Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “I doubt that… though the fact that they don’t decorate their necks with dead men’s ears doesn’t hurt.”

  Saanji took a deep breath, held it, and forced himself out of his chair. He stumbled, clutching his belly, and fell against the table. Then he pushed off and reeled across the tent. Once he’d refilled his goblet, though, he managed to return to his chair without spilling a drop. “You know, before some fool started the Way of Ears, we Dhargots weren’t much different from anyone else.”

  Royce raised one eyebrow. “Given what I’ve seen, I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe what you want, Lancer. Seems to me that a few generations of plagues and famine will turn any kingdom into a den of monsters.”

  “Ivairia’s had its share of plagues. We don’t impale men on sharpened stakes or drag children’s guts out.”

  Saanji raised his goblet. “Bloody good for Ivairia!” He took a drink. “Maybe you just never had the kind of plagues that Dhargoth has.”

  “I hope we never do.” Royce gave him a critical look. “By the way, did you forget our agreement?”

  “What agreement?”

  “The one we made a week ago, after that close battle in the foothills.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

  Royce’s eyes narrowed. “You said you’d quit drinking and let me train you.”

  “Was I drunk when I agreed to that?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Well, there’s your answer.” Saanji raised his glass. “Trust me, Lancer, trying to teach me swordplay is a lost cause. My father and brothers tried for years.”

  “Something tells me I’m a better teacher.”

  “Well, gods know you couldn’t be a worse one.” Saanji laughed. “Seriously, Lancer, thank you, but save your breath. My weapon of choice is a fork. I piss the bed more nights than I don’t. The most violent thing I’ve ever done is hurl an empty pitcher at a portrait of my father, and even that had me shaking like a leaf in a storm.” He patted his great, round stomach. “Besides, do you really think I’ve got the build to be a fighter?”

  Royce shrugged. “You’ve got the will and the hate. And I think, somewhere down in there, the courage.”

  Saanji laughed. “Don’t mock me, Lancer. You know what my own men call me.”

  “Would these be the same men who risked impalement to follow you?”

  “People make mistakes.”

  Royce stood up so abruptly that Saanji wondered if the Lancer would strike him. Instead, Royce drew his kingsteel longsword and cast it on the table. “Know how I got that, Dhargot?”

  Saanji shrugged. “An expensive gift from your king?”

  Royce shook his head. “Isle Knights guard their precious kingsteel more jealously than a father guards his virgin daughter. You might be able to buy a sword made out of it, but even a king would have a hard time affording it. No king’s that generous.” He snickered. “No, I bought this damn thing myself, with coin I earned from tournaments, which I won by knocking bigger, stronger men on their armored asses.”

  “Well done.” Saanji toasted him.

  Royce shook his head. “I’m not bragging.” He held out his arms. “Look at me, Dhargot. Half the Lancers in Ivairia are twice my size. I’m not even the fastest. But I’ve won most every fight I’ve ever been in. How do you suppose that is?”

  Saanji shrugged. “Honestly, Lancer, I couldn’t care less.”

  Royce lowered his arms. Shaking his head with disappointment, he sat back down. “So what do you think your brother is up to?”

  “Murder and glory, same as always.”

  “And this Dragonkin?”

  “Probably the same kind of monster as my dear brother, just with tapered ears and burning hands.” Saanji drained his goblet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Then he’s either a monster who made it past the Dragonward, or else he’s been hiding here since the Shattering War.”

  “Or he’s a Shel’ai who transformed himself, like the others,” Saanji offered.

  “None of those options sound very appealing.”

  “If options were appealing, they wouldn’t be options.” Saanji wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but he liked the sound of it. His stomach grumbled. He looked around the council table for something to eat, but all he saw were maps and reports. He wished that Royce had not dismissed his squires. Saanji disliked the bland Ivairian food, but his own cook had been killed, and boiled potatoes and soldiers’ mash were better than nothing.

  Saanji blinked, realizing that Royce was talking to him. “What?”

  Royce’s face flushed with irritation. “I said, there’s something else I have to tell you. Something I didn’t report to the council.”

  Saanji’s stomach grumbled again, punctuated by a twist of nausea. He gripped the edge of the table. “This might have to wait.”

  Royce ignored his protest. “Chorlga is looking for someone.”

  Saanji laughed. He turned the opal ring on his finger. “Aren’t we all?”

  Royce did not laugh. “The Isle Knight who wrote the letter. The Dhargots are supposed to form a massive line running north and south of Hesod, despite the snow, and cast nets to catch him. The Dhargots don’t know the Knight’s name, but they have a description.” Royce trailed off.

  Saanji frowned. “But you know who he is,” he guessed.

  “I might. I met someone awhile back, when the Dhargots chased me all the way down to the Red Steppes. An Iron Sister.”

  “Gods…” Saanji winced. He remembered what his late brother, Ziraari, had done to the Iron Sisters at Hesod.

  “She spoke of an Isle Knight, traveling west in the company of a Shel’ai… rather, a Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin.”

  “Silwren?”

  “Probably.”

  Saanji snickered. “No wonder you didn’t mention this in council.”

  “Most of my men think magic is an abomination. When I was young, Shel’ai tried to settle in western Ivairia, in the foothills. The king drove them off. Many people blame them for the famines… even though famines are nothing new.”

  Saanji pondered this. “So Chorlga and my dear brother are looking for this Isle Knight, but not for Silwren?”

  “Igrid said they were going to the Wytchforest to try to broker some kind of alliance with the Sylvs. Maybe the Sylvs have already killed her. Or maybe the Olgrym did.”

  “Well, there goes another potential ally.” Saanji poured a little wine on the ground and laughed. Royce scowled at him so fiercely that Saanji hiccupped.

  “Igrid said that this Knight, Rowen Locke, had a kingsteel sword with him. Not like mine, though. An ancient adamune, supposedly worn by Fâyu Jinn himself.”

  Saanji had been starting out of his chair, about to try his luck at refilling his goblet, but he sat back down. He sat a moment in silence, blinking at the table. “Knightswrath?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Just an old story I read as a child. Maryssa read it to me, actually.” Saanji rubbed his eyes. “Supposedly, the man who founded Dhargoth was Jinn’s friend. He named a city after him. He even patterned his sigil after Jinn… a lone warrior stabbing a dragon with a burning sword. Only it changed over time to a dragon impaled on a spear.”

  “So Chorlga’s after the sword.”

  Saanji sat a moment longer then pushed himself up and stumbled across the tent. “Well, if he’s after that Isle Knight, I doubt there’s a damn thing we could do to help him. We’re better off worrying about Cadavash and whatever they’re brewing there.”

  Royce nervously tapped his fingernail on the blade of his longsword, still lying unsheathed on the table. “The Isle Knight probably doesn’t need our help, anyway,” he sa
id at last. “A man that important has to have allies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Doomsayer’s Hour

  Rowen reined in Snowdark and twisted in the saddle. At the sight of the gray, muscular tide surging through the snow, barely a hundred yards behind them, he winced. “Well, that worked a bit better than expected.”

  Kilisti had reined in, as well, her face pale. “They’re gaining.”

  “At least there aren’t as many.”

  “Only because half of them ran themselves to death.”

  Rowen touched the Sylvan shortbow that Faeli had given him before riding off with the others. Rowen was no expert archer, nothing like a Sylv, but an Olg was a hard target to miss. “We could try picking them off—”

  “Still too many. Unless you want to take your sweet time aiming, even with the arrows poisoned, it’ll take five or six to drop each one.”

  The Olgrym barreled through the snow in a wide, frightening row. Rowen shook his head in dreadful awe. Instead of the usual taunts and howling, the bestial figures seemed to be focusing all their energy on closing their pursuit. And it was working.

  “Split up,” Rowen said at last. “Ride south. I’ll keep east. They’ll follow me.”

  Kilisti scowled. “I don’t like you, Knight, but I gave you my word.”

  “I don’t remember you taking any oath.”

  “I took an oath to the Shal’tiar.”

  “I’m not in your damn Shal’tiar.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Briel said help you. So I’m helping.”

  Rowen patted Snowdark’s neck. Like Kilisti’s horse, she could smell the Olgrym gaining on them, and her nostrils flared with panic. But even with the Olgrym this close, the horses needed a moment to rest. “Dying won’t help me.”

  “I told you, I came along to kill an Olg or two.”

  “Then get away and kill one somewhere else.”

  Kilisti answered by spurring her horse eastward, pressing as fast as she could. Rowen swore. He considered turning south and leading the Olgrym away from her, but they had been riding almost nonstop for three days. Hesod had to be close, just beyond the distant hills and the sheen of a frozen river. It was a reckless plan, but the Dhargots were their only hope. Rowen had no intention of surrendering to them, but if he crossed the path of a patrol, the Dhargots would be forced to fight the Olgrym, whether they wanted to or not. That would buy them some time—provided the Dhargots didn’t kill him and Kilisti first.

  Rowen glanced back at the Olgrym again. They moved faster than he would have thought possible. The fog of their breath mingled with the snow kicked up by their boots. They were close enough that he could hear their laborious grunting. Some of the giant warriors wore armor made of bones. Rowen heard the bones rattle.

  A knot of fear swelled in his throat. “Singchai ushó fey,” he muttered. His voice broke. Cursing, he spurred his horse after Kilisti.

  Doomsayer ran through the heavy snow, striving to ignore the ache in his bones. His legs felt as though they’d turned to sand—then to glass, which broke anew at every step. He had not slept or eaten in three days, driving on without pause through the heavy, drifting snow. Sometimes, he looked back to see what remained of his war band. Each time, the numbers dwindled. Fifty became forty, then thirty, then twenty. The weak ones collapsed, unmourned, unburied save by the falling snow.

  Doomsayer felt as if his own heart might burst from exhaustion, but the chieftain prayed for the strength to continue. He thought of the burning sword, the raw exhilaration when he’d felt the air crackling with magic during his disastrous charge into the Sylvan capital. That battle had wrecked his army and hamstrung his grand ambitions to rule both Godsfall and the Wytchforest, but fate had given him a second chance.

  The burning sword is near. I only have to slay one puny Knight and a Sylvan woman to get it.

  He saw them atop a snowy hill in the distance, desperate and frightened, pausing for a useless moment’s rest. Doomsayer laughed. Somehow, he quickened his strides, surging ahead of his warriors. He’d come too far and lost too much. Nothing as paltry as exhaustion would stand in his way.

  If they’d had bows, his men might have shot them off their horses. But Doomsayer had no desire to end so glorious a chase in such a cowardly way. It was bad enough that he’d allowed his warriors to use bows to wound and capture Sylvan prisoners to trade with the Dhargots. This chase would end the way the gods intended.

  Doomsayer called out to his warriors—just a wild howl to urge them on.

  Preferring not to waste his breath on the weak, it was the first time he’d spoken to them in days, but it was enough. Drawing on some deep, inner well of strength, the Olgrym surged after him, keeping pace. The rattle of weapons and armor mingled with their grunts and ragged breaths. The snow started again, but the Olgrym drove through it without pause.

  When Doomsayer lost sight of his prey behind a hill, he ran quicker still. Though he knew his prey could not hide their trail in the snow, he still wanted to keep them in his sight. He wanted to see them afraid and struggling. He remembered the greatwolves he’d hunted as a child—he’d run them down, mile after mile, until they slowed enough for him to hurl his spear clean through their sides. He remembered the delicious reek of their blood and their final, desperate thrashing.

  So the Olgish chieftain could hardly believe his eyes when he crested the hill and spotted the Human and the Sylv stopped below, their horses reined in, surrounded by armed men. About thirty strong, all the men wore black silk and black scale armor. One carried a dark, familiar banner. Doomsayer slowed. These men were Dhargots, his allies. But they’d just claimed something that did not belong to them. He could not allow that.

  For the first time in days, Doomsayer and his warriors stopped. One made the mistake of collapsing face first in the snow, thinking it was time to rest. Doomsayer answered by stomping the back of the warrior’s neck. A dreadful crack brought a smile to his lips. Doomsayer took a long, deep, ragged breath and let it go. Then he reached past his shoulder and unslung the great mace of scorched iron from his back. He held it high.

  His remaining warriors drew their own weapons—axes, clubs, and spears longer than a Human’s height. Doomsayer howled. His warriors howled back. Their cries reverberated through the cold air. Below, men whirled to see what could have made such a sound. Doomsayer showed them. Waving his mace, he sprinted down the hill. He could already taste blood.

  “Sweet gods…”

  The Dhargothi officer stared past Rowen at the gigantic figures sprinting down the hill. Terror replaced an earlier expression of irritation at having to deal with fresh prisoners. He froze for a moment then began barking orders. One of the Dhargots raised a war horn to his lips and blew it, again and again. The rest of the men whirled their horses back toward the wretched city in the distance. They broke into a gallop.

  “See, Knight? I told you,” Kilisti said. “They aren’t going to stand and fight.”

  Rowen spurred Snowdark after the fleeing Dhargots. “If we can get ahead of them, they won’t have a choice.”

  Kilisti urged her exhausted horse after him. “We can’t outrun them.”

  Rowen wondered whether she meant the Dhargots or the Olgrym. Intoning a quick prayer, asking the Light for forgiveness, he drew a dagger from his belt and threw it.

  The blade struck a Dhargot in the back. Though the blade lacked the force to pierce the Dhargot’s armor, the man reared up and turned. Seeing Rowen, he gave a defiant cry and lunged with his spear. Rowen wheeled Snowdark to the side, warded off the blow with his vambrace, and rode past the Dhargot before he could strike again.

  Rowen hoped that Kilisti would grasp his intentions and join in. The snap of a bowstring confirmed that his trust in her had not been misplaced. Kilisti’s arrow missed a Dhargot but struck a horse.

 
Rowen realized that the shot must have been intentional, for the horse collapsed in a gruesome tangle, taking its rider and another horse and rider with it. Kilisti loosed a second arrow just as quickly as the first. It struck yet another Dhargot in the back of the shoulder. He reined in too sharply, twisting in the saddle to try to glimpse his attacker, and collided with another rider who could not veer away in time.

  Chaos swept through the Dhargothi ranks. Some of the riders continued on, thinking only of themselves, while others slowed to help their comrades. The officer shouted, but no one could hear him over a new, terrible chorus of Olgrym howls.

  Rowen waved to Kilisti and tried to lead her right through the mass of Dhargots. But then the line shifted. Seeing the way blocked, Rowen tugged the reins so sharply that Snowdark reared, nearly dumping him from the saddle. Rowen tugged her to the left, thinking he might ride around, but Kilisti screamed. Rowen turned.

  An unhorsed Dhargot had cut the horse out from under her. The Sylvan woman fell hard into the snow, and her bow flew wild. The Dhargot started toward her, spear in hand, but another unhorsed Dhargot grabbed his arm, pointing at the approaching Olgrym. The Dhargot ran.

  That’s what I should be doing.

  Rowen whirled Snowdark around and galloped back to Kilisti. Three Dhargots started toward him—one on foot, two on horseback—but Rowen drew Knightswrath and held it high. Violet flames washed over the blade. The Dhargots’ eyes widened. The one on foot froze then backpedaled until he fell over in the snow. The two on horseback yanked their horses about and galloped away, driving them so fast that one horse lost its footing and crashed to the ground.

  Rowen glanced at the Olgrym. Their chieftain pointed a mace at him and howled again. His heart leapt into his throat. Nevertheless, he dismounted Snowdark and raced to Kilisti’s side. He jammed Knightswrath’s blade into the snow. The flames vanished.

  Kilisti was pushing herself up. Rowen saw blood in the snow. A quick look at Kilisti’s leg showed red bone jutting through her torn pants. Somehow, the woman did not even cry out as she pushed herself up onto her good leg.