Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Saanji thought of the stories he’d heard coming from Lyos about an incredibly powerful sorceress named Silwren who had healed their wounded despite earlier encounters with Lyosi mobs bent on killing her. Supposedly, the Lyosi thought of Silwren as a hero now. Saanji would not have thought it possible, especially after the destruction of Fadarah’s infamous Throng, but he foresaw a day when Zeia might be equally beloved in Cassica.

  Well, maybe not by everyone. He noted a group of scowling Cassicans in the distance, giving Zeia murderous looks. All had knives in their belts. Saanji gestured to get the attention of one of his officers then nodded toward the group. His officer got the message. He gathered a squad of Earless and stood at the perimeter of the practice yard, watching the group carefully in case they tried to cause trouble.

  Saanji turned back to watch Royce and Zeia. Royce had knocked one of the shortswords out of Zeia’s hands and was steadily driving her backward. Zeia’s expression looked even more taut than usual. Then Saanji saw something curious: her left hand, which no longer held a sword, flickered and disappeared, then reformed. Moments later, Zeia’s right hand vanished. Her shortsword landed in the snow.

  Meanwhile, Royce’s kingsteel bastard sword was already angling for Zeia’s throat, which was suddenly defenseless. Saanji opened his mouth to scream a warning, but Royce already saw the danger. With a grunt, the First Lancer wrenched the sword higher, changing the angle. Zeia managed to duck. The blade sailed just over her head. The swing threw Royce off balance.

  Zeia shouldered into him, tripped him, and knocked the Lancer onto the snow. Her flaming hands reappeared. She gestured, and an invisible force plucked the kingsteel sword out of Royce’s hand, floating it into her own. The Shel’ai smirked. “Fine blade.” She stepped back, flipped the sword high in the air, caught it by the blade—which steamed in her grasp—and returned it to Royce, hilt first. Royce took the sword and rose to his feet without comment. Onlookers exchanged glances, unsure whether to applaud.

  Saanji went from breathing a sigh of relief when Royce didn’t accidentally behead their newest ally to chuckling softly. “Well, that’s one way to win.” He approached, laughing more loudly than he needed to, hoping to dispel tension. A few onlookers joined in.

  Royce gave Zeia a terse smile. “I could have killed you.”

  “But you didn’t.” Zeia’s hands disappeared, the violet flames seeming to retreat back up her sleeves like bullwhips uncurling in reverse. “If you like, we can call it a draw.”

  Royce blinked. “No need. Well fought, m’lady.” He bowed. Zeia returned the gesture. Royce looked from her to Saanji. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I should check on the preparations.”

  That defeat stung his pride—or was it his sense of honor, given how she’d won? Saanji wondered if he should try to soften the mood with another joke, but Zeia spoke first.

  “How much longer will your men need to prepare?”

  Royce was already turning away, but he glanced back to answer. “Not long. The horses and supplies are ready. It’s just a logistical matter at this point.” He indicated Saanji with a nod. “We’ve decided that the prince’s men—”

  “Earless,” Saanji corrected. “Don’t worry, we’ve adopted the insult, made it our own.” He glanced at Zeia, hoping to see her smile. She did not.

  Royce continued. “We’ve decided that the Earless will be integrated with my Lancers, so the men can get used to each other before the siege. It takes time to choose commanders and assign them into squads, but it’s almost done.”

  Zeia used her wrist-stump to wipe the sweat from her brow. “The sooner we can march, the better.”

  “Or worse,” Saanji muttered. He stooped to gather a handful of snow. “I don’t relish the thought of marching an army through this stuff. I relish the idea of sleeping on it even less.”

  Zeia looked about to offer a biting reply, but Royce said, “Relieving the Noshans will be difficult. None of our men are used to fighting Jolym. But a winter siege of Hesod will be even harder.”

  “Neither can he helped,” Zeia snapped. “El’rash’lin says that Rowen was bound for the Free Cities. The closest are Hesod and Atheion, both of which are under siege. Wherever he is, he will need our help.”

  “So will the cities,” Saanji muttered. He wondered if Zeia cared about that. He reminded himself that less than a year ago, she’d been fighting beside Fadarah against the Free Cities. Why is she so bent on helping Rowen Locke now? Her answer made Saanji wonder if she’d read his mind—a thought that frightened him.

  “I swore to El’rash’lin that I’d help the Isle Knight defeat Chorlga. That means defeating your brother and his army, too.” She gave Saanji a cold look. “I did not expect any of this to be easy. If you did, perhaps we were hasty in forming this alliance.”

  Before either man could answer, she walked away.

  Saanji whistled. “Ice and fire, that one.”

  Royce said, “Good thing our men are calling all this the New Alliance.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “New things have an excuse when they go badly.” Royce stooped to retrieve Zeia’s shortswords. Both had blackened from her touch, though not as much as the first time they sparred. “Do you think her hands disappearing was a trick? Or had she just got too weak to keep up the spell?”

  Saanji had not thought of that. He glanced after Zeia, who had left the practice yard for her private quarters. Reluctant bodyguards—two Lancers and two Earless—fell in behind her. Saanji turned toward the group of Cassicans he’d noticed earlier. They were gone. “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like she likes appearing vulnerable. Makes sense why.”

  Royce nodded. “Holding objects is one thing. Throwing them is another. She won’t be much use to us if she can’t throw wytchfire.”

  Saanji scratched his growing goatee. “I don’t know. A crazed woman with hands made out of fire, swinging a sword? That would scare the piss out of me!”

  “But will it scare the piss out of your brother?”

  “No,” Saanji admitted after a moment. “He’ll probably think she’s beautiful.” Like I do.

  “And the Jolym?”

  “I don’t think anything frightens them. So we’ll just have to fill their eye sockets full of arrows and hope that does the trick.”

  “And hope Chorlga isn’t with them,” Royce added.

  “Well, we could always stay here.”

  Royce frowned. “I’m not losing my nerve, Dhargot. The Shel’ai is right. If Knightswrath really is that powerful, we need to find Rowen Locke and make him our ally before your brother kills him and Chorlga takes the sword. Besides, the gods know we’ll need his help against Chorlga and the Nightmare.”

  Saanji nodded. “I know. I wasn’t questioning your guts, just our collective sanity.”

  Royce scoffed. “Ah. Well, that’s another matter. Look on the bright side, though. All the scouts say the Jolym appear to have gotten tired of killing everywhere else. Looks like they’re all massing in the south.”

  “Perfect. Maybe they’ll all form one big, unkillable army that can tear us to pieces.”

  “At least they’ll sing songs about us.” Royce clapped his shoulder. “We march for Nosh at first light. I need you sober for that.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Saanji waited until Royce left, Lancers falling in behind him, then turned and headed for the nearest tavern. Glancing at the direction Zeia had taken, he had half a mind to invite her to join him, but he did not have the nerve to ask.

  As he walked, he considered Royce’s question about Karhaati. He imagined how his brother would react to the sight of Zeia. Like so many Dhargots, his brother worshipped power. Zeia would impress him, surely, but his would be the kind of admiration that hinged on servitude and conquest. Since Zeia was not powerful enough t
hat Karhaati would be forced to serve her, the only remaining option would be to honor her power by killing her.

  Gods, how did we both come from the same womb?

  The thought made him wince. For all he knew, they had not. Men who adhered strictly to the Way of Ears placed almost no value on women. Saanji did not even know his mother’s name; he had no memories of being held or suckled by any woman save his frightened wet nurses. He wondered who his mother might have been—a slave with the misfortune of being born beautiful, a captive from a conquered people, or perhaps even some unwanted daughter of royal blood? He touched the opal ring on his finger. The thought of Maryssa made tears well up in his eyes. He blinked them back, glad his bodyguards could not see.

  Turning the corner, he spotted his favorite tavern in the distance. Cassicans, mostly children and the elderly, milled in the streets, moving between shops and temples. They spotted him and drew aside. A few nodded. Saanji made a point of nodding back. Though he’d earned a reputation for kindness during the city’s occupation, Saanji had not forgotten that he was still a Dhargot. Some of his Earless had already been attacked by Cassicans who saw no distinction between them and the other Dhargots. For that reason, Saanji had ordered that no Earless travel through the city alone. If possible, he preferred that they travel in the company of Lancers.

  But Lancers made poor drinking companions, and despite his promise to Arnil Royce, Saanji intended to get good and drunk. After all, it would be a cold, grueling march through ice and snow to reach Nosh, and there was a very good chance that his own shallow grave was all that awaited him there. Better he approach that fate with a sore belly and a headache caused by hláshba.

  Saanji smiled, remembering the tavern’s unexpected stock of that powerful Soroccan liquor, which even the most committed drunks tended to avoid. He’d already spent more coins and hours in that tavern than he could recall. He felt honor-bound to pay one last visit. Besides, the tavern’s owner was an old man who’d had his tongue cut out by Dhargots, but he still seemed friendly enough toward Saanji. The old man played a strange stringed instrument in a way that would have made the gods weep, and Saanji wanted to hear him play again before one or both of them died. He was still contemplating this, playing a favorite melody in his head, when the attack began.

  His only warning was the wide eyes of an old woman who happened to be looking in his direction, but it was enough to send his hand for the hilt of his shortsword. He drew it and turned. One of his bodyguards had already fallen toward the street, a spear in his back. The others howled in warning and drew steel, backpedaling to form a circle around Saanji.

  “Gods-damned Dhargots!” someone yelled.

  All around them, Cassicans screamed. Doors slammed. The attackers—the men he’d seen earlier—charged out of an alley. Two more had spears. The rest had crossbows. Saanji wondered where they’d gotten them. He held up his empty hand. Despite the sudden lump in his throat, he found his voice.

  “Wait, listen, we’re not like the others. I’m not my brother. You don’t have to—”

  One of the men interrupted with a crazed, unintelligible shout. Then the men with crossbows lifted them, taking aim. One of the Earless shoved Saanji backward. His heel caught on something, and he fell. More screams swirled around him. He heard the clatter of steel and saw a shower of sparks.

  He looked around for his sword. He spotted its brass hilt glinting in the distance—too far to reach. He crawled toward it but had gotten only halfway when a man with a spear blocked his path.

  “For my wife,” the man grunted. He thrust the head of his spear at Saanji’s face. Saanji watched it coming closer and closer, knew he was about to die, then remembered he could still move. He rolled to one side. A stab of pain—cold, then hot—told him he hadn’t gotten away clean. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet then surprised himself by charging his attacker.

  He surprised his attacker, too. The man tried to turn his spear in time to impale Saanji through the stomach, but he was too slow. Saanji caught the spear, wrapped one arm around it, and pinned it to his side. They struggled, so close that Saanji could smell hláshba on his opponent’s breath. He noted the man’s bloodshot eyes. Saanji tried to wrest the spear away from his attacker, realized he wasn’t strong enough, and kicked blindly.

  His attacker grunted. Saanji kicked again. The man’s grip loosened. Saanji kicked him a third time then tore the spear free. Rather than waste time trying to bring the point to bear, he drove the shaft into his attacker’s nose. The man cursed and fell backward. Saanji hesitated, then aimed his spear and thrust downward.

  He looked up as he dragged the blade free. In the distance, three of his Earless lay on the street, all bloody. One moved weakly, clutching his stomach, his eyes glazed. The other Earless had formed a line and charged, one despite the crossbow bolt in his shoulder. They’d already cut down three attackers, including the ringleader. The remaining four backpedaled, blindly waving spears or daggers in place of crossbows.

  Then Saanji saw a second knot of men, dressed in rags and armed with daggers and cudgels, racing up from the other end of the street. For a moment, he thought they were coming to help. His heart soared. Then one of them pointed right at him and spat on the street.

  “Watch your backs,” Saanji called to his men. They glanced over their shoulders. One of them cursed. Another tried to haul the wounded man onto his feet, but his glazed eyes widened with pain, and he screamed until his comrade laid him back down again.

  Saanji watched, trying to remember the men’s names. Shame filled him when he could not. Then the sound of approaching footsteps reminded him of the danger. He turned to face the second knot of men. He counted.

  “Seven on one side, four on the other,” he called to his men. “Can’t hold them here. Fall back.”

  “Where?” one of his men grunted, looking around. The tavern was too far. All the nearby houses had closed and barred their doors. Most had closed their shutters, too. Then Saanji spotted an open window.

  He pointed with his sword. “There. If you want to live, run like your asses are on fire.” He ran. His men followed. The second group of attackers angled their charge, trying to block Saanji’s path.

  We’re not all going to make it…

  “Climb through the window,” Saanji shouted. He turned, intending to charge the men, but one of his Earless—he could not tell who—shoved him back toward the window.

  “Get to safety, my prince. We’ll hold them off.”

  Saanji glanced at the charging men. His courage faltered. He nodded dumbly and ran the rest of the way to the window. He clambered through. The house stank of sweat and filth. He saw no furniture or source of light. The house’s owner, an old man with one arm in a sling, cowered in the corner.

  Saanji spotted the door, unlatched it, and threw it open. Waning daylight made him wince. “Inside,” he called to his men.

  No one answered, though he doubted anyone could hear him over the din of fighting. Then someone screamed in pain. Saanji hoped it was one of their attackers, though the glare of the setting sun blinded him. He stood in the doorway, shaking, then stepped back out into the street.

  “Enough,” he shouted toward the blur of noise and fighting men. “Leave my men alone. We’ve done nothing to you. We aren’t like the others. Don’t you understand?”

  A cudgel sailed through the air, emerging from the setting sun as though born of it. A man held the cudgel. Saanji took a step backward—too slowly. The cudgel met his shoulder. Bones cracked and shifted. Saanji withered. Then he realized he was still holding his sword in his broken arm. He switched his sword to his good hand and lifted it, but the cudgel knocked it out of his grasp.

  Someone shouted, “Do it, Lem. Do it fast!”

  Saanji looked up. “Lem, is it?”

  Lem blinked. He’d raised his cudgel but paused when S
aanji spoke his name. Saanji took advantage of the opportunity by driving his foot into Lem’s groin. Lem staggered backward, cursing. Saanji tried to push himself up. But another man kicked his legs out from under him. Saanji saw a rust-covered cleaver arcing toward his face. Then a sword blurred downward, knocking it aside. A second sword followed the first, cutting the cleaver out of the attacker’s hand. Violet fire blurred past him.

  Zeia finished off the man with the cleaver then turned to face the man with the cudgel. She was not alone. Four figures surged out of the shadows behind her. Two wore the dark scale armor of Dhargots, while the other two wore plate armor that gleamed in the setting sun.

  Saanji let himself sag against the wall of the house and sink onto the street. Lancers and Earless streamed past him. The cries of battle became screams for mercy. A moment later, Royce knelt before him, grim faced. Blood splattered his armor and ran slowly down his kingsteel bastard sword. He spoke Saanji’s name.

  Saanji nodded. “I’m still alive.”

  “I can see that.” Royce wiped his sword clean on his sleeve then sheathed it. “Can you stand? We have to get you inside.”

  “Why? Isn’t the battle over?”

  “Not quite.” Royce grabbed his good arm and gently helped him up. “They weren’t just after you. This is citywide. A hundred rebels, at least.”

  Saanji shook his head. “Zeia… but Zeia healed them…”

  “Maybe that’s why it’s only a hundred and not five thousand.” Royce snapped his fingers, and two Lancers came to his assistance. “Get the prince back to the barracks. Keep him safe. Give him hláshba for the pain and bandage his ear.”

  My… ear?