Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “Like hell you will.” Cadney came out of the house and stood beside him. She was holding their baby with only one hand. Her other held a kitchen cleaver.

  Fen-Shea smiled. “I’ll be fine, girl. I’m just gonna watch your pretty back for a spell. Besides, you know I’m better at busting skulls when I don’t have to worry about you two.” He kissed her then kissed the crying baby’s forehead. He gave her a gentle push.

  He thought that she might argue, but then more screams reached their ears. The slum woman looked down at their baby then back at him. Her features hardened. She nodded. She rushed toward a wagon and the small stables that held their horse.

  Fen-Shea forced himself to turn his back on her. He gestured to the last two members of the Bloody Asps standing within earshot. “Help her hitch up the wagon. And keep them safe, or even Fohl won’t want you when I’m finished!”

  The men nodded and hurried to obey.

  Fen-Shea hefted his mace and faced the sounds of battle again. Metal glinted in the distance, where corpses littered the ground, most wearing the scarlet tabards of the Red Watch.

  “Never thought a sight like that would make me sad.” He glanced back at the slums. He saw hundreds of people running. He thought of the last time the Dark Quarter had been threatened. Then, they’d all banded together, led by Rowen Locke—and a Shel’ai wytch, of all things. But Fen-Shea did not think that would happen again.

  “Pity,” he sighed. “I liked this house.”

  He strode down into the slums, shouting for attention over the chaos. He hoped he still had time to organize some kind of defense before whatever had decimated the Red Watch did the same to them.

  Jalist had hardly reached King’s Bend, trying to find the nearest Red Watch officer, when a Jol turned and cut the horse out from under him. Jalist managed to leap clear before the rouncey fell, but a jagged cobblestone gashed his forehead. Wiping blood from his eyes, Jalist drew his sword, but the Jol had already moved on to a more tempting target: the very Red Watch officer Jalist had been trying to reach.

  “Damn.”

  Then a second Jol swung hands that ended in scimitars. Jalist ducked, rolled away, and ducked again when a third Jol thrust for his neck. On reflex, Jalist struck back. His blade left a scratch in the Jol’s grinning facemask, but the Jol did not slow. Jalist backpedaled, dove to avoid yet another attack, then ran.

  Ahead of him, a guardsman tried to parry a Jol’s blade, but the Jol’s strength easily guided the blade through the man’s tabard and chainmail. A second guardsman howled in rage and attacked the Jol from behind, swinging at its neck with both hands. The sword shattered. The guardsman gaped at the broken blade then flung the hilt at the Jol’s face and reached for another weapon. The Jol swung first, ending the fight.

  Jalist dove between the Jol’s legs and ran clear before it could swing. He slashed its knees for good measure, though he knew the blow did no harm. He ran a few yards farther up King’s Bend, angling toward a squad of Red Watch on horseback. A dozen strong, bloody and ragged, they hesitated, seemingly torn between reengaging the Jolym or fleeing for their lives. Jalist shouted to another officer. The man frowned at the sight of him.

  “Their eyes,” Jalist screamed. “Stab the bastards in their eyes!”

  The officer stared, uncomprehending. “Back to the city, boys. Ride for your lives!” He spurred his horse toward Lyos without waiting for the others to follow. Some of the guardsmen hesitated, glancing back at their still-fighting comrades, but most thundered back up King’s Bend as fast as their horses would carry them.

  Jalist swore again as another Jol came at him. This one was wrought all of brass. Sunlight shown off its body, blinding him. Jalist shielded his eyes, stepped back, then turned and ran. He made it halfway up King’s Bend before his strength failed. He slumped, exhausted, against an abandoned turnip cart. Gasping for air, he glanced over one shoulder.

  He’d managed to outrun the Jolym, but they had not stopped. As the last of the Red Watch fled, the Jolym shambled steadily up the road in neat, deathly quiet formation. Jalist tried to catch another Red Watch officer by arm as he ran past.

  “The eyes! Listen to me—”

  The panicked officer shoved him away then blindly swung his sword for good measure. Jalist managed to block the blow with his own weapon, but before he could speak, the frightened officer was running again.

  Jalist looked toward the city. Perhaps fifty survivors—some guardsmen, plus a handful of citizens—massed before the closed gates of Lyos, screaming to be let in. The battlements swarmed with archers. He felt a surge of hope. The Jolym were not within bow range yet but would be soon enough. Surely with so many arrows raining down on them, chance would guide a few to the Jolym’s only weak spot.

  A ragged smile formed on his lips. Then his smile vanished. The Jolym had drawn to a halt, just out of range. They stared up the road, quiet and motionless, blood running off their weapons. The only sound came from the wounded and dying men the Jolym had left in their wake and those trying to beg their way back into the city.

  Jalist braced one hand against the turnip cart and pushed himself up. With great effort, he staggered the rest of the way up King’s Bend. He reflected on the last time he’d been to Lyos. Then, as now, he’d been on the wrong side of the walls—though at the time, he’d been leading a revolt in Fadarah’s Throng, just as it was about to attack the city. But that hadn’t stopped the defenders of Lyos from arresting him afterward. He wondered how they would greet him now, if they recognized him.

  He scanned the panicked crowds for a familiar face, hoping to find at least a veteran officer calm enough to listen. The gates of Lyos finally swung open, and the survivors began to surge inside. Then he saw her.

  Igrid leaned against a wagon, accompanied by an old man wearing the priestly red robes of Maelmohr. Blood matted her red hair. For a moment, he was torn between helping the cleric drag her inside and finishing her off with his own sword.

  The priest looked up at his approach. He flinched when he saw Jalist then smiled with relief. “I’ve never been so happy to see a Dwarr in all my life. Please, son, help me carry this poor woman—”

  “I’ll carry her, Father. Don’t worry. Get inside. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The cleric glanced back at the motionless Jolym and nodded. He stood and made for Lyos without looking back.

  Jalist knelt in front of Igrid. “Hello, Iron Sister.”

  Igrid looked up, dizzily blinking her green eyes. Then with astonishing quickness, she plucked a stiletto from one sleeve and thrust it at Jalist’s face.

  Stunned, the Dwarr leaned back and caught her wrist. He plucked the knife from her grasp and tossed it away. He grabbed her other wrist then eyed the wound at the top of her head, half hidden by her red curls. “Girl, you’re lucky that Jol didn’t split your brains. Can you stand, or do I have to toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes?”

  “I can stand,” Igrid hissed through clenched teeth. “But I wouldn’t have to, if that blasted wytch would make herself useful, for once.”

  Jalist blinked in confusion.

  “What, is she out of wytchfire? Tell her to melt those damn things down.” Igrid looked around.

  Jalist finally understood. “Silwren isn’t here. Neither is Rowen. I’m alone.”

  Igrid stared at him for a moment. “Sack of potatoes it is, then.”

  But before Jalist could gather her up in his arms, the gates slammed shut once more. Jalist straightened, shouting up at the battlements, but a great crash drowned him out. Fireballs and jagged rocks arced over the city walls. Momentarily forgetting their danger, Jalist whirled after the siege missiles.

  Some flew wild, but more than a few stones struck the Jolym, eliciting a sound like the ringing of a bell. Meanwhile, clay pots filled with burning pitch shattered a
t the Jolym’s feet, spreading fire. But the Jolym did not cry out. Those hammered down by rocks sat up and rose to their feet without pause. Despite great dents in their brass and steel bodies, they looked unfazed.

  “The eyes, you fools! That’s their only weakness!” Jalist shouted up at the battlements, only to be drowned out by the blaring of trumpets. He guessed that meant the Red Watch was calling in their reserves. Jalist turned back to Igrid. To his surprise, she’d managed to stand, though she leaned heavily on the cart.

  “We’ll have to seek refuge in the Dark Quarter.” Gods, there’s something I never thought I’d say. “Just so you know, I’m better at carrying people when they don’t stab me in the back.”

  Jalist waited until Igrid nodded. Then he wrapped one strong arm around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. Though she was light, his muscles protested, already shaking with weariness. Jalist spotted a few more wounded guardsmen stumbling up King’s Bend, dumbly staggering toward the gates. “No, make for the slums,” he shouted. He started down, fighting to keep his balance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bones and Dust

  Chorlga stood on a hill half a mile outside Lyos, watching the slaughter. Despite the distance, he had no trouble witnessing it, for he could see through each Jol’s eyes as if they were his own. Three hundred Jolym marched into the crowds with icy nonchalance, hacking and cleaving everything in their path.

  Chorlga watched stoically as an officer led a second force of defenders down the road and into battle. He felt a pang of respect for the man’s courage. He was tempted to have his Jolym spare the man—he might need officers of quality in his new empire—but decided against it.

  Though the new company of defenders outnumbered the Jolym three to one, they fared no better than their comrades. Crossbows shuddered. Swords snapped. The Jolym shrugged off every blow and surged up Pallantine Hill, unhindered. Despite heavy losses, the Lyosi officer led his riders against the Jolym in one reckless, hopeless charge after another. Finally, the Jolym cut him down. The defenders’ courage faltered. Those who remained fled back up the hill and sealed the city gates.

  Chorlga had proven his point. With a mere thought, he ordered his Jolym to cease their attack. They stood in tight formation outside the gates, just beyond bow range, lest a lucky arrow strike one of them in the eye. This still left them within range of siege weapons, though. Catapults, trebuchets, and ballistas hurled all manner of stones, spears, and burning pitch at the Jolym—without effect.

  Chorlga saw what he knew must be the city’s ruler standing at the battlements, his face ashen. Chorlga would wait a few more minutes for panic to spread, then he would present himself before the Lyosi king and demand the city’s surrender. If they refused, Chorlga would blow open their gates and send in his Jolym.

  “But I won’t kill everyone. As Nekiel was so fond of saying, there’s no sense in crowning yourself king of a cemetery.” He turned to the cloaked, ruined man kneeling beside him. “Don’t you agree?”

  The Nightmare did not answer.

  “Perhaps I should have sent you to burn the Lotus Isles. You aren’t proving to be much of a traveling companion.”

  He thought of the next phase of his plan, as far as the Nightmare was concerned. Once Chorlga had secured the loyalty of Lyos and his Jolym had destroyed Fâyu Jinn’s detestable Knighthood—a lost cause, since their rigid code precluded surrender—they would head west. With the Shel’ai all but obliterated and Silwren surely dead, the war Fadarah had started, secretly prodded along by Chorlga, still raged from one coast of Ruun to the other. The chaos sewn by that war would make it easier for Chorlga to finally take control. But to do that, he would have to contend with the strongest remaining faction: the Dhargots. He could either destroy them or subjugate them. He favored the latter.

  All Chorlga had to do was present himself before their blood-crazed princes and show them the Nightmare, and they would be his. If any hesitated, he could unleash the Nightmare long enough to destroy a few battalions.

  Everything was finally falling into place. Chorlga faced Pallantine Hill again. A cold breeze mingled with the sound of screams kindled a memory ten centuries old. He’d once stood on a hill—perhaps this very one—and watched Nekiel’s forces raze a previous incarnation of Lyos, as repayment for some slight that Chorlga could no longer remember. He’d pleaded with Nekiel to show mercy—the city had housed a woman whom Chorlga fancied. Not even a Dragonkin, she was just a pretty slave girl who had caught his eye.

  Chorlga shook off the memory. “Bones and dust,” the Dragonkin snarled.

  “As we’ll all be, soon enough.”

  It was not the Nightmare who had spoken. The young man was kneeling, blank faced, rocking himself. Beyond him stood an old man in a tattered cloak. His Sylvan features were marred by a patchwork of scars, warts, and sores. His lips were twisted into a permanent sad smile, as though they’d been torn apart then poorly resewn. But the man’s eyes were violet, the pupils bone white.

  Chorlga turned to the Nightmare as though he might ask him for confirmation, but the young man’s expression remained unchanged. Finally, Chorlga summoned wytchfire that coursed the length of his arms. “I must learn to be more careful with my spells. I should have known I’d bring you back.”

  El’rash’lin stepped forward. He kept his gaze on Chorlga but squeezed the Nightmare’s shoulder, as if in greeting, though the kneeling man did not respond. “There are a great many other things you’ve failed to foresee, Dragonkin. But that’s to be expected when one drinks too often from a poison well.”

  Chorlga sneered. “You refer to Namundvar’s Well as poison now? Interesting.”

  “All things can be poison, if they’re misused. The same goes for the Light.” El’rash’lin gave Chorlga a piteous look. “I know. We used the Well, thinking it would give us enough power to keep all the Shel’ai safe. Instead, it drove Iventine mad and nearly did the same to the rest of us.” He glanced at the silent figure again, who was still rocking himself incessantly.

  Chorlga laughed. “Of course it didn’t work, you fool. You’re a Shel’ai. I am a Dragonkin. My cup is deeper than yours.”

  El’rash’lin gave Chorlga a sad smile. “But you’ve still drunk too much.” El’rash’lin gathered his tattered cloak and sat down, cross-legged, on the plains. He gestured for Chorlga to do the same. When the Dragonkin did not, El’rash’lin said, “The Well didn’t just corrupt my good looks or muck up poor Iventine’s mind. It showed us something we aren’t supposed to see.” He paused. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Chorlga’s fists clenched. Wytchfire leaked between his fingers. “Did you come here to talk metaphysics or to fight?”

  “I admit, neither sounds appealing.” El’rash’lin sighed. “There is a reason why the Light does not reveal itself to us, the same way it did to the dragons. That feeling of peace and calm, of unity with something higher… then losing that… is more than our kind can handle.”

  “Our kind?”

  El’rash’lin continued without acknowledging Chorlga’s response. “Namundvar’s Well wasn’t built to satisfy your thirst for power. It wasn’t made to look without. It was made to look within. That’s the mistake we Shel’ai made.” He paused. “My mistake. In that, I suppose I am not so different from my Dragonkin forebears.”

  The Nightmare whimpered suddenly, startling them, though his expression remained unchanged. El’rash’lin gave the kneeling man a piteous look then faced Chorlga. The look did not disappear.

  “If we’re not careful, we end up mistaking peace for power, then pursuing power at the expense of everything else. That’s what happened to you, isn’t it?”

  When Chorlga did not answer, El’rash’lin took a step toward him. “I cannot even begin to fathom how lonely you’ve been. So many centuries, trapped on this continent with people you view as litt
le more than animals—”

  “You are animals!” Plumes of wytchfire writhed between Chorlga’s fingers again. “Do you think the Dragonkin ruled without help? For every Human, Sylv, and Dwarr who fought us, six more were willing to betray their own kind, just to earn our favor. I’ve seen fathers offer up daughters. I’ve seen children stab parents in their sleep. Is this the world you’re trying to protect?” Chorlga continued before El’rash’lin could answer. “At least under Dragonkin rule, there was order. No one died of starvation. No plagues. Even our slaves received a measure of justice.”

  El’rash’lin’s twisted lips formed a sneer of their own. “Please tell me more about Dragonkin justice.”

  Chorlga took a deep breath and let it go. “We both know you aren’t strong enough to oppose me. I haven’t killed you yet because I sense a secret you’ve walled up in your mind. Are you going to tell me, or should I reduce that to ash when I do the same to your bones?”

  El’rash’lin did not speak. Then, in a voice suddenly heavy with grief, he said, “Silwren is dead. Only it was not the Sylvan king who killed her.” El’rash’lin’s grief became derision. “Before she died, she rekindled Knightswrath. She entrusted the blade to an Isle Knight, one of an order descended from Fâyu Jinn himself. She died so that he might have the power to destroy you… just as Nâya sacrificed herself, all those centuries ago.” El’rash’lin rose to his feet. “And you didn’t foresee any of this… did you, Dragonkin?”

  El’rash’lin took a step forward. Chorlga stepped back.

  “You didn’t think Silwren would find Knightswrath in time or that she wouldn’t have the courage to act. That there weren’t any Isle Knights left who could use it, anyway. But you were wrong. The Light chose someone. And he’s coming for you. If I were you, I’d run.”