“We’re ready for them.”
The officers standing nearby, all Knights of the Lotus, must have thought he was trying to reassure them. Several bowed in agreement. Others recited oaths in Shao. Bokuden smothered a grin, wondering if he looked as scared and unconvinced as they did.
The Grand Marshal directed his gaze back to Saikaido Temple’s defenses. Everything was in place. Beyond pit traps dug along the beach, hundreds of Isle Knights waited with spears. Higher along the shore, hundreds more stood armed with longbows. All had strict orders: aim for the eyes. Anything less was a waste of effort.
A reserve force of a thousand squires was prepared to make short work of any Jolym that fell into the pits. The squires were also set to attack any Jolym that avoided the pits and the Knights. They had been given coils of rope fitted to metal hooks. Once the Jolym had been caught, they would be tethered to horses and dragged on their backs round and round the island, until the Knights could finish them off.
Bokuden permitted himself a thin smile.
The Jolym had already annihilated two smaller islands and massacred an entire garrison of Isle Knights and squires that had been caught unaware. The Jolym had simply walked out of the sea by the hundreds, dripping in water, as quiet as death, and swept like a scythe through one Isle village after another. But no more. Word of the Jolym’s weakness had reached them from Lyos—nearly as strange a message as the one Bokuden had received weeks earlier, supposedly from the Wytchforest, warning that a Dragonkin had returned to Ruun.
Bokuden had ignored the message about the Dragonkin at first, thinking it must be someone’s idea of a jest—especially since it mentioned the name of Rowen Locke—but he’d reexamined it after receiving the message from Lyos. Then he’d tested the advice sent by the Lyosi by sending out a squad of his best archers. The archers reported that the Jolym dropped stone dead when shot through the eyes, though such a shot was profoundly difficult for even the most skilled of archers.
It would be even more difficult with the Jolym’s entire force surging up the beach, but Isle Knights were trained to stay calm in battle, to control their passions, and aim true. Besides, numbers were on their side. Bokuden had called in the garrisons from every temple throughout the Isles. Practically the entire Knighthood was gathered before him. For every Jol that shambled up the beach, forty Knights and squires waited to kill it.
Everyone will want to be able to say afterward that they killed a Jol single-handed. Bokuden smiled again. Let them. So long as the Isles are safe, they can be as vainglorious as they damn well please.
He wondered if Aeko Shingawa would agree with that sentiment. He had already dispatched a messenger raven to give her word of what had happened, though he wondered if she would believe it. She and the other Knights might not have heard about the Jolym yet. In her place, Bokuden might very well have dismissed word of the Jolym as the ravings of a senile Knight.
Bokuden smiled. He wondered how the newly minted Knight of the Lotus was faring, especially in the presence of Crovis Ammerhel. Bokuden had to admit that he would have felt better if she were with him. Even Crovis—admittedly, as fearless as he was arrogant—would have been welcome. But finding Rowen Locke was more important, especially if Jolym were walking the earth for the first time in nearly a thousand years.
By the Light, where did these damn things come from?
He’d heard terrible stories of Shel’ai magic, but Fadarah and the rest were supposed to be in the west, fighting for control of the Wytchforest. Legend had it that the Dragonkin possessed the power to make Jolym… but thanks to the Dragonward, all of those ancient, cruel sorcerers had been exiled from Ruun.
The Grand Marshal shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He surveyed the rows of armored Knights and horses massed below. Then one of the younger Knights to his right cried out and pointed. Bokuden’s heart leapt in his throat. He followed the Knight’s gesture and saw a broad glint of steel, rising slowly from the misty water.
Cranes and seagulls scattered. Someone blew a horn, sounding the alarm. Another followed, then another. A great, restless murmur swept through the Knights’ ranks. Well-trained war horses shifted and screamed; some even threw their riders, as though they could sense what was coming.
Bokuden clapped a shaking hand around his sword hilt. “Steady, men,” he shouted down the temple steps. A few Knights turned to look back at him. Bokuden fixed a grizzled snarl to his face. He had intended to remain at the top of the steps with his officers so that he could monitor the battle and coordinate troop movements with horns and signal flags. Now, though, something called him down, urging him to join his Knights.
He hesitated then drew his sword. The curved blade gleamed wickedly in the rising sunlight. “All right, lads,” he called out to his officers. “Why should these young Knights get all the fun?”
He started down the steps. A few of his officers laughed. All drew swords and fell in around him. Meanwhile, a few of the Knights on the temple steps turned around again and saw the Grand Marshal’s approach. Someone began to chant Bokuden’s name. Others took up the chant. By the time Bokuden had descended a hundred steps, the entire army had joined in the chant.
Bokuden grinned. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he did not feel old. All the aches and pains had disappeared. His sword felt lighter. His footsteps quickened. He raised his sword into the air and shouted his battle cry. Others took up the shout. Blood pounded in his ears. He wished he could launch himself into the air like a dragon, fly over his entire army and face the Jolym himself.
Then someone grabbed his arm. A Knight shouted in his ear, but Bokuden still could not hear him over the din. He pulled away with a rush of irritation, then his eyes followed the Knight’s gesture.
The Jolym had stopped on the Burnished Way, spread out in a row, side by side, knee deep in the surf. For all their size and strength, they looked small, even pitiful from a distance.
“They’re afraid,” Bokuden cried. “See, lads? The iron bastards are afraid of us!”
Thousands upon thousands of Knights and squires erupted into a wild cheer. Many lost their composure and shouted taunts out at the sea, anxious to draw the Jolym into a fight. Others bashed their swords against their armor. The crashing sound spread across the ranks, from one end of the beach to the other.
Still, the Jolym did not move.
Bokuden bashed the flat of his sword against his cuirass, adding his own challenge to the din. As he did so, though, he wondered what they would do if the Jolym refused to fight. Marching his Knights around their own pit-traps and sending them into the surf to do battle would have been foolish. But he could not let the Jolym go, either.
No, once he’d destroyed the abominations before him, he would march westward and hunt down the others that had threatened Lyos as well. And if the Dhargots objected to his presence on the mainland, they could meet him on the battlefield, too.
By the Light, I may just take this army all the way to the Wytchforest!
Then, to his right, a Knight of the Lotus fell forward and tumbled down the temple steps before Bokuden could catch him. Bokuden thought the man had simply lost his footing. Then another Knight, on his left, fell. A third Knight staggered. Bokuden dropped his sword and grabbed the man. He was too heavy to hold up, but Bokuden managed to lower him to the steps. The man bore no wounds that Bokuden could see, but his eyes were wide and lifeless.
Bokuden retrieved his sword and spun around. Three Knights still stood with him. Confused, they turned, too. Then, one by one, they fell. Bokuden still heard thousands of Knights and squires shouting and chanting behind him, oblivious to what was happening. But for the moment, the Grand Marshal stood alone.
His eyes fixed on two cloaked, hooded figures descending the temple steps. One stumbled as though dazed, but the other strode with slow, chilling purpose. When onl
y ten steps separated them, they stopped. The taller figure regarded Bokuden, then swept back his hood. Haughty, Sylvan features shown in the morning light.
Bokuden tightened his grip on his sword and stared into the other man’s violet eyes. “Are you Fadarah?”
The other man sneered. “You mistake the stray dog for the hungry greatwolf.” He took another step. “So this is Jinn’s legacy.” He looked around, smiling. “How kind of you to gather all your mighty Knights in one place.” His mist-white pupils fixed on Bokuden, unblinking.
Bokuden did not answer. He thought of the message from the Wytchforest. Chorlga… Then he heard shouts of a different sort coming from the Knights behind him. They’d seen the danger their Grand Marshal was in. Dozens raced up the temple steps, swords drawn. But Bokuden knew they would never make it.
With his free hand, he touched the notches carved into his scabbard again. “Singchai ushó fey,” he said. He raised his sword and saluted.
The Dragonkin snickered. “Fine words, Human. Here is my response.” He moved behind the man crouched next to him and touched his shoulder. The man jerked then straightened and threw off his cloak. Cold, mad eyes fixed on Bokuden. Wytchfire unfurled from the man’s hands, his eyes, and even his nostrils.
Bokuden shouted with defiance and forced himself to charge up the steps. Steel glinted in his fist. His armor flashed. He made it halfway before the flames washed over him.
Chorlga surveyed the destruction before him. Burnt flesh and blackened steel littered the ground amid heaps of ash and piles of discarded weapons. The moaning had stopped. The wounded had either succumbed to their injuries or crawled to safety. All the cranes and seagulls had flown away. The only sounds came from the rolling surf and the labored breathing of the cloaked form lying at his feet.
I should be happy…
Chorlga scowled down at the Nightmare. Though he knew it was too late, he wondered if he should try to do more to help him. The Nightmare’s wytchfire had burned up whole squads of men like dry leaves, shredding the great army that had tried to clamber up the temple steps and avenge their slain Grand Marshal.
But even the Nightmare was not inexhaustible. As the young man’s strength waned, a few arrows had weathered the firestorm and made it through. The Nightmare had been struck three times. That, plus his near-fatal level of exhaustion, made Chorlga wondered how the young madman was still alive.
Perhaps I should drain him, devour what’s left of his essence, the way my ancestors fed off dragons. He shook his head. There were laws—a Dragonkin did not absorb the energies of another Dragonkin. True, the Nightmare had been born a Shel’ai, but the line had to be drawn somewhere. Besides, he risked imbibing the Nightmare’s madness along with his remaining power. He remembered the bitter taste left after he’d absorbed the life force of the dragonpriests at Cadavash.
Chorlga lifted his gaze to the ruined temple. His Jolym had just finished scouring the island, killing all they could and scattering the rest. Soon, he would send them west, back to Cadavash. Meanwhile, the Jolym he’d withdrawn from Lyos had been diverted south, toward Atheion. He had no intention of damaging the famous Scrollhouse, of course, but nothing else about the City-on-the-Sea interested him. He would destroy a good portion of it then give its citizens the option of servitude. He had no doubt they would take it. Dwarrs and Isle Knights might not surrender, but they were the exceptions to the rule—and easily disposed of.
Well, perhaps not easily.
Though Chorlga had intended to use the Nightmare as both weapon and shield, he’d underestimated the Isle Knights. So many arrows and spears had swept in, and so quickly, that his wytchfire could not burn away them all. Two arrows had struck Chorlga—one in the leg, the other in the chest. Though the wounds might not have been mortal, Chorlga had taken no chances. Stretching out his mind, he’d stolen back the life from half a dozen Jolym, instantly healing himself.
But that was too close. I must never underestimate my enemies again.
Chorlga looked down at the Nightmare. The young man’s eyes were as wide as coins and wet with terror. Chorlga shuddered and looked away.
“Now I know why Fadarah never used you against the Sylvs,” Chorlga told the prone figure. “Hard to control, harder still to focus. What is it the Dwarrs say about a greatwolf in a pewter shop?” He watched smoke rise in great, gray plumes off the temple summit. “No matter.”
He turned his back on the Nightmare and was about to walk away when he heard a moan. He turned back.
The Nightmare was looking at him. Though terrified, he looked almost sane. The young man tried to sit up. “Silwren,” he gasped again. “Where… where is…”
Chorlga recovered from his surprise and knelt in front of the young man. He met the Nightmare’s gaze. “Dead. You killed her,” he lied.
The Nightmare’s eyes widened. “No…” He shook his head. “Don’t remember…” He looked around. “Father?”
Chorlga smothered a grin. “Fadarah’s dead, too. So is El’rash’lin. All of them are dead. You killed them all.” He paused. “Don’t you remember?”
Aghast, the Nightmare trembled. Then, as though noticing them for the first time, he touched the arrows in his body. With damp eyes, he looked to Chorlga for help. One bloodied hand reached out. Chorlga pulled back, and the Nightmare whimpered. Chorlga stared a moment longer, then he took the Nightmare’s hand.
“Are you afraid?”
The Nightmare did not answer.
Chorlga watched the Nightmare struggle for breath. He felt a curious stinging in his eyes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Nightmare jerked and went still. Chorlga stared. Then, pulling his hand away, he stood and walked back toward the sea.
The old man woke in the dark. Cold from the stone beneath him seeped through the fabric of a tattered cloak that seemed as much a part of him as his skin. He blinked, wondering if he’d gone blind. His throat tightened. He could not remember how to breathe.
Then he took a breath. Raw pain filled him, twisting like fire through all his extremities. He wept. Groping in the dark, he felt a curved stone structure just in front of him. He slumped heavily against it.
Who am I?
For a moment, he did not move. Then he took another breath and let it go. It did not hurt as badly as his previous attempt. Slowly, he nodded. “El’rash’lin,” he gasped. “My name… is El’rash’lin…”
He clawed the stone well in front of him. He tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him. Slumping back to the floor, he wept. “Silwren… Gods… please help me…”
The chamber echoed with the sound of El’rash’lin’s labored breathing. Then a flash of light caught his eye. El’rash’lin turned and found himself staring into the stone well as the light grew in intensity. El’rash’lin stopped shaking. His breathing slowed.
Calmly, he tipped his head to listen. After a long time, he nodded. “I understand.”
The light dimmed. El’rash’lin took another deep breath. He braced himself against the stone wall. With great effort, he pushed himself up. He waved his hand, and his palm exhaled a weak, fluttering sphere of light. The light illuminated an ancient stairwell across the chamber.
El’rash’lin stared at the stairwell obscured by shadow. The sight of it terrified him. He thought of all he had to do. Momentarily overwhelmed, he nearly wept again. Then he shook his head. He took a step, then another.
As he approached the stairwell, the flickering sphere moved with him. The shadows retreated. El’rash’lin reached the stairwell. “Gods, must I do this again? How many times?” Gasping, he paused, pressing his wrinkled hands against cold stone. Then he began to climb again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
No Flames
With modest effort, Doomsayer wrenched his mace from the skull of the Olg at his feet. Sunrise mingled with blood. Do
omsayer lifted his shaggy head, turning slowly from side to side. The motion caused the rodent skulls braided in his hair to clatter, making the only sound besides the faint trickle of blood.
“Who else challenges for chieftain?”
Fifty Olgrym stood before him. Some wore mismatched armor and thick coats of ash on their palms. A few wore vests of crude fur sewn with shards of bone. But most—the Felmauls, the last of his clan—were naked, save for a crust of dried blood that had been painted onto their flesh, along with other, even more unsavory substances.
“Who else challenges?” he repeated. He raised his mace. Blood ran down its shaft and twisted down his wrist. Doomsayer swept his gaze over the warriors of his dwindling host, giving each man a chance to meet his gaze. All looked away. Despite his scowl, Doomsayer was glad. He had lost so many warriors that he did not relish the thought of killing still more of them just to prove a point.
“Now,” he began slowly, “we go on like I said before. We hunt the man with the burning sword. We hunt his magic. We take it for ourselves.”
Doubt flickered in his warriors’ eyes. Many of them wanted to return to the Wytchforest and continue fighting the Sylvs. After all, both the Wyldkin and the Shal’tiar had been all but annihilated. The forest lay open for the first time in centuries. Doomsayer understood this. He had become chieftain of the strongest clan in part because his hatred for the Sylvs burned brighter than any other Olg’s. But things had changed.
Doomsayer thought once again of that sea of violet flames, how the pitiful Human with his burning sword had cut down the mighty Fadarah, and how the very air had seemed to crackle with power. How could he go back to petty skirmishes after that?
But there will be a price. All of our brothers still fighting in the Wytchforest will say we abandoned them. They’ll turn on us. We will not be able to go back to Godsfall… unless we win.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 17