Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (41 page)

How long before it finds its way to Chorlga?

Rowen started to rise to his feet again. This time, when the Iron Sister tried to knock him back down, he kicked her legs out from under her. Iron Sisters swarmed around him, leveling swords. But none looked willing to get too close.

The dark-haired swordswoman stood, unperturbed, dusting the snow off her mismatched armor. Rowen noted with grudging admiration that she had kept hold of her longsword in the fall. “My name is Haesha,” she said. “I like people to know my name, just in case I have to kill them later.”

Rowen felt a chill run down his spine, remembering a time when a sellsword named Dagath had told him almost exactly the same thing. “Haesha… Igrid went by that name for a while.”

“She was your friend?”

Rowen blushed. “Close enough.”

Haesha smiled thinly. “Maybe you really did know her, then. I saw her a week ago, fought beside her for a while. I thought she’d lead us after Ailynn fell. She ran instead.”

“Igrid was no coward.”

“I didn’t say she was. Sometimes, it’s smarter to run. Igrid was smart more than once.” Haesha sheathed her sword. Taking that as a signal, the other Iron Sisters drew back a step. “You should know, she’s not dead. At least, not as far as I know.”

“I told you, I saw her—”

“Did you see her face?”

Rowen glanced at Thessa again, then back at Haesha. He recalled the Iron Sisters hung naked from the walls, their bodies covered in hungry crows. “There… wasn’t much left of her.”

Haesha caught his meaning. “Might have been her. Maybe not. Between us, I hope it was. Last we heard, the Bloody Prince had her trussed to his own bed like some kind of trophy.”

Rowen’s throat felt dry. “When was that?”

“Four days ago, at least. We caught a Dhargot who tried to trade some news for his life. You can imagine how we responded.”

“Give me a sword.” Rowen held out his hand.

Haesha blinked then laughed. “You forgot to say
please
.”

Rowen glanced past her at the dark mouth of the sewer entrance. “Take care of the girl. I’m going back in there to get Igrid… and something I left in the sewers. I’ll need a sword. You can either give me one, or I can pry yours out of your broken hand once you’re done threatening me with it. I’ll give you to the count of five to decide.”

Haesha raised one eyebrow. The other Iron Sisters bristled, advancing on him, but she waved them back. “Did you not hear the part where I said the sewers are full of Dhargots? They’ve blocked off that way into the city in case we tried to get back in. You’ll die before you get out of earshot.”

“I have two reasons that are well worth the risk.” Rowen paused. “I’m at three right now. What’s it going to be?”

Haesha smirked. “You have spirit. No wonder Igrid liked you.” She snapped her fingers and held out her hand. An Iron Sister armed with two maces reluctantly handed one to Haesha, who in turn presented it to Rowen. “This will have to do.”

Rowen gave the weapon a practice swing. Maces were better suited to Jalist, but the weapon felt sturdy. He nodded. Turning to Thessa, he said, “See? Told you I’d get you out.”

“
We
got
you
out,” Thessa said. “You cut the ceiling open then yelled and went to sleep. We had to carry you.” She came forward and grabbed his arm. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t.” Rowen gently pried her fingers free. “Stay with Haesha and the others. I’m going to get Igrid.”

Haesha took Thessa’s hand. “We’ll keep her safe. Good luck, Knight. Die well.”

Before Rowen could answer, a distant trumpet split the winter air. Another followed, then another. Haesha said, “Those aren’t Dhargothi trumpets. Might be friends… or at least enemies of our enemies. Sure you don’t want to wait?”

“Can’t. If I had time to explain, you’d understand.” Rowen switched the mace to his left hand, mussed Thessa’s hair, and started back toward the sewers. He considered his chances of accomplishing even one of his goals, let alone both. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t abandon Knightswrath.

And I can’t leave Igrid,
he admitted to himself. He stepped over a ribbon of frozen filth then paused to study the ground before him. He would have to climb a little to reach the opening to the sewer, and he did not relish the idea of slipping and falling. He chose his path and took a step.

Something crunched in the snow behind him. Thessa screamed a warning. Rowen turned, already swinging, but a sword blocked his mace. A second sword forced it down. A third Iron Sister swung her spear like a quarterstaff, knocking his legs out from under him. Two more stepped on his arm and wrenched the mace from his grasp.

He started to rise anyway. Haesha’s boot pressed him back down. She sighed. “Sorry, Knight. Consider this your thanks.”

“Wait, you don’t understand,” Rowen started to plead, a moment before the pommel of a sword drove him back into darkness.

Hráthbam stood on the deck of the
Winter Prayer
and watched as the two thin, cloaked figures climbed out of the little boat that had carried them to shore. As they started out across a seemingly endless field of ice, their dark cloaks shown against the stark, glaring white. Neither man looked back.

Hráthbam shook his head. Though El’rash’lin had refused to confirm his suspicion, Hráthbam knew the old man was going off to die. What puzzled him was why El’rash’lin had suddenly seemed to change his mind about the manner in which he met his end, choosing to walk into the Dragonward rather than remain on board the
Winter Prayer
and simply sail into it. The Soroccan merchant also did not understand why the sorcerer called Shade had decided to go with him. Still, there was something cold about Shade, and Hráthbam was glad to be rid of him—if only for a little while.

He replayed El’rash’lin’s final instructions in his mind. While Hráthbam carried the other Shel’ai and Sylvs north, following the coast of the frozen sea, El’rash’lin and Shade would make their way north on foot. Eventually, Shade would meet them at the northernmost edge of a tiny peninsula that, according to Hráthbam’s maps, overlooked an even smaller nearby island.

The thought of his remaining passengers living out the rest of their lives on that frozen, nameless island, with nothing but their wits and a few casks of darksoil, seemed nearly as absurd as El’rash’lin so calmly walking off to his own death. Hráthbam considered what he’d managed to piece together of El’rash’lin’s story: the Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin had been brought back to life, along with the Nightmare, and now both were immortal. But El’rash’lin hoped that throwing himself into the Dragonward would permanently end not only his own life but the Nightmare’s.

“Set sail, lads,” he called to his crew. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can lose our wits to enough hláshba to leave the gods stinking drunk.”

As his crew set to work, Hráthbam cast a final glance at the figures disappearing across the ice. He shook his head again. Not for the first time, he thought of his former bodyguard, a red-haired sellsword named Rowen Locke. He prayed that wherever he was, hopefully still in possession of the rusty adamune that Hráthbam had given him, his life made more sense than Hráthbam’s.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Wings of Bone, Eyes of Fire

S
hade caught El’rash’lin as he stumbled. The stark pallor of El’rash’lin’s face unnerved him. “Your color has changed, old man. Is that fear or the Dragonward?”

El’rash’lin’s twisted lips formed a brief smile. “Apologies… if my appearance… troubles you. You could have stayed… on the ship.”

Shade shook his head. “I’ll see this to the end. Besides,
you
could have stayed on the ship, too. Or did you just prefer to die on the ice?”

“Chorlga should have tried to stop us. He hasn’t. I wanted to be away from the others in case—” El’rash’lin choked, doubled over, and choked again. As Shade pulled him back up, he saw a bright splatter of blood on the ice.

El’rash’lin wiped his mouth, though a smear of blood remained. His smile was gone. He took several deep, wheezing breaths. “I thought… it would weaken me, getting close to the Dragonward, but not like this. Something’s wrong.”

“
Countless
things are wrong,” Shade said, though El’rash’lin’s worry filled him with panic. “How far are we from the Dragonward?”

“Not far. We’ll reach it… by nightfall. But something—” El’rash’lin choked again. His violet eyes watered. “Gods… I feel myself dying, Kith’el. That shouldn’t be happening. Not yet.”

“Is it the Nightmare?”

El’rash’lin blinked. He started to answer then choked again. He answered in mindspeak.
“It must be. I think Iventine is dying… really dying!”

Shade frowned despite his surge of hope. The sooner the Nightmare left the world, the better. “You said Chorlga wouldn’t absorb him, that he was afraid it would drive him mad—”

“Iventine is being drained, but not like how the Dragonkin used to drain dragons. This is different somehow—”
El’rash’lin winced, then his eyes widened. He sank onto the ice, suddenly too heavy for Shade to hold him up. Tendrils of wytchfire flashed randomly off his body. Shade considered backing away then knelt beside him.

More wytchfire appeared. Shade turned away as raw heat rolled over him. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to escape, but El’rash’lin grabbed him and pulled him closer.

“Godsbane…” El’rash’lin let go.

Shade fell onto the ice. He stared, speechless. Great wings of ash spread beneath El’rash’lin’s body, forming out of thin air. Terrified, Shade crawled backward. El’rash’lin’s gaze—wide and unblinking—followed him. Wytchfire flared from his hands, his feet, then his eyes.

Then the wytchfire dimmed and vanished. The ash wings blew away. Shade rose slowly to his feet. He approached slowly. “Old man…”

El’rash’lin did not move despite the tears glistening in his eyes. But his face began to change. The twisted lips straightened. The sores shrank then disappeared altogether. He appeared as he had looked years ago—just a white-haired Shel’ai with tapered ears and sad violet eyes.

“Old man,” Shade called again. His heart leapt into his throat.

El’rash’lin’s violet eyes turned dark. The white pupils became as black as oil. Shade knew he should close those eyes, gather up the body of his one-time friend, and find a patch of ground that was not frozen in which to bury him.

Instead, Shade retreated. He thought of El’rash’lin’s final word. “Godsbane,” he said to himself. For a moment, he faced south. Then he turned northeast, toward the peninsula where he was supposed to meet the
Winter Prayer
in two days.

He stood on the ice, alone, unsure what to do.

Chorlga stood with his back to the great, yawning chasm that was the dragon graveyard and watched his army assemble. Hundreds of Jolym massed before him, arrayed in neat, steely rows. He’d recalled all those from the Lotus Isles, from Stillhammer, and from both the Simurgh and the Ash’bana Plains.

He studied them, appreciating his creations. He’d not seen them together since before they’d launched their first attack on the Dwarrish kingdom. He thought of the countless hours he’d toiled, how each one represented an entire year’s labor. He thought of all he’d endured—gathering the metal, shaping it in secret, stealing into Cadavash to draw power from Namundvar’s Well when necessary. Slowly, century after century, he’d crafted a nearly unkillable army with which he would build an empire. Each Jol contained a scrap of his own soul, a wisp of his own private allotment of Light.

My creations, my immortal champions, my children….
In a moment, all of them would be dead.

He studied his dragon-worshippers next. Hundreds strong, they knelt in the snow amid the Jolym. Men, women, children, some of them were draped in extravagant robes, but most wore rags. All trembled. He sensed that some knew what was about to happen, while others could only guess. But none attempted to flee.

Some had already been in Cadavash, worshipping the bones and legacy of dragons, when he’d appeared. Others had flocked to him in the days and weeks since, lured by stories of his power or merely running from the cruelty and turmoil of the world beyond. Chorlga reminded himself that in a way, their deaths would be a kindness. Especially for those who had spent their lives madly worshipping the bones of dragons, their hearts’ deepest wish was about to be granted.

Chorlga issued a mental command to his Jolym. The great, steely host shifted. Each Jol seized the closest dragon-worshipper by the arms and held them immobile. A few scrabbled to freedom, but most were caught in the blink of an eye. Some wept or pleaded. Others protested that there was no need for force, reminding Chorlga that their loyalty to him was absolute, but it made no difference. Chorlga needed them restrained because he knew that once he began, instinct would take over. Some might still try to run, and he would need all that he could get.

He glanced at the Nightmare. The young man sat in the snow, half naked, his knees pressed against his chest. He was rocking himself, as always, seemingly oblivious to what was happening all around him. Chorlga braced himself then probed the Nightmare’s mind for any indication that the madman would attempt to fight or flee. He found none. He withdrew his mind at once, fearful that the Nightmare’s madness might contaminate him—then felt silly for doing so, given what he was about to attempt.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering as he had before resurrecting the Nightmare if the breath would be his last. He had already accomplished a feat that no other Dragonkin had ever managed. Now he would attempt another, still-greater feat. And he would have to do so without the aid of Namundvar’s Well, using nothing but his own body as a conduit.

He had not bothered to calculate the odds, knowing that his chance of success was abysmal. More than likely, he would burn himself to ashes from the inside out.
But if I succeed…

Chorlga opened his eyes and glanced at the kneeling Nightmare. “It’s time, my friend… time to make the world burn.”

He moved to the first dragon-worshipper: a middle-aged man who had lost his nose and several fingers to frostbite. The man wept. Snot froze to his face. He struggled feebly in the grasp of a hulking Jol who stood behind him, but he said nothing. That particular Jol wore a brass, laughing facemask.

“You were born a man,” Chorlga said to the dragon-worshipper. “Tonight, you will become a dragon.” He pressed his fingers to the noseless man’s face. The man jerked. Wytchfire flared from Chorlga’s fingers, flowing into the man’s eye sockets. It flowed back out a moment later—brighter, hotter—and was absorbed back into Chorlga’s body.

Chorlga stepped back. A faint rush of exhilaration made him smile. He signaled, and the Jol released the noseless man, letting his corpse fall onto the snow. Blackened eye sockets stared upward. Chorlga met their dark gaze.

“Thank you,” he said, and moved on to the next.

The process took hours. Slowly, Chorlga moved up and down the line, edging around the growing heap of corpses, pressing his hands to the face of each dragon-worshipper in turn. He drained them one after another, without pause, adding each Human’s tiny scrap of power to his own. Some screamed—most in panic, but some in rabid exaltation. Gradually, though, the screams died down. Most simply whimpered. Others threatened, attempted to bargain with him, or pleaded for the lives of their loved ones.

One old woman with drowning eyes shook her head piteously. “They told me you were a god…”

“I am,” Chorlga said and demonstrated his power.

When the last dragon-worshipper slumped dead onto the snow, her eye sockets black and blistered, Chorlga took a moment to steady himself. He had to move quickly. As intoxicating as this newly gained power was, he could not contain it for long. So he resumed the process.

This time, though, he drained the Jolym. Each one knelt at his approach. They made no sound and offered no protest. To his own surprise, Chorlga wept at the unmaking of his greatest creations.

Through the holes in each Jol’s bright facemask, he withdrew the scrap of his soul that he’d given to create it, drawing its power back into himself. Much was lost in the transfer, though far less than if he’d simply reabsorbed their power without touching them—as he had to heal the injuries he’d sustained at Saikaido Temple.

Chorlga felt his own power building and building, past anything he’d felt before. The Jolym remained kneeling after their deaths, now absolutely hollow, as though some madman had simply dragged hundreds of suits of armor out into the snow and posed them. Only the scorch marks on their elaborate facemasks told a different tale.

By the time he stepped away from the last Jol in his column, the sun had sunk beyond the snowy hills, withdrawing its bloody tendrils of light. No sound reached his ears save the winter wind blowing through the abandoned temples. Chorlga turned slowly, surrounded by lifelessness. He shivered.

Then, with renewed determination, he made his way to the Nightmare.

The world seemed to shimmer around him. Unbidden, wytchfire streamed from his fingertips and ran like tears from his eyes. Draining the Jolym and dragon-priests had more than doubled his power. It roiled like madness through his veins. But even that was not enough. He would need far more if we wanted to accomplish the impossible.

The Nightmare looked up. Their eyes met. The Nightmare said, “Stop.”

Chorlga paused. “You sound remarkably lucid for a madman.”

“Stop,” the Nightmare said again. He did not sound afraid. He remained where he was, seated in the snow. He no longer trembled.

Chorlga felt his heart jostle and wondered for a moment if he had absorbed more power than his body could sustain. He fought back a surge of pain. The world blurred, but he blinked until it came back into focus. “It’s too late, Brother. I cannot stop.”

He pressed his hands to the Nightmare’s face. The latter made no move to defend himself. Purple flames burrowed into the Nightmare’s eyes. Chorlga felt the man shudder, though he did not scream.

Then the wytchfire flowed back out.

Chorlga jerked, nearly losing his grip. It felt as though his blood had turned to ice, freezing in place. His vision darkened. Suddenly, he was drowning beneath the ice, lost in the darkness of a bottomless frozen sea.

No,
he thought.
I will not fail. Not here. Not now.

He struggled back to the surface. His hands found the ice. Wytchfire flared, blinding him. Frantic, furious, he melted the ice and clawed his way out.

And then, he was on the plains again, standing outside Cadavash. He stood alone. The Nightmare lay facedown on the snow, unmoving. Wings of ash had formed beneath his body; Chorlga barely had time to register the curious sight before the wind blew them away. A stabbing pain in his chest drew him back to his senses.

Not much time…

He would have to finish the task on his own. Though he had spared one single Jol—his oldest and strongest—he had already sent him away, lest Chorlga be tempted to command the Jol to carry him to his destination. With the addition of the Nightmare, Chorlga’s powers had become too volatile. Touching the Jol would either release that power too early or melt it completely.

“I have commanded armies, slain kings, defied gods. I can walk a hundred feet on my own.”

Still, he stooped to retrieve the staff he’d placed there earlier, suspecting he would need it. He took a deep breath and started out. Step by agonizing step, he hobbled away from the dead dragon-worshippers and the rows of silent, kneeling Jolym. Rather than return to Cadavash, he made his way south across the snowy plains.