“She says her name is Zeia,” Reginald answered. “She says a man named Rashlin sent her.”
Saanji frowned. “El’rash’lin?”
The Lancer nodded.
Royce said, “You know the name?”
“Only that he’s supposed to be dead. And that if he isn’t, he’s not someone you want to rile up.”
Royce turned back to Reginald and the Earless. “Did she say anything else?”
The Earless shook their heads, but Reginald said, “One more thing… though it didn’t make any sense. She said she’s been sent to help an Isle Knight. I told her there aren’t any here, but she said to tell you, anyway.”
Saanji asked, “What Isle Knight?”
“She said his name is Locke. Something Locke. Rowen, I think.”
Saanji whistled softly. “Now, that’s a name we’ve heard before.” He glanced at Royce.
Royce was quiet for a moment, then he started buckling on his kingsteel longsword. “All right, I’ll see her. Show her in. And for the gods’ sake, don’t threaten her.”
Jalist reined in his horse, scowling at the eastern horizon. He’d left the cave at dawn and pressed hard, intending to follow the Ash’bana Plains all the way south to Quesh, but a score of Dhargots on horseback had spotted him and driven him east. After losing the horsemen, he’d reluctantly chosen to head toward Quesh by way of the Noshan Valley. While in Hesod with the others, he’d heard stories of the Jolym besieging Atheion, so he resolved to give the City-on-the-Sea a wide berth. But the thick smoke darkening the eastern sky had piqued his curiosity. Then, cresting a hill, he reined in his horse, raised his spyglass, and beheld the devastation.
“Sweet gods…”
A cold, familiar dread filled his chest. He remembered standing outside the city of Quorim, seemingly a lifetime ago, back when he’d fought as a sellsword in the ranks of the Throng. He remembered watching El’rash’lin and the Nightmare fight in front of Lyos, too.
Common sense told him to point his horse south, ride until its heart gave out, then run until his own heart did the same. He even briefly considered riding north and warning Rowen. Instead, he rode east, readying his long axe and resting it in the crook of his arm.
Chorlga found the madman sitting cross-legged in the snow, half naked, shivering. He issued a quick mental command, ordering his Jolym to stay back, then sent his voice echoing through the minds of the dragon-worshippers, ordering them to do the same. He approached the Nightmare alone. He braced himself, ready to counter a sea of wytchfire if the madman attacked.
“You led me on quite a chase, Iventine. Tell me, why did you go to the library? Did you think you’d find a way to die there?” Chorlga scowled at the smoke still darkening the southern horizon. “Atheion was to be spared. Instead, you burned down a third of it… including half the Scrollhouse! A thousand lifetimes’ worth of knowledge…”
The Nightmare looked up, his violet eyes wide as wounds. Chorlga realized that the madman did not even understand what Chorlga was saying. “Why am I alive? I died. I keep dying, but I don’t stay dead. Why?”
Chorlga blinked. He’d told himself countless times that the Nightmare was nothing—a mere Shel’ai with amplified powers, an overgrown guard dog to be used as Chorlga saw fit. But the pleading desperation in the madman’s voice gave him pause. “You are alive because I wish it. Remember that.”
“I was”—the Nightmare flinched—“in the Light…”
“That was just a dream. You were here. You have always been here, serving me. You will continue to serve me until I release you. Do you understand?”
The Nightmare wrapped his arms around himself and started rocking. “Please… please—”
“Enough!” Chorlga lifted one hand to strike him, saw his own hand shaking, and tucked it into his sleeve. “You will obey me, Iventine. I am your master. I am your god. You will serve me a while longer… then I will let you go.”
The Nightmare looked up. He stopped rocking himself.
“I will let you go,” Chorlga repeated. “Do you understand? Simply do as you’re told, and your end is near. I swear it on the Dragongod.”
For a time, the Nightmare was silent. Then he whispered, “Who do I have to kill?”
Chorlga grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Whomever I tell you.”
“Who did this to me?” the Nightmare asked.
“The world,” Chorlga said. “The world did this to you.” He hesitated then removed his own cloak and threw it over the Nightmare’s shoulders. “They did the same thing to me. That’s why we’re going to burn the world.”
He led the Nightmare back toward Cadavash. The Nightmare followed without objection. The Jolym fell in behind them, followed by throngs of dragon-worshippers, many of them chanting Chorlga’s name.
Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas stood at the prow of his fastest ship, watching it plow through the ice-blue waters of the straits his people referred to as the Cold Passage. Though Hráthbam had been raised in a family of merchants, they had always done the bulk of their business on the mainland, with the occasional run to the Lotus Isles or another of the islands on Ruun’s eastern coast. Hráthbam was already farther north than he had ever gone but not even half as far as he would go before this was over.
He glanced back at his passengers. One hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his massive scimitar. He was glad that most of the passengers had confined themselves to the lower decks, though two in particular had inhabited the top deck almost since they came on board.
His crew—all strong, young Soroccans who had served his family for years—went about their duties in fearful, sometimes angry silence. Hráthbam could not blame them. He wanted nothing more than to be back home, arguing with his wives and children, and he was sure they felt the same about their own families. But he was grateful that so far, none of them had defied his orders.
He was even more grateful that none of them had raised a hand against his passengers. He liked his crew. He did not want to see them turned to ash.
The two male passengers—one young and coldly handsome, the other old with a ghastly, sore-covered face and twisted lips—had been arguing in heated whispers for hours. Finally, the younger man threw up his hands and walked away. He stood by the starboard railing of the ship and stared out at the ocean, his expression as hard as stone. The older man looked after him, shook his head, then approached Hráthbam.
The Soroccan merchant braced himself. Though he’d seen the old man’s twisted face in his dreams and relived some of the old man’s memories after they inadvertently entered his mind months ago, this was still the first time he’d actually seen El’rash’lin in person. El’rash’lin was kind, and the gods knew that Hráthbam owed the man a great debt. Still, his appearance made Hráthbam shudder despite his best efforts to appear calm.
El’rash’lin stood beside him, staring out at the calm, parting waters. “What is it your people say about patience and children?”
“Children were put here to drive their parents insane.”
El’rash’lin’s twisted lips formed a slight smile. “I was expecting something a bit more articulate.”
Hráthbam glanced back at the Shel’ai who called himself Shade, though Hráthbam had heard El’rash’lin refer to him by another name he had not caught. “Is that one… your son?”
El’rash’lin shook his head. “Almost none of us have children. No time. Besides, it’s hard to run for your life if you have a squalling infant in your arms.”
Hráthbam thought of the Shel’ai children in the lower decks of his ship, some crying from seasickness. One had already thrown a tantrum that set the sails on fire, though El’rash’lin had managed to extinguish the flames and repair the damage in the blink of an eye. “So those children down below—”
“Were born to Sy
lvan parents,” El’rash’lin said. “Born… then abandoned. Believe me, it could have been worse.” After a moment, he added, “The odds are one in a thousand, they say… though it’s a certainty if one or both parents are already Shel’ai.”
Hráthbam remembered the pregnant Sylvan women who had accompanied the Shel’ai onto the ship. He considered asking what kind of children they were carrying then decided he would rather not know. “We should be there in three or four days,” he said. “I’m not worried about storms, and we shouldn’t have any problems with ice if we keep east of the Wintersea, but…”
“You’re afraid of what we’ll find to the north?”
Hráthbam shook his head. “Not afraid, just confused. I haven’t been up there, but my people have. I’ve seen the maps, too. There’s nothing but a few little islands and a mass of icebergs. No Dragonkin, no wall of fire. Are you sure you don’t want to go south?”
El’rash’lin shook his head. “The Dragonward surrounds the entire continent, a ways out to sea. It doesn’t matter where we go, though the people who want us dead are less likely to follow us into the cold.”
Hráthbam hesitated. “Isn’t that where the legends say the Dragonkin went?”
“Yes, but the world is shaped like an orange. If they went far enough north, they’d end up on the other side of the world and start south again.”
“I know that,” Hráthbam said. “That’s not what I mean.”
El’rash’lin smiled again. “I know what you meant.”
A cold wind blew over them. Hráthbam tugged at his cloak, marveling that El’rash’lin did not shiver. “If you’re just looking for a place to run, I can suggest a few that are a lot warmer. You won’t even have food in the north, unless you want to live off fish and snow foxes.”
“Not especially. That’s why your cargo hold contains twelve cases of Dwarrish darksoil. I know, because I teleported them there.” El’rash’lin added, “They’ll only need ten. Keep the other two as payment for your troubles.”
Hráthbam touched the bulging coin purse hanging from his belt. “Gods, I don’t need any more payment! You brought me back from the dead. I owe you.”
“Then give it to your wives by way of apology.”
It took a moment for Hráthbam to realize that El’rash’lin was joking. “They’ll appreciate that.” They stood in silence for a moment, then the Soroccan said, “If there’s a wall of wytchfire stretching up to the clouds, shouldn’t we be able to see it by now?”
“It’s not a wall of fire,” El’rash’lin said. “The legends call it that because it sounds more impressive. Really, it’s invisible. Your kind can pass through it without so much as a tingle. You’d never even know it’s there. Same with Shel’ai.”
Hráthbam frowned. He saw the old man shudder. “But you can feel it, can’t you?”
El’rash’lin looked surprised. He nodded slowly. “I’ve been feeling it since we left Sorocco. Every hour, it gets stronger.”
“What’s it like?”
“An intense feeling of… dread. I couldn’t feel it before, when I was just a Shel’ai. I’d grown up hearing stories about the Dragonward, same as everyone, but I wasn’t even sure it was real. But now…” El’rash’lin shuddered again. “After we reach it, your job will be to help Kith’el… Shade and the others find an island. For now, any island will do. Do I have your word on this?”
Hráthbam nodded, puzzled. He remembered El’rash’lin saying that the Shel’ai would only need ten of the twelve casks of darksoil in his ship’s cargo hold.
They…
“What… happens if a Dragonkin tries to pass through the barrier?”
El’rash’lin did not answer. Hráthbam was about to repeat his question when the old man asked, “What’s the name of this ship?”
“Winter’s Prayer,” Hráthbam answered. “My youngest named it. I wanted to call it Dyoni’s Bane, but it was her birthday.”
El’rash’lin smiled. “Good name.” Then he gathered his cloak about his thin frame and walked away. Hráthbam watched him go. Another frigid gust blew off the waters, up over the ship’s railing, making him shudder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ash and Ruins
By the time Jalist reached Armahg’s Tears, the city of Atheion had stopped burning, though smoke still hid the sun and choked the afternoon sky. Remembering that the Dhargots and the Noshans were very nearly enemies, he’d already stripped off his Dhargothi armor and traded it for his own. He dismounted, long axe in hand. Only the blowing wind and the distant creaking of skiffs greeted him. Still, he approached slowly. The smell of smoke and charred flesh filled his nostrils. He winced. He remembered that smell.
He slowed as he neared the sea. All along the shore, ash covered the snow just beyond the shattered wall. Jalist saw heaps of charred bones amid the ash. The bones were barely recognizable as Human, though he saw a few bronze shortswords half buried in the snow.
“Lochurites?”
Standing before the shattered gates, he studied his immediate surroundings. He remembered shops, taverns, homes, and windmills along the shore.
In their place lay ash and charred timbers, though Jalist had no way of knowing whether they had been destroyed along with the gates and the Lochurites or sometime earlier. He listened for survivors. He returned to his horse and mounted the skittish animal, his long axe still in hand. He forced himself forward, through the ruined gates.
He found only blocks of scorched stone. The wall bore great cracks, and chunks of it had been blown apart along with the gates, but the bridge remained intact. The stone archway led from the shore to the first of Atheion’s great skiffs, somehow intact despite the skiff’s faint motion on the silent sea. Jalist dismounted to search for signs of Atheion’s defenders.
More charred skeletons lined the charred battlements. Some wore armor that had melted, cooled, and hardened again, so that the dead appeared to have been covered with steel blankets. Jalist could not tell at first who they were. Then he spotted a broken adamune on the ground. Half the sword’s curved blade was gone, though what remained gleamed coldly in the snow. Jalist picked it up.
“Gods… I’m sorry, Locke.” He started to toss the broken sword down then changed his mind and lowered it with slow reverence. He’d hardly finished doing so when he heard a sound. He turned, fumbling for his long axe, in time to see his horse galloping away from him.
Jalist cursed. He shouted at the animal, but it paid him no mind. He decided there was no point in chasing after it. If he was lucky, he would find another horse in Atheion. If not, he could stay, rest, and find fresh supplies before continuing south in the morning. He did not relish the thought of staying in Atheion, but at least he could get out of the cold for a while.
Another night spent in a gods-damned graveyard…
He tried not to think of all the corpses and wreckage he’d found in Stillhammer. In that case, the destruction had been wrought by Jolym, but Atheion was different. He recognized the signs of what had been done there, having seen them more times than he cared to remember.
Jalist started across the bridge, hoping the Nightmare was not still in the city. He also noted that it looked as though the destruction had started within the city then extended beyond the walls. He looked over the railing, down at the blue waters of Armahg’s Tears. The surface gleamed with a thin sheen of ice. He wondered how long it would be before the sea was frozen solid.
Then he heard a sound.
Aeko Shingawa stood in the remains of the dead king’s palace. A chill wind swept through the chamber, howling through cracks in the walls, but she kept her eyes fixed on the drawn adamune lying on the floor at the center of the chamber. Her adamune. Snow had fallen through great cracks in the ceiling, dusting the floor and dampening the blade.
Isle Knights stood all around her, as
still as statues. She could hear their breathing and smell the blood and sweat on their armor.
Crovis Ammerhel continued his accusations: “Finally, with a heavy heart, I must accuse the Knight of the Lotus called Aeko Shingawa of extreme cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
A murmur swept through the Knights. Some rumbled with anger, while a great many more nodded in agreement. Crovis gave the Knights time to absorb his words. He paced around her sword, at the center of the gathering, never taking his eyes off Aeko. “Despite the courage she has demonstrated on countless past occasions… which are not in question… Aeko Shingawa’s behavior since being promoted to the Order of the Lotus by our late Grand Marshal has been an unquestionable affront to the precepts of the Codex Viticus, as well as the philosophy of the Codex Lotius. She has not maintained the principles of our Order, either in spirit or in action. For that reason, I am left with the solemn and unfortunate duty of demanding justice from this assemblage.”
Crovis Ammerhel faced Aeko with an almost believable look of reluctance, bowed to the assembled Knights, and stepped back. A few Knights applauded. Another Knight moved to the center of the chamber. Lanky and quick eyed, he wore his hair in a long dark braid. He held up his hands, calling for attention. When the Knights did not quiet down to let him speak, Crovis called for silence on the young Knight’s behalf.
Aeko’s heart sank. Her defense had not even spoken, and he’d already made a serious mistake. She sighed. She should have expected this. With Crovis acting as her accuser and the rest of the Knights as her judges, she’d had the option of defending herself or requesting another Knight to do it for her. Traditionally, the latter was preferable, since it gave the appearance that the accused had friends among the Knighthood.
But Aeko had few friends left. No Knight from the Orders of the Stag or the Lotus would speak for her. Finally, a Knight from the lowest of the three ranks—the Order of the Crane—had volunteered. His name was Sang Wei. Aeko knew nothing of his background except that he was poor and quiet. On the other hand, witnesses said he’d distinguished himself at the gates of Atheion, holding back the Lochurites almost single-handedly when the first blast from the Nightmare killed half of Aeko’s company and left her unconscious.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 35