Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (30 page)

Shade stared, speechless.

El’rash’lin touched Zeia’s shoulder. “Goodbye, my child. Remember your lessons. Remember what you are. We will not meet again in this world.”

Zeia embraced him. When they parted, she bowed again. Then, without saying a word, she brushed past Shade and started south, alone, across the stark whiteness of the frozen sea.

Igrid ordered the Iron Sisters to scatter as soon as they descended into the sewers. Their feet splashed through the filth, the sound echoing off the walls. Rats scurried to keep ahead of them.

Originally, Igrid had intended to lead all the Iron Sisters up into the city and fight their way toward the gates or follow the sewers all the way out to the wilderness, but the Dhargots had followed them. She thought of how many more were quartered in the city above. If the Iron Sisters stayed together, they would only be easier to track.

“Make your own way,” she told them. She knew that some would choose to stay in the city and try to sow insurrection. Others would take their chances in the wilderness. All would probably be dead within a few days.

But at least they’ll die with swords in their hands.

Igrid longed to return to the palace, find Prince Karhaati, and avenge Ailynn’s death. But the splash of Dhargothi boots and the glare of torches filled the sewers. So she ran.

She did not see the clerics. She hoped they’d had the sense to get the orphans out of the sewers and hide them somewhere else, though she had no idea where that would be. She realized that the only relatively safe place for them had been the sewers, and she’d spoiled that.

“No choice,” she muttered. She hoped that was true. Crouching low, she ran headlong through the putrid darkness. Karhaati had sent crossbowmen down into the sewers. Steel-tipped bolts rebounded off the damp stone walls. Occasionally, Igrid heard screams and the clatter of steel.

She started up a stairwell. A few Iron Sisters followed her. Pressing her shoulder against the cistern lid, she shoved it out of the way and clambered up onto the street. It was night. They found themselves next to a tavern.

Igrid recognized the tavern where she and Jalist had stayed their first night in Hesod. It was the last place they should be. On both sides of the street, the windows of inns blazed with light. Dhargots milled nearby. Spotting the Iron Sisters, they drew swords. A few shouted.

The Iron Sisters stood shoulder to shoulder, defiant.

“Scatter,” Igrid told them. She turned and ran. The clash of steel told her that not everyone had listened. Igrid sprinted down an alley, stopped just in time to avoid being seen by a passing squad of soldiers, then ducked out and ran in the opposite direction.

A few Hesodi milled in the streets or stood in the doorways of their houses. Most looked away. An old man threw her his cloak, then shut his door. Igrid grabbed the cloak, pulled the hood over her face, and kept running. Her body ached, and she remembered that she’d been wounded in the dungeon, though she’d not had time to examine her injury.

At the end of the next street, despite her hood, she was spotted. A squad of Dhargots gave chase on horseback. Igrid weaved down one street and up another, then she sprinted through an alley. She emerged, thinking she’d lost the horsemen, and was promptly spotted by a different squad of footmen.

Alarm bells rang throughout the city, and steel clashed in the distance. Igrid howled, hacking so furiously at the Dhargothi footmen that they fell back. She feigned another charge then broke and ran again. She discarded her cloak in an alley. Her lungs burned. She needed to find a place to hide soon, before she collapsed from exhaustion.

Rounding a corner, she encountered a dozen Iron Sisters battling twice as many Dhargots. Igrid stabbed one Dhargot in the back of the neck, cut another at the knee, and snatched up a cloak from the corpse of a third. A crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear. Igrid snatched up a fallen spear and drove it into a Dhargot’s belly just as he turned to face her.

Letting go of the spear, Igrid donned the Dhargothi cloak and raced down another alley. Footsteps followed her. She glanced over her shoulder but saw, instead of Dhargots, two Iron Sisters. Both had dressed themselves in dead men’s cloaks and helmets, though one of the women winced with pain and pressed one hand to her stomach. A crossbow bolt extended between her fingers. The other was helping her along.

Igrid could tell at a glance that they weren’t going to make it. The prudent move would be to leave them behind. She took a step away from them, stopped herself, then caught the wounded woman’s other arm.

“I don’t recognize you. What are your names?”

Before the women could answer, a giant Dhargot in ornate armor emerged at the far end of the alley. Igrid could tell at once that he was an officer and an expert swordsman. Unfooled by their disguises, he blocked their path. He smirked, seemingly unperturbed by the thought of facing three opponents at once.

Igrid glanced over her shoulder. Four Dhargots blocked the other end of the alley. They approached slowly, knowing they had the Iron Sisters trapped. Igrid let go of the wounded woman. “See what you can do about those four,” she told the two women, then turned to meet the officer.

The Dhargot swung too fast for her to counter. He bashed one of her greaves, gouged her tassets, and cut a fresh tear in her brigandine. But then he got careless. He lunged for Igrid’s midriff, pulled back too slowly after Igrid parried, and lost an ear. Blood ran down his neck, but he hardly seemed to notice.

Igrid blinked back pain and exhaustion and threw herself at him. She feigned a stab at his face then changed direction and drove the tip of her sword into his scale armor. She could not pierce it, but the blow drove him backward. She followed, swinging hard. Their swords met. The Dhargot held her in swordlock then advanced with lightning speed. He grabbed her sword wrist.

Igrid kicked him in the groin. He winced but did not let go. She kicked him again, and he answered by kicking her knee. Then he spat in her face and shoved her against the wall. He swung. Igrid ducked. Sparks rained down on her. She dropped to the ground, rolled, and drove her sword into the Dhargot’s foot.

He howled. His blade cut her leg before she could roll away. Dizzy, she reached for one of her daggers, but they were all gone. She’d left her sword in the Dhargot officer’s foot. He wrenched it free and cast it over his shoulder. Then he started toward her, favoring one leg.

Igrid thought back to Rowen Locke’s battle against a Dhargot named Jaanti. The latter had obviously been the superior swordsman, toying with him, but Locke had won anyway. This Dhargot had been toying with her, too, but that was over. He hissed curses through bad teeth and swung.

Igrid raised her forearms. She caught his blade on her vambraces, winced when she felt bones break, and threw herself forward. Her thumbs found the Dhargot’s eyes. She dug in and pressed hard. The Dhargot howled again. He dropped his sword and lurched backward, grabbing her wrists. He lost his footing and fell onto his back. Igrid fell on top of him, still driving her thumbs into his skull.

When she was sure he was dead, she rolled off and tried to grab his sword. But her hands shook, her forearms drooped, and the sword fell out of her grasp. Igrid looked up.

Both Iron Sisters lay dead. Three Dhargots advanced on her. Igrid backed up. Before she could run, four more Dhargots fanned out across the other end of the alley. They locked shields, barring her escape. Igrid watched them advance.

I can’t let them take me alive…

She spotted a long, curved knife in the dead officer’s belt. She stooped and drew it, wincing when pain burned through her hands. The Dhargots stopped and braced themselves, thinking she meant to attack. Igrid looked up. The star-wash of Armahg’s Eye lay almost directly above her. She blinked at it. Fresh tears made the stars blur.

“Well, Locke, so much for your daring, timely rescue.” Igrid took a deep breath, held it, and raised the knife to her throat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Low Fire

K
arhaati stood on a terrace outside his new palace, grimacing as he listened to the chaos that had overtaken his city. Night had fallen, and snowflakes blew in the air, but the streets of Hesod still roiled with activity. Iron Sisters had poured out of the sewers like rats, killing every Dhargot they could. Though vastly outnumbered, they’d succeeded in catching many of his men off guard.

Worse, many citizens of Hesod had sheltered them. Some had even joined in what they perceived as a massive revolt against their Dhargothi oppressors. They had been beaten, of course, but the fighting was far from over. Iron Sisters remained. Now, hunting them down involved a slow, methodical process of sending armed men door to door to search every house and interrogate its occupants.

Meanwhile, at least a hundred armed women had escaped onto the Simurgh Plains. Many were still half naked, meaning they would freeze to death long before they found shelter, but Karhaati had still been obligated to send men after them.

And then, of course, there was the Isle Knight. By some stroke of bad luck, his appearance outside the city had almost perfectly coincided with the Iron Sisters’ jailbreak, sowing further fear and chaos among the ranks. Thanks to his burning sword—which Karhaati cursed himself for underestimating—the Knight had escaped. He had also terrified many of the men and given others the impression that Karhaati was weak and incompetent.

In the hours since those events, Karhaati had already survived two assassination attempts by ambitious Dhargots who wanted to replace him, including one of his own bodyguards. Karhaati had killed both men himself and had their corpses hung from the palace parapets. In the morning, he would have to choose a hundred men, somehow blame all that had happened on them, and have them impaled in front of the city.

But that would not solve his problems entirely. Thousands of men were combing the Simurgh Plains, hunting for the Isle Knight and the escaped Iron Sisters. That left fewer men to keep order in the city itself… and fewer men to protect him, should the Dragonkin learn of his failure and seek reprisal.

“Which he will,” Karhaati grumbled. He raised his goblet and took a small sip. He knew better than to get drunk on a night when so many wanted him dead, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d donned his armor and slipped on the heavy, ghastly necklace of dried ears to remind everyone who they were dealing with. But that had done nothing to dissuade his would-be assassins, and it would make even less difference if Chorlga came after him.

How can this be happening?

He shook his head at the injustice of it all. He’d conquered most of the Free Cities, absorbed the bulk of Ziraari’s army, and rid himself of countless adversaries. He’d been chosen as the right hand of the most dangerous man on the continent. And yet, he stood poised to die in disgrace.

He’d heard that in instances of great failure, Isle Knights often took their own lives as a form of self-inflicted punishment designed to restore one’s family honor. The Way of Ears preached something similar. Karhaati knew the tradition well, having seen it performed countless times over the years by generals who had displeased him, and wanted to avoid the greater shame and pain of impalement.

Unless he wanted all of Dhargoth to curse his name then act as though he had never existed, the course was clear. Karhaati knew he must gather his army at dawn, kneel naked before them, and cut off his own ears. Then he would drink poison—the ultimate disgrace for a warrior—and suffer the final indignity of having his body fed to the dogs. But that, at least, would keep him from being forgotten.

Karhaati shuddered. He did not want to die yet—unless it was in glorious battle, facing a worthy foe. He lowered his hand to his sword belt and touched the long, dark braid he’d cut from the head of the last Iron Sister he’d killed. He almost regretted doing it. She had been spectacular, easily the best fighter he’d ever faced. Yet she had been a woman!

Karhaati thought of the red-haired Iron Sister who had started it all. Hearing her fight had stirred his blood, as had the fierce look in her eyes when she finally stood before him. Karhaati wished he could have fought her, too. He would have liked to capture her. Instead of violating her, he would have kept her alive and well fed so that he could test his mettle against her whenever he wished.

Too bad she was probably dead by now.

Besides, sparing her might only get him into more trouble. His father had taught him that women were of little value. The Way of Ears prescribed the harshest punishments for women who took up arms against a man. Karhaati dared not defy such traditions, as Saanji and his followers did.

The thought of his youngest and last surviving brother made the bile rise in his throat. Karhaati spat over the terrace, resolving to think of him no more. He thought of the Iron Sisters again. He’d been given the bedchambers of Queen Sharra herself, though he’d found them surprisingly sparse and utilitarian. The presence of all her armor and weapons hanging on the walls served only to remind him that she, too, had escaped justice by killing herself.

Karhaati started to take another sip of wine then cursed and threw the goblet over the terrace. He felt almost as weak and ineffectual as Queen Sharra’s husband must have been. That had to change. Glancing out at the city, he listened to the distant chaos and made up his mind. He strode from the terrace, summoned his remaining bodyguards, and went to take personal command of the hunt.

Jalist sat before a low fire smoldering at the mouth of a cave. The fire, though warm enough to blunt the winter chill, could not drive it off completely. He still shivered. But they dared build it no higher with a thousand Dhargots out searching for them. Jalist had argued that if they were going to die anyway, they might as well die warm, but Rowen had refused.

Jalist looked across the fire at his friend.

Rowen sat, faintly rocking himself, sweating despite the cold. His eyes were glazed. He still hugged Knightswrath against his chest as though it were a child, though the drawn kingsteel gleamed almost cruelly in the firelight. Rowen had woken earlier, screaming, but would not speak of his nightmare. He would say nothing about whatever had happened to him outside the walls.

That damn sword’s doing something terrible to him…

Jalist touched the shaft of his long axe. Rowen had changed so much since the last time he’d seen him. He looked pale, older, and half mad. Surely, Knightswrath was to blame. Though Rowen had not spoken of it, Jalist had deduced that Silwren must have finally made her choice. She’d given her life to revive the sword’s full power.

Rowen was a good and brave man, but he simply hadn’t been born to wield magic—let alone magic of such tremendous power. Jalist shook his head, jabbing the fire with his long axe. And to make matters worse, they were going back to Hesod.

“Igrid’s probably already dead, you know.”

Rowen looked up. He blinked as though he’d forgotten Jalist was even there. “Maybe. But if not, we have to help her.”

“Helping her will get you killed.”

A wolf howled in the distance.

Jalist picked up his axe, looked around, then rested the axe on his lap. “Might get
me
killed, too.”

“You aren’t even supposed to be here,” Rowen said, smiling faintly.

Jalist tugged at his cloak when a fresh gust of wind chilled him to the bone. “Didn’t have anywhere nicer to be.”

“Do you think Leander survived?”

Jalist winced. He had not spoken to Rowen about what he’d seen at Stillhammer. He had not even supposed that Rowen knew about the Jolym, though the sympathy in his eyes indicated that he did. Jalist shrugged. “If he did, he took the survivors to Quesh.”

“Makes sense. They might be safe there.”

Jalist grunted and stabbed at the dying campfire. “These days, I don’t think anybody’s safe anywhere. But take a Queshi with a bow and a bloodmare and a Dwarr with armor and an axe, pair them up, and you’ve got a border guard even the Jolym might not want to mess with.”

“Maybe.” Rowen sheathed Knightswrath. The life returned to his eyes. “Well, my friend, Quesh is south. I’m going north. So I guess this is goodbye.”

Jalist scowled. “Are you as brain-rattled as a dragon cultist, or have you just not noticed yet that whenever I leave your side, bad things happen?”

Rowen smiled faintly. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. I’m not so good with questions anymore.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Jalist cleared his throat. “When I was in Hesod, I heard a rumor about Isle Knights in Atheion. I’m guessing they’re the ones hunting for you.”

Rowen nodded slowly. “I know. But Igrid comes first.”

“
If
Igrid’s still alive, she’s either leading the Iron Sisters across the plains, or she’s locked up in some Hesodi dungeon. If the former, we’ll run into her eventually. If the latter, the first thing we’ve got to do is get into the city without being seen.”

Rowen did not answer.

Jalist said, “We can steal uniforms and helmets, but the Dhargots know what you look like. So unless you can’t live without that rat’s nest you call hair, I’ll sharpen up my razor and make you bald. You’ll have to leave that shiny armor behind, too. I’m sure you’re partial to it, but there’s no choice. I’d say leave the sword, too, but we might need it.”

From far away, a wolf howled again.

“Another option is to see if we can find a company of sellswords and join up,” Jalist continued. He heard himself talking quickly but did not know why. “The Dhargots are always hiring, especially now. We can join a company that’s going to Hesod, lay low, and find out what we can. Or we could disguise ourselves as clerics. Might take some time, but—”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“All right, then how about this? We ride east like our asses are on fire. We get back to Lyos, thrash any Jolym that are clawing at the gates, then cash in your favor with King Typherius. Maybe we enlist some Knights, too. We come back here with an army and slap the Bloody Prince until he bleeds out his ears. You and Igrid can rule the city as king and queen. I’ll be the court jester and entertain your children by juggling axes. If that’s not good enough, I’ll set the axes on fire.”

Jalist realized he was on his feet, though he did not remember standing up.

“Well, Locke, which will it be… or would you like to suggest a brilliant plan of your own?”

Rowen stared at him a moment, then looked back into the fire. “I tried commanding men once. I didn’t do a very good job.”

“Me, neither.” Jalist sat back down. Neither spoke for a time, then Jalist said, “I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are.”

Jalist’s dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t use your ominous voice with me, Locke. Your brother did it better than you do. And truth be told, he wasn’t worth a damn at anything besides making men think he was mighty.” Jalist wondered why he’d mentioned Kayden, knowing how the mention of Rowen’s brother would affect him.

But Rowen did not flinch. “I’m not threatening you, my friend. I’m
asking
you to go. I’m asking because you’re right. This will get me killed. I know that. No sense in you dying, too. Go find this lover of yours. Kill each other’s enemies, bake bread, do whatever the hell you want. Just keep each other warm.”

Jalist felt his eyes sting. He said nothing.

“Chorlga spoke to me in my dream,” Rowen continued. His voice lowered, as though he were afraid to continue. “He told me to surrender. He told me to give him Knightswrath or he’d tear down the Dragonward and let all the Dragonkin back into Ruun. And I think he meant it. He frightened me… but not just because of how powerful he is. Because he’s desperate.”

The fire had burned low. Shadows covered half Rowen’s face. “I see now that I was wrong. We all were. I can’t beat Chorlga. Even if by some miracle, I kill him, I’ll just end up getting the rest of us killed in the process.”

Jalist found his voice. “So your solution is to die?”

Rowen shook his head. “I don’t have a solution. But I’m not dumb enough to think that Chorlga will leave us alone if I give him Jinn’s sword. So I’m forgetting about the war. I’m just going to help everyone I can for as long as I can.” He paused. “I’d help you find Leander, but I know you’ll do fine on your own. Better than I would.”

“Better than you will,” Jalist corrected. He looked away.

“Better than I will,” Rowen repeated. Slowly, he rose to his feet. His kingsteel armor looked dented and blackened, nothing like it had when he left Lyos. His brilliant blue tabard hung in tatters. The sigil of a balancing crane was unrecognizable. Rowen stepped around the dying fire, stumbling slightly.

Jalist rose, too.

Rowen squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

Jalist swallowed a lump in his throat. “The king sent me to bring you back,” he protested weakly. “They need you in Lyos. My men died to keep you alive…”

“What were their names?”

Jalist pulled away, wiping his eyes and cursing the smoke from the campfire. “Vardan and Braggo. But there’s plenty more like them in Lyos.”

“Plenty in Hesod, too, probably.”

“Sure, but those aren’t
your
people.”

“Not sure the Lyosi are my people, either. Or maybe they all are. Maybe that’s what El’rash’lin meant.” He shrugged. “Goodbye, my friend. If things make more sense in the next life, we’ll puzzle it out then.”

Rowen turned and walked away. Jalist sat back down. He stared into the embers, listened to Rowen ready one of the horses, and resolved not to turn around. But he did anyway, just in time to see a slash of azure vanishing into the winter darkness.