Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (7 page)

Aeko saw his point, but she knew better than to concede too quickly. “You nearly killed his ambassador.”

Crovis shook his head. “It’s written in their laws, what they call the Way of Ears. If an enemy’s messenger threatens you, you send him back bloodied. But you send him back
alive.
” He offered her the dagger again.

Aeko took it. “I believe you. Still, a word of warning would have been appreciated.”

Crovis bowed. “Next time we are accosted by a foreign dignitary, I will bear that in mind.”

Aeko pretended to examine the edge of the dagger, then she twirled it between her fingers—faster and more deftly than Crovis had—and handed it back. “Keep it. I’ve never had much fondness for foreign steel.”

If Crovis caught the rebuke, he gave no indication. After reclaiming the dagger, he left the tent. Aeko heard a chorus of laughter from the other Knights of the Lotus waiting outside. Before the tent flap closed, she saw Crovis idly pass the dagger to one of them, who gave her a sidelong glance, grinned, and slid it into his belt.

Vaanti pressed a silk cloth to his throat as he rode away from the camp. The pain from the shallow cuts had passed. Anger had replaced it. Vaanti swore oath after oath to the Dragongod that one day, he would face that man again and kill him. Though he had never fought an Isle Knight, he doubted the stories of their fighting prowess were true. Besides, even if they were, Vaanti had confidence in his own abilities.

He touched his necklace, fingering the first pair of dried ears he’d taken as a trophy. Despite his mood, he smiled. Those ears had belonged to a Dwarrish sellsword, the biggest man Vaanti had ever seen. He touched the second pair, tracing their dried swirls with cold affection. Those had come from an Iron Sister at Hesod. He wished he’d had the chance to savor her, but the speed of her sword had convinced him to end the fight quickly.

He did not touch the final pair of ears, though his smile broadened when he remembered the look of terror and agony on his dying father’s face. The man had savaged him all throughout his childhood—as was customary in the raising of warriors—but in the end, Vaanti had taken his revenge.

As I’ll have my revenge on that Knight—and that pretty bitch who gives him orders.

He laughed and took a long swig from the bottle of lotus wine he was supposed to deliver to his prince. He’d opened the bottle the moment he was beyond the Knights’ camp. After all, it would take him hours to reach Cassica, and the snow had just begun. The wine would keep him warm, though it was much too sweet for his liking.

Vaanti glanced up at the stars as he rode. Spotting Armahg’s Eye, he shook his fist and spat on the snowy ground. Then he took another drink. He thought of all the other people he wanted to kill. He decided to add Prince Saanji to the list.

He’d happened to encounter the youngest of Karhaati’s brothers right before leaving Cassica. Fat, not a single pair of ears around his neck, Prince Saanji had ridden through the gates at the same time as Vaanti—not to see him off but to break up a squad of Dhargothi warriors who had just begun their nightly celebrations by savaging some wives and daughters in full view of their impaled husbands.

Vaanti shook his head with disgust. Prince Saanji had no respect for the traditions and terror that had made the Dhargothi Empire what it was. Everyone knew that if Saanji had his way, the glorious empire would abandon the practices that kept their enemies at bay. It would fall practically overnight.

Vaanti took another drink of wine, but the sweetness overwhelmed him, and he spat it out. He liked how the wine looked like blood on the snow. Tipping the bottle, he poured out a little more, laughed, then returned the bottle to his lips. He forced himself to swallow.

“The Bloody Prince should have killed him already,” he muttered. Of course, he knew why Saanji was still alive. Karhaati was the most powerful of the three princes, but he still had his brother, Ziraari, to deal with—not to mention the Red Emperor himself. Saanji’s impalement would come, as it would for all those Earless who rejected the true Dhargothi way, but for now, they could still be useful.

Especially if that damn Lancer keeps winning battles.

Vaanti shook his head. For weeks, Karhaati’s forces had enjoyed regular, bloody incursions into Ivairia, burning villages and raiding monasteries, killing and pleasuring without hindrance. Though Ivairia had little value compared to the Free Cities, rumor had it that the Ivairian king had ordered his Lancers not to fight back, to withdraw farther north so that they could protect him.

Lately, though, a company of Lancers had been defying their own king, boldly attacking Karhaati’s larger forces at every turn. And they were winning. No one knew who was leading them, but Vaanti resolved that if he ever met the man, his impalement would be preceded by the slow removal of his skin.

Vaanti smiled. He guzzled the last of the bottle’s saccharine contents then threw it against a tree and watched it shatter. His horse jerked, but Vaanti raked its flanks with his spurs, urging it to a full gallop. He was tired of snow and tired of riding. He wanted to get back to Cassica as quickly as possible, even if he had to ride his horse to death.

The night air tore at his face, but Vaanti laughed. Drawing his sword, he whirled it over his head. He imagined he was riding down on some helpless Ivairian village, as frightening as Fohl himself, a whole army of Dhargothi brothers behind him. Then he reined in.

Before him, on the snowy plains, lay a body, facedown in the snow.

He had not seen it during his ride south from Cassica, though the way the man’s tattered white cloak melted into the snow, it would have been easy to miss. Vaanti dismounted his horse, wobbled unsteadily, then trudged ahead to investigate. Sheathing his sword, he reached for his daggers. He cursed when he realized one was missing. He wondered if he’d lost it in the ride. He drew the other.

Drawing closer, he saw splotches of blood all over the man’s cloak, partially obscured by the snow. Vaanti rolled him over, then he leapt back.

The man looked young, his face contorted with pain, but it was his eyes that shook Vaanti to the bone: violet eyes with white pupils. Vaanti swore and signed himself. He looked at the man’s tattered cloak again. What he had first mistaken for bloodstains were, in fact, wolves sewn in red thread.

“A Shel’ai…”

Though the man already appeared to be dead, Vaanti considered stabbing him just to make sure. He considered the possibility that the Shel’ai was merely asleep and might wake up long enough before dying to burn Vaanti to cinders. Vaanti took another step back.

But aren’t the Shel’ai the Bloody Prince’s allies now?

He could not remember. He rubbed his eyes and wished he had not consumed so much wine. Surrounded by darkness, he wondered what to do. Eventually, he made up his mind to ride back to Cassica and pretend that nothing had happened. But before he could take a step, the white-cloaked man blinked. His body jerked.

Vaanti jumped. He told himself it might just be a death spasm, but then the Shel’ai turned, lifted his head, and looked at him. He spoke.

Vaanti could not understand the man’s speech, but it terrified him. Screaming, he threw his dagger. Whether the result of poor aim or some kind of devilry wrought by the Shel’ai, he missed. As he turned back toward his horse, he saw the Shel’ai sitting up. It seemed, strangely, that he was crying for help. Then Vaanti spotted a second man holding his horse by the reins.

This man wore a white cloak, too, minus the red wolves. He did not appear to be armed. The man smiled at him.

Vaanti drew his sword. “Get away from my horse!”

“Get away from mine,” the man answered.

Vaanti frowned, puzzled. Then he heard a sound and whirled back around. The Shel’ai was on his feet, though doubled over, as though in pain. Violet eyes found Vaanti’s again. The Shel’ai spoke a second time, sounding even more frantic, as if pleading for his life.

Vaanti readied his sword. “Stay away from me,” he warned.

As though in answer, the Shel’ai screamed. Violet flames burst from his body. Instead of falling, he straightened. Then, before Vaanti’s eyes, he seemed to grow.

Legs thickened like tree trunks. Hands sprouted claws the size of daggers. Pale skin took on a metallic sheen then darkened, abruptly covered in scales. Violet eyes turned yellow. An unevenly horned head tipped to one side, studying him, and screamed again.

“Gods!” Vaanti threw down his sword and fell to his knees. “Please, someone, help me…”

Someone touched his shoulder. Vaanti twisted, looked up, and saw violet eyes staring back at him. It was the man who had been holding his horse’s reins.

The man pointed at the monstrosity before them. “Do you know what that is?”

Vaanti shook his head.

The other man grinned. “But you’ve heard of it, haven’t you? Think hard.” He grasped Vaanti’s chin and turned it, forcing him to look.

Vaanti shut his eyes, weeping. He nodded.

The man laughed. “Good. A thing of beauty, is it not?” He touched the side of Vaanti’s head. A strange jolt forced Vaanti’s eyes open. “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m afraid I must conduct a little test now. Please hold still.”

The man stepped away, but Vaanti found that he still could not move. The monstrosity lumbered toward him. Fire spurted between gaps in its scales. Its deafening cry spoke of rage and anguish.

Unable to close his eyes, Vaanti tried once again to plead for his life. But the monstrosity opened its maw, and a sea of flame poured out. The last thing Vaanti heard was the sound of applause.

CHAPTER SIX

Alliances and Betrayals

B
y the gods, how is he still alive?

Shade shook his head as he studied Fadarah’s ghastly wound. With the help of the Dhargots, the Shel’ai had carried the stricken Sorcerer-General into a tent. Dismissing their newfound bodyguards, Shade and the other Shel’ai stripped off Fadarah’s armor and urged still more healing energies into his body. Then, exhausted, they collapsed for a few hours of rest. They had not expected Fadarah to be alive when they awoke. But he was.

Three days after sustaining a wound that would have killed most men within seconds, Fadarah continued to draw rasping, shallow breaths. His muscular body looked shrunken, the skin taut and ashen. Despite all their attempts to clean the wound, it had festered. A sickening smell filled the tent, so strong that it took all of Shade’s willpower to keep from retching.

Some of the others had not been so lucky. Sensing that they had reached the limits of what their magic could accomplish, Shade decided to spare them the smell and sent them away. Besides, he could not bear to let them see Fadarah like this. Shade kept vigil alone, resolving that he would call the others back in only when the time came.

Though Fadarah had not regained consciousness, his eyes sometimes opened of their own accord. In those moments, the effect was so disconcerting that Shade would gently shut them again. He was just attempting to do so when his hand brushed Fadarah’s cheek, and he felt a glimmer of consciousness. Startled, Shade pressed his hand to Fadarah’s forehead, ignoring the instinct to recoil when the feel of the Sorcerer-General’s skin reminded him of cold, wet stone. He sent his mind into Fadarah’s, searching for some burgeoning sign of life. He found it.

Shade knelt beside Fadarah’s bed, held his master’s hand, and waited. After what felt like an eternity, Fadarah blinked. Slowly, he turned his head.

“Don’t talk,”
Shade said. He communicated through mindspeak since he knew Fadarah would find it less taxing.
“We’re safe. We’re in a Dhargothi camp, a few miles northeast of the Ash’bana Plains. Ziraari’s camp. I’ve made a deal with him. He’ll see us safely back to Coldhaven in exchange for me killing Karhaati.”
He forced a smile. Aloud, he added, “What’s one more dead Dhargot?”

He sensed Fadarah’s disapproval a moment before the Sorcerer-General shook his head. His voice was weak, barely a whisper. “Don’t… trust…”

“I have no intention of trusting any Dhargot,”
Shade insisted. He suddenly remembered Brahasti, the sadistic Dhargothi general Shade had wanted to kill on more than one occasion.
“We’ve lost Sylvos. The Olgrym are scattered, too wild to control now. All we can do is fortify Coldhaven and try to keep our people safe.”

“That’s what we should have done all along.”
Fadarah’s pale face started to smile.
“El’rash’lin was right—”

“You couldn’t have known that. We tried minding our own business before, but the Sylvs hunted us. So did the Humans, the Dwarrs… everyone. You did what you thought was necessary.”

Fadarah fell silent. “Silwren… dead…” Tears glistened in the big man’s eyes.

Shade felt them spring to his own eyes, too, but blinked them away.
“She must have given herself to Knightswrath.
I drove her to it. This is my fault, not yours. Because of me, the woman I love is dead!”

Fadarah shook his head.
“No. I did this. My pride did this, my rage. So many sins I never dreamt I’d commit...”

Shade considered summoning the others, but he heard a weakness in his master’s voice that had nothing to do with his dying. He squeezed Fadarah’s hand. “All you did, Father, you did for your people. You set your love, your strength, against the curse of our own birth.”

Fadarah stared up at him then laughed. The effort shook his body and brought blood to his lips, which Shade dabbed away with his sleeve. Even as his body shook, Fadarah answered with his mind.
“My son, you have no idea what I’ve done. No idea what I’ve kept from you.”

“Father, whatever you did—”

“Brahasti,” Fadarah croaked. “You have to stop… Brahasti—” He coughed. Awful pain twisted his body. Shade held him down until the spasm passed.

The mention of the Dhargothi general rekindled Shade’s anger. “Stop Brahasti from what? Father, he’s gone. Don’t you remember? After Karhaati took Cassica, you sent Brahasti north. He’s supposed to wait there until spring then help Karhaati take Lyos. Even if I don’t kill him, Karhaati will, sooner or later. Brahasti’s nothing. He can’t hurt us.”

Fadarah tried to answer, coughed, then seized Shade’s arm, pulling him closer. Shade resisted the impulse to recoil.
“Not us. Not us, my son.”
Fadarah shook his head. Fresh tears ran from his eyes.
“You must stop him. You have to stop what I have started.”

Shade shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Before Fadarah could explain, a surge of agony prevented the Sorcerer-General from speaking even telepathically. But Shade saw the desperation in his master’s eyes. He pressed his hand to Fadarah’s forehead and sent his mind into his master’s. Fadarah did not resist. Shade sensed his need to confess, tinged with unendurable guilt.

Then Shade saw why. He pulled his hand away, aghast. For a long time, he could not speak, or even think. He just stood there in the silence, trembling. Then he stepped forward, pressed his hand to Fadarah’s face, and unleashed a wash of wytchfire that burned his master’s face to ash.

Fadarah never screamed.

Zeia shivered within her prison: a deep shaft dug in the earth, just a little wider than her shoulders, too narrow for her to sit down, and too deep for sunlight to penetrate. For days, snow had fallen through gaps between the boards that crowned the pit, enhancing her misery. She’d tried countless times to claw her way out, but the efforts only left her fingers raw and bloody. She wanted to try again, but she could not feel her legs anymore.

She could no longer summon wytchfire. Magic that had once coursed through her blood like quicksilver now moved slowly, like sludge, more a hindrance than anything. All the while, the Dhargots taunted her from above, detailing the many exotic, carnal punishments they intended to inflict upon her. They gave her nothing to eat. She’d had nothing to drink but snow. What little magic she had left, she’d used to staunch the flow of blood from her wounds. She heard nothing but the taunts and felt nothing but her own hunger and the needful, childlike buzz of her own magic, demanding rest and food she could not give.

But when they drag me out of here, I will find my strength. Somehow, I will conjure enough wytchfire to kill one or two of them and force the rest to kill me.
She told herself it would be her final act of vengeance. Really, though, she had no desire to endure the torments the Dhargots had in mind.

She tried to meditate, hoping to prepare herself for what was to come, but the awful buzzing in her head mingled with the rumbling in her stomach and scattered all attempts at concentration. Fighting back tears of frustration, she shivered and prayed that the end would come soon. Still, when someone pulled the boards away, her heart leapt in panic.

Taking a deep breath, she let it go and forced herself to look up. She blinked. Instead of sunlight, she saw stars. She’d thought they would start on her in the morning, when they were well rested. She fought another surge of panic. When they lowered a rope ladder into the shaft, she considered refusing so that they would have to climb down and get her. But pride won out. Scooping up a handful of snow, she did her best to wash the blood and grime from her face. Then, with trembling limbs, she grasped the rope ladder and started to climb.

She’d managed no more than a few rungs before she realized she did not have the strength to climb all the way to the top. But her captors started hauling the rope ladder up on their own. Zeia clung pitifully, resisting the urge to let go and fall back to the bottom. She expected taunts but heard none. She offered none of her own, either, deciding to save what meager strength she had left for the battle.

But the moment she felt the night air on her face, strong hands grabbed her and hauled her up, and she knew she had no fight left in her. One of her captors hauled her out and lowered her to the ground, facedown. She could not see them, but she imagined leering warriors forming a ring around her, armed with that one weapon given to all men by nature.

No, I can’t submit like this. Not now, not ever. If I can breathe, I can fight!

She unleashed a wild scream, rolled over, and tried to claw the face of her nearest attacker. But the man caught her wrists. He said something she could not understand, though the words seemed strangely familiar. Gathering her strength, she kicked. She struck something hard. Her captor grunted, and his grip slacked. With renewed strength, she fought harder, driving her knees into the shape looming over her.

Then, somehow, she was free. Twisting away, she tried to run, but her legs failed her. She fell hard. Snow pressed against her cheek. The world seemed to swallow her, blanketing her in darkness, but she fought through it and tried crawling away. A hand gripped her throat.

Zeia could not see her attacker, but she grabbed his arm and tried in vain to break free. She thought her attacker would strangle her. Instead, the hand gripping her throat abruptly let go and touched her forehead. A stunning jolt of power left her unable to move.

That was magic! No Dhargot did that…

She tried to push through her fogged senses. The figure before her removed his dark-plumed helmet. Violet eyes met hers. Her attacker spoke again. This time, she recognized the words as Sylvan. She did not answer.

Shade straightened. He stared at her then gestured, and she was free. But she did not run. She sneered up at him. “I’d rather you were a Dhargot.”

“Even my magic has limits.” Though Shade’s reply was curt, he spoke it in a whisper. He drew a sword from his belt and pointed the blade at her as he put his helmet back on. “Stand up, if you can.”

Zeia winced. Unwilling to die on her back, she summoned her strength and slowly pushed herself to her knees then her feet. She wobbled. Before she could fall, Shade caught her. He leaned close. She considered clawing his face, but he pressed the edge of his sword to her throat.

“Listen carefully,” he whispered. “I already killed three men to get you out of there. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring the whole damn camp down on us.” He nodded toward two slain Dhargots lying in the snow. Both looked bloody and slashed, not burned. One lay on his back, his throat slit, staring wide eyed up at the sky.

Why didn’t he just burn them with wytchfire?

For the first time, she realized that Shade was wearing the uniform of a Dhargothi officer. She looked past him and saw other Dhargothi warriors leaning on their spears, watching them with confusion. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but Shade whispered, “Later,” and shoved her. A moment later, his voice rang in her mind.

“They don’t know who I am. They think I was fighting the others for the right to be the first to rape you. If you want to survive, it’s best they don’t realize the truth until we’re long gone.”

Despite her exhaustion, Zeia found the strength to answer in kind.
“You’re… rescuing me?”

“Not at all,”
Shade answered.
“I fully expect you to be dead in a day. Me, too, probably. But for now, I need help.”

Zeia laughed coldly. She might have twisted around to face him, but Shade grabbed her by the arm. She felt him prod her with the flat of his blade. “Why in the gods’ names would I help you?”

“Because of
this.
” Shade touched the back of her head. Zeia jerked and almost stopped, but Shade pushed her onward. She stumbled, trying to sort through all the images that Shade had just injected into her mind. “Don’t talk,” Shade warned. “Remember, you’re still my prisoner. Keep your head down. The fewer who see you’re a Shel’ai, the better.”

Zeia nodded dumbly. As she pressed through the snow in her bare feet, she struggled even harder to understand what was happening. When the other Shel’ai discovered Fadarah’s corpse, when they found him dead by wytchfire, they would almost certainly turn on Shade—regardless of what Fadarah had done. But the others were still his friends. Shade did not want to see them harmed. If Shade had used wytchfire to kill the guards, Ziraari would have blamed—and killed—the others as soon as he found out. She felt a grudging respect for Shade’s actions.