Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  In the hours since those events, Karhaati had already survived two assassination attempts by ambitious Dhargots who wanted to replace him, including one of his own bodyguards. Karhaati had killed both men himself and had their corpses hung from the palace parapets. In the morning, he would have to choose a hundred men, somehow blame all that had happened on them, and have them impaled in front of the city.

  But that would not solve his problems entirely. Thousands of men were combing the Simurgh Plains, hunting for the Isle Knight and the escaped Iron Sisters. That left fewer men to keep order in the city itself… and fewer men to protect him, should the Dragonkin learn of his failure and seek reprisal.

  “Which he will,” Karhaati grumbled. He raised his goblet and took a small sip. He knew better than to get drunk on a night when so many wanted him dead, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d donned his armor and slipped on the heavy, ghastly necklace of dried ears to remind everyone who they were dealing with. But that had done nothing to dissuade his would-be assassins, and it would make even less difference if Chorlga came after him.

  How can this be happening?

  He shook his head at the injustice of it all. He’d conquered most of the Free Cities, absorbed the bulk of Ziraari’s army, and rid himself of countless adversaries. He’d been chosen as the right hand of the most dangerous man on the continent. And yet, he stood poised to die in disgrace.

  He’d heard that in instances of great failure, Isle Knights often took their own lives as a form of self-inflicted punishment designed to restore one’s family honor. The Way of Ears preached something similar. Karhaati knew the tradition well, having seen it performed countless times over the years by generals who had displeased him, and wanted to avoid the greater shame and pain of impalement.

  Unless he wanted all of Dhargoth to curse his name then act as though he had never existed, the course was clear. Karhaati knew he must gather his army at dawn, kneel naked before them, and cut off his own ears. Then he would drink poison—the ultimate disgrace for a warrior—and suffer the final indignity of having his body fed to the dogs. But that, at least, would keep him from being forgotten.

  Karhaati shuddered. He did not want to die yet—unless it was in glorious battle, facing a worthy foe. He lowered his hand to his sword belt and touched the long, dark braid he’d cut from the head of the last Iron Sister he’d killed. He almost regretted doing it. She had been spectacular, easily the best fighter he’d ever faced. Yet she had been a woman!

  Karhaati thought of the red-haired Iron Sister who had started it all. Hearing her fight had stirred his blood, as had the fierce look in her eyes when she finally stood before him. Karhaati wished he could have fought her, too. He would have liked to capture her. Instead of violating her, he would have kept her alive and well fed so that he could test his mettle against her whenever he wished.

  Too bad she was probably dead by now.

  Besides, sparing her might only get him into more trouble. His father had taught him that women were of little value. The Way of Ears prescribed the harshest punishments for women who took up arms against a man. Karhaati dared not defy such traditions, as Saanji and his followers did.

  The thought of his youngest and last surviving brother made the bile rise in his throat. Karhaati spat over the terrace, resolving to think of him no more. He thought of the Iron Sisters again. He’d been given the bedchambers of Queen Sharra herself, though he’d found them surprisingly sparse and utilitarian. The presence of all her armor and weapons hanging on the walls served only to remind him that she, too, had escaped justice by killing herself.

  Karhaati started to take another sip of wine then cursed and threw the goblet over the terrace. He felt almost as weak and ineffectual as Queen Sharra’s husband must have been. That had to change. Glancing out at the city, he listened to the distant chaos and made up his mind. He strode from the terrace, summoned his remaining bodyguards, and went to take personal command of the hunt.

  Jalist sat before a low fire smoldering at the mouth of a cave. The fire, though warm enough to blunt the winter chill, could not drive it off completely. He still shivered. But they dared build it no higher with a thousand Dhargots out searching for them. Jalist had argued that if they were going to die anyway, they might as well die warm, but Rowen had refused.

  Jalist looked across the fire at his friend.

  Rowen sat, faintly rocking himself, sweating despite the cold. His eyes were glazed. He still hugged Knightswrath against his chest as though it were a child, though the drawn kingsteel gleamed almost cruelly in the firelight. Rowen had woken earlier, screaming, but would not speak of his nightmare. He would say nothing about whatever had happened to him outside the walls.

  That damn sword’s doing something terrible to him…

  Jalist touched the shaft of his long axe. Rowen had changed so much since the last time he’d seen him. He looked pale, older, and half mad. Surely, Knightswrath was to blame. Though Rowen had not spoken of it, Jalist had deduced that Silwren must have finally made her choice. She’d given her life to revive the sword’s full power.

  Rowen was a good and brave man, but he simply hadn’t been born to wield magic—let alone magic of such tremendous power. Jalist shook his head, jabbing the fire with his long axe. And to make matters worse, they were going back to Hesod.

  “Igrid’s probably already dead, you know.”

  Rowen looked up. He blinked as though he’d forgotten Jalist was even there. “Maybe. But if not, we have to help her.”

  “Helping her will get you killed.”

  A wolf howled in the distance.

  Jalist picked up his axe, looked around, then rested the axe on his lap. “Might get me killed, too.”

  “You aren’t even supposed to be here,” Rowen said, smiling faintly.

  Jalist tugged at his cloak when a fresh gust of wind chilled him to the bone. “Didn’t have anywhere nicer to be.”

  “Do you think Leander survived?”

  Jalist winced. He had not spoken to Rowen about what he’d seen at Stillhammer. He had not even supposed that Rowen knew about the Jolym, though the sympathy in his eyes indicated that he did. Jalist shrugged. “If he did, he took the survivors to Quesh.”

  “Makes sense. They might be safe there.”

  Jalist grunted and stabbed at the dying campfire. “These days, I don’t think anybody’s safe anywhere. But take a Queshi with a bow and a bloodmare and a Dwarr with armor and an axe, pair them up, and you’ve got a border guard even the Jolym might not want to mess with.”

  “Maybe.” Rowen sheathed Knightswrath. The life returned to his eyes. “Well, my friend, Quesh is south. I’m going north. So I guess this is goodbye.”

  Jalist scowled. “Are you as brain-rattled as a dragon cultist, or have you just not noticed yet that whenever I leave your side, bad things happen?”

  Rowen smiled faintly. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. I’m not so good with questions anymore.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Jalist cleared his throat. “When I was in Hesod, I heard a rumor about Isle Knights in Atheion. I’m guessing they’re the ones hunting for you.”

  Rowen nodded slowly. “I know. But Igrid comes first.”

  “If Igrid’s still alive, she’s either leading the Iron Sisters across the plains, or she’s locked up in some Hesodi dungeon. If the former, we’ll run into her eventually. If the latter, the first thing we’ve got to do is get into the city without being seen.”

  Rowen did not answer.

  Jalist said, “We can steal uniforms and helmets, but the Dhargots know what you look like. So unless you can’t live without that rat’s nest you call hair, I’ll sharpen up my razor and make you bald. You’ll have to leave that shiny armor behind, too. I’m sure you’re partial to it, but there’s no choice. I’d say leave the sword, too, but
we might need it.”

  From far away, a wolf howled again.

  “Another option is to see if we can find a company of sellswords and join up,” Jalist continued. He heard himself talking quickly but did not know why. “The Dhargots are always hiring, especially now. We can join a company that’s going to Hesod, lay low, and find out what we can. Or we could disguise ourselves as clerics. Might take some time, but—”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “All right, then how about this? We ride east like our asses are on fire. We get back to Lyos, thrash any Jolym that are clawing at the gates, then cash in your favor with King Typherius. Maybe we enlist some Knights, too. We come back here with an army and slap the Bloody Prince until he bleeds out his ears. You and Igrid can rule the city as king and queen. I’ll be the court jester and entertain your children by juggling axes. If that’s not good enough, I’ll set the axes on fire.”

  Jalist realized he was on his feet, though he did not remember standing up.

  “Well, Locke, which will it be… or would you like to suggest a brilliant plan of your own?”

  Rowen stared at him a moment, then looked back into the fire. “I tried commanding men once. I didn’t do a very good job.”

  “Me, neither.” Jalist sat back down. Neither spoke for a time, then Jalist said, “I’m not leaving.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Jalist’s dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t use your ominous voice with me, Locke. Your brother did it better than you do. And truth be told, he wasn’t worth a damn at anything besides making men think he was mighty.” Jalist wondered why he’d mentioned Kayden, knowing how the mention of Rowen’s brother would affect him.

  But Rowen did not flinch. “I’m not threatening you, my friend. I’m asking you to go. I’m asking because you’re right. This will get me killed. I know that. No sense in you dying, too. Go find this lover of yours. Kill each other’s enemies, bake bread, do whatever the hell you want. Just keep each other warm.”

  Jalist felt his eyes sting. He said nothing.

  “Chorlga spoke to me in my dream,” Rowen continued. His voice lowered, as though he were afraid to continue. “He told me to surrender. He told me to give him Knightswrath or he’d tear down the Dragonward and let all the Dragonkin back into Ruun. And I think he meant it. He frightened me… but not just because of how powerful he is. Because he’s desperate.”

  The fire had burned low. Shadows covered half Rowen’s face. “I see now that I was wrong. We all were. I can’t beat Chorlga. Even if by some miracle, I kill him, I’ll just end up getting the rest of us killed in the process.”

  Jalist found his voice. “So your solution is to die?”

  Rowen shook his head. “I don’t have a solution. But I’m not dumb enough to think that Chorlga will leave us alone if I give him Jinn’s sword. So I’m forgetting about the war. I’m just going to help everyone I can for as long as I can.” He paused. “I’d help you find Leander, but I know you’ll do fine on your own. Better than I would.”

  “Better than you will,” Jalist corrected. He looked away.

  “Better than I will,” Rowen repeated. Slowly, he rose to his feet. His kingsteel armor looked dented and blackened, nothing like it had when he left Lyos. His brilliant blue tabard hung in tatters. The sigil of a balancing crane was unrecognizable. Rowen stepped around the dying fire, stumbling slightly.

  Jalist rose, too.

  Rowen squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Jalist swallowed a lump in his throat. “The king sent me to bring you back,” he protested weakly. “They need you in Lyos. My men died to keep you alive…”

  “What were their names?”

  Jalist pulled away, wiping his eyes and cursing the smoke from the campfire. “Vardan and Braggo. But there’s plenty more like them in Lyos.”

  “Plenty in Hesod, too, probably.”

  “Sure, but those aren’t your people.”

  “Not sure the Lyosi are my people, either. Or maybe they all are. Maybe that’s what El’rash’lin meant.” He shrugged. “Goodbye, my friend. If things make more sense in the next life, we’ll puzzle it out then.”

  Rowen turned and walked away. Jalist sat back down. He stared into the embers, listened to Rowen ready one of the horses, and resolved not to turn around. But he did anyway, just in time to see a slash of azure vanishing into the winter darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Breaking the Siege

  By the time dawn crested the battlements of Atheion, Aeko Shingawa had already been pacing for hours, dressed in full armor, a sheathed adamune resting on her hip. Her dark braid was coiled beneath her helmet. Unlike the Isle Knights who wore strange or frightening facemasks, she’d chosen a helmet that left her face exposed. Men said her scowl was her sharpest weapon. But even her infamous scowl had limits, and Aeko realized that as she spent the morning inspecting Atheion’s troops.

  The Noshan king had declared that until the siege was lifted, one third of his army must stand ready at any given time. While most of Atheion consisted of gigantic skiffs that floated on the sapphire surface of the sea called Armahg’s Tears, there was still a squat wall of sandstone forming a half circle along the shoreline. The bulk of the city’s defenders stood watch there. Others lined the skiffs in case the enemy attempted to circumvent the wall and take them by sea.

  Most of the Noshans wore brigandines, but a few wore chainmail or half-plate armor. All wore tabards emblazoned with Atheion’s crest: a white sailboat between mountains. Some carried longswords, but most preferred spears, bows, and shortswords. Most had never been in battle. And all of them looked half asleep.

  Aeko stopped to shake a few of them awake. Some jumped at the sight of her, blushing as they muttered apologies and fumbled to their feet. Others blinked, frowned, and went back to sleep. Those Aeko kicked again, intoning the appropriate threats of what would happen if they fell asleep on duty. She doubted many believed her, though.

  Other Isle Knights had been stationed along the wall. All stood at attention, bowing as she passed, some rolling their eyes over the poor conduct of the Noshan troops. But Aeko saw weariness in the eyes of the Knights, too. She could hardly blame them. Sieges were tedious things: days, even weeks of boredom, punctuated by brief, frantic moments of combat.

  But there had been no such moments for nearly a month.

  The Jolym had simply fanned out to form a steel perimeter on the shore, just out of bow range. At first, there had been only twenty, but more arrived every day. By the end of a week, four hundred stood along the shore.

  Almost immediately, Atheion had braced for trouble. While some Noshans had greeted the Isle Knights as heroes, grateful that they’d shown up in time to protect the city against the Jolym, King Hidas in particular had not been happy to see the Isle Knights. Apparently, though, Crovis Ammerhel had addressed the city’s fathers with a silver tongue, eventually winning over so many clerics that they, in turn, pressured the king into welcoming the Knights.

  Meanwhile, the portions of the city that existed on the mainland—homes, shops, and a graceful row of white windmills—had been abandoned. King Hidas had mobilized all his troops, drafted two thousand additional men and boys, and armed them all with bows and spears. At Crovis’s insistence, the king gave them strict orders to attack each Jol’s eyes once the fighting started.

  Since then, the Jolym had simply stood motionless, staring at the city. Snow piled around them. Some showed signs of rust. Men speculated that the Jolym had died somehow. A few had even suggested that they were nothing but empty suits of armor placed there as part of a cruel trick by the Isle Knights.

  Before anyone could stop him, an eager Noshan officer had gone out with a dozen men to inspect the Jolym. As soon as they got close, the Jolym came to life and cut the Noshans to pieces. Aghas
t, the Noshans braced themselves, thinking the attack was finally about to begin. But the Jolym had simply returned to being statues.

  Gradually, the Noshans fell back into complacency.

  They even discovered that if they sailed to a different patch of shore, they could go to and from the mainland without the Jolym seeming to notice, let alone respond. Atheion’s vibrant sea trade had resumed, albeit slowly. Ships still sailed to and fro, navigating a wide, calm river called Zet’s Blood that joined Armahg’s Tears to the islands and ocean beyond.

  Traders brought strange stories of mass slaughter in Stillhammer and fires burning throughout the Lotus Isles, but the Noshans scarcely believed them. After all, the Jolym had done so little. And if they ever did actually attack, the Isle Knights would protect them.

  “Fools…” Aeko glanced over the battlements, glowering at the steely figures beyond. She doubted that Jolym felt cold, though she desperately hoped they were at least half as miserable as she was.

  She considered Crovis’s suggestion that they ride out in force, bolstered by the Noshan army, and finish the Jolym once and for all. A lot of good that did Bokuden…

  Aeko winced, chiding herself for thinking so glibly about the death of her friend and mentor. She reminded herself that Bokuden had not been undone because of a flaw in his strategy. Word had reached them from a handful of survivors: Saikaido had been attacked by the Nightmare, in league with Chorlga. Neither had been seen since, but the Jolym had continued to ravage the islands of the Shao, driving the Isle Knights from one temple-fortress after another.

  Now, Crovis insisted that they attack the Jolym—not just to avenge the thousands of Knights who had been slain on the Lotus Isles but to clear a path for them to ride back and retake their homeland. Other Knights had proposed that they leave the Jolym besieging Atheion to King Hidas and simply sail back to the Lotus Isles on Zet’s Blood. Winters in Nosh could be long and harsh. Zet’s Blood was still passable, but in a week or two, their route to the ocean would be hopelessly blocked by ice.