Brahasti agreed. “One week. Thank you, my friend.” He turned to go.
Jalist grabbed his arm. “I may be new here, and I may not be as young as I used to be, but there’s still strength left in these bones. If you’re lying, I’ll slice off your cock and grind it under my boot heel. Look into my eyes if you doubt me.”
Brahasti carefully removed his arm from Jalist’s grasp. Expressionless, he nodded. “I would expect no less from you. But remember, Dwarr, our fates are joined. I have as much to risk here as you do.”
Yes, as much to risk... but more to gain!
The Dhargot sauntered away, seizing a passing prostitute by the wrist and pulling her after him. Jalist stood there a moment, considering what he’d just agreed to. Almost as soon as he’d joined the Throng, he’d learned of the men whispering of revolt. When several sellsword captains brought Jalist into their confidence, he suggested they invite Brahasti, as well. As much as Jalist hated the infamously callous Dhargot, his worth was obvious. Initially, the sellsword captains refused, but Jalist eventually won them over.
Except now, most of them are dead—and I’m in charge! Jalist had not wanted that. Still, Brahasti himself had pointed out how much concentration it took for the sorcerers to control the Nightmare. That meant the best time to revolt was during the next siege. There must be hundreds in the Throng—men from Syros, Cassica, Quorim, and countless other towns—who wanted to head back and defend their homes from the Dhargots. Once the revolt began, he hoped they would fall in line. Jalist said they should deal with the Unseen first, but Brahasti disagreed. All had heard stories of the Blood Thrall. Killing the Shel’ai might free them. They might even hail Jalist and the others as heroes.
But Brahasti wanted to wait. He might have a point, Jalist conceded. If he’s telling the truth, that is.
He thought about Que’ann. Jalist would try to protect her when the fighting started. But if she chose to remain loyal to her own kind—as Jalist feared she would—then they would have no choice but to kill her.
The Dwarr sighed. He thought of how gently Que’ann cared for the wounded, especially Llassio, her pale hands pressing cool cloths to wounds, her touch kindling magic to soothe pain when her pointed ears caught the faintest moan. How the freckled youth and the other injured men loved her! Remembering his friend, Jalist hurried back into the hospital tent. He reached Llassio’s side just as Que’ann was somberly closing his friend’s wide, staring eyes.
“I am sorry,” Que’ann whispered. She touched his arm, her hand warm, then moved on to tend the next in a long line of wounded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
KAYDEN’S FATE
Aeko Shingawa stood with Rowen Locke on an empty marble walkway as the midday sun lit the beleaguered city of Lyos. The arched walkway—one of many throughout the city—stood empty for the moment. That one led to the beautiful Queen’s Garden at the center of Lyos, normally crowded, but no one cared about flowers and trees at the moment.
“What I am about to tell you is a secret,” Aeko began hesitantly. “If Crovis found out, he could have my adamune. Or my life. I want your oath to repeat none of this.”
Rowen said, “You have it.”
But Aeko pressed him. “You won’t like what I have to say.” Her voice lowered. “You might hate me afterward. You may consider me your enemy. That’s your right. Still, I need your word on this. Swear it again.”
“I swear, damn you. Now get on with it!”
“Calm yourself, and I will,” Aeko said. “You know the legend of Fâyu Jinn... how he founded the Knighthood, allied with the other races—even the Shel’ai—and helped drive the Dragonkin from Ruun.”
Rowen nodded impatiently. I also know my brother died five years ago. And I know I don’t know why. That’s a bit more important to me than fairy tales.
“And the Oath of Kin,” Aeko went on. “The pact between Fâyu Jinn and the Sylvs—”
“That if ever their nations were in dire need, each could call upon the other,” Rowen interrupted, quoting the legend almost verbatim. “But you said yourself that most Knights don’t believe those stories!”
“And do you remember the legend of the kings’ burials?”
Rowen frowned. He thought back to the fairy tales again. “Fâyu Jinn decreed that upon his death, he was to be buried in the Wytchforest as a symbol of his people’s kinship with the Sylvs. King Shigella of the Sylvs did likewise and was buried on the Lotus Isles. Their tombs were supposed to be a constant reminder of the old alliance.” He snorted. “But it’s all a lie. There is no Sylvan king buried on the Lotus Isles. If there was, we’d have found the tomb by now.”
Aeko gave him a hard look. “We found it seven years ago.”
Rowen blinked.
“We found it on a small island to the east, in the ruins of a city with no name. The tomb was hidden in the rubble—deliberately.”
“Who would do that?”
“Good damn question.”
Rowen considered this for a moment. “If the Knights wanted to hide the tomb, why not just destroy it?”
“Because it’s sealed,” Aeko said. “By magic.”
“The Shel’ai?”
“Yes and no.” Aeko explained, “Remember, the legends tell us that a thousand years ago, Shel’ai fought alongside Fâyu Jinn and the other races against the Dragonkin. They could have sealed the tomb. But that doesn’t explain why we didn’t at least know it was there.”
“You think the Knights hid it?”
Aeko nodded slightly. “Read our histories, Rowen. You will find almost no mention of the Shattering War. This from a Knighthood that loves words almost as much as it loves itself! Outside the legends, we have no proof that Fâyu Jinn and Shigella even existed or the Shattering War really happened. Until now.”
“You really think the Knights would want to hide all that?”
“The few who know about it? Of course!” Aeko laughed derisively. “You’ve seen what the Knighthood has become. Imagine what men like Crovis would say to an ancient decree saying all Knights were honor bound to lend aid to the Sylvs! Imagine what would happen if we learned the Shel’ai really were our allies once!”
Rowen felt lost. He stared past her, into the shadows of the dogblossom trees crowding Queen’s Garden. He wanted to run away, to leave all this madness behind him. “So are you going to tell me what all this has to do with Kayden?”
“I’m getting to that,” Aeko said. “When we found the tomb, it was sealed by magic. No tool or weapon would open it. But the carvings on the stone claim King Shigella’s body is inside. Grand Marshal Bokuden reasoned that if we could prove that Fâyu Jinn’s tomb existed too, then maybe the rekindling of the old alliance would be just what the Knighthood needed to heal its reputation.”
Rowen glared at her. You’re stalling. Sunlight played off her long, dark braid. Suddenly, he wanted to vent his impatience by yanking on it.
“Crovis disagreed. But Sir Matsuo volunteered to lead a diplomatic envoy to the Wytchforest. Your brother went with them. When they reached the forest, they were turned away. The Sylvs claimed that Fâyu Jinn’s tomb didn’t even exist. Matsuo argued then eventually gave up. The Knights started for home. But the Sylvs intercepted them on the Ash’bana Plains...”
Rowen’s fists clenched. “The Sylvs killed him?” He took Aeko’s silence as an answer. He flushed with rage until he was sure his face matched his beard. “Why... why have I never heard this?”
“Bokuden decided the attack should be kept secret. Many on the Council objected—Crovis among them. But Bokuden is still the Grand Marshal. He swore them all to silence. But it cost him. In time, Crovis will challenge him. And Crovis will win. He’s already openly defied Bokuden once by sacking Phaegos.”
Just like Sergeant Epheus said! “So Sylvs murdered Knights of the Crane, and the Grand Marshal didn’t even seek justice?”
“Bokuden was faced with a terrible choice, Rowen. He could commit an ailing Knighthood to a bitter, impos
sible campaign against a foreign race clear across the continent—”
“Or pretend it never happened,” Rowen finished.
Fuming, he stalked away from her, losing her in the market crowds. She called after him, but he did not answer. That time, it seemed she knew better than to follow. Rowen made sure he was free of her then turned toward the jailhouse.
He did not want to believe Aeko’s tales of murder and intrigue, but her story was too strange to be a lie. Rowen touched his sword’s hilt. He had never seen a Sylv before, but they must look identical to Silwren and El’rash’lin—save for their eyes. He would know them when he saw them. He would avenge Kayden’s murder by torching the Wytchforest himself.
Rowen wondered if El’rash’lin knew anything about Fâyu Jinn’s tomb or Kayden and the other Knights’ murders. He did not think so. There had been nothing of that in the memories El’rash’lin shared.
Besides, the Sylvs viewed the Shel’ai as enemies. This made Rowen inclined to call them friends—except, of course, that the majority of their kind seemed intent on burning Lyos to the ground. Rowen laughed. Perhaps it would be better if they did!
With Hráthbam gone and Kayden dead, he felt hard-pressed lately to find a single person whose life was worth saving. He thought of the prostitute he’d met earlier then reminded himself that he did not even know her name. All the more reason to get out of here and save my own skin!
Rowen reached the jailhouse. He braced himself for a cold greeting from the guards, but none stood outside. Red Watch guards would never risk their captain’s wrath by leaving their posts—especially during times like these. Rowen reached for Knightswrath, cursed when the hilt felt warm, and stepped through the door.
The smell of blood, filth, and scorched meat filled his nostrils. He wanted to gag. Instead, he stepped sideways and drew his sword, blinking in the darkness. The shutters had been closed, the lanterns extinguished. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. When he did, he saw bodies everywhere. “Gods...”
Movement caught his eye. A dark figure leapt from the shadows. Rowen barely raised Knightswrath in time. A shortsword clashed against his own blade. Then the attacker swung a second shortsword at his thigh. Rowen backpedaled, stumbled, then narrowly parried a vicious lunge at his throat.
Gods, he’s fast! Rowen swung Knightswrath in a low, wide arc, trying to keep his attacker at bay. Meanwhile, he squinted in the darkness, searching for more attackers. Dead soldiers littered the floor, their bodies slashed. He saw a slain priest of Maelmohr, too, who must have been here to minister to the imprisoned. In the rows of cells nearby, burned corpses lay twisted and blackened against the walls. Their arms were contorted before them in some vain, final attempt at self-preservation.
His attacker drove at him, fast and coldly disciplined. Rowen had no choice but to give ground, trying not to trip over the dead as he backpedaled. He sensed that his attacker was trying to herd him away from the open door to prevent escape. Had he not instinctively sidestepped upon entering the jailhouse and smelling blood, he would have been killed.
His mind reeled even as he fought off his attacker’s leaping blade. The guards and priest had been killed by steel. The prisoners had been killed by fire. But the cells, constructed of stout iron bars, were still locked. That meant the men had been killed by sorcery allied with steel.
Rowen parried another flurry of cuts, struggling to hold his ground. “I take it they left you to kill whoever walked in.”
His attacker answered with another flurry of cuts that Rowen barely survived. So much for stalling.
A thin black cloth masked his opponent’s features. The man’s leather armor was black too, making him nearly invisible in the darkened jailhouse. But Rowen made out an emblem—what looked like greatwolves—sewn into the man’s armor. The sigil’s color matched the blood on the floor.
I’m getting tired, and he isn’t even breaking a sweat yet! Rowen backed off. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man came at him with the speed of a dancer, lunging one blade at Rowen’s eyes and the other at his groin. Rowen could not parry both at once. He sidestepped, beat back another cut for his shoulder, then grimaced as one of the shortswords cut a bloody groove in his thigh.
Pain gave him renewed fury. He beat back his attacker, Knightswrath dancing in his hands, but he could not press his advantage. He just was not fast enough. Exhaustion crept up his arms. He barely parried a stab at his face then botched another parry and took a sword point to the shoulder.
Rowen swore in Shao. He backed up as fast as he could, even though that carried him farther from the jailhouse door. Blood ran from his wounds, hot and unstaunched. He expected his opponent would follow and finish him off. Then he heard footfalls.
Down the stairs from the upper level of the jailhouse came a new figure: tall, thin, and dressed in a bone-white cloak sewn with the same blood-colored greatwolves adorning the armor of Rowen’s attacker. The cloaked man glanced at Rowen with only mild interest. The man’s hood was down, revealing youthful, haughty features and long, tapered ears. Though ten yards separated them, Rowen saw dragonmist in the man’s eyes. He cursed again. A Shel’ai. Not Silwren or El’rash’lin but a Shel’ai, nonetheless. That explained the fire.
I know him, Rowen realized, though he could not fathom how. Then he understood: El’rash’lin’s memories. What was his name? Kith’el. No—Shade.
“Finish him,” the cloaked figure ordered.
The dark-garbed fighter hesitated. The man’s brow contorted in abrupt, awful pain.
“You’d be better off running,” Rowen called out. “By now, half the garrison must be on the way here!”
Shade smiled wolfishly. “Not likely, Human.” He faced the dark-garbed fighter again. “Meet me downstairs after he’s dead.” He left the staircase he’d just descended for the one that led down to Silwren’s cell.
I have to stop them!
Rowen raised Knightswrath with both hands, holding the sword straight over his head. The Shao called the position hoso no-kami. Guard of the Tower. It was the strongest attack pose but the weakest for defense. But a strong defense against an opponent such as this only delayed the inevitable. “Singchai ushó fey! Come and die, you bastard.”
But the fighter did not move. The man’s eyes went taut with pain again. Rowen frowned. He had not wounded the man. Was this just a ruse to draw him in?
Rowen remembered another old saying of his brother’s: When in doubt, charge! Rowen charged. To his amazement, the fighter made no move to defend himself. Knightswrath descended in a rusty arc. At the last instant, Rowen changed its course. With two quick strikes, he knocked the swords from his enemy’s grasp. The man still had not moved. He simply stared.
Why isn’t he fighting—and why didn’t I kill him? No time to figure it out. Silwren needed him! He shoved the man aside and rushed for the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NO QUARTER
The basement torches still blazed, but Rowen did not need them, thanks to the wytchfire. The cloaked figure stood outside Silwren’s cell, his face livid, tendrils of violet flames coursing the lengths of his arms.
Meanwhile, in the cell, Silwren stood protectively over El’rash’lin. The latter slept fitfully on the cold, straw-strewn floor, as though gripped by a terrible fever. Rowen descended the stairs. No one turned to acknowledge him. Rowen winced from the mild slashes to his forearm and thigh, but he had no time to bandage them. He only hoped he would not lose so much blood that he passed out. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the dark-garbed fighter was following him.
Not yet. I should have killed him when I had the chance, though. Spotting footprints on the stairs behind him, he realized they were his own, made from his boot soles soaked in dead guards’ blood. He fixed his gaze on Shade instead. With shaking hands, Rowen held Knightswrath in a guarded position before him, though the sword would be useless against wytchfire. He started forward… slowly.
The cloaked figure s
poke in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign at the same time. Rowen thought of El’rash’lin again. He had the odd sensation that if he concentrated, he might be able to understand what they were saying. But at the time, he did not care. He edged closer.
Shade still had not noticed him. A few feet more, and he could strike the murderer down. Then, Shade turned.
He did not appear frightened by the sight of Rowen’s poised blade, only surprised. Or was he annoyed? Rowen could not tell which. Silwren screamed a warning—too late. Fingers coursing with wytchfire flung death through the air.
Rowen cried out in panic. He stumbled backward, knowing he could not outrun the fire. Out of desperation, he raised Knightswrath before him as though it were a shield. Time slowed to a crawl. He knew he was about to become like one of the ghastly dead men burned alive in the cells upstairs.
But the wytchfire met his sword instead. Like a dry rag cast into water, Knightswrath drew the wytchfire into its rusty depths. Rowen did not believe it.
Nor did Shade. He stared at Rowen without comprehension. Then he changed tactics. One slender wrist flicked sharply, and Rowen went sailing backward, flung by some invisible force. He struck the ground hard, Knightswrath clattering from his grasp.
Then he heard another clang of metal, far louder than his falling sword. Desperately, he struggled to rise. Something warm and dark ran into his eyes, burning them. He wiped away blood. Dazed, he looked down the corridor. His eyes widened.
The bars of Silwren’s cell had been wrenched open, as though made of tin. Silwren stood in the corridor now, her body awash in wytchfire, eyes blazing white. Shade recoiled before her. He pleaded in their foreign tongue again, lifting his hands. A protective shield of violet flames formed in front of him.
Silwren smashed it aside. The fire engulfing her body intensified. She was wholly white now. Rowen felt the heat on his face. Blinded, he turned away. The sorcerer’s cloak brushed over him as Shade was flung toward the stairs. He struck hard. Bones cracked.
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