” someone suggested halfheartedly.

“We could have broken his will,” said another.

Saanji scoffed. “On both counts, gentlemen, I assure you that I know my own brother better than that.”

The wounded, white-haired Lancer offered, “Consolidating his forces to try and usurp your father, perhaps?”

Saanji said, “With Ziraari dead and me out of reach, I might believe that. But he’d be better off massing at Syros or Quorim, right on my father’s border. Why in the gods’ names would he take his army back to Hesod?”

Arnil Royce sat back down but cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “And more importantly, why are the Jolym marching with him?”

No one answered for a time.

“Last night, we… interrogated a Dhargot prisoner,” the Lancer-Captain told Saanji. “He claims the Bloody Prince has struck an alliance with a Dragonkin. Were we living in different times, I might have called him a madman. But these days, I don’t have that luxury.”

“Speaking of luxuries...” Saanji held out his cup. One of Royce’s squires refilled it.

Royce drummed his gloved fingers on the table. “Your brother doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would let himself be another man’s pawn.”

“Agreed. Which is why I suggest we all get good and drunk before the world ends.”

Royce’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning anyone that my brother agrees to serve is guaranteed to be someone you don’t want to know.”

The Lancers exchanged looks. Finally, Royce said, “When my king hears that the Dhargots have withdrawn… no disrespect to our new allies”—he nodded toward Saanji and the two Earless officers seated beside him, causing Saanji to lift his glass and drink in response—“I’m sure he’ll celebrate. He’ll pretend he sent me in the first place and recall his Lancers home. Given the circumstances, I will have a hard time refusing.”

Another Lancer cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Captain Royce, but why should you refuse? If the Dhargots have withdrawn,
why
they’ve withdrawn doesn’t matter. Ivairia is safe again. Our slain have been avenged. We’ve even liberated some of the Free Cities, which might help us improve trade. What happens to the rest of Ruun hardly concerns us.”

“Especially since all these troubles are probably their own doing,” another added.

Some of the Lancers nodded.

Saanji noticed that most of his own officers nodded, too. He felt the bottom drop out of his gut. He drained his cup as fast as he could, but the gnawing feeling remained.

Turning the opal ring on his finger, he glanced at Royce. Despite the Lancer’s taciturn nature, Saanji had gotten to know him well over the past few weeks. The Ivairian never looked afraid. At most, when facing insurmountable odds or reading news of some disaster, he looked merely troubled.
He looks pretty damn troubled now, Gods save us.

Royce stood again. Everyone fell silent. “I don’t pretend to understand the mind of a man like Prince Karhaati. I don’t pretend to understand what motivates a Dragonkin, either. But I trust my instincts, and my instincts say that Prince Saanji is right.”

Saanji had the misfortune of spilling wine on his tunic just as Royce’s statement caused many to turn and look at him. Saanji blushed and tried to hide the wet spot with his goblet.

“We’ve had word of a second force of Jolym marching into Nosh and laying siege to the city of Atheion,” Royce continued. “I don’t think the Bloody Prince is going to relieve this force, since the reports say Atheion is about to fall, anyway. That means Karhaati—or this Dragonkin, the one they call Chorlga—is after something else. We must find out what.”

Saanji scrutinized the expressions of the other Lancers. A few, particularly those who had been with Royce since the beginning, nodded in agreement. But the majority, who had been late joining in the fight and had likely viewed Royce as a renegade until a few weeks ago, looked uncertain. Saanji guessed that they couldn’t wait to declare the war over and toast to their victory, however uneasy. If Royce continued fighting the Dhargots, how many of his Lancers would abandon him, forcing him to defy his king yet again?

“Gentlemen, I have a proposal.” Everyone turned to face him. Too late, Saanji realized that he’d voiced what he’d only intended to mull over in his mind. Thinking quickly, he said, “I suggest we march for Cassica. We can winter there and see what kind of devilry greets us come spring.”

One of the Lancers said, “The Cassicans might not appreciate that.”

“As far as they know, we’re their liberators,” Saanji countered. “Besides, don’t forget that I lived in Cassica for a time. I may be a Dhargot, but I was far kinder to them than my brother was.”

“But still a Dhargot,” another Lancer mumbled.

“In my defense, I had little say in the matter.” Saanji held out his cup to be refilled again. “And while we’re on the subject, I’m also a Dhargot who’s sick to death of sleeping in the snow. Some of you Lancers might agree with me on this. At least Cassica has walls and firewood.”

“But what if King Hightower orders us to return?” a Lancer protested.

“Then his messenger can find you in Cassica. It’s a big city, hard to miss.” Saanji hiccupped halfway through his sentence.

Some of the Lancers bristled at the jest, but Royce smirked. Still on his feet, he pounded the table with his fist to get everyone’s attention. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind my own countrymen that Ivairia’s mountain roads can be treacherous, even in the warmest of seasons. All talk of enemies aside, it would simply be prudent to winter in Cassica until the northern roads are more passable. Agreed?”

His stern tone made it clear that the matter was not open for discussion. Royce dismissed the council a moment later. Saanji’s officers followed, though Saanji stayed where he was. Royce dismissed his squires, filled his goblet using a pitcher of wine on a small serving table at the other end of the tent, then sat back down.

“You shouldn’t drink so damn much, Dhargot.”

Saanji shrugged. “What was it that philosopher said about the tremors of a bad childhood?”

The Lancer shrugged. “Gods if I know. I was a lousy student of philosophy.”

“I was a lousy student at everything.” Saanji drained his cup, held it out, then remembered that Royce had dismissed his squires. He set his cup down, unwilling to fetch the pitcher himself.

“Is this the hour when you start feeling sorry for yourself?”

Saanji laughed. “I only get one hour? Most unfair.” He tipped his cup and leaned back in his chair, letting the last few drops fall from his cup into his mouth.

“The men are getting along better than I would have expected,” Royce said.

“I think your men just keep forgetting that mine are still Dhargots.”

“I doubt that… though the fact that they don’t decorate their necks with dead men’s ears doesn’t hurt.”

Saanji took a deep breath, held it, and forced himself out of his chair. He stumbled, clutching his belly, and fell against the table. Then he pushed off and reeled across the tent. Once he’d refilled his goblet, though, he managed to return to his chair without spilling a drop. “You know, before some fool started the Way of Ears, we Dhargots weren’t much different from anyone else.”

Royce raised one eyebrow. “Given what I’ve seen, I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want, Lancer. Seems to me that a few generations of plagues and famine will turn any kingdom into a den of monsters.”

“Ivairia’s had its share of plagues. We don’t impale men on sharpened stakes or drag children’s guts out.”

Saanji raised his goblet. “Bloody good for Ivairia!” He took a drink. “Maybe you just never had the kind of plagues that Dhargoth has.”

“I hope we never do.” Royce gave him a critical look. “By the way, did you forget our agreement?”

“What agreement?”

“The one we made a week ago, after that close battle in the foothills.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

Royce’s eyes narrowed. “You said you’d quit drinking and let me train you.”

“Was I drunk when I agreed to that?”

“Most definitely.”

“Well, there’s your answer.” Saanji raised his glass. “Trust me, Lancer, trying to teach me swordplay is a lost cause. My father and brothers tried for years.”

“Something tells me I’m a better teacher.”

“Well, gods know you couldn’t be a worse one.” Saanji laughed. “Seriously, Lancer, thank you, but save your breath. My weapon of choice is a fork. I piss the bed more nights than I don’t. The most violent thing I’ve ever done is hurl an empty pitcher at a portrait of my father, and even
that
had me shaking like a leaf in a storm.” He patted his great, round stomach. “Besides, do you really think I’ve got the build to be a fighter?”

Royce shrugged. “You’ve got the will and the hate. And I think, somewhere down in there, the courage.”

Saanji laughed. “Don’t mock me, Lancer. You know what my own men call me.”

“Would these be the same men who risked impalement to follow you?”

“People make mistakes.”

Royce stood up so abruptly that Saanji wondered if the Lancer would strike him. Instead, Royce drew his kingsteel longsword and cast it on the table. “Know how I got that, Dhargot?”

Saanji shrugged. “An expensive gift from your king?”

Royce shook his head. “Isle Knights guard their precious kingsteel more jealously than a father guards his virgin daughter. You might be able to buy a sword made out of it, but even a king would have a hard time affording it. No king’s that generous.” He snickered. “No, I bought this damn thing
myself
, with coin I earned from tournaments, which I won by knocking bigger, stronger men on their armored asses.”

“Well done.” Saanji toasted him.

Royce shook his head. “I’m not bragging.” He held out his arms. “Look at me, Dhargot. Half the Lancers in Ivairia are twice my size. I’m not even the fastest. But I’ve won most every fight I’ve ever been in. How do you suppose that is?”

Saanji shrugged. “Honestly, Lancer, I couldn’t care less.”

Royce lowered his arms. Shaking his head with disappointment, he sat back down. “So what do you think your brother is up to?”

“Murder and glory, same as always.”

“And this Dragonkin?”

“Probably the same kind of monster as my dear brother, just with tapered ears and burning hands.” Saanji drained his goblet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Then he’s either a monster who made it past the Dragonward, or else he’s been hiding here since the Shattering War.”

“Or he’s a Shel’ai who transformed himself, like the others,” Saanji offered.

“None of those options sound very appealing.”

“If options were appealing, they wouldn’t be options.” Saanji wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but he liked the sound of it. His stomach grumbled. He looked around the council table for something to eat, but all he saw were maps and reports. He wished that Royce had not dismissed his squires. Saanji disliked the bland Ivairian food, but his own cook had been killed, and boiled potatoes and soldiers’ mash were better than nothing.

Saanji blinked, realizing that Royce was talking to him. “What?”