Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “I see no need for indecision. I gave you the Free Cities taken by the Throng, and I’m giving you time to claim and reinforce them, before you eventually help us take the Wytchforest. Atheion was never part of the bargain.”

  “So you said.” To Fadarah’s amazement, Karhaati yawned. “But Atheion is quite a prize. My father—”

  “Is not here. I am.” He took a step forward. “Atheion will not be touched… yet. Is that understood?”

  Karhaati smirked. “Of course. Still, we need to shore up our southern flank. So I sent my cousin, Jaanti, to frighten them. He is a man of many skills. Diplomacy is not one of them.”

  “Fine. Leave Ziraari’s host at Hesod, but march your own east, toward Cassica. You may take the city, but hold there.”

  Karhaati’s smirk became a frown. “Why stop there? Lyos—”

  “Lyos was not part of the deal. I have no intention of waiting months before we proceed to the Wytchforest. If I grant you Lyos, it will be later, when the time is right.”

  “Or perhaps you want revenge on them yourself?”

  Fadarah thought back to the Battle of Lyos, which had seen the Nightmare critically wounded, his Throng decimated by internal revolt, and his Shel’ai—even himself—forced to flee for their lives. His pulse quickened, but he shook his head. “This campaign is not about revenge, Human.”

  “Isn’t it?” Karhaati sat in his chair, drained his cup, and held it out. Brahasti grimaced but obediently fetched the pitcher and refilled the goblet. “As you say, Sorcerer-General. Our alliance shall be honored.” He drank.

  “So it shall,” Fadarah said. He turned to go.

  “One more thing,” Karhaati said. “A surprise.”

  Fadarah tensed. He turned slowly to face the Bloody Prince again.

  Karhaati laughed. “I bought you another ally. Some wild tribesmen from Nosh. Lochurites, berserkers, whatever they’re called. Don’t worry. They were cheap. But they’re fey fighters… once they drink that poison of theirs. I’ve had them pestering the Noshans for a week now. I even have a force of them waiting to help Jaanti, if he decides to stay in Nosh and have some fun.”

  “The Lochurites are of no concern to me. You should have saved your gold.”

  “Not gold, just bronze. And you’re welcome.” Karhaati laughed again. “I confess, I was hoping we could work out a trade.”

  “A trade?”

  “Say, a thousand Lochurite berserkers for… a mere four Shel’ai?” Karhaati sipped from his goblet again. The wine left his lips red. Some of the wine ran down his chin, staining his skin like blood. “I’m told you have thirty or forty left. Surely, you won’t miss four.”

  Fadarah scowled, wondering how Karhaati had gained that information. He decided not to tell the Bloody Prince that in actuality, he only had twenty-eight Shel’ai left in the field. “No. My Shel’ai are needed elsewhere. Nor were they part of my agreement with your father.”

  “Agreements can be changed. Four sorcerers would make a big difference in a siege. They could slip in unseen, open the gates, save me maybe a thousand men.”

  “Your losses aren’t my concern, Dhargot.”

  “They should be. The more men I have, the more help I can give you when it comes time to begin the wholesale slaughter of your kin.”

  Shade stepped forward. Though he glared at the Bloody Prince, his voice whispered in Fadarah’s mind: “He speaks sense, Father. Zeia and Avesha are anxious to fight. We could send them, maybe two or three more to—”

  “No. I told you, the Olgrym will not wait. We need to begin the attack on the Wytchforest soon, or the Olgrym will start without us. We’ll need every Shel’ai we can muster. The Dhargots can join us later.”

  “But if their losses are too great or they decide not to honor our agreement—”

  Fadarah gave his answer aloud, so that the Bloody Prince would hear. “Very soon, we will go west. Whatever remains of this army will join us, as will the hosts of your brothers, or I will personally see to it that the Red Emperor becomes childless.”

  For emphasis, Fadarah used magic to pluck the goblet from Karhaati’s hands. Though he loathed drinking from anything that the Bloody Prince’s lips had touched, he drained the cup. Then wytchfire flared from the fist that held the cup, melting it.

  Karhaati smiled, took the pitcher from Brahasti’s hands, and drank straight from the rim. More wine spilled down his chest. “You owe me a goblet, Sorcerer-General.” He pointed at the dead woman then turned to Brahasti. “Get that out of here.”

  Brahasti gave Fadarah a questioning look. For the first time, Fadarah answered with a slight smile. “You command the army, Brahasti—in my name. In all other matters, so long as his orders do not conflict with my own, the Bloody Prince remains your liege.”

  Reluctantly, Brahasti went to drag the dead woman out of the tent. Fadarah gave Karhaati a final glance then left as well. They mounted their horses. As the column of Shel’ai rode out of the camp, thousands upon thousands of Dhargots kneeled again. The camp was still hushed, save for the cries of the prisoners. Fadarah eyed the slave pens in the distance. He turned to Shade and whispered, “Go and gather up all the women and children. Send Zeia to search the camp. Make sure we have everyone. Tell the Dhargots we intend to sacrifice all of them to Zet, their dead Dragongod. Tell them we will mix the ashes in our wine and smear them on our weapons, as is the Dhargothi custom.”

  Shade stirred, visibly uncomfortable. “I have no love for Humans, but—”

  “Just tell them. Then take all the women and children east, give them provisions, and turn them loose. Do it tonight. Tell them if they have any sense, make for Quesh or the Lotus Isles.”

  “If the Dhargots find out—”

  “A risk we can afford.”

  “What about the women and children they’ll take at Cassica? Will we intervene for them, too?”

  Fadarah gestured for Shade to proceed. Shade bowed, then turned and whispered the orders to Zeia, who raised her eyebrows in surprise. But both hurried to obey, the crimson greatwolves on their cloaks rustling as they moved.

  Fadarah glanced around, eyeing the kneeling Dhargots. Even if they believed his story, many would chafe at the loss of their prizes. Still, even Fadarah would not be able to prevent them from despoiling whatever prisoners they took from the next city.

  We must show mercy when we can. He urged his bloodmare onward, anxious to be gone. Only when he had ridden from sight did the camp bristle back to life. Thousands upon thousands of Dhargots rose, as tense as lions in the afternoon sun.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ESCAPE

  Jalist woke and knew at once that something was wrong. The room was dark and silent. Trusting his instincts, he grabbed the shortsword he’d kept drawn beside him and held it in a guarded position before his face. He slid his feet out of the bed and rose slowly, careful to make no sound.

  He listened for breathing but heard nothing. “Locke?” he called softly. No answer. Cursing, he fumbled with flint and tinder and relit the lamp. His sharp eyes scanned the shadows. He was alone.

  He spotted Rowen’s armor lying in the corner of the room. He frowned. Why would Rowen leave his armor? That seemed as unlikely as him attempting to rescue Haesha by himself.

  Jalist dressed quickly, donning not just his plain clothes but his brigandine and boots as well. Then he girded his shortsword, slid his knife into his belt, and grabbed his long axe. Before leaving the room, he pressed his ear to the door. He heard muffled voices outside, probably coming from the common room downstairs, but that was all. When he was certain no one was waiting outside to knife him, he opened the door, still crouching, and stepped into the hallway.

  He considered knocking on Silwren’s door but decided that if she was gone or asleep, she could stay that way. He approached the stairwell and glanced over the railing at the common room. It was mostly empty, and the few people he saw appeared to be asleep in their chairs, the innkeeper among them. Rowen sat well apart from eve
ryone else. Silwren was not with him.

  Doesn’t look like a trap. Still, he searched the shadows and held his long axe at the ready as he cautiously made his way down the stairs. Rowen glanced up at his approach. The Knight’s eyes were red, either from weeping or from exhaustion. Then Jalist saw the scroll in Rowen’s hands.

  It was yellowed with age but different somehow from those old scrolls he’d seen in the libraries of Tarator. Those were often so brittle and fragile that only the most trusted monks dared handle them. It looked more resilient than paper or vellum. “Since when did you pass the wytching hours with poetry?”

  “At least I know how to read.”

  “So do I.” Jalist sat down and glanced at the scroll again. “What language? Doesn’t look like Common, and it sure isn’t Dwarr or Old Ivairian.”

  “Shao,” Rowen answered, his voice breaking.

  He can’t wait to tell me something. “So I wake with my guts telling me something’s wrong, and I find you reading a Shao tome I’m pretty sure you didn’t have six hours ago.” Jalist looked around. “I don’t see Silwren. Something tells me I won’t find her up in her room, either.”

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “I just told you I didn’t.” Jalist glanced at the inn door, hoping to make out whether Captain Reygo’s guards were still stationed outside, but the smoke-fogged glass obscured his view.

  “It’s a history of the Shattering War, penned by Fâyu Jinn himself.”

  “Is it now?” Through the glass, Jalist saw a dark shape standing in the street. He couldn’t make it out but gripped his axe anyway.

  “I always wondered why the Dragonkin didn’t just come back. This explains it. Fâyu Jinn and his allies drove the Dragonkin north, off the shores of the Wintersea, and his allies—Shel’ai and some other Dragonkin who changed sides—they cast some kind of spell around the whole continent. They call it the Dragonward. They can’t come back! And I understand what drove the Dragonkin mad. Jalist, it’s the same thing that’s affecting Silwren. Too much power. Only they were used to it. But they stole their power, their magic, from the dragons. Eventually, they stole so much that the dragons died off—at least, Jinn thinks they did. Nobody knows for sure. That was”—he unrolled a portion of the scroll that he’d already read—“two or three thousand years before the Shattering War. But… gods, Jalist…”

  “Calm down. Does this have anything to do with the Shel’ai, or is this just an interesting story about dragons?”

  But Rowen did not seem to hear him. “The sword, Jalist! Silwren was right. Nâya… I thought that was the Shao word for knight… and now, it is. But before that, Nâya was a person. A woman. Jinn’s wife! And she was a Dragonkin. But that’s not all.” Rowen was shaking as he spoke, as excited as a child, though the enthusiasm made Jalist oddly frightened. “She was Nekiel’s daughter. Nekiel… do you know that name?”

  Jalist peered into Rowen’s glass and found it half full. The Knight did not sound drunk. “Only as a curse. Some disciple of the Undergod, right?”

  “Yes… and no. Jinn was never really sure what he was. But he ruled the Dragonkin. And Nâya was his daughter! Can you imagine that? Jinn married the daughter of his enemy…”

  “Fine, finish your story before it kills you. But keep your damn voice down.” Jalist scanned the common room, but no one was awake enough to eavesdrop, regardless of the excitement in Rowen’s voice. The Knight continued as though he had not heard the warning, and Jalist had a bad feeling that Rowen had not exactly come by the scroll honestly.

  “Nâya made the sword.” Rowen drew Knightswrath and laid it on the table between them. The snowy swirls of its kingsteel blade glinted in the lamplight. “She made it because she knew Jinn was no match for the Dragonkin, no matter how many warriors he got to follow him—and he got a lot as the revolt spread. But she knew if she tapped directly into the Light, she’d make Jinn into… into something like the Nightmare. So she sacrificed herself. Gods, Jalist, he begged her not to do it, but she gave herself to the sword. She took the blade in her hands and shoved it through her heart… while Jinn watched! Then she washed herself in wytchfire. She burned herself into it—”

  Jalist glanced at the blade. For a moment, he thought he saw a woman’s face in the snowy swirls of the metal but decided it was just his imagination. “Just a story. This is steel, Locke. Big difference between steel and a woman. You’re old enough to know that.”

  Rowen shook his head. “That’s what I thought, but the scroll is right. It must be! Jalist, when I found the sword, it was rusted through. Kingsteel doesn’t rust. It can’t. But Knightswrath was ruined. And now it’s not. That has to be magic!”

  Jalist shrugged. “If only there were another explanation. Say, a powerful and deceptive sorceress leading you around by the nose hairs.”

  “It started before I knew her.”

  “Fine. I believe you.” Jalist kept a wary eye on the inn door. “Just tell me where Silwren is and what happened to those guards outside.”

  Rowen continued, talking quickly, glancing rapidly from Jalist to the scroll. “She didn’t just put her own magic in the sword. She tied it to the honor of the Knighthood. And not just the Knighthood. She tied it to the Sylvs, too. She made the sword into a kind of lens. The greater the honor of the Knights and the Sylvs and all those other realms fighting alongside Fâyu Jinn, the greater the sword’s power would become. That’s how Jinn, a mere man, beat the children of gods. But after Jinn, the Order withered. That’s here, too.” He unrolled the scroll farther and pointed. “One of Jinn’s descendants finished the scroll, I think. He doesn’t give his name, but the handwriting’s different. He says how Jinn’s whole alliance fractured. The Sylvs turned on the Shel’ai and started killing them… and the Knights refused to stop it. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with magic, and the Knights and Sylvs didn’t want anything to do with each other. That must be why they concealed the legends of the sword and the Oath of Kin.

  “Everything fell apart,” Rowen continued in a rush. “The line of kings eventually got so bad that the Knights killed the last king and threw out the monarchy. That, at least, I heard about when I was on the Isles. I still don’t know how Knightswrath found its way to Hráthbam. It should have stayed in Jinn’s tomb, in Sylvos. But”—he shook his head—“I guess that doesn’t matter now. What matters is rekindling the sword. Silwren knows how. She says my honor is helping—that’s what got rid of the rust—and so did absorbing wytchfire, but it isn’t enough. And there isn’t enough honor left among the Knights or the Sylvs to finish it. She could restore the sword herself… but she’d have to sacrifice herself to do it.” He hesitated. “That’s what she’s been hiding. She’s afraid. But she doesn’t have to be. If we can kill Fadarah and get the Sylvs and the Knights to fight together, we won’t even need—”

  Jalist slammed his fist down on the table, loud enough to startle some of the patrons from sleep. “You’re not actually believing all this nonsense, are you?”

  “Seems I’m believing a lot of crazy things these days.”

  “Skip to the part where you stole something from the Scrollhouse and brought half the city watch down on our heads.”

  Rowen blinked. “No one saw us.”

  “And Silwren? Where in the hells is she?”

  Rowen was silent for a time. Then he stood, picked up Knightswrath, and sheathed it. “The jailhouse.”

  Jalist’s eyes widened. “That’s it. You’ve killed us. You were prattling on about fairy tales when we should have been running for our lives.”

  “We’ll make it. Silwren says so. We just… can’t be near her, in case something goes wrong.”

  “And the guards outside—do we have to kill them? Or do you think they’ll just let us go without reporting back?”

  “They’re asleep. Silwren recast the spell. She said they’ll stay that way until—”

  Jalist waved him off. He rose, too. “When this is done, remind me to have a conversation wi
th the two of you.”

  Rowen blinked. “There wasn’t time—”

  “To tell me what you were planning?” Jalist snorted. “No, I think there was. But I’ll throttle you later. Right now, we need to start running.”

  Silwren stood before a squat, plain, one-story building with arrow-thin walls. The doors were closed, locked, and guarded. No matter. Another spell allowed her to pass through solid stone walls as though they were made of air. Still, it felt like wading through porridge, and she had the awful feeling that if she lost her concentration, she would materialize in solid rock.

  She finished passing through the wall. Magic flowed through her blood, so intoxicating that she reeled. She grabbed a table to steady herself. Noshan guards filled the jailhouse, though none saw her. Here and there, a few played dice, ignoring the groans and protests of the drunks and brawlers occupying the cells. She slipped past the guards like a shadow. She found the former Iron Sister asleep in a cell apart from the others. She stopped for a moment.

  The woman’s mind was an open scroll. She read it—an entire life, all the woman’s memories in an instant. Silwren wept. Then she walked through the bars as easily as she’d passed through the walls of the jailhouse. She felt a tug of weariness at yet another expenditure of magic, in addition to what it kept to maintain her invisibility, but she could not stop.

  Rather than waking the woman and risking her making noise that might alert the guards, Silwren found her in a dream. In the dream, the woman was nude and unarmed, struggling against a host of leering Dhargots. They swarmed over her, tearing at her clothes.

  Silwren burned the men away. She pulled the stunned woman to her feet and spoke to her there. It took only a moment to explain what was about to happen, though Silwren doubted the woman understood. Silwren touched her. The former Iron Sister vanished, as though her body had turned to mist.

  Silwren reeled again. The magic roared within her, more violent and intoxicating than ever. She felt as though she were being alternately stabbed and kissed all over her body. She fell to her knees, still in the woman’s now-empty cell. She forgot why she was there. She forgot the faces of everyone she had ever loved. She even forgot her own name. She saw herself as though she were still in someone else’s dream, watching from a distance. She saw the guards scream and reach for weapons as something filled the jail cell. She rose through the ceiling: translucent and mist born, but huge and horned with violet eyes and six wings. Dimly, she realized she was seeing herself. She saw herself made of light.