Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (29 page)

“Well, I don’t have all night. Come and die, you bastards.”

Karhaati was only halfway down the stairs when he heard the clash of steel. At one, he turned sideways on the stairwell and drew his longsword. He considered calling for his bodyguards, whom he’d left at the top of the stairs, then decided against it. He heard the battle cry of a lone woman, punctuated by men’s grunts, then a man’s sharp cry of pain.

One of the Iron Sisters had gotten hold of a blade.

Karhaati leaned against the wall of the stairwell, listening. He imagined the look on the face of whatever careless guard must have been raping an Iron Sister when she plucked a dagger from his belt and slashed his throat. He imagined her rolling his body off hers, her face washed in his blood. He visualized her rising off the stone floor, naked, drawing the dead man’s sword off his corpse—maybe screaming in defiance before she threw herself at the next target, as wild as an animal.

Karhaati smiled. He heard another man scream. Other men cursed, followed by what sounded like a table being overturned. The cries of women joined in—probably fellow Iron Sisters, shouting encouragement from their cells, unaware of the punishment awaiting them.

Steel clashed again, echoing up the stairwell. Karhaati’s bodyguards had started down on their own, but he stopped them with a gesture. He was in no danger, and there were more than enough guards down there to handle one escaped woman with a sword. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall and listened. The woman’s wild, sweet battle cry reached his ears. A moment later, he heard her gasp. He imagined her hurt, blood running down one arm as she fought to stay alive. He thought about loosening his belt in response to his growing feelings of lust, but a new sound interrupted the chaos: an iron gate swinging open.

More women cried out from the dungeon, offering battle cries of their own. Karhaati opened his eyes. He straightened. His smile became a scowl. Glancing back at his bodyguards, he snapped his fingers. He waited a moment for them to catch up then started down the stairs.

The woman tried in vain to lift her cheek off the cold stone floor. Somehow, she’d fallen in a pool of water, though she could not remember how. The water smelled like old coins. It reminded her of how her hands had smelled after she spent all day begging for coins outside a temple in the slums of the Dark Quarter.

My name was Ilreeth then… or was it Anza?
She blinked.
Why do I have so many names?

She tried to make her eyes focus, but all she saw was a wild blur of color swirling in front of her—some red, mostly gray. She blinked again. Slowly, a woman’s face took shape, pressed against stone, staring back at her. The woman’s eyes were brown. Half her face was red. She did not blink.

Is that my face?
She felt a surge of panic. She tried once more to lift her head. A sharp pain made her wince. When the pain passed, she tried again. This time, beyond the dead woman lying next to her, she saw new shapes in the distance—more men, fighting. She saw more women, too. Women with swords. She blinked.

Igrid. My name is Igrid.

She fumbled for her sword and finally found it on the floor next to her. Blood covered half its surface. The sight of the blood reminded her of the wetness on her face. Pressing one hand to the gash in her forehead, Igrid snatched up her sword and tried to rise. A dying man collapsed in front of her, almost hitting her. His brown, pleading eyes found hers. Igrid recoiled. She pushed herself onto her feet, reeled, and almost fell. Someone grabbed her arm.

“You’re still alive,” Ailynn shouted, “but you won’t stay that way if you don’t start making that sword dance.” She pushed Igrid aside and stabbed a Dhargot in the face.

Igrid nodded dumbly. Her whole body hurt. Glancing down at her tattered, bloody armor, she wondered how many times she’d already been cut. She decided it didn’t matter. Turning, she spotted a Dhargot in swordlock with another Iron Sister. The Iron Sister lost her balance and fell to one knee.

Igrid stepped forward, stabbed the man in the back, and wrenched the sword from his grasp as he fell. She turned. She barely crossed both swords in time to stop an incoming axe. Sparks showered her. The shock of the blow shook her arms. The Dhargot howled, his face so close that she felt his spit as he screamed obscenities at her.

Igrid wanted to twist sideways and break free, but her legs did not seem to work. Her arms trembled. The Dhargot started to force her down. Then his eyes widened. The Iron Sister she had just saved withdrew her blade, nodded to her, then turned to find another opponent.

Igrid followed suit. She backstabbed another Dhargot then held a second in swordlock long enough for another Iron Sister to do the same. But then that woman fell, and Igrid was backpedaling, trying to fend off three Dhargots at once.

Ailynn saved her again. The Captain of the Iron Sisters stepped smoothly into the Dhargots’ path. Like Igrid, she held a sword in each hand. Two more women followed her. One fell, but the rest of the Dhargots retreated.

“Formation!” Ailynn screamed.

As Igrid paused to catch her breath, other Iron Sisters rushed to join them. All had armed themselves, but a glance at the floor showed that many had already fallen. Meanwhile, the remaining Dhargots had pulled into a tight formation of their own and were retreating toward the far wall. As they passed cages still containing captive Iron Sisters, they thrust their swords between the bars.

Igrid bristled. They’d managed to open all the cells and hack open some of the cages, but a third of their sisters had not yet been freed. The Dhargots set about slaughtering these as quickly as possible. Igrid turned to Ailynn. She expected the captain to order a charge so that they could try to save as many of their sisters as possible.

Ailynn’s eyes found hers. Ailynn shook her head. “Hold formation,” she said in a low, steady voice. She handed one of her swords to a woman who was unarmed, then stooped to pick up a shield. She slid the straps over one bloody arm. Then, otherwise nude, she took up position in front of the others.

Some of the other Iron Sisters stooped to grab helmets. A few pulled cloaks or leather jerkins off the dead. But most of the Iron Sisters still had little or nothing by way of clothing, let alone armor. Igrid tried to ignore the plight of her caged sisters and count the remaining Dhargots.

“We outnumber them,” she called out. “Let’s finish off these bastards and go find the Bloody Prince!”

A few women cheered, but Ailynn scowled. “I said, hold your ground.” She edged closer to Igrid. “How far to the sewers?”

“Right around the corner,” Igrid said, “but we can’t leave the rest of our sisters in cages!”

“The Dhargots have armor. We don’t. They’ll have reinforcements here any second. We go now, or we
all
die.”

Igrid turned to the Iron Sisters being stabbed through the bars of their cages. Some shouted defiant curses at the Dhargots. A few wept. Others died quietly. None called out for help.

Igrid felt tears running from her eyes, mingling with the blood on her face. She considered charging the Dhargots anyway, in defiance of Ailynn’s orders. Then she heard a scream of warning from behind her. She turned in time to see a squad of Dhargots barreling into the dungeon. Unlike the others, they wore extravagant armor draped in silk.

“Those aren’t regular guards,” Ailynn muttered. She shouted new orders, telling the women to pull back into a tight rectangular formation and prepare to repel attacks from two sides. Meanwhile, more confident, the Dhargothi prison guards charged again. The woman to Igrid’s right went down, then a spear caught the woman behind her. The Dhargots came at them from two sides, driving them back inch by bloody inch toward their cells.

Igrid glanced at the door, now separated from them by twenty armed men, with more probably on the way. She shouted at Ailynn, “Either we break out now, or we die!”

Ailynn bashed her shield into a Dhargot’s face, cleaved the top of his skull, and nodded. Moments later, the captain led half the Iron Sisters in a reckless charge toward the door. The Dhargots beat them back. Then Igrid spotted a single Dhargot in their midst, bigger than the rest. A bloodstained longsword sang in his grasp, faster than she would have thought possible. Unlike the other Dhargots, he wore an open silk tunic. And he laughed.

Igrid tried to tell Ailynn who she thought that was, but Ailynn did not seem to hear her over the din of battle. The Dhargots answered Ailynn’s charge with twin charges of their own. The Iron Sisters threw them back, at great cost. Ailynn attempted yet another reckless charge at Karhaati’s force. Karhaati answered by placing himself at the thick of the fighting. He drove forward, cutting down one Iron Sister after another.

Then he met Ailynn in a furious flash of steel—Ailynn shouting, Karhaati laughing. Igrid struggled to help, fighting desperately to stay at the side of her former captain. But then the prison guards charged with renewed fury, as though anxious to impress their prince. Igrid lost sight of Ailynn. The Iron Sisters’ lines buckled. The prison guards drove a wedge between them.

But Igrid saw at once that the prison guards had overextended their lines. They could be flanked now. Better yet, a few Iron Sisters might even slip back and free more women from the few cages left untouched. Igrid pointed with one sword. She shouted fresh orders. To her relief, a few of the Iron Sisters obeyed.

Then, shouting Ailynn’s name, Igrid led her own charge against the prison guards. Iron Sisters, savage and quick, fought on either side of her. While the Dhargots fighting Ailynn’s force held their ground, the ones fighting Igrid’s force withered. Then Karhaati’s force fell back, too, retreating out the door.

The Iron Sisters followed, aided by more of their fellows. Igrid could not see Ailynn and Karhaati, but she imagined their fight must have spilled into the hallway beyond the dungeons. She followed, stepping over dead men and women, their bodies splashed with torchlight. Then she spotted Ailynn. The Soroccan woman lay unmoving on the floor, her eyes wide. Something had happened to her hair.

Igrid lifted her head. Karhaati stood on the stairwell, his tunic open, blood splashed across his face and chest. Dhargots formed a protective circle around him. Some shouted up the stairs for reinforcements, especially archers. Karhaati’s eyes met Igrid’s. The Bloody Prince grinned. He lifted something to his face. Igrid saw that it was a long, dark braid. Karhaati sniffed it. Then he draped it around his neck like a necklace.

Igrid screamed with rage. She started forward then stopped herself.

More Iron Sisters spilled out into the hallway. More Dhargots appeared in front of her, massing on the stairs. Karhaati started casually up the stairs, his bloody sword resting against his shoulder. Dhargots closed around him. Igrid took a deep breath and let it go. She glanced over her shoulder toward the other stairwell that led down into the sewers.

“Retreat,” she said finally.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Hands of Fire

A
broad, frozen sea lay before him, stretching on as far as he could discern. A faint dusting of snow covered the ice. He shivered. His breath fogged the air. Sundown spilled through the clouds, splashing across the ice. It was utterly silent.

Rowen frowned. He was on the Wintersea. But that did not seem possible.

He looked down at his clothes. He wore a tattered leather jerkin, trousers, gloves, and boots. The gloves were too small, the boots too big. His only other item of clothing, a mouse-brown cloak, had been patched and sewn in a dozen places.

“I should be wearing armor.”

He parted his cloak to reveal an Ivairian-style shortsword.

“Knightswrath. What happened to Knightswrath?”

He looked around, searching the ice at his feet. He looked behind him. For some reason, he’d expected to see mountains and green fields in the distance. Instead, he saw more ice. He considered heading south then changed his mind and went north.

He walked for what felt like hours. Strangely, the sun did not seem to move. Finally, he stopped. Something lay before him, frozen deep inside the ice. It was so big that he marveled that he had not noticed it sooner. He thought at first that it was just a trick, a web of water that had not quite solidified.

Then he realized that it was a dragon. Multicolored and six winged, it lay just beneath the ice. Its legs—huge, powerful legs ending in claws the length of his arm. He knew he should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. He started forward, following the outline of the dragon’s body. He stopped again when he saw its head. Its long neck, bent at an impossible angle, held its face frozen against the ice. One huge, dark eye met his. Though Rowen sensed that the beast was dead, eons dead, the dark eye seemed brimmed with sadness.

The eye blinked.

Rowen jumped. He reached for his sword, but it was gone. Stepping away from the dragon, he looked behind him, thinking he’d dropped his sword. But it was gone. When he turned around again, the dragon had disappeared, too. He stood for a moment, wondering if what he’d just seen was just a dream.

“Or maybe I’m going mad.”

He started forward again. The sun still had not sunk any farther in the sky, though purple clouds drifted across it. An animal howled—not the shrill, mournful howl of a wolf, but the deeper, dreadful rumble of a greatwolf. Rowen shuddered. He was being hunted. He turned in a circle, searching for threats, but saw nothing.

Finally, he started north again. He walked and walked. Then he saw a cloaked man walking toward him. The man kept his hood drawn, his hands folded neatly in his dark, priestly cloak. An impossibly long shadow stretched behind the man. His ink-black cloak spread across the ice like a stain.

Rowen stopped. He knew that he’d been seen. Something told him to run. He searched the area around him for a weapon, but all he saw was snow and ice. He knew how to fight with his hands and feet—he’d done so many times before. Still, he trembled.

“Singchai ushó fey.”
Those words were somehow important. They were supposed to give him comfort, but he could not remember what they meant. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take one step forward then another and another.

When just a few feet separated Rowen from the cloaked figure, the dark priest stopped. He stared at Rowen. Though splashes of red sunlight still shown against the ice, no light penetrated the priest’s hood. Rowen heard him breathe, low and ominous, like the bellows of a furnace.

Then the breathing stopped. The dark priest removed bone-pale hands from his sleeves and lowered his hood. Rowen faced angular features, a thin jawline, and tapered ears. The man was either bald or had shaved his head. Rowen could not tell how old he was. The man must have been a Sylv or a Shel’ai, but his eyes were wholly black. Then he blinked, and his eyes turned purple. Finally, the dark priest smiled. Despite his coldly handsome face, his teeth were dark and rotten. “Do you know who I am?”

Rowen wanted to shake his head. Instead, he nodded.

“That’s good. It’s not every day that you’re approached by a god.” He took a step closer. “You should not have sent those messages. It was not your place to speak of me before I chose to reveal myself.”

Rowen’s knees buckled. He couldn’t tell whether it was the product of his own fear or if the dark priest was doing something to him, but suddenly, he wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to grovel. He wanted to worship the dark, terrible man, whom he had never before seen but recognized.

“I won’t ask you to talk,” the dark priest said. “Just listen.” He made a sweeping gesture then folded his pale hands back into his cloak. “This world is mine. I took it from Nekiel. I took it from Nâya and Fâyu Jinn. I took it from the gods. And if I cannot have it, I will burn it to cinders before I let it fall to your kind.”

Rowen’s legs shook, worse than before. The dark priest’s voice echoed through him like the beating of a war drum. He wanted to shut his eyes and plug his ears, but he could not move his arms.

“This is the world of your mind, your dreams. I cannot lie to you here. So instead, I will tell you the truth.” He drifted closer to Rowen, though he did not seem to move, as though the earth itself had recoiled to let him advance. He seized Rowen’s face, burning him. Rowen could not break free. He opened his mouth but could not scream, either.

Chorlga said, “Nekiel left me here for a purpose. He told me to dismantle the Dragonward from the inside. So I learned how. For eleven centuries, I’ve drunk freely from Namundvar’s Well. I’ve made myself stronger than Nekiel ever was.”

He let go, shoving Rowen backward.

“The Shel’ai went mad from a single sip. I’ve drunk oceans. So this is my vow to you, Human: surrender Knightswrath, or I will tear down the Dragonward. I will let Nekiel and his kind back into Ruun. I will cloak every kingdom on this continent in a night so dark, it will never know dawn.”

Behind Chorlga, his shadow grew. Wings blossomed from its sides, spreading across the ice. The sun plummeted from the sky like a burning stone. Chorlga laughed. Rowen fell into darkness.

Shade stood on a snowy hill and watched the last of his people file out of the tiny fortress of Coldhaven. Winter winds clawed at his cloak and raked his skin. He winced, though not from the cold. Once again, they were abandoning their home. Coldhaven had never been much—just a wretched little collection of huts enclosed in a low wall of ice and stones, tucked between hills on the Wintersea. Fadarah had not even intended it to be permanent. But some of the children had lived there for most of their lives. Now, they were experiencing for the first time a pain that Shade and the others knew all too well: the bitter sting of being driven from home.

They had abandoned countless temporary sanctuaries from Stillhammer to Ivairia, fleeing armies and mobs, burying their dead along the way. But this was different. This would be the last time.

Shade clenched his fists. Thin, angry tendrils of wytchfire steamed between his fingers. How many times had they said that before, vowing that this would be their final retreat? But they had no choice. They had already stayed in Coldhaven too long. Even if Chorlga did not already know about Coldhaven, it was only a matter of time before trappers or fishermen discovered it. Word would reach the nearest kingdoms. Some king or superstitious, influential cleric would blame the Shel’ai for the next plague to infect his lands and send more swords than their wytchfire could repel.

El’rash’lin is right. We’ve lost the war. Our only chance is to leave Ruun entirely.

But that would not be easy. Most of their strongest and bravest had already died. All that remained were ten children, some barely old enough to walk, and half as many old men and women. There had been no sign of the Shel’ai that Shade had left behind in Ziraari’s camp. Either they had been killed, or they had chosen to strike out on their own.

Of course, we have the Sylvs.

Shade almost laughed at the thought. The Sylvan women they’d rescued from Brahasti’s compound had reluctantly decided to accompany them, knowing that the fact that they were all pregnant with Shel’ai babies meant they’d never be welcomed back into Sylvos anyway. They walked beside Shel’ai in the column, shaking in their cloaks, for they had no magic to immunize them against the cold. El’rash’lin and Zeia grimly led the procession.

The two had hardly left each other’s sides since their flight from Brahasti’s compound. Often, they spoke in low whispers. In the evenings, while the others slept, El’rash’lin helped Zeia practice her magic. Despite her ghastly injuries, she suffered in silence, following El’rash’lin like a dutiful student—a student with no hands.

Shade marveled at the cruelty and injustice of it all. Not only had El’rash’lin refused to use his Dragonkin magic to restore what Brahasti’s men had so painfully taken from her; somehow, Zeia seemed to have completely accepted his decision and abided by it without reproach. Shade’s attempts to mock El’rash’lin had been met with silence. Indeed, Zeia had hardly spoken with Shade at all. At Coldhaven, she’d preferred to spend her solitary hours in meditation, the scarred, puckered stumps of her wrists resting pitifully on her lap.

And now, she was leaving.

El’rash’lin and Shade would conduct the Shel’ai and the Sylvan refugees across the frozen Wintersea, toward Sorocco. Zeia would head south on her own. She would find Rowen Locke and offer him her services and her protection.

Shade’s bitter laugh dissipated in the cold wind. What use would Zeia be? A lone Shel’ai could do little against a Dragonkin like Chorlga, but without her hands, Zeia could do even less. She probably would not even make it off the Wintersea alive. But Shade had given up trying to talk her out of it. He’d tried for hours at Coldhaven, and she’d ignored him, continuing her meditation with just the faintest smirk.

“If she wants to die, I won’t stop her.” Shade started down the hill toward the ragged procession.

El’rash’lin and Zeia had drawn to one side, urging the column to continue on. Both faced Shade. El’rash’lin leaned on a staff. Zeia wore a sword, despite having no hands with which to wield it. Shade approached them slowly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. He decided to try one last time to talk some sense into them.

“Listen, it will take us days to reach the coast. We’ll have to pass right through Ivairia. Even if the Ivairian king doesn’t kill us, even if we find Soroccan merchants along the coast, we’ll still have to buy or steal a ship.”

El’rash’lin offered him a twisted smile. “I know a certain Soroccan who might help us.”

Shade blinked, realizing to whom El’rash’lin was referring. He turned to Zeia. “Don’t go. If you want to die, die with us, not alone in the wilderness.”

Zeia and El’rash’lin exchanged knowing looks. El’rash’lin told her, “It’s time.” Facing Shade, he said, “Let us show you what Zeia has been practicing.”

Zeia stepped away from El’rash’lin. Slowly, she raised her arms. Her sleeves fell back, revealing the stumps of her wrists. Shade winced at the sight of them. Zeia closed her eyes.

Shade frowned. “What—”

Wytchfire unfurled from Zeia’s wrist-stumps.

Shade’s eyes widened. Before he could speak, the wytchfire underwent a stunning transformation. The flames took on a new shape—the shape of fingers. Zeia opened her eyes. She smiled at the look on Shade’s face. Slowly, she lowered her arms and held them out. She waved her new hands in front of Shade, flexing her fingers of fire. El’rash’lin stepped forward. Smiling at Shade, he offered Zeia his staff.

Zeia took it.

The staff smoldered a little where her fingers of fire wrapped around the wood, but it did not burst into flames. Zeia held the staff a moment then turned it slowly, passing it from one burning hand to the other. Her brow knit with concentration. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She turned the staff between her magical hands, faster and faster. Then she stopped, bowed, and returned it to El’rash’lin.

Zeia faced Shade again. The hands of fire disappeared. Her sleeves slid back down, concealing the puckered stumps of her wrists. She said, “You were saying?”