Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (37 page)

“Gladly, Knight-Lieutenant.” Aeko glanced past him. “I wonder if Sir Crovis has even stopped to realize something peculiar about our enemies.” She paused. “The Nightmare and the Jolym both serve the Dragonkin. They’re on the same side, along with the Lochurites. Yet when the Nightmare appeared, it lashed out blindly, burned up half the Lochurites and killed some of the Jolym… if
kill
is the right word.”

“Do you think our enemies are fighting each other?”

“Maybe the Nightmare just can’t be controlled. I recall hearing that Fadarah and the sorcerers had plenty of trouble with that.” She added, “Strange that the Jolym take their dead with them.”

Sang Wei snickered. “Do you think they bury them?”

“Maybe they just don’t want us to be reminded that they’re mortal.” She sighed. “Speaking of the dead, we need to form a detachment and gather our own. But first, let’s go congratulate our new leader before the words rot in my stomach.”

Chorlga stared into the unresponsive darkness of Namundvar’s Well. Finally, he spat in it. Then he straightened and closed his eyes. At his command, the sights experienced by all of his Jolym, all over the continent, poured into his mind in a dizzying fury. He reeled then sifted through it all with practiced determination.

First, he saw through the eyes of the Jolym massed around Cadavash, amid the cries and madness of the dragon-worshippers around them. Pushing these aside, he lingered on the token force he’d left on the Lotus Isles, still methodically hunting Knights in the shadows of their ruined temples. Dismissing these, he moved on to the hundreds of Jolym scouring the rest of Ruun.

Through their eyes, he saw the endless snowy hills in which they walked, searching for Rowen Locke and, more importantly, for El’rash’lin. His Jolym had already probed the remains of Brahasti’s compound then broadened their search from the Ash’bana Plains to the Wintersea. On the latter, they’d found what looked to be the remnants of a settlement. That must have been where all the Shel’ai had been hiding. El’rash’lin was probably with them.
But where are they now?

Chorlga had sent some Jolym back into the ravaged kingdom of Stillhammer, others north toward Ivairia and Sorocco, and still more as far west as Syros. He checked on their progress. As he had anticipated, the Jolym stalked mercilessly through city streets, tore apart villages, and moved like battering rams through forests roiling with thieves, beggars, and wolves.

Through the eyes of his Jolym, Chorlga saw the screaming faces of people who ran, pleaded for mercy, or foolishly tried to fight. He paid them no mind. He was running out of places to search. He’d been reluctant to send his Jolym into Lyos, since the people there had demonstrated some ability to defend themselves. He saw little point in searching Quesh, Dhargoth, or what remained of the kingdom of Nosh, but that left only the Wytchforest. Given the Sylvs’ history with Shel’ai, Chorlga doubted that El’rash’lin would have sought sanctuary there, but it was always a possibility.

Chorlga opened his eyes, staring down into the unyielding darkness of Namundvar’s Well. “Why doesn’t he just come out and fight?”

But Chorlga already knew the answer. The strain of being made a Dragonkin had followed El’rash’lin back from the dead. He was not much more stable than the Nightmare. If he pushed himself too far, trying to protect all the kingdoms of Ruun from the Jolym, he might lose himself completely. Chorlga might be able to control him. Then he would have not just one Nightmare at his disposal but two.

“But why isn’t he guarding the Isle Knight, at least?” Chorlga shook his head. He’d expected to find them together. He’d thought El’rash’lin would stay with the Knight to help train him so that he might finally begin to control Knightswrath’s power. But something told him that the Knight was still somewhere near Hesod—alone.

The Isle Knight did not greatly concern him, but El’rash’lin did. The old man was clever. Since he was not strong enough to destroy Chorlga, he might be searching for a way to eliminate his champion. Chorlga turned, scowling at the ragged madman rocking himself on the cold stone floor a short distance away. “Some champion…”

Chorlga considered the city of Atheion, the remnants of which were even now struggling through the icy waters of Zet’s Blood, toward the open sea. The Nightmare’s destruction of much of the Scrollhouse was a terrible blow—millennia of knowledge lost—but Chorlga had already spent countless hours poring over those ancient tomes. They said nothing of consequence.

Maybe El’rash’lin is only hiding, forcing me to spread my Jolym all over the continent to search for him. After all, he cannot leave. The Dragonward—

Chorlga froze. The power of the Dragonward, which increased in proportion to the being attempting to pass through it, would not permit El’rash’lin to leave Ruun. If he tried, it would kill him. Chorlga had not thought of it past that, but he did now.

He turned. His eyes narrowed on the rocking figure. The Nightmare began to whimper. “He’s going to throw himself in,” Chorlga said finally. “He thinks that will kill him for good… and you with him. And he may be right.”

Chorlga’s pulse quickened. Though the Dragonward surrounded all of Ruun, El’rash’lin would surely make for the closest part. Chorlga thought it over for a long time. Finally, he realized he had four choices.

He could reroute his Jolym back to the Wintersea, trusting that their sheer strength and numbers would be enough to “kill” El’rash’lin, causing him to reappear elsewhere on Ruun. At least that would give Chorlga time. But it would cost him many Jolym, and besides, he doubted they could intercept El’rash’lin in time.

He could go there himself, to the very edge of the fearsome Dragonward, but a teleportation spell would leave him weakened. Being near the Dragonward would slow his recovery, as well. El’rash’lin might actually be able to kill him then.

Chorlga considered his third option: sending the Nightmare. But he and El’rash’lin were almost evenly matched. If El’rash’lin had any additional Shel’ai helping him, he could prevail—or, without Chorlga there to keep the Nightmare in line, El’rash’lin might convince him to jump into the Dragonward himself!

That left only one option: Chorlga
and
the Nightmare would have to teleport to the Dragonward together. Chorlga could drain power off his servant, use him to absorb the brunt of El’rash’lin’s attack, then finish him off himself. When El’rash’lin came back to life, he might even be mindless enough for Chorlga to control.

But all that will take time. I’ll have to trust Ruun to the Dhargothi princeling.

The Nightmare whimpered again, interrupting his thoughts. Chorlga felt an unexpected stir of pity for the man, tinged with irritation. Then he realized there was a fifth option—riskier than the others but one that El’rash’lin could not possibly have anticipated. It would grant him such terrifying power, all the kingdoms would simply surrender to his will.

One I’ve considered before…

Chorlga made his decision. He turned and stroked the Nightmare’s hair as though he were a cowering pet. “Have no fear, young one. You’ll be dead soon.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Shortswords

K
arhaati listened to the sweet music of catapults. Not far from where he sat astride his bloodmare, surrounded by bodyguards, the catapults’ great oak arms hurled wave after wave of rocks and fireballs at the gigantic temple. The marble walls had already been cracked, and the wooden roof had burned away. Still, he ordered his exhausted engineers to load and fire the siege weapons. He had half a mind to work them to death.

Of all the temples in Hesod, he had hoped to save this one, even going so far as to station guards outside to keep it from being looted and spoiled. An architectural marvel, as big as a palace and supposedly more than a thousand years old, it honored not just one but all the gods—including Zet and Fohl, whose statues had once adorned the others on the temple steps. Zet’s winged statue stood thrice the height of a man, bigger than all the others, and armored. Fohl’s had been much smaller, ominously cloaked, its back turned. All had been exquisitely carved by master stonemasons, right down to the slightest details: Zet’s scales, the ripples in Fohl’s cloak, and the taut skin of Tier’Gothma’s milk-filled breasts. They were unlike anything Karhaati had seen in his own kingdom.

Nevertheless, at his command, his catapults destroyed them. He’d had no choice. By sealing themselves in the temple, the Iron Sisters had forced his hand. He had hoped that burning down the temple roof would smoke out the Iron Sisters, but even when smoke poured out the temple windows, they would not come out. He glanced around, appreciating how the remaining Hesodi citizens stood in the streets and gawked, aghast. Some looked as though they wanted to intervene. But given how poorly the last revolt had gone, Karhaati doubted they were foolish enough to try again.

He had always loved the sound of catapults. But they had been firing almost nonstop for two days, and still the temple stood. Cracked, blackened, and no longer recognizable as a place of worship, still it remained, as though taunting him. Even the poetic justice of attacking the temple with Hesodi catapults, appropriated when he took command of the city, could not stave off the discontent building within him. But he dared not suspend the attack after so clearly stating his intentions in front of the men.

Then he thought of his guest. He thought of her lying in his bed, drugged and asleep, naked except for the stained bandages wrapped around her ribs, thighs, shoulder, and of course, her throat. He thought of her red hair against the white silk of his pillow. His blood quickened. He imagined riding back to the palace like the conqueror he was and having his way with her. Then he shook his head.

No, not this one.

He turned to his newest bodyguard, a one-eyed sellsword who had just recently arrived in Hesod after abandoning Brahasti. Karhaati had been tempted to kill the man for that alone, but he appreciated the sellsword’s gall. “You, go back and check on the woman. Make sure nobody’s touched her. And don’t
you
touch her, either, if you value your remaining eye.”

The sellsword nodded gruffly. “Yes, Prince.”

Karhaati decided to stay and oversee the temple siege a while longer, but now that he’d thought of her, he could not erase the woman from his mind. The men had given her to him as a gift, and he could scarcely fail to appreciate its value. She was perhaps the only bit of good fortune he’d had. For that reason, he’d left his most trusted men to see that she was not harmed or even touched by anyone, save his best physicians—all of whom had been told that their survival depended on keeping
her
alive.

Still, she had been sorely wounded. A soldier had managed to tackle her before she could open her own throat, but the knife had still cut deep. It was doubtful that she would survive, let alone recover enough for him to use her as an adequate test of his sword arm. But he prayed that she would. He had even sacrificed a bloodmare and three young slaves in the hopes that the gods would respond to his plea.

Perhaps one day, if she lives, she’ll even give herself to me willingly. Women of action love men of the same, do they not?

He cursed himself, trying to shake off the thought. The woman was beautiful, sure, but he could always find another beautiful woman. It was her fierceness he valued most. He did not even want revenge on her for all the harm she’d caused. She was a true warrior—more of a warrior than any man he’d ever fought—and how could such a warrior do anything other than what she’d done?

Stones cracked against the temple walls. Smoke stung his eyes. Soldiers laughed while Hesodi looked on and wept. But Karhaati could think of nothing but the woman. He did not even know her name. He smiled, imagining what it might be.

Saanji was grateful that Arnil Royce had a new sparring companion, though he felt a pang of jealousy as he watched the Lancer dueling the wytch. Saanji had purchased the false affections of more prostitutes than he could recall, especially exotic women—dark-skinned Soroccans, olive-skinned Queshi, or any woman who showed signs of having Dwarrish blood in her ancestry—but Zeia had enchanted him right away. He’d been unable to wrest his eyes off her during council meetings, though she’d hardly said a word to him. In fact, he found it more than a little amusing that he would feel such attraction toward a woman with no hands.

Despite her lack of anything past the wrist, Zeia seemed to be fairing quite well against Royce. Hands of violet fire blossomed from her sleeves, each one somehow gripping the hilt of a shortsword. The pommels smoked. Flames spread from her “hands” down the blades, engulfing them, causing the air around them to shimmer.

Though it was a stunning sight, Royce appeared to have gotten used to it. He circled Zeia with increasing speed, his kingsteel bastard sword flashing in the afternoon light. Then he charged. Steel rang. Sparks rained down onto the snowy ground. Royce’s sword blurred one direction, then another. Zeia backpedaled, both swords in motion, but Royce was faster. His sword tapped Zeia’s greaves, then her spaulders. Zeia cursed.

He’s not going easy on her,
Saanji realized.

Despite her frustration, Zeia seemed glad for the practice. Sweat glistened on her forehead. The ghost of a smirk played on her lips whenever Royce was forced to retreat from her burning shortswords. Though she looked uncomfortable in armor and still refused to wear a helmet, she had already adapted faster than Saanji had. And despite probably spending most of her life relying on wytchfire, with no need to develop melee skills, she’d learned quickly.

Faster than me,
Saanji thought ruefully.
Then again, she’s learning from the best.
He grimaced.
Then again, so was I.

Zeia’s daily sparring with Royce had drawn a great deal of attention, too. Lancers and Earless crowded the practice yards, as did the people of Cassica. Though the city’s populace had initially greeted Zeia with hostility, that had changed after Saanji suggested she use her magic to heal some of Cassica’s wounded. Karhaati had left plenty in his wake, and the Bloody Prince had killed nearly all the clerics who might have otherwise treated them.

Zeia had refused at first, but after Royce voiced his support of Saanji’s plan, she consented. For days, she’d helped any Human willing to share her company, somehow able to dispense healing energies through her hands of fire. Zeia’s face had remained stern, her demeanor far from cordial, but she’d successfully healed young and old alike, saving scores of Cassicans from infected wounds. That, plus her unique appearance, had made her a curiosity throughout the city. Everyone came to see the stoic Shel’ai who could summon working hands of wytchfire to replace the ones that had been cut from her body.

Saanji thought of the stories he’d heard coming from Lyos about an incredibly powerful sorceress named Silwren who had healed their wounded despite earlier encounters with Lyosi mobs bent on killing her. Supposedly, the Lyosi thought of Silwren as a hero now. Saanji would not have thought it possible, especially after the destruction of Fadarah’s infamous Throng, but he foresaw a day when Zeia might be equally beloved in Cassica.

Well, maybe not by everyone.
He noted a group of scowling Cassicans in the distance, giving Zeia murderous looks. All had knives in their belts. Saanji gestured to get the attention of one of his officers then nodded toward the group. His officer got the message. He gathered a squad of Earless and stood at the perimeter of the practice yard, watching the group carefully in case they tried to cause trouble.

Saanji turned back to watch Royce and Zeia. Royce had knocked one of the shortswords out of Zeia’s hands and was steadily driving her backward. Zeia’s expression looked even more taut than usual. Then Saanji saw something curious: her left hand, which no longer held a sword, flickered and disappeared, then reformed. Moments later, Zeia’s right hand vanished. Her shortsword landed in the snow.

Meanwhile, Royce’s kingsteel bastard sword was already angling for Zeia’s throat, which was suddenly defenseless. Saanji opened his mouth to scream a warning, but Royce already saw the danger. With a grunt, the First Lancer wrenched the sword higher, changing the angle. Zeia managed to duck. The blade sailed just over her head. The swing threw Royce off balance.

Zeia shouldered into him, tripped him, and knocked the Lancer onto the snow. Her flaming hands reappeared. She gestured, and an invisible force plucked the kingsteel sword out of Royce’s hand, floating it into her own. The Shel’ai smirked. “Fine blade.” She stepped back, flipped the sword high in the air, caught it by the blade—which steamed in her grasp—and returned it to Royce, hilt first. Royce took the sword and rose to his feet without comment. Onlookers exchanged glances, unsure whether to applaud.

Saanji went from breathing a sigh of relief when Royce didn’t accidentally behead their newest ally to chuckling softly. “Well, that’s
one
way to win.” He approached, laughing more loudly than he needed to, hoping to dispel tension. A few onlookers joined in.

Royce gave Zeia a terse smile. “I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” Zeia’s hands disappeared, the violet flames seeming to retreat back up her sleeves like bullwhips uncurling in reverse. “If you like, we can call it a draw.”

Royce blinked. “No need. Well fought, m’lady.” He bowed. Zeia returned the gesture. Royce looked from her to Saanji. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I should check on the preparations.”

That defeat stung his pride—or was it his sense of honor, given how she’d won?
Saanji wondered if he should try to soften the mood with another joke, but Zeia spoke first.

“How much longer will your men need to prepare?”

Royce was already turning away, but he glanced back to answer. “Not long. The horses and supplies are ready. It’s just a logistical matter at this point.” He indicated Saanji with a nod. “We’ve decided that the prince’s men—”

“Earless,” Saanji corrected. “Don’t worry, we’ve adopted the insult, made it our own.” He glanced at Zeia, hoping to see her smile. She did not.

Royce continued. “We’ve decided that the Earless will be integrated with my Lancers, so the men can get used to each other before the siege. It takes time to choose commanders and assign them into squads, but it’s almost done.”

Zeia used her wrist-stump to wipe the sweat from her brow. “The sooner we can march, the better.”

“Or worse,” Saanji muttered. He stooped to gather a handful of snow. “I don’t relish the thought of marching an army through this stuff. I relish the idea of sleeping on it even less.”

Zeia looked about to offer a biting reply, but Royce said, “Relieving the Noshans will be difficult. None of our men are used to fighting Jolym. But a winter siege of Hesod will be even harder.”

“Neither can he helped,” Zeia snapped. “El’rash’lin says that Rowen was bound for the Free Cities. The closest are Hesod and Atheion, both of which are under siege. Wherever he is, he will need our help.”

“So will the cities,” Saanji muttered. He wondered if Zeia cared about that. He reminded himself that less than a year ago, she’d been fighting beside Fadarah
against
the Free Cities.
Why is she so bent on helping Rowen Locke now?
Her answer made Saanji wonder if she’d read his mind—a thought that frightened him.

“I swore to El’rash’lin that I’d help the Isle Knight defeat Chorlga. That means defeating your brother and his army, too.” She gave Saanji a cold look. “I did not expect any of this to be easy. If you did, perhaps we were hasty in forming this alliance.”

Before either man could answer, she walked away.

Saanji whistled. “Ice and fire, that one.”