A wild grin spread across the Olg’s taut, gray face. The Shel’ai had proven to be weak allies. The invasion of the Wytchforest had failed. But he imagined rallying the Olgrym a second time—only this time, with terrible magic of his own. He saw himself wading into battle with flaming hands, screaming in pain and triumph as whole legions withered before him.
One of Doomsayer’s warriors stepped forward. Doomsayer hefted his mace again, but the warrior bowed. “Great One, we serve your fury. But how will we catch this Human?”
Doomsayer considered this. At first, he had thought it a blessing from the gods when the Human was spotted outside Shaffrilon, virtually alone. Somehow, though, he’d managed to get clear of the forest before Doomsayer’s warriors could encircle him. Now, the Human was riding north, pressing hard toward the borders of Dhargoth. Doomsayer could not fathom why, nor did he care. He knew only that if he did not catch this Human before the Dhargots did, he might very lose his prize to those small men who painted their eyes and rode elephants to prove their courage.
“We run,” he said finally. “Horses are weak. Men are weak. We are not. We do not sleep. We do not eat. While they sleep, we draw closer.” He pointed northeast with his mace. “We do not stop until we taste blood. Let all who fail be forgotten.”
He waited until his warriors nodded. Then, squinting in the rising sun, he began to run. The earth trembled as his warriors fell in behind him.
Rowen and the Sylvan fighters rode quickly from the burnt-out fort of Que’ahl, pressing their horses as hard as they could. With one more rider than they had horses, they rotated frequently to distribute the burden. Rowen glanced over his shoulder many times, heartened by the absence of pursuers. Finally, early in the afternoon, he reined in Snowdark.
“Let the horses rest.” Before anyone could argue, he turned to Rhos’ari. “Sergeant, I want you, Faeli, and Aerios to scout around on foot.” He eyed a copse of trees in the distance. Though it looked too small to conceal a force of Olgrym, he thought he’d seen a wisp of smoke rising from the trees. “Might be a sellsword or two camping there. If they’re no threat, leave them alone.” He pointed westward, toward the gray, rocky horizon. “Cathas, do me a favor and make sure a whole damn army of Olgrym don’t come charging out of Godsfall while I’m not looking.”
He dismounted and turned his back, signaling an end to the conversation.
Kilisti quietly took the reins of the other Sylvs’ horses. Instead of arguing, as Rowen had expected, she went to work caring for the horses while he did the same for Snowdark. When he was finished, he assisted her, which she did not acknowledge. Cathas stood watch, steady despite his bandaged leg, as the others fit arrows to their bowstrings and went to examine the copse of trees.
When the horses had been tended, Rowen considered dining on some of the bland but adequate rations they carried in their saddlebags. He took out the scroll that Silwren had given him, but this was not the proper time or place for reading it.
Kilisti paused and looked over her horse brush. “Are you going to read that or just stare at it?”
“No need. I didn’t have much to do while I was under house arrest in Shaffrilon, so I must have read the damn thing a thousand times.”
“What’s it about?”
“The founding of the Knighthood and the end of the Shattering War.” He hesitated. “And Knightswrath. How and why they made it.”
Kilisti paused then went back to brushing. “Nâya sacrificed herself so that Jinn would have a way to fight the Dragonkin.” She glanced up and smirked. “Sylvs are better than Humans when it comes to remembering things that matter. Funny that we’d know more about your precious Order than you do.”
Rowen bristled, though he had to admit that Kilisti was right. Isle Knights still told stories about Fâyu Jinn, but none of them mentioned Nâya, the Dragonkin he loved. Likewise, they made no mention of Knightswrath. Rowen had speculated that when the sword became tarnished—for its powers were tied to the honor of the Knighthood—the Knights had tried to erase all mention of it. He thought of the small silver dragon inlaid in the blade next to the sword’s name. Once, he had taken that to be the mark of the sword’s maker. He wondered now if that symbol represented Nâya. Then he thought of an insult of his own. “And strange, Sylv, how a people who remember Nâya’s sacrifice still justify the killing of any infant born with white eyes.”
Rowen wondered if he’d gone too far, but Kilisti kept brushing. “I had a sister,” she said after a moment. “Her name was Shi’as. I found her in the forest when I was coming back from that Dhargothi compound. The Sorcerer-General had left that big sword of his in her corpse, left her there like she was nothing.”
She spoke so flatly that it took Rowen a moment to register what she was saying.
“From what I hear, the Shel’ai captured some Knights from your Order,” Kilisti continued. “Forced them to switch sides, to swear an oath they couldn’t break. Your brother was one of them. They made you kill him.”
Rowen considered throwing the scroll casing at Kilisti’s face. Instead, he returned the scroll to his saddlebag. “Enough.” He turned his back on her and stroked Snowdark’s neck. The horse pricked up her ears, sensing his building rage. Rowen saw Cathas watching, too, his expression taut.
“I guess that means I owe you for killing Fadarah,” Kilisti said from behind him, “though really, I’d rather you’d left him for me.”
“He would have killed you in a second.”
“You think so?”
Rowen turned. He looked her up and down. “Yes.”
“Well, I don’t have a burning sword to help me… but given how that thing muddled your brains, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”
Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. “I’ve had enough of your goading, Sylv. What say you take a walk?”
With deliberate slowness, Kilisti stowed the horse brush in a saddlebag, patted the final horse’s neck, then sidestepped and crossed her arms. “Or what, Knight? You’ll deny my rations? Or you’ll tell Captain Briel that I took time out of the war to hurt your feelings?”
Rowen forced a cold smile. Releasing Snowdark’s reins, he stalked toward Kilisti until he stood right in front of her, his face hovering inches above hers. He flexed one gauntleted fist and considered striking her. He was being tested, and that would have been the appropriate response for an insubordinate soldier. But Rowen chafed at the idea of striking a woman.
Meanwhile, Kilisti uncrossed her arms but did not blink or waver. A mocking smile spread across her scarred face. “What’s the matter, Knight? Lost your nerve?”
Rowen remembered how Igrid had goaded him similarly. He took a deep breath and released it. Then he answered Kilisti’s smile with one of his own. “If it pleases you to mock me, Sylv, go right ahead. I’m past willing to duel with allies over insults to my honor.”
“Oh, are we allies now?”
“Your king doesn’t think so,” Rowen admitted. “Neither do half your people, probably. But I don’t care about that. I’m riding north to stop the Dhargots. If you want to help, I’m sure we’ll find plenty of men you’ll enjoy killing more than me.”
Kilisti started to laugh. “We’ll see,” she muttered, and turned away. Rowen stepped back. He saw that Cathas had been coming to separate them then seemed to have thought better of it. Rowen returned to Snowdark. He pretended to rummage through his saddlebags so that he could give his hands time to stop shaking.
A few moments later, he heard Cathas swearing in Sylvan. Rowen turned, hand on his sword. Rhos’ari, Aerios, and Faeli were returning from their scouting mission, their expressions taut. All had their swords drawn. Aerios was leading a horse, while the others escorted a prisoner. The man was Human, with a dirty face and torn leather armor. But the braided goatee and smeared paint around his eyes were unmistakable. Despite his predicament,
the Dhargot was grinning.
Rowen met them halfway.
“A deserter,” Rhos’ari said. “Says he’s on the way to Quorim. He was alone.” He handed Rowen the Dhargot’s weapons: a shortsword and a dagger, both with matching horse heads carved into the hilts. Rowen noted the necklace hanging around the Dhargot’s neck. He counted three pairs of ears strung to the necklace. One pair looked small, like a child’s.
Before Rowen could speak, the Dhargot gave a low whistle. “A red-haired Isle Knight, traveling in strange company. Not a common sight on the Simurgh Plains.” His grin broadened. “You must be the one who killed Jaanti. My prince was looking for you.”
For a moment, Rowen was speechless. “Who is your prince?”
“Ziraari.” The Dhargot turned and spat on the ground. “Dead now. Shel’ai killed him.”
Kilisti took a step forward, a drawn shortsword in hand. “What are you doing here?”
The Dhargot looked at her. His eyes widened at the sight of her scarred face. “Being prettier than you, it seems.”
Faeli kicked the back of the Dhargot’s leg, driving the man to his knees. The man grunted but did not stop grinning. Faeli tapped the tip of his sword against the Dhargot’s cheek. “Answer her.”
“Gladly,” the Dhargot said. “Running for my life! Most of Ziraari’s men are flocking to Karhaati, getting ready to fight Lyos or Ivairia… whichever he picks first.” He made a curious sign and spat on the ground again.
Rowen committed the names to memory. He’d never heard them before, but he knew enough about Dhargots to remember stories about the assassinations and rivalries common among their princes and officers. “And why aren’t you with them?”
The Dhargot puffed up his chest. “Braanti is first archer on an elephant. That’s a rank of honor. But Karhaati will give Ziraari’s beasts to his own men. I won’t start on foot again, least of all there.”
Kilisti snickered. “Too afraid to fight on equal ground?”
The Dhargot gave her a cold look. “Braanti serves the Dragongod. Braanti loves fighting. But Braanti is no fool. Men have seen the Nightmare in that direction. Only fools fight where demons live.”
Rowen frowned. “You should pay less heed to drunken rumors. The Nightmare is dead.”
“The princes said that, too. Then, one night, we hear it scream, see it set the plains on fire. Fire shows for miles.”
Rowen thought back to the Battle of Lyos, when El’rash’lin and the Nightmare had destroyed each other. There had been no bodies, but Silwren had sworn she’d felt El’rash’lin die. Later, at Rowen’s insistence, she’d entered a trance, trying to feel the Nightmare’s presence. She’d emerged from the trance certain that the Nightmare was dead, too.
Could she have been wrong? Or is he describing Chorlga? Rowen gave the Dhargot a hard look. Or is he simply lying?
Rowen tapped Knightswrath’s hilt. A Shel’ai would have been able to pry into the Dhargot’s mind and know whether or not he was telling the truth. Rowen was no Shel’ai, but there was still a way. His pulse quickened as he remembered the rush of intoxication he’d felt when he called upon the sword’s power to kill that Olg. He willed the adamune to let him know whether or not the Dhargot was telling the truth. He did not know if it would work with the blade still sheathed. But a moment later, he jerked as memories that were not his own tumbled into his mind. His vision blurred, as though he were momentarily seeing the world through two pairs of eyes at once.
He reeled, almost losing his balance. One of the Sylvs caught him, but Rowen pulled away. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Rowen found everyone staring at him.
The Dhargot looked somewhere between bemused and frightened. “Maybe you’re as mad as the Nightmare. Maybe I should have gone to Karhaati after all.”
Ignoring the Dhargot, Rowen turned to Rhos’ari. “He’s telling the truth… or thinks he is, at least. Let him go.”
The Sylvan sergeant’s eyes widened. “But, Knight—”
Faeli grabbed the Dhargot’s long hair and jerked his head back. “No way we’re setting him free.”
Rowen scowled. He faced Faeli and gave an appropriate answer in Sylvan.
Taking his cue, Rhos’ari interjected in Sylvan, too. “Knight, I think Faeli means to say that the Dhargots are our enemies. They allied with Fadarah for a time. They have taken our people captive. They have threatened your people, too. You came to Sylvos to secure an alliance against them. Besides, we need his horse. Why—”
Rowen waved him off. He gave Braanti a hard look. Thanks to Knightswrath’s magic, he knew what kind of man he was dealing with. Still, he’d been disarmed. They could not afford to haul a prisoner with him, and the Codex Viticus strictly forbade the execution of prisoners.
He’s no threat to us. If I let him go, he’ll be back in Dhargoth in a few days. But what will he do after that?
Rowen eyed Braanti’s necklace of ears. “Let him go,” he repeated in Sylvan. He gave Faeli a hard look. Finally, the Sylv cursed and stepped back, shaking his head. Rowen held up Braanti’s weapons. Then he took three steps away and dropped them on the grass.
The Sylvs exchanged looks. Braanti knelt a moment longer then scooped up his weapons. He sheathed his dagger but kept his sword in hand. “My thanks, Knight. I hope you die well.”
“I hope I do, too,” Rowen said. “Are you ready?”
The Dhargot blinked, confused.
Rowen drew Knightswrath and leapt forward. The Dhargot’s eyes widened. He managed to block Rowen’s first swing then his second. The Dhargot backpedaled, trying to draw his dagger with his free hand. Rowen slowed, giving him time. Then he charged. They locked swords. Rowen held then twisted sideways. He kicked the Dhargot’s knee, cut the dagger out of his hand, then sliced the head off his shoulders. Braanti fell before he could make a sound.
Rowen took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then stooped and wiped his sword clean on the Dhargot’s corpse. The smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. A familiar pang of guilt swept through him. As he stood, he muttered a prayer in Shao. He saluted with his blade before sheathing it. When he turned, the Sylvs were regarding him coolly.
Kilisti said, “No flames this time?”
“Didn’t think I’d need them.”
Kilisti snickered. “How honorable. But would you have done that if you didn’t think you could take him?”
Rowen wondered the same thing as he headed back toward Snowdark. “Let’s get out of here. Faeli, take the Dhargot’s horse. He may have been trash, but his people know how to train horses. She’ll obey. Just guide her easy with your heels at first.”
Faeli answered with a gruff, begrudging nod.
Sergeant Rhos’ari cleared his throat. “Should we bury the Dhargot?”
Rowen shook his head. “If anybody’s following us, let him serve as a warning. If not, he can feed the crows.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alliances and Distractions
Jalist hoped the long walk from the tavern to the palace would help clear his head. But in the three days since the Jolym’s attack, the streets of Lyos had not calmed. Citizens still roiled with panic, and what remained of the Red Watch had to patrol the city streets just to maintain order. Jalist remembered Rowen saying that in the wake of Silwren’s appearance in the Dark Quarter, mingling with the approach of Fadarah’s Throng, the Lyosi—normally so proper, even haughty—had actually rioted.
“That’s what comes from too many years of soft living,” he muttered. He lifted a wineskin to his lips. When he slowed to drink, one of the guards shoved him, causing him to spill on his tunic. He growled a Dwarrish insult to the man’s parentage.
“Keep moving, sir,” pleaded the officer tasked with bringing him back to the palace. The young man looked as nervous around Jalist as he did around the crowds. Jal
ist felt sympathy for the boy as he wiped his tunic.
“What’s the hurry? Last I heard, I wasn’t under arrest. If the king wants to talk, he can wait.”
The officer ordered the three men of the Red Watch he was commanding—none older than he—to walk ahead and clear a path through the streets. Jalist watched them, shaking his head. A moment later, a pickpocket pretended to collide with the officer then plucked a jeweled dagger from his belt, all whilst furiously bowing and muttering apologies. Despite his drunkenness, Jalist intercepted the pickpocket, retrieved the dagger, and sent the man on with a shove. He returned the dagger to the officer, who accepted it with wide eyes.
“I don’t suppose I can stop and change first.” Jalist inspected his tunic as he took another drink. “I know the wine matches the color, but I like to look my best when I chat with royalty.”
The officer reached out and snatched Jalist’s wineskin. He threw it on the ground, grabbed Jalist’s arm, and pushed him onward. Jalist resisted the impulse to break the young officer’s arm. “Easy, lad. I’m not your enemy. In fact, I seem to remember something about killing a few of your enemies—if killing Jolym can be called killing, since I’m not sure the bastards count as alive.”
Jalist allowed himself to be prodded along but took the jeweled dagger from the officer’s belt as payment for the wineskin. “Any notion what your king wants to talk to me about?”
The officer scowled, though Jalist could not tell whether it was in answer to his question or a passing flesh trader who appeared to know him and called him sweetly by name. “Probably this morning’s council meaning, which you missed.”
“I knew I was forgetting something.” Jalist rubbed his eyes then perked up at the sight of another tavern, with a gigantic terrace and a multitude of young, pretty servers wearing bright sarongs. A sign proclaimed the tavern’s name, but all he could make out was the name of the god, Dyoni; the rest of the sign was obscured by a soft-eyed young man who caught Jalist’s eye and smiled.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 18