Reygo blinked in surprise then laughed. He reached out and grabbed Matua’s wrist. Matua kicked the captain in the groin. Twisting free, the cleric sidestepped, grabbed the captain’s head with both hands, and bore him to the ground. Before the startled captain could catch himself, Matua drove his elbow into his nose—once, twice, three times. Then he stepped back.
Reygo cursed, tried to stand, and fell back down. Cursing again, he managed to rise, though he doubled over, clutching one injured region in each hand.
“That’s what happens when you interrogate someone outside of your office,” Matua said evenly. “What can I say, Captain? I’ve been a Queshi a lot longer than I’ve been a cleric. We know a little about fighting.”
Reygo spat back an unintelligible answer then scooped up his sword. Matua reached for a lantern, prepared to throw it. But the captain sheathed his sword. He turned to go then froze.
“What in the hells…”
Matua followed his gaze to a man in a tattered cloak who sat near the wall beside the door, rocking himself. Neither had noticed him when they came in. Though the man wore a hood, Matua could tell right away that he was no priest. His clothes were so torn and bloody that Matua thought he must have been a beggar who had been savaged in the streets, though it seemed impossible that such a beggar could have gotten down there on his own.
“Who are you?” Reygo demanded.
The man rocked himself, his eyes trained on the floor. He did not answer. But the lantern-light splashed his shadow across the wall.
Matua gasped. “Reygo—”
But Reygo was already repeating his question. He kicked the beggar, who fell over but made no move to shield himself, as though he did not even realize he had been struck. Matua told the captain to stop. Instead, the captain grabbed the beggar’s arm and tried to drag him to his feet.
The beggar’s hood fell. The captain gasped and let go. The beggar fell and began rocking himself again. Lantern light shone off his long, tapered ears.
Reygo backed up and drew his sword. He looked at Matua. “A Shel’ai?”
Matua spoke despite the lump in his throat. “I don’t think so.”
The beggar looked up. Wide, violet eyes flashed with madness. “Please, get it out of me,” he whispered. “Get it out… get it out… get it out…”
Reygo lifted his sword but drew back another step. “What is he talking about?”
“Stay back,” Matua hissed. “Just stay away from him.” He forced himself to meet the violet eyes. He held out his open hands. “We won’t hurt you. My name’s Matua. See these robes I’m wearing? I’m a servant of the gods. I can help you. Understand?”
The man stopped rocking himself. He cocked his head. On the wall behind him, a dragon of shadows unfurled its many wings. “Can you take it out of me?”
Matua glanced at Captain Reygo then back at the Nightmare. “Whatever it is, I’ll help you. I promise. Only you have to trust me. Stay calm. Trust me to help you—”
Reygo howled and charged, swinging his sword with both hands.
The Nightmare looked up. Unfazed, he reached toward the captain. Violet flames leapt from his arm. The captain’s battle cry became a strangled gasp of pain. He fell backward. His body struck the ground and burst into a pile of cinders.
Slowly, the Nightmare stood. He faced Matua, who stepped back. The priest said, “Wait, I know what you are. I know people who can help you. I know Silwren…”
“Silwren is dead. You lie.” The Nightmare cocked his head again. “You cannot help me.” Both hands came up. His eyes narrowed. “No one can help me.” He turned, violet flames blossoming from his fingertips.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Winter Prayers
Rowen dismounted to inspect the bodies. They lay in a torn-up field of snow and mud: a score of men wearing black silk and scale armor, plus an equal number of women. Most of the women were naked, though a few wore rags, cloaks, or shields. Judging by the scene, the women had been surrounded, then a third of them were shot down with arrows before the melee began. The snow had frozen the dead so that blood coated everything like a fine layer of painted ice.
Rowen trembled as he examined each of the women. But Igrid was nowhere to be seen. He searched and searched but found no one left alive, although a trail indicated that at least ten Dhargots had survived the battle and marched back on foot toward the city. Rowen hesitated. Wolves paced the snowy plains in the distance, waiting for him to go. He did not want to leave the slain Iron Sisters to their hunger, but he dared not sacrifice the time it would take to bury them.
He whispered a prayer in Shao then mounted his horse and tried to drive the wolves away before turning back toward Hesod. He had not gone far when a squad of Dhargothi horsemen spotted him. But Rowen had already donned a slain Dhargot’s armor and tunic in place of his own, which he’d packed away in his saddlebags. He’d also covered his red hair under a helmet, shaved off his red beard, and hidden Knightswrath. When the Dhargots converged on him, he pretended he’d simply gotten separated from his company and was on his way back to the city.
Rather than let him go, the Dhargothi sergeant leading the squad told him to join in the hunt. The men laughed, boasting that they’d tracked down and killed more escaped Iron Sisters than any other squad. A short while later, they spotted three figures in the distance—all long-haired, all on foot.
The Dhargothi sergeant ordered a charge. Six men lowered their spears and drove toward the women, shouting and jeering. Two more circled around quietly, readying crossbows. Rowen joined the latter. Hanging back, he readied a crossbow of his own and shot the first Dhargot out of the saddle. The second turned, fired too quickly, and missed. Rowen drove at him, threw his crossbow at the man’s horse, then drew a Dhargothi shortsword and finished him.
He looked up. Though the other half dozen Dhargots had encircled the three Iron Sisters, they’d seen what he’d done. Two turned and charged him. Rowen threw his shortsword at one then drew Knightswrath to face the other. He was about to will its flames to life when he reminded himself that the Dhargots were also looking for him. If he could win without using Knightswrath’s power, the Dhargots might just think he was another jealous, crazed soldier who wanted the women for himself.
If I don’t get killed, that is.
The Dhargot thrust his spearhead at Rowen’s face then pulled back when he missed—too slowly. Rowen managed to lop it off, but the Dhargot wheeled clear and rode away before Rowen could finish him. Meanwhile, the Iron Sisters had killed one of the other Dhargots, though it had cost them one of their own. The remaining three Dhargots glanced at the Iron Sisters, then at Rowen thundering down on them, and fled.
“I’m not a Dhargot,” Rowen called out to the Iron Sisters, but they had already claimed horses from the battlefield and were riding away. Rowen shouted that he knew Igrid, but he doubted they heard him over a sudden gust of winter wind. Though the unmoving Iron Sister’s brown hair told him that it could not be Igrid, he dismounted anyway to see if she was still alive. She was not. Rowen cursed, muttered another prayer, and mounted his horse again.
As he neared Hesod, he came upon yet another battlefield. He searched in vain for Igrid’s body then found a slain Dhargothi captain. Remembering the Dhargots who had seen him and escaped, he traded his disguise for that of the captain and chose a new horse. He rode the rest of the way to Hesod, slowing when he approached the front gates. Being there, surrounded by enemies, when he’d been fleeing from that place only two days before, felt strange. But then he spotted all the corpses strung from the battlements, and his anxiety turned to rage.
At least fifty Iron Sisters had been hung from the walls of Hesod, all of them stripped naked, their bodies slashed and unrecognizable. Crows feasted on them. Rowen covered his mouth and forced himself to look. Then he spotted a woman with long red hair hanging amid the
rest, twenty feet above him. He sat on his horse, staring, until another Dhargothi captain ordered him out of the way. Rowen moved clear, noting the man’s necklace of dried ears as he rode past.
“The Bloody Prince…”
Rowen turned his horse to the south, white-knuckling the reins, intending to ride away. Then he gave Igrid’s corpse another look. His vision blurred. He turned his horse back toward the gates and rode straight into the city of Hesod. “The Bloody Prince,” he repeated in a low, lethal whisper, touching Knightswrath’s cold hilt through his cloak.
Saanji paused to catch his breath then paid for it when Royce’s sword bashed his right shoulder. Saanji turned to protect his shoulder, and Royce bashed his left arm, then his knee when Saanji tried to halt the blows by charging blindly. A fourth blow to the back of the knee dropped him to the ground. Saanji pushed himself up, furiously clawing at the fresh snow jammed in the visor of his helmet.
“You bastard.”
Finally giving up on the visor, he fumbled with the strap beneath his chin, removed his helmet altogether, and threw it. But Arnil Royce was standing in a different place from where Saanji thought he was. His helmet sailed into a crowd, where a startled Lancer caught it then tossed it back to Royce. The Lancer captain jammed his kingsteel bastard sword into the snow, approached, and offered Saanji his hand. Blushing, Saanji took it. Royce helped him up then returned his helmet.
“You’re getting better.”
Royce’s praise brought scattered laughter from the many Lancers, Earless, and common citizens of Cassica who had gathered around the practice yard to watch. Saanji blushed further. “If I hadn’t been wearing armor, you would have killed me in five seconds.”
“Three seconds longer than last week,” Royce pointed out. He picked up Saanji’s longsword, which Saanji did not even remember dropping, and passed it back hilt first. Saanji took the sword and pounded his own chest through his breastplate, afraid his heart was about to stop. He noted dismally that Royce was not even breathing hard.
“You’re losing weight, too,” Royce said.
Saanji rubbed one knee then the other. “Yeah, a daily regimen of porridge and grueling exercise will do that.”
Royce removed his own helmet, tossed it to one of his squires, then retrieved his sword. He sheathed it. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “Up for a little mace practice?” On cue, another squire came forward, holding two heavy maces with heads of iron.
Saanji shook his head. “Not after last time.”
Royce took both maces. “Actually, I thought you did quite well. This time, you’ll do better.” He threw one of the maces at Saanji’s head. Saanji barely caught it in time. He opened his mouth to unleash a stream of vile curses, but Royce was already charging.
Royce swung at Saanji’s breastplate. Saanji leapt back. Royce followed, swinging at his unprotected head. Stunned, Saanji managed to swing his own mace and knock Royce’s aside, but then Royce stepped in, twisted, and drove an armored elbow toward Saanji’s face. He stopped just before making contact.
“Move faster,” Royce advised. His body reversed, slipping away from Saanji like an uncoiling whip.
Saanji forced himself into a fighting position. His arms strained to hold the heavy mace. He did not think he had any strength left to swing it. But then Royce charged, and Saanji swung. Royce’s mace rang off Saanji’s breastplate, then again off one of his pauldrons, but Saanji answered with a blow to Royce’s backplate that almost drove the Lancer off his feet.
Royce spun away, smiling despite his wince. A few Earless cheered. Saanji stopped to bow—then dove sideways, wide eyed, when Royce came out of nowhere, swinging fast and hard. Saanji took blows to both shoulders and another to his chest before he summoned enough breath to shout, “I yield!”
Royce immediately ceased his attack, stepped back, and bowed. He was breathing more quickly. “Horseback next,” he said.
“Like hell.” Saanji tossed his mace down. He limped to the nearest stone bench and sat. One of Royce’s squires offered him water while another helped him remove his armor. Royce joined him a moment later, already breathing normally again.
“I think, by spring, we’ll have made a warrior out of you.”
“I think, come spring, I’ll have you killed in your sleep.” Saanji examined the gigantic bruise already forming on his shoulder. “Gods, how did you get so fast?”
“Survive this war, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Saanji switched from bemoaning his bruised shoulder to staring, speechless, at his equally bruised knee. Then he reminded himself that people were still watching. He forced himself to stand and laugh as though unhurt. “Is there anybody in Ruun who can beat you?”
“Anybody can be beaten.” Royce set about removing his own armor, waving off his squires’ assistance. “There’s an Isle Knight named Crovis who’s supposed to be as good as they come. And if the stories are true, your brother is Fohl’s own executioner.”
“I’ve never seen Karhaati lose,” Saanji admitted. “Not even in practice. Then again, he picks his targets carefully.”
“As do most men looking to craft legends around their own names.” Royce unbuckled his sword and leaned it against his chair, still within easy reach. “Which reminds me… you need to stop referring to yourself as the Tomato Prince. And you shouldn’t let your men call you that, either.”
Saanji shrugged. “Some mean it kindly. Others don’t. Either way, it’s just a name. So long as they follow orders, they can name me after their mothers, for all I care.”
Royce smiled in terse disapproval but let the matter drop.
Saanji examined the fresh callouses on his soft hands. “Anything more from the scouts?”
Royce shook his head. “Your brother’s still massed at Hesod. Chorlga’s Jolym are still besieging Atheion, with a token force at Cadavash, and another still razing the Lotus Isles. I think the Dragonkin will wait until spring for his next big attack.”
“And where do you think that will be?”
“Could be anywhere. The Wytchforest, Quesh, Lyos… maybe everywhere.”
“But not Ivairia?”
Royce’s expression darkened. “My king thinks we’re safe. But I say Chorlga will come after us sooner or later. Or Karhaati will. We might do better defending our keeps, fighting them from behind thick stone walls. Or we might suffer for giving him time to replenish his strength.”
Saanji rubbed his shoulder. He knew a thing or two about the price one paid for failing to act. “So what next… a treaty with Lyos? An alliance with the Isles?”
Royce gave Saanji a critical look. Saanji had been pressing Royce for an answer to that question for days. So far, Royce had refused to commit himself to a single course of action. “It’s too late to help the Isles and too soon to march to Lyos,” Royce said finally. “I was thinking about Nosh.”
Saanji’s eyes widened. “If you’d said Hesod, I would have thought you were crazy. But marching to Atheion is even worse.”
“That’s where the Jolym are. Your brother is Chorlga’s ally. If we lift the siege on Atheion, the Noshans will become our allies. Supposedly, there are Isle Knights at Atheion, too. If all of us join together, we can beat the Jolym. Then we’ll be in a stronger position to deal with your brother.”
“But you’re forgetting about Chorlga. You know, that Dragonkin who’s ten times as powerful as Fadarah ever was.”
“I’m not forgetting him. But we’ll need magic to fight Chorlga. He has to have enemies. If those enemies are anywhere, they’re in the south.”
“Or the north,” Saanji countered.
Royce seemed to catch his meaning. “Maybe. But after what my king did to the Shel’ai years ago, I doubt they’ll help us.”
“Not your king,” Saanji agreed, “but maybe you.”
&nbs
p; Royce smirked. “Do you really think we can trust Shel’ai?”
“No,” Saanji admitted.
“Me, either.”
“Then what do you have in mind?”
“I don’t have anything in mind yet, besides a direction.”
“South…” Saanji shook his head. “Why in the gods’ names—” He froze mid-sentence. A Lancer was running toward him, his face flushed, one hand on his sword. Two Earless followed. The Lancer raced toward Arnil Royce, the renegade Dhargots toward Saanji.
Royce was already standing. “One at a time.” He pointed at the Lancer. “Reginald, speak.”
Reginald offered a quick salute. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but someone has just arrived at the gates. She’s demanding to speak with you.”
“An emissary?”
Saanji frowned, though not just because he couldn’t remember either of the Dhargots’ names. Lone emissaries were rare enough; lone female emissaries were rarer still. Saanji might have thought she was an Iron Sister if he hadn’t already heard that they’d been wiped out. Unless it’s—
“A Shel’ai,” one of his Earless blurted out. “She surrendered to the gate guards. She’s alone. She says she wants to talk to whoever’s leading this army.”
Royce and Saanji exchanged looks. “You’re the prince,” Royce said.
Saanji scoffed. “No, thanks. She’s all yours.”
Reginald looked from Saanji to Royce. He lowered his voice. “Shall I… have her killed, sir? We have archers on the battlements, and she’s standing right out in the open.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” one of the Earless added. “The wytch doesn’t even have hands!”
Saanji frowned. He wondered why someone would cut off a Shel’ai’s hands, then he came up with a reason.
“Who is she?” Royce asked.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 34