Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  One of the man’s eyes was a sickly milk-white color, but the suspicion in his good eye was obvious. Forcing herself to smile, she opened her cloak. The man’s suspicion give way to arousal once he’d studied her more closely. Though Igrid was no longer sure she even wanted to stay in the hut, she concealed her revulsion and smiled again.

  “Good evening. I met your daughter by the stream. She said I might have your hospitality for the night.”

  The man either did not understand or was too preoccupied by staring at her bosom and wet, clingy clothes. She fought the impulse to close her cloak. She repeated herself, simplifying her phrasing. “Can I stay the night?”

  The man scratched an unkempt beard. “You want to stay here?”

  No. But Igrid realized, unexpectedly, that she did not have the heart to leave the girl. “Just for the night. I can pay you in the morning,” she lied, but she intended to be gone before he woke.

  The man was silent for a moment, wobbling a little as he stood there. She wondered if he was drunk. She had known many simplefolk to make their own wine out of fruits, usually putrid stuff that could be poisonous but succeeded at least in numbing the dreariness of their station. The man’s lips cracked into a toothless grin, and she guessed what was coming next.

  “You want to stay the night, you lay with me.”

  Igrid could not suppress a shudder of revulsion. She was glad her hands were free, though she managed with great restraint to keep from drawing her sword and cleaving the vile man’s head in two. Instead, she crossed her arms and shook her head firmly. “No.”

  The man spat on the ground and brandished the hatchet. “Then go.”

  The girl appeared again. She squeezed her father’s arm and whispered something in his ear, casting Igrid a sidelong glance. The man relaxed, and the hatchet came down. He pushed his daughter back inside the hut and gestured for Igrid to follow.

  Igrid took a step backward, then the girl’s face peeked out of the hut. The child’s imploring gaze was so desperately lonely that tears sprang to Igrid’s eyes.

  Maybe the girl doesn’t want to stay here. She can’t. Maybe I should kill the bastard and take the girl to some temple in Lyos. She flexed her fingers on the dragonbone hilt of Rowen’s sword. She wondered what the Isle Knight would do in her place.

  The man stared at her. She turned her back on him and started walking. She listened carefully, in case he charged her. When she heard a heavy rumbling sound, she spun and drew her sword, but the man was still standing in the doorway. He looked as confused as she felt. She listened.

  Horses… She thought for one fearful moment that Rowen had caught up with her. But no, the hooves sounded more like an army. She turned west, in the direction of the sound, but trees blocked her view. She hurried forward to get a better look. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man and his daughter join her, but she paid them no mind. “Gods…”

  At least a hundred riders thundered across the grasslands. The first half of them wore full armor. Some wore bright, colorful tabards over their armor. They were unmistakably knights, but not Isle Knights. They looked nothing like Rowen. Their armor was heavier, and each armored man carried a long wooden lance tipped in steel, a bright pennant tied at the end. Squires dressed in brigandines and armed with shortswords worked to keep pace with the knights. Most hauled two or three more lances under one arm.

  Igrid squinted, trying to discern a sigil in the waning light. She saw a profile of a rearing horse topped with a crown. She almost could not believe her eyes. What are Ivairians doing this far south? They were obviously in a hurry. The hooves of their horses kicked up a fierce cloud of dirt and grass as they tore across the plains. In the Lancers’ wake, a second column rode in breakneck pursuit. These men wore the distinctive scale armor and black silk of Dhargothi warriors. She even thought she spotted a force of chariots some distance behind the riders. She could not see them very well through the chaos, but she imagined the horse-drawn carts were crowded with archers and spearmen.

  This is going to be bloody. The Lancers and squires were outnumbered. Even slowed down by their weighty armor, they might outrun the Dhargothi chariots—especially if they sacrificed their heavily laden squires as a rearguard—but they would not escape the cavalry nipping at their heels. The Lancers seemed to sense that.

  The column abruptly whirled about. Lancers and squires expertly regrouped into one fierce knot of muscle, leather, and steel then thundered down on the advancing Dhargothi cavalry. Igrid felt the pregnant girl draw close to her. Unthinking, Igrid found her hand and squeezed it.

  Both winced as the Lancers and the Dhargots met in a head-on collision of wood and steel. Horses screamed. Lances splintered. Men fell on both sides, cleaved and bloody, dark flailing shapes in the twilight. But even outnumbered, the main force of Lancers drove clear through the Dhargots’ center. Meanwhile, the squires closed in with shortswords drawn, hacking at wounded Dhargots or dismounting and stabbing them while they were still dazed. Others utilized the extra lances they were carrying for their lords, driving them through scale armor and flesh.

  Igrid resisted the impulse to run out and join them. Meanwhile, rather than wheel about and clash once more with the Dhargothi cavalry, the Lancers tightened ranks and continued their charge against the chariots. Igrid realized their mistake at once. Had the Lancers pressed their assault against the Dhargothi horsemen, the archers in the oncoming chariots would have been hard-pressed to find a clear target in the swirling chaos. But as a single group, the Lancers were easy targets. A few were still couching lances, but most relied on swords and shields.

  Igrid heard the snap of bows over the din of battle. She winced again, expecting to see the Ivairians cut to ribbons. To her surprise, though, the Lancers’ heavy plate armor protected them from most of the arrows. A few fell, but most hurtled on, shouting, and crashed into the line of chariots before the latter could steer clear.

  The pregnant girl covered her eyes, even as her father stared through the trees, grinning wildly. Igrid watched anxiously.

  The Ivairian squires were in trouble. The Dhargothi cavalry had regrouped in force and was having little trouble cutting down the lightly armored boys assailing them. Moments later, the squires attempted to flee, some on horseback, others on foot.

  Three Ivairian squires, all on foot, raced in the direction of the hut. Even in the thin light of dusk, Igrid could make out the terror on their faces. She counted five Dhargots on horseback bearing down on them. Two of the squires threw away their swords, perhaps thinking that would dissuade their pursuers, but the Dhargots continued on.

  Igrid gauged the distance—the squires would be dead long before they reached the shelter of trees. That meant the Dhargots would not see Igrid, the girl, and her father watching. “Look away,” she told the girl, who was still clinging to her.

  Then she heard a new rallying cry. Most of the Lancers were still clashing with the Dhargothi charioteers, but a handful had regrouped and were rushing to aid their embattled squires. One rode ahead of the rest to intercept the Dhargots pursuing the three squires. He had a fresh lance under one arm, though she had no idea how he’d gotten it. Unlike the other Lancers, his armor was finely enameled. She suspected he was their leader. He shouted, challenging the Dhargots to face him.

  The Dhargots reined in. If they pressed on and slew the three squires, the knight charging from behind would have the advantage. They could turn and kill the madman first then slay the rest.

  The Lancer never slowed. The Dhargots had barely turned before the Lancer angled his horse to the Dhargots’ right flank, urging even more speed from his mount. The Dhargots tried to angle around his lance, but he swept it in a carefully controlled arc and drove it clean through a Dhargot’s chest. The lance splintered. He let it go and drew his sword.

  Steel flashed, flushed with blood. The Lancer blurred by, gracefully cleaving another Dhargot from the saddle as though the latter were standing still. Then the Lancer turned, swinging w
ide. Igrid thought he was leading them back to the rest of the battle. Instead, the Lancer wheeled so sharply that he nearly collided with his pursuers.

  As Igrid lost sight of the man, another chorus of screams and clashing steel rang out, seemingly just as furious as the larger battle. The fleeing squires, meanwhile, raced back to help the embattled knight who had saved them.

  Igrid’s hand strayed to Knightswrath’s hilt. No, this isn’t my fight. She thought for certain that the lone Lancer had been cut down, but she spotted him… on foot, hacking with his broadsword through a forest of Dhargothi horse legs. The Lancer broke free, turned back to the screaming mass of Dhargots, and resumed hacking. The three squires joined him a moment later.

  Igrid turned her gaze back to the larger battle. The Lancers had reinforced their squires. The Dhargots still had superior numbers, but their thinner scale armor could not withstand the Lancers’ bastard and two-handed swords. The Lancers’ heavy armor could, however, withstand a flurry of blows, though its weight made it harder for them to maneuver. The thick, swirling chaos of the battle also made it impossible for them to withdraw and launch another devastating charge.

  She glanced west. The last curve of sunlight had dipped below the horizon. It was so dark that she wondered how any of the fighting men could tell friend from foe, yet still the screams and metallic reverberations echoed across the bloody grasslands.

  The father grabbed the girl’s arm. “We go.” He pulled the girl after him. They disappeared through the trees, presumably returning to their wretched hut.

  Igrid stayed where she was. She knew it wasn’t safe at the hut. If a few Lancers or Dhargots broke off or fled the fighting, there was no telling what they would do. She had seen what the Dhargots had done at Hesod, and she had no reason to believe the Ivairians were much better.

  She touched Knightswrath’s hilt again. She had never wielded an adamune before, but she figured the basic principle with curved blades was the same as the basic principle of straight ones: carve up the enemy before getting carved up.

  Then, in the distance, a line of shadowy figures slipped away from the battle and weaved through the trees. She was relieved when she saw the deserters follow the tree line and head north, away from the dung hut. But they changed their minds. She wondered why until she heard the pregnant girl’s voice echoing, sharp and shrill, from the dung hut. She was arguing with her father.

  The others had heard it, too. Igrid cursed. She could not make out the distant figures, but she guessed by their dark silhouettes that they were Dhargots. She glanced at the battlefield. The Dhargothi charioteers had been massacred by the Lancers early in the fighting, maybe two hundred yards from where she stood. Surely, bows and spears had been left on the field.

  Ducking low, Igrid crept out of her thin cover of trees and began to circle the field, giving it a wide berth. Luckily, the fighting had mostly shifted northward, away from her destination. As she drew nearer, she tried to block out the whimpers of dying men. She spotted a Dhargothi archer lying prone on the grass. Heart pounding, she dashed toward him and snatched up his bow. She tried to take his quiver, but the strap was hopelessly tangled with his body, so she grabbed a handful of arrows. Then she ran back toward the tree line.

  Once she reached the trees, she glanced north. The battle raged on in the field. Eerie moonlight revealed only brief glimpses of glinting steel and desperate, struggling figures. Igrid turned toward the dung hut.

  What am I doing? Why risk your life here?

  Nevertheless, she nocked one arrow and slipped the rest into her crude belt. It was nearly pitch black beneath the swaying darkness of the tree limbs, but she knew she would have no trouble finding the dung hut. All she had to do was follow the screams.

  She resisted the impulse to make a mad dash toward the sound. If she was going to be of any help to anyone, she would need the element of surprise. She spotted the dark outline of the dung hut just ahead. She slowed even further, crouching low, and tested the draw of her bow.

  She felt morbidly relieved when she saw that the men were raping the girl on the ground outside the dung hut, rather than inside. That meant they were easier targets. She leaned against a tree and lifted her bow. She took a moment to study her targets.

  They were not Dhargots after all. Two Lancers loomed over the girl. They had stripped off most of their armor. Three eager squires were assisting them. A third Lancer milled in the distance, fuming with disapproval but clearly unwilling to intervene.

  Igrid wondered for a moment if the father could assist her, or had the vile man fled for his life? Then she spotted him lying motionless near the doorway of the dung hut with a bloody stain on his back. Igrid relaxed her bowstring. As much as she pitied the poor girl, she could do nothing to help her. Even if Igrid fired at one of the rapists then ran, hoping to lure them away, she couldn’t be sure all the men would follow or even if she could get away from them. Best she focus on safeguarding her own skin.

  She repeated that reasoning to herself, certain of the logic, even as she raised her bow, drew back the arrow, and let it fly.

  The Lancer on top of the girl suddenly howled and straightened, an arrow between his shoulder blades. Igrid snickered, nocked a second arrow, and fired.

  The wounded Lancer toppled, a second arrow in his side, near the liver. Igrid fought down a surge of panic as the other men spotted her. She aimed and fired a third time as they turned. One of the squires staggered and fell to his knees. He was hurt, but not mortally wounded. Igrid backed up, reaching for a fourth arrow. The disapproving Lancer charged her, sword drawn.

  She swiveled the bow and fired, but the arrow rebounded harmlessly off the man’s gorget. The Lancer swung. Igrid had no time to draw her own sword. She swung the bow instead, knocking aside the blade. Then she used the bow like a quarterstaff and gave the charging knight a resounding blow on his chest. Still, the man did not slow. The sword flew again. Igrid ducked and rolled.

  She hoped for a clear line of escape, but the others had cut her off. She was surrounded. A squire, half naked, lunged at her. Igrid sidestepped, drove her bow into the man’s privates, then kicked him in the head when he doubled over. Another man, the other raping Lancer, charged her. He swung his fist at her.

  Igrid sank, hooked one hand around the man’s waist, and used his momentum to topple him over her knee. She shoved her last arrow into his neck as hard as she could, wrenching it from side to side for good measure, carving a ghastly hole. “Fuck that, you bastard,” she hissed in his ear.

  The final squire tackled her. The man had her by the arms. He was strong, but Igrid managed to stretch out one leg and use it for leverage. She put her shoulder under his chin and drove him to the side. He lost one of her wrists. That was all Igrid needed. She thrust her fingers into the man’s eyes. The man howled, releasing her other wrist. She stepped back, snatched up her bow, gripped it like a spear, and went for the fallen squire’s throat.

  But the final, disapproving Lancer stepped between them. Moonlight flashed off his sword as he cleaved her bow in two. Igrid backpedaled, reaching for Knightswrath. The Lancer followed, too close. He held the sword at her breasts, close enough to prick her clothes.

  “Yield,” he grunted in a low voice.

  “Go fuck an Olg.” She sidestepped and started to draw the sword, but the Lancer was faster. He drove the pommel of his sword toward Igrid’s face. She managed to duck, but the blow struck her forehead.

  The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground. A crescent moon hovered over her, floating next to Armahg’s Eye. Both began to darken. No. If I sleep now, I die. She tried to rise.

  Then a man was on top of her—the squire she had just injured. Blood poured from his nose. He gave her a horrible look, all murder and amusement, and began tearing at her clothes. She tried to fight him, but her hands felt leaden. Too slow, too weak.

  Dimly, she saw the disapproving Lancer draw closer. The knight scowled and shouted for the squire to stop. The squire ei
ther did not hear or had no intention of obeying. Igrid turned her head the other way. The other two squires, wounded but still alive, were approaching. One had withdrawn the arrow from his side and pressed one hand to the wound. The Lancer shouted something at them, but both squires had armed themselves and shouted back.

  Igrid fumbled at her waist. Her fingers closed over the hilt of her sword. Her enemy was right on top of her, breathing right in her face, but she thought she might at least bash his face with the pommel. The squire realized what she was trying and slapped her. He said something she could not understand. She felt cold night air on her skin.

  You know what to do… Igrid retreated within herself, falling and falling. She imagined she was dressed and armored, behind high walls. She would stay there, safe, until they were finished. But the squire did not touch her again. One gauntleted fist grabbed the man by the throat and hauled him away. The squire’s eyes widened, and he gasped. Igrid blinked. She watched the squire slowly slide off a blood-stained bastard sword, as though the steel were blossoming from his chest.

  She looked up. The disapproving Lancer had not saved her. The knight she had seen before, the one in gilded armor, had dismounted. His helmet was gone, and his horse waited restlessly in the distance, along with a dozen more armored men. He was middle-aged with sandy, sweat-damp hair. He glanced at her before turning his attention to the others.

  The final Lancer and the two squires stood at attention, eyes and weapons lowered. The man in gilded armor took a menacing step toward them. He gave the squires a cold look then turned to the final Lancer. “Sir Geoffrey, will you assist me in rendering justice on these men?”