Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

Jalist continued to watch the smaller force of Jolym as they marched north, until they were out of sight. He had a good idea where they were going. He imagined what the Jolym would do once they reached Lyos.

That’s Rowen’s city. He just risked his hide saving them from the Throng. Now, the Jolym will tear it to pieces.

He’d been able to count the Jolym as they passed. Of the eighteen, most appeared to have been wrought entirely of iron, though three were blinding bronze. All the Jolym had blades in place of hands. Their dark eye sockets reminded him of cold charcoal.

Jalist swore. Under other circumstances, he might have laughed at the thought of eighteen warriors doing much damage to a well-fortified city, but he’d already seen what the Jolym could do. Besides, he doubted anyone in Lyos knew the Jolym’s weakness, which he’d discovered by accident.

I don’t have time for this. I have to find Rowen. And Leander.

He rubbed his eyes. “And I’d appreciate a gods-damned nap and some breakfast!” But he realized he would get neither. Turning north, he set out at as fast a pace as he could manage.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ripples

C
horlga slumped against the weathered stone of Namundvar’s Well. He shook from exhaustion, his eyes clenched tight. Still, he grinned. It had taken hours, but it was over. Even though he had not yet beheld the fruits of his victory, he’d done it. Even the mighty Nekiel had never dared to attempt such a feat.

Of course, I had help.

He almost laughed. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up and looked around. For a moment, he wished he were somewhere else—outside under the open sky or, better yet, under the cooling shade of wytchwood trees—rather than deep in the dank vaults of Cadavash, surrounded by dead dragonpriests. By the flickering glow of a hundred candelabra, he saw them littering the cold chamber floor all around him.

Young and old, male and female alike, all the dragonpriests lay on their backs, eyes wide and mouths agape in expressions of ghastly euphoria. Though damp with sweat, their green robes showed no sign of injury. But Chorlga could sense the lingering psychic shadow of their last moments, their final screams of pain and triumph.

He returned his attention to the task at hand: determining the whereabouts of the Dragonkin he’d just resurrected. Chorlga had hoped the dead man would simply materialize in Cadavash, right next to him. On more than one occasion, Chorlga had seen the freshly dead brought back to life by Dragonkin magic as a reward for valorous service.

But this was different. There had been no body. The Nightmare had been dead for months. In order to keep his mind malleable, it had been necessary to resurrect him as he had been—powerful but mad. That added an element of unpredictability to his resurrection. He might very well emerge anywhere, belched out by the Light. Chorlga had always been warned against resurrecting anyone who had been dead for too long, lest they leave too much of themselves behind. The Nightmare might be even more unpredictable than before.

Chorlga hoped he would not have to search the length and breadth of Ruun to find the Nightmare. Then again, the search would give him time to regain his strength and prepare himself for what was to come.

Chorlga swept his gaze over the chamber again. Though it appeared that all the dead were dragonpriests, he had to be sure. He had no idea what the Dragonkin looked like now. He hoped he would be able to sense him, but if the man were unconscious, that could be difficult. Slowly, carefully, Chorlga checked every one of the more than two hundred corpses in the chamber. But all were green cloaked, wide eyed, and lifeless.

Chorlga smiled. He’d absorbed many of these bone-worshippers when he reached Cadavash, building his strength, just as his kind had once drained the life force of dragons. Once he’d shown those who remained what he intended to do, they had sacrificed themselves without hesitation. Their willingness lent extra potency to their sacrifice, granting him even more power than he could have seized otherwise.

Still, their fanaticism unnerved him. Even at the height of the Dragonkin Empire, the Dragonkins’ subjects had never worshipped them with even half as much fervor as these priests showed for dead dragons. Their madness had nearly overwhelmed him. Also, there had been the visions.

What happened to drive them to that kind of madness?

Chorlga rubbed his eyes. The visions still swirled through his mind: sensory fragments, brief images, and raw jolts of sound. He did not know if they were the result of his briefly augmented powers or just some kind of prophetic warning sent to him by the Light. Of course, he would have to sort through them, but that could wait until he’d recuperated.

Leaving the chamber that contained Namundvar’s Well, Chorlga made his way to a set of stairs that led directly up to the surface. The stairs had been concealed behind a false wall, and the only footprints in the thick dust were his own.

Last night, he’d descended into Cadavash in the traditional manner, with a legion of sacrificial dragonpriests behind him. But he had no desire to traverse those same reeking, subterranean streets lined by self-mutilating worshippers and countless shrines devoted to dragonbone. He reckoned at least a thousand people were waiting up there, anxious for his return. With his heightened senses, Chorlga could feel their roiling need to serve him. They would kill or die for him. He was their emissary of dragons. They would wait hours, days, even weeks for his return. As far as Chorlga was concerned, they could wait forever—or until he needed another sacrifice.

For now, I have to find my Nightmare.

Chorlga started up the stairs then stopped and glanced back at Namundvar’s Well. He felt something stir: a faint tingling in his senses that filled him with dread and guilt. He shook himself free of it. Gathering his strength, he ascended the long dark staircase as quickly as he could.

Long before he had a body, he felt the thick silence hanging over the corpse-filled chamber. It seemed to him that he existed everywhere in the chamber at once, that he had no flesh and thus no senses, yet he sensed everything. The fingers of light topping the candelabra flickered and gradually died, one by one, returning the room to darkness. The only sound was the occasional, especially loud lamentation from the dragon-worshippers filtering through the stone floors of the chambers above. The darkness thickened until it became like stone.

Then, something sparked to life.

Faint at first, a pale glow drifted up from the stone mouth of what appeared to be just an ancient, ordinary well. The glow intensified. Gradually, the chamber gave itself back to the light. Then he felt his body take shape.

Just a shadow at first, slowly the shadow took on substance, shaping him into a small man crumpled facedown next to the stone well. He stirred then lifted his head. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees. The hood of his cloak fell. White light streaming from the well illuminated a face of twisted features, as though the small man’s body were busy suffering every malady at once. Violet eyes blinked. And with the opening of his eyes, he collapsed entirely into his own body.

The pain was too great for him to scream. Slowly, mercifully, it subsided. With great effort, he pushed himself onto his feet.

“Chorlga—” He choked on his own speech, as though using it for the first time. “All these years we fought the Sylvs, the Humans, each other. Turns out we should have been fighting
you.
Only we didn’t even know you existed.” He shook his head. “Clever. So bloody clever, aren’t you? But you didn’t know, when you brought
him
back, that you’d bring
me
back, too.”

As the small man smiled, he felt his face tense and strain like a cracking sunburn. “But you should have. I died with Iventine. We melted into the Light together, like two ripples of water.”

The small man winced abruptly and fell against the mouth of the well. He clutched his chest as though his heart had burst. His breath came and went in wet, ragged gasps as though he were rediscovering how to breathe. “Gods, it hurts to live this long. I can’t even imagine how it must be for
you.
”

Eventually, the small man straightened, even as the glow streaming from the mouth of the well began to dim. His gaze passed over the corpses of the dragonpriests. He shook his head.

“So much life wasted on madness. So much time. Now, I’m here. And I can feel the Light slipping away from me the longer I stay. I can feel myself forgetting.” He paused. “Silwren is gone. Fadarah will be dead, too, before long. I can feel them all slipping away.” He eyed the dark stairwell in the distance. “And I’m still talking to myself. I guess some things don’t change.”

He turned and peered into the well. He stared for a long time. Finally, nodding to himself, he took a step. He almost fell but caught himself and took another, then another. Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of corpses toward the stairs he knew Chorlga had taken.

The light streaming from Namundvar’s Well continued to dim with every step he took. By the time El’rash’lin reached the stairs, the chamber had been plunged back into cold, blinding darkness. Even so, pressing his hands to the rough stone walls on either side of him, El’rash’lin climbed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Columns

O
ne hundred Knights rode across the Simurgh Plains, silent save for the jingle of armor and harnesses and the occasional rustle as the wind ruffled their cloaks and azure-blue tabards. Though the thin crust of snow slowed their pace, the Knights maintained their neat formation and steely composure.

Nevertheless, Aeko Shingawa could see their frustration in their terse scowls and the way they held their reins a bit more taut than necessary. She could hardly blame them. They should be back at Saikaido Temple, sipping tea or lotus wine in front of a fire, not slogging through cold, war-torn lands on what most of them regarded as a fool’s errand.

But it isn’t. Rowen needs our help… if he’s still alive.

From her position at the head of the column, she looked over her shoulder again, wondering how many of the Knights would betray her before their mission was done. Any other time, that would have been unthinkable. Isle Knights were known for nothing if not their dutiful sense of honor. But times had changed. Aeko had done what she could to select trustworthy Knights, but for every Knight who genuinely respected her or Grand Marshal Bokuden, two favored Crovis Ammerhel. And Crovis wanted what Rowen had—Knightswrath.

But by the Light, he’s not going to get it.

Aeko scrutinized her Knights. At least a fourth were women. Some carried long-bladed spears, but most only carried curved, long-handled swords and knives. None carried a shield, since the kingsteel glint of their armor made it clear that they had little to fear even from crossbow bolts.

All the Knights wore tabards bearing the sigil of a snow-white crane balancing on one leg. A handful wore the additional sigil of a white golden-horned stag. Those men rode ahead of the others, a bit haughty in the saddle. Like the lesser Knights behind them, the Knights of the Crane, nearly all of the Knights of the Stag had the dark eyes, olive skin, and braided, uncut hair common to natives of the Lotus Isles.

A few had the paler skin of mainlanders, but most of these had been admitted into the Order by virtue of their pedigree—their lineage could be traced all the way back to Fâyu Jinn’s first roster of Isle Knights who had served during the Shattering War. Though thousands of mainlanders sought to enter the Knighthood and paid a large sum to be trained in the Knights’ lore and the ancient Shao fighting styles, fewer than one percent of these ever actually became Knights.

We have to safeguard our precious ethnic purity, don’t we?

Aeko shook her head, fighting back a derisive smile. She wished she had the ability to glean their thoughts at a glance, the way Shel’ai did. But she could only see what was obvious. With her, at the head of the host, rode just a half dozen Knights with a third symbol on their tabards: a white nine-petaled blossom with a golden center. She was the first female Knight of the Lotus in the history of the Order.

As far as the histories have been chronicled, that is.

In the past, the Order had not hesitated to amend—or outright burn—certain texts they deemed too controversial or dangerous. They had all but eradicated written traces of Fel-Nâya, Knightswrath, the tragically obtained sword that Fâyu Jinn had used to win the Shattering War.

Few Knights below the rank of Stag even knew about it beyond fairytales and rumor. The Council’s official excuse for the secrecy was concern that a thousand starry-eyed Knights of the Crane might tear across the countryside, looking for a fabled sword that probably did not even exist. Aeko saw their point. Still, if anyone could remake the Order into what it was supposed to be, the way Fâyu Jinn had intended it to be, that was Rowen Locke. She glanced at the man riding next to her.

If I can keep Crovis from killing him.

Sir Crovis Ammerhel had done an admirable job of concealing his disdain. Grand Marshal Bokuden had promoted Aeko and given her formal command of the expedition—an unmistakable slight directed at Crovis—but Crovis knew better than to be too obvious with his scorn. Instead, he asserted himself in small ways. He rode just a little too closely and spoke just a little too cordially to be believable.

And, of course, he insisted on leaving the squires behind.

Aeko was more popular with the idealistic squires and younger Knights of the Crane. Normally, the Knights were accompanied by at least as many squires, giving Aeko an additional advantage. But Crovis had uncovered an obscure passage in the ponderous annals of the Codex Viticus that said an offending Knight could
be arrested
only
by fellow Knights. He’d interpreted it to mean that Knights alone could go in search of Rowen. To her disappointment, her fellow Knights had agreed with him. The law was the law.

It won’t matter, though
.
Once the Knights see Rowen Locke wearing the Sword of Fâyu Jinn, maybe marching at the head of a Sylvan legion of reinforcements, they’ll fall all over themselves swearing allegiance.

She shifted uncomfortably in her armor.
At least, I hope so.

The Knight of the Lotus took a deep breath to clear her mind and returned her attention to the task at hand. The column was making good time, already well away from the city of Lyos and halfway to Nosh. But the way was not nearly as safe as it had once been.

She spied a curl of smoke on the northern horizon. “The Bloody Prince must be preparing to winter at Cassica. Let’s hope the bastard stays there.”

Crovis’s reply said he’d missed her meaning. “Have no fear, Lady Shingawa. The painted men wouldn’t dare attack us.”

Aeko answered with a smile. “Dhargots aren’t known for being timid. You remember what Sir Royce said.”

Crovis frowned at the mention of the Lancer captain they’d encountered at Lyos. “I wouldn’t put much stock in the military prowess of an Ivairian.”

Still, the Lancers had shed and spilled more blood fighting the Dhargots than the Knights had.
“Either way, according to the last report, the Dhargots outnumber us by hundreds to one.”

Crovis shrugged. “Skill counts more than numbers. Besides, even the Dhargots would never be so daft as to incur the wrath of the Lotus Isles when they’re already in the middle of a war.”

Aeko shivered as a sudden gust of wind blew a smattering of snowflakes between them. Crovis had said the same about Fadarah’s army—right before the Shel’ai laid siege to Lyos.
“I am privileged to have your expertise on this campaign—if
campaign
is the right word.”

Crovis reached back and smoothed his dark braid with sun-weathered fingers. “As fine a synonym for
fools’ errand
as any, I suppose.”

Aeko decided to let that go. She eyed the horizon again, still half fearing that she might see the ghastly banners of the Bloody Prince thundering down on them. To her relief, the hours wore on without incident. By sundown, hungry and tired with frayed nerves, she called a halt.

Immediately, the Knights went to work, glumly going about tasks that would have otherwise been delegated to the squires. Some set up tents while others tended horses. Still others dug a trench all around the camp, while still more Knights fortified the trench with sharpened stakes. By the time they were finished, the tents had been erected, fires built, and a meager meal of rice and vegetables. The Knights ate in silence, still armored, swords close at hand. There was lotus wine, but even the most aggravated Knights knew better than to get drunk amid the possibility of battle.

Aeko made her way through the camp, letting all the Knights see her. She was careful to avoid appearing too friendly, lest they think she was desperate for their approval. She even scolded a Knight of the Crane for staring too long into his campfire, as that could hamper his night vision in the event of an attack. She had considered banning campfires altogether, but she knew the Dhargots were likely aware of their presence already. She stationed more sentries than usual and even sent a handful of Knights to patrol a half mile beyond the camp.

Not that a bit of advance notice will mean much difference if the Bloody Prince decides to march in force.

She had nearly completed her second walk through the camp when she spotted Crovis stalking toward her, his face taut. She interpreted his expression and hurried to meet him, one hand straying for her sword hilt.

“Lady Shingawa, I have been looking for you—”

“What’s wrong?”

“A lone Dhargothi ambassador just arrived at the perimeter. He has requested the honor of addressing the leader of this company.”

Aeko caught the subtle rebuke. “You say he came alone?”

Crovis nodded. “No bodyguards. Just one haughty bastard in silk.”

For one rare moment, Aeko almost liked her rival. “Lead the way, Sir Ammerhel. Best not keep the haughty bastard waiting.”

To Aeko’s surprise, Crovis had already shown the ambassador to her tent. A newly minted Knight of the Crane who had been tasked with acting as her servant had given the man wine and a chair but otherwise loomed over him with arms crossed.

Aeko sized up the Dhargot. He was middle aged and short but thickly built. Like nearly all the Dhargothi men she had ever seen, he had a shaved head, painted eyes, and a braided goatee. He was armed with a matching dagger and shortsword, both inlaid with black pearls in the pommels. He wore scale armor and black silk, plus a ghastly necklace of human ears: trophies from enemies he’d killed.

Aeko counted six ears and smirked to conceal her revulsion. Rumor had it that Karhaati, the Bloody Prince, wore forty-seven ears—though if that had been true, Aeko figured he’d added a few pairs since then. She cleared her throat.

The Dhargothi ambassador turned, looked at her, and rose slowly, draining his cup. When the cup was empty, he passed it without looking to the Knight standing behind him. “Are you the one I’ve been kept waiting for?”

Aeko bowed slightly, wondering how much of the contempt in the man’s speech came from his accent. “I am Aeko Shingawa, Knight of the Lotus and Knight-Captain of this host. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The ambassador did not answer for so long that Aeko wondered if he meant to ignore her. Then he simply said, “Vaanti.”

Aeko forced a smile. “And I trust that you were sent by Prince Karhaati.”

The Dhargot took his time nodding. “The Bloody Prince sent me.”

After a long silence, Aeko said, “And his message?”

“Just this: you are in our lands without permission. We Dhargots have no quarrel with the Isles. Leave at once, and the Bloody Prince will forgive your insult without bloodshed or demand for reparations.”

Aeko could smell the stink of the man’s breath, only thinly veiled by the sweet smell of lotus wine. She wondered if the man had deliberately chewed on an onion before coming to the camp. “Tell the prince I appreciate his generosity. No offense was intended. This is not an invasion. We are merely on a training exercise and did not know the Dhargothi Empire had extended its boundaries all the way to the heart of the Simurgh Plains. It seems I shall have to be better about consulting maps before I leave my keep.”

Vaanti sneered, though she could not tell if it was in derision or grudging appreciation. “The Bloody Prince claims whatever lands he wishes. If you object, meet him on the field.”

Aeko tapped her sword hilt.
Someday, perhaps, when I have more men with me.
“As I said, we’re on a training mission, nothing more.” She intended to leave it at that, but her eyes fell on Vaanti’s ghastly necklace again. She wondered if any of those ears came from women. She lowered her voice. “Cassica is not a protectorate of the Lotus Isles. Until its people request our help, Karhaati has nothing to fear from us.”

Vaanti looked surprised. Then he laughed. “Cassica’s a pen for dogs! We took it in accordance with the Way of Ears, which has guided my people for two centuries. If you want it, come take it. The Bloody Prince would welcome the fight.”

Aeko held up her hand. “We didn’t come here for a fight. I told you—”

Out of the corner of her eye, Aeko saw a flash of steel. Before she could stop him, Crovis strode forward and pressed the edge of his adamune to the Dhargot’s throat. Vaanti’s eyes widened. He tried to back up but collided with the Knight of the Crane standing behind him.

Crovis said, “Pray that your beloved prince never meets an Isle Knight on the field, little man, or else the Red Emperor will have one less son to pay him homage.”

Aeko hissed Crovis’s name, but he did not answer. She eyed the other Knights, some of whom looked back at her with uncertainty, and wondered if she should have Crovis seized. She decided against it.

Meanwhile, all the fight had gone out of Vaanti’s expression. The edge of Crovis’s sword had already drawn a thin trickle of blood, though given the steadiness of Crovis’s hands, Aeko figured that was deliberate.

She took a step forward and fixed Vaanti in her most withering stare. “On the Isles, threatening someone in their own home is considered extremely rude. I believe that’s the lesson Sir Ammerhel was trying to demonstrate.”

With the sword still pressed to his throat, Vaanti tried his best not to swallow. “I didn’t threaten—”

“Maybe we misunderstood. If so, I hope you’ll accept our apology and convey our peaceful intentions to your prince.”

Crovis pressed his sword against Vaanti’s throat for emphasis. A fresh trickle of blood ran down his neck.

The Dhargot said, “I will. Of course I will!”

“Good.” Aeko touched Crovis’s arm. To her relief, he stepped back, made a show of wiping his blade on his sleeve, then sheathed his sword with the faintest of smiles.

Aeko gestured to the Knight standing behind the Dhargot. “Sir Wei, give the ambassador another bottle of wine and show him to his horse.”

As the visibly shaken Dhargot was being led out of the tent, Aeko noticed that the pearl-inlaid dagger was missing from his belt.

Crovis twirled it between his fingers then offered it to her with a slight bow. “Care for a souvenir, Knight-Captain?”

Only two other Knights remained in the tent, but Aeko dismissed them with a look. “I would prefer that my second-in-command not assert his ego by trying to start a war.”

Crovis blinked then laughed. “I beg your pardon, Lady Shingawa, but it seems I’m more familiar with Dhargots than you are. That was no show of bravado. Their kind hate courtesy. Had he returned to the Bloody Prince with nothing but gifts and reassurances, there would be bloodshed within hours. This way, Karhaati will think we’re bold. He’ll respect us. With luck, he’ll use his assault on the Free Cities as an excuse to give us a wide berth.”