Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “Listen, lad, if the meeting’s over anyway, how about—”

  Before he could finish, the officer shouted at his men, chastising them for being too rough as they tried to clear a path through the streets. A moment later, the officer himself almost backhanded a merchant who strode up to offer an angry protest. Jalist changed tactics. He strode well ahead of the officer and his men so that they had to struggle to keep up. By the time they reached the palace, the poor officer had gone from anxious to livid. But the sight of at least fifty clerics to the various gods and goddesses descending the temple steps prevented him from berating Jalist.

  “The king wanted to see you while he was still meeting with the clerics,” the officer said, aghast. “Best you go in before things get any worse.”

  Jalist inspected his wine-stained tunic again but did not argue.

  The officer turned him over to a pair of palace guards, who led him in. Neither spoke. Both seemed as tense as the clerics that Jalist had passed on the steps. The Dwarr had the odd feeling that he was being led to his own execution. But when they reached the great hall, the king stood and greeted Jalist with a terse smile.

  “Lord Hewn, how good of you to finally join us.” He dismissed the palace guards then gestured for Jalist to join him at a great oak council table. The table was empty except for a buxom, red-haired woman in a low-cut dress. She’d risen when the king had, but the look she gave Jalist was anything but friendly.

  Jalist looked around, surprised by how dark and empty the great hall appeared. In the distance, he could make out the shapes of gigantic statues of gods and goddesses, all cloaked in shadows. He thought he saw a flicker of movement near the statues but dismissed it, settling his gaze on Igrid. “I see you removed the bandages from your skull. I trust that was against the clerics’ warnings, though to be fair, it’s hard to seduce royalty when you have your head wrapped up in gauze.”

  Blushing, Igrid glanced at the king then opened her mouth to offer an icy retort.

  The king stopped her. “Lady Igrid is here at my invitation. I should add that, unlike you, she arrived on time.”

  “Good for her.” Jalist took the empty chair to the king’s left, belatedly reminding himself not to sit down until the king had sat first. Then he seized the gilded cup in front of him and filled it from a nearby pitcher. He look a long drink. The wine tasted sour but strong, better than what he’d been drinking at the tavern. He took a second drink, started to set the cup down, then thought better of it. After draining the rest, he refilled it.

  King Typherius’s smile thinned. “Slow down, Dwarr. I want you sober for this conversation.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re a few hours late, sire,” Jalist answered then took another drink.

  Igrid snorted with disgust.

  Jalist raised his cup, smiled at her, then faced the king again. “What can I do for you, m’lord?”

  “First things first,” the king said. His voice took on an edge. “Allow me to fill you in on what you missed from this morning’s meeting. I was discussing strategy with my captains—”

  “Was it a productive conversation?” Even though his cup was still half full, Jalist refilled it.

  “No, not really. Between my father’s murder last year, Captain Ferocles dying in the Battle of Lyos, and Captain Epheus and most of the veterans dying in… whatever men decide to call what happened last week, I’m suddenly the most experienced commander at the table.” The young king grinned sardonically. “Not an enviable position.”

  Jalist stared into his cup. “No, Sire, I wouldn’t imagine it is.”

  “Did you see the clerics when you were coming in?”

  Jalist nodded. “For scions of the gods, most of them didn’t look too happy.”

  “That’s because half of them still think magic comes from Fohl the Undergod, and what I’m about to do will damn all our souls to his numerous hells. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” The king handed Jalist a tiny rolled-up bit of parchment. “This arrived by raven a few weeks ago… supposedly from the Wytchforest. I thought it was a joke at first.”

  Jalist studied the script, realized the writing was too small, and pushed it aside. “What does it say?”

  “That a Dragonkin named Chorlga has declared war on Ruun. The warning comes from Rowen Locke.” Jalist’s eyes widened, but before he could answer, the king asked, “Have you heard what happened on the Isles?”

  Jalist started to take a drink but stopped himself. He nodded again.

  The king glanced at Igrid then turned back to Jalist. “Well, in case you haven’t heard it all, I’ll give you the short version. Grand Marshal Bokuden is dead. The flower of the Knighthood was massed at Saikaido when the Nightmare appeared. Those Knights who weren’t burnt up like scarecrows in a wildfire were mowed down by the Jolym or driven into the sea.” He leaned back in his chair. “By your expression, I’m guessing you know what that means.”

  Jalist shook his head. “Sire, my expression is that of a man who’s only drunk about half as much as he needs to. Don’t read more into it than that.”

  The king hesitated. “I’ve heard… what happened at Stillhammer. What you must have seen…”

  Jalist gave the king a look so icy that the monarch paled. Forcing a smile, Jalist said, “Thank you, Sire. I appreciate your kind words. Now, if we could get to why you summoned me here…” He hiccupped.

  “Did you hear what I said about the Nightmare?”

  Jalist started to refill his cup. “The Nightmare’s dead. We all saw it.”

  “So we did.” The king took the pitcher from Jalist and filled his own cup. “Only the descriptions are exactly the same. Also, a few of the Knights who got away say they saw someone else with the Nightmare. Someone who looked like a Shel’ai but couldn’t have been, considering what he did.” The king raised his cup but drank more slowly than Jalist had.

  Jalist shrugged. “One of Fadarah’s henchmen. Shade, probably.”

  “They’re all fighting in the west,” the king said. “There are rumors of some kind of Shel’ai stronghold in the north, somewhere on the Wintersea, but I don’t think that’s where the Nightmare came from. And I don’t think that’s where this… other one came from, either.”

  Jalist rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, he had a headache. “There were others. Other Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin. Initiates, they called them. Silwren was one. So was El’rash’lin. And the Nightmare. But there were more. When I was with the Throng, they kept them in a separate tent.”

  Typherius nodded. “I heard. Only they all died. Silwren said she killed them, by accident, when she woke. El’rash’lin and the Nightmare died outside Lyos.” The king paused. “There is something you should know, Dwarr. Before my father was killed, he was negotiating a trade alliance with your people. I continued the talks after his death. Both our peoples would have benefited. In another year or two, Lyos might even have been strong enough to shrug off the Isle Knights’ control. So, when I heard that the kingdom of the Dwarrs had been ravaged, I thought the Isle Knights might be responsible.”

  Jalist thought of Rowen Locke and wondered what he would have said to that, especially after so many Isle Knights had died fighting for Lyos.

  “But the Isle Knights can’t be responsible for the Jolym—or the Nightmare, for that matter,” the king continued. “That means someone else wanted to prevent an alliance between our kingdoms.”

  Jalist rubbed his eyes again. He was having a hard time understanding what the king was saying. “So the Nightmare came back from the dead. Plus, there’s a Dragonkin and an army of Jolym on the loose, tearing up the countryside, and they don’t want any of us joining together. Is that what you’re saying?”

  The king exchanged glances with Igrid. “I’m not sure I believe in the Dragonward. Everybody who’s been up north says they can’t see a damn
thing. My father thought it was real, though. He said the Dragonkin had been driven away. They could never pass through that barrier and set foot on Ruun again. So either the Dragonward doesn’t exist anymore… or it never existed… or—”

  “There’s been a Dragonkin hiding in Ruun all this time,” Igrid finished. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

  Jalist noted that, although her voice had taken on a hard edge, Igrid finished by giving the young king a coy look. If the king noticed, though, he gave no indication. Jalist looked around the great hall and spotted four old men standing by the far wall, their arms crossed. He’d mistaken them for servants, but now he thought they must be stewards or advisers of some kind, though the king had ordered them to remain quiet and keep their distance. Their disapproval was obvious. Are they mad about Igrid’s presence here or mine… or both? Jalist lifted his cup and nodded to them before he took a drink.

  The king said, “My scouts tell me that some of the Jolym marched back to Cadavash. The ones we drove off, that is. But the rest are still thrashing the Isles. When they’re done with the Knights, they’ll come here.”

  “I guess they will.” Jalist faced Igrid. “Well, Iron Sister, best gather all your coins and your pretty dresses and sleeve knives and move on. That’s what I’m going to do. Anybody dumb enough to stay here deserves what they get.”

  “Does that include me, Dwarr?” Before Jalist could answer, the king continued. “This city has suffered ten generations of extortion from the Isle Knights. Still, we didn’t run from Fadarah. We haven’t run from the Dhargots. We aren’t running now, either.”

  “Fine. Well said, m’lord.” Jalist raised his cup again. “To a noble death!”

  “Don’t mock me in my own hall, Dwarr.”

  Jalist blinked. “Apologies, Sire. But if you brought me here to buy my counsel, I’ll offer it to you for free: get out. The Knights may have robbed you blind, but they were still your protectors. Now, they’re gone. The Jolym will come back. So will… whatever else is out there. And if nothing else, the Dhargots are still massed at Cassica. You have too many enemies, and you’re out of friends. Either run or pick the lesser of evils and surrender.”

  Igrid gave him a look of disapproval. The stewards at the other end of the hall shook their heads in disgust. Jalist reached for the pitcher, but the king grabbed it first and moved it out of reach.

  “You’re wrong, Dwarr. I have one friend left. And you are going to find her for me.”

  Jalist set his cup down. “I’m what?”

  “I need Silwren. She’s the only one I know of who might be able to help us. But she’s in the Wytchforest with your friend, Rowen Locke. So I’m sending you to find her.” He glanced at Igrid. “I’m sending both of you. Lady Igrid has already agreed.”

  Jalist gave Igrid a hard look. The former Iron Sister’s expression was so dreadfully earnest that Jalist almost laughed. He wondered how much the king had offered her. “With respect, Sire, you should send someone else. Your new Captain of the Guard—”

  “I am sending my new Captain of the Guard,” the king interrupted. “I’m sending you.”

  Jalist was speechless. No wonder everybody looks so peeved. “I appreciate the offer, Sire, but I spoke in haste. The Captain of the Guard generally doesn’t leave his city on a fool’s errand on the eve of battle.”

  “No,” the king conceded, “but I’m out of ambassadors, and these are strange times. Besides, by making you my captain, I’m giving you a reason to come back… unless you want to be strangled for desertion.” The king drained his own cup, refilled it, then did the same for Jalist’s.

  Jalist touched the jeweled dagger in his belt as he studied the king. “Sire, I’m a sellsword. I fought with the Throng, for a time. The nobles of Lyos—”

  “Will do as I command, since they’re too terrified to leave their mansions without pissing themselves,” Typherius finished. He cast a sidelong glance at the old men across the room.

  “But the clerics—”

  “Mostly disapprove, which might concern me, if I could spare the energy to care.” The king snickered. “Some were open to the idea, but the clerics of Maelmohr in particular seem to think that Dwarrs are a lesser race, some form of demon, what with their gray skin and dark eyes. Ironic, since if memory serves, the Firegod is the one your race worships.”

  “Worship might be too strong a word for it.” Jalist drank. “Sire—”

  “Five hundred cranáfi now, another thousand when you bring Silwren back,” Typherius interrupted. “You and Lady Igrid can divide that between you, however you like. Somehow, I’ll find fifty men to act as your bodyguards. And when you come back, you have my word that each month, I’ll pay you twice what I paid the last two captains.”

  “You mean, the last two men who got themselves killed?”

  Typherius started to smile then snapped his fingers. Half a dozen palace guards melted out from behind the shadowed statues, stone faced, all holding crossbows. Jalist could tell by the look on Igrid’s face that she was as surprised as he was.

  The king cleared his throat. “And since I’m feeling about as desperate as I am blunt, if you say no one more time, or if either of you betray me, I’ll pay Fen-Shea whatever I’ve got left in the treasury to peel off your skin and bury you in a salt pile.” He took a long drink, set his cup down, and fixed his gaze on Jalist. “That clear enough, Dwarr?”

  Jalist forced himself to stop gripping the hilt of the jeweled dagger. “One death is as good as another these days, I suppose. Only there’s no sense pinning all your hopes on me. You’ve got to know I don’t have a prayer of making it past all those Dhargots swarming on the Simurgh Plains. And unless the Olgrym have been beaten, I doubt Locke will come back with me, anyway. He’s still trying to keep that sword of his out of the Knights’ hands.”

  Typherius shook his head. “Dwarr, right now, I couldn’t care less about one Isle Knight and his symbolic sword. I’m sending you after Silwren, not Locke. I need Silwren because she can turn armies into ash. If Locke wants to stay in the Wytchforest, let him.”

  Poor Locke. The more he tries, the less anyone gives a damn. “Fine, I’ll go.” Jalist glanced at Igrid. “But I’ll go alone. I’ll have a better chance of slipping through that way.”

  Igrid opened her mouth to protest, but the king spoke first. “No. Leave most of the soldiers, if you like, but I’m still sending two men to keep an eye on you. And this woman goes with you, too. She may be pretty, and I know she knows Locke and Silwren, but she’s cut a few too many purse strings for my liking.” The king stood up. “My quartermaster is expecting you. He’ll pay you and give you horses and whatever else you need. I don’t think I have to explain what will happen if you’re both still here at sundown.”

  Igrid managed to look so believably hurt and offended that Jalist laughed. But the king stood and walked away. His stewards hurried to follow. The crossbowmen congregated around the council table. Jalist stood up and toasted them. “Nicely done.” He set down his cup and started to walk away.

  Igrid followed. She grabbed his arm a moment later. Her green eyes flashed with rage. One hand held the king’s cup. She threw the remainder of its contents into Jalist’s face. Then, casting a sidelong glance at the crossbowmen following just a few paces behind them, she whispered, “You idiot, he would have paid us twice that.”

  Jalist wiped his face with his sleeve. “The good king can promise us all the coins in Ruun. That doesn’t mean either of us will live long enough to collect them.” He smirked. “Besides, Iron Sister, he’s paying me. Not you.”

  Igrid’s right hand blurred, plucking a stiletto seemingly out of thin air. She pressed it to Jalist’s throat. The crossbowmen tensed, but Jalist waved them back.

  Igrid leaned so close that Jalist could smell her perfume. “Dwarr, you can sleep with fleas and live off p
aupers’ root, if it pleases you. But by the time this war’s over, I mean to be a rich woman. Don’t get in the way of that again.” The stiletto disappeared. She smiled sweetly. “I’ll meet you at the front gates in half an hour.” She turned and walked ahead of him.

  Jalist followed more slowly. “Fine woman,” he grumbled. As he left the palace, blinking in the sun’s glare, he remembered the tavern he’d seen earlier. He considered stopping off there first, but the crossbowmen seemed to have other ideas.

  Aeko Shingawa reined in her horse and paused to stare at the broad, snow-flecked Noshan Valley. Somewhere to the south lay Atheion, the famed City-on-the-Sea. Though she had never been there, she’d heard stories about enormous skiffs of some magical design that pre-dated the Shattering War, on which the city’s marvelous stone buildings floated on water.

  She wondered if she should lead her Isle Knights south. The Simurgh Plains were still swarming with Dhargots, and Rowen could have passed through Atheion on his way to the Wytchforest. But Noshans were not known for their hospitality, and she doubted their king would be terribly excited to have one hundred foreign Knights riding toward his capital.

  Then again, an angry king might be preferable to dealing with the Nightmare.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she half expected to see the demon hurtling out of the northern sky, but she saw only blue clouds lording over distant, rolling hills. She wanted to believe that what she’d heard days ago had not been the same demon that had single-handedly torn through half the Free Cities and very nearly destroyed all of them at Lyos. But she trusted her own ears.