Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  As bad as this place was, it would look and smell ten times worse in a few days. She had expected to find a few stragglers from the surviving side probing the grasslands for survivors, but she saw no one. She began to wonder if the battle had continued elsewhere. She listened but heard only crows.

  So much armor and steel, just lying there… Surely it was worth hundreds, perhaps even thousands of silvers, but she had no way to carry it. Before long, mud and blood would tarnish it, and all of it would be useless.

  Such a waste. Igrid tried not to think about it. She touched the coin purse, reminding herself that she already had more than she needed for a fresh start. But touching the coin purse reminded her of Anza.

  “Where’s that damn village?” she grumbled to herself. If she could find it, perhaps she could lead the town blacksmith back to the field and help him claim all the metal in exchange for a share of the profits. Or, at the very least, she could find an inn, get a room and some hot food, and drown herself in as much wine as she could hold. The thought made her smile.

  But she trudged on and still saw nothing. No village, no farm, nothing but torn grasslands scattered with dead men. Then she heard running water. She realized how thirsty she was and how much she wanted to wash the stink of the past day from her skin. Her pace quickened. She followed the sound to a river. There, she stopped.

  The river was choked with dead men and horses, though the current had washed away the blood. On her side of the bank, Sir Arnil lay against the body of his horse, unmoving. He was surrounded by dead Dhargots. He must have tried to lead them away from his men or stayed behind and gave his life to cover their escape.

  The First Lancer’s gilded armor was stained all over, his tabard slashed to ribbons. His plain face was splattered with mud. The grip of a broken lance lay at his feet. The rest of the lance was thrust through the body of a Dhargot just a few feet away, pinning him to a tree.

  A glint of light on metal drew her eyes to the First Lancer’s sword. It was an Ivairian-style broadsword with a brass handle. The handle resembled a man with splayed limbs, so that the blade took the place of his phallus. The sword had three fullers and a waisted blade, but the blade itself had the distinctive glint and swirl of kingsteel. The Ivairian knight was still holding the sword, but his eyes were closed.

  Not as fine as Rowen’s sword, but kingsteel is kingsteel. Still, she moved cautiously. When she was ten feet away, Arnil’s eyes opened. His stern look made her back away. Then his gaze softened a little. “Ah, the Iron Sister who carries the blade of an Isle Knight. Well met.” He smiled at the look on her face. “Oh, I understand that women may become Isle Knights, but you don’t seem the type. You don’t strike me as a camp follower who goes around looting corpses, either.” He eyed the Ivairian shortsword and Dhargothi dagger she was carrying. “Of course, I could be mistaken.”

  “You aren’t.” Igrid edged a little closer. “The Isle sword is gone, though.”

  “As is your city, Iron Sister.” The First Lancer coughed. “And your companion… the girl carrying her father’s child?”

  “Dead.”

  “At your hand?”

  “No.” Igrid considered flinging her shortsword at him.

  Arnil held up his hand. “The wrongfully accused often display anger while the justly accused feign hurt.” He paused. “I believe you. And the child was stillborn?”

  “Yes, thanks to your men.”

  “I feared as much. But those men are dead. Even Sir Geoffrey.” Arnil eyed her. “Well, what now, Iron Sister? Will you knife a wounded man for his steel when there are plenty more blades just lying about, waiting for you to scoop them up?”

  “Plenty of blades, but none as fine as yours.” Despite her bravado, Igrid hesitated. She had the Lancer’s coins, but even if she didn’t sell his sword, it would make a good weapon to carry herself. But if the bodies strewn around him were any indication, he was not to be trifled with. Then again, he was obviously wounded, though she could not tell how much of the blood on the First Lancer’s armor belonged to him and how much to his enemies.

  She edged closer still. “Perhaps a trade? Your steel for a drink of water.”

  Arnil’s hazel eyes brimmed with amusement, despite his pallor and sweating face. “I had to win fifteen tournaments to afford this sword, Iron Sister. I think I’ll keep it, though you’re welcome to try and take it from me if you think you can.”

  Igrid studied the man, thought it over, and decided not to press her luck. She was tempted to walk away and just leave him to bleed to death, but an image of Anza’s pale face made her shudder. She stuck her shortsword in the earth, picked up a dead man’s half-helm, filled it with water from the river, and carried it back to the First Lancer.

  “I’ve drunk from my own helm before, but never the helm of an enemy.” He accepted the helmet anyway and drank. Water ran down his chin, spilled onto his armor, and washed away some of the blood. A tremendous dent in his breastplate made the sigil of the crowned rearing horse look like a grinning face.

  “There are bodies in the river, you know. You’ll likely catch the rotting sickness and die.”

  Arnil drank without pausing then set the half helm on the ground beside him, letting the last of its contents spill onto the bloody grass. “You might be surprised, woman. I have a stomach of wrought iron.”

  Igrid surveyed the Lancer’s dead opponents. She wondered if she would run into more Dhargots as she headed north. “What happened here?”

  “What always happens when men with swords and sharp sticks have nothing better to do.” He laughed, coughed, and tugged at his armor. “Supposed to be… scouting the borders, having a look at the Dhargots besieging Cassica. That’s it. But the bastards came after us. Cut through my squires like paper, then my Lancers. They had a little more trouble with me.” He laughed again, his eyes rolling.

  “Where are the Dhargots now?”

  “Dead. Gone. Fled. Who knows? You’re the first living face I’ve seen since last night. And my Lancers?”

  “Feeding miles of crows between here and there.”

  Arnil closed his eyes. “I was hoping some got away.”

  “If so, I didn’t see them.”

  Arnil kept his eyes shut. He was quiet for so long that Igrid wondered if he’d died. She edged a little closer, and his eyes opened again.

  “Change your mind about my steel?”

  “I’ll help you take off your armor. I’ll clean and sew your wounds—for a price.”

  Arnil eyed the coin purse tucked into her belt. “I seem to be without my coins, Iron Sister.”

  “You’re an important knight sworn to a king. He should be able to reward the woman who saved his champion’s life.”

  Arnil’s smile became a frown. “Indeed.” His eyes closed. When next he spoke, his words slurred. “Best hurry, woman. I seem… to…” He sagged to the ground.

  Igrid rushed forward, drew the Dhargothi knife from her waist, and sliced the straps securing the First Lancer’s armor. She carefully opened his cuirass and gasped. Beneath the breastplate, the knight wore a leather jerkin, which was soaked in blood. She peeked under it and cursed.

  Another fool set to die in front of me… “No.” She had seen enough death of late. One man, at least, would be saved. She ran to search the heaps of dead men for the things she would need.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ARROWS AND ASH

  Jalist reached for his axe when he heard the longbows fire, though he knew he had no time to defend himself, let alone attack. For one split second, as a black hail of arrows descended on them, he thought of Leander, the Dwarr prince he’d loved—the reason he had been banished from Tarator in the first place. He wondered if the stories were true: that in death, the gods or the Light would reunite him with the dead ones he’d loved.

  The air before them turned to a broad, blazing curtain of wytchfire and swallowed the arrows, leaving nothing behind. Not even ash. As the wytchfire continued to hover in the air, S
ilwren stepped forward. Only she blazed with white light—or white-hot fire?—save for her eyes, which were slits of furious, violet flame. She still bore the body of a woman, though superimposed over her was a gigantic scaly thing with horns and a serpentine neck. Six wings of white fire unfurled from its body. Jalist stared. Rowen tackled him, knocking him out of the way.

  The fiery wings spread, and Rowen rolled away. Jalist sat up in time to see the Sylvs manning the guard towers leap to the ground, as though fearing they were about to be incinerated. But the fiery wings stopped just short of the timbers. Silwren took another step forward. She waved, and the curtain of wytchfire poured back into her like water flowing backward up the waterfall to its source.

  She faced Briel, for all the other Sylvs were fleeing. Then she spoke, and Jalist had to cover his ears. The booming voice seemed to come from both her and the fiery visage superimposed over her, the two speaking in unison.

  “I am not a Shel’ai. I am not a Sylv. I am not a Dragonkin. I am none of these, yet I am all of them. I am the weapon forged by Fadarah to turn all of you to cinders. I am the vengeance of every Shel’ai you ever murdered, hundreds and thousands of them, echoing down through the ages. I could kill all of you. And I should.”

  All at once, the white fire disappeared, and she was Silwren again. She stood there, naked and trembling. Her clothes had burned away, though she did not seem to notice. “But I won’t,” she said, weakly. She started to fall.

  Rowen caught her, his expression stoic, though Jalist could not fathom how the man had found the presence of mind to act.

  Silwren slumped for a moment, allowing Rowen to wrap her in his cloak, then she pulled free and took a step forward on her own. “If I can swallow my wrath, you can do the same. And you will. This Knight has words to say. You will hear them. Or by the Light, I will burn the World Tree before your eyes and scour your seed from the face of the realms.” She swayed again, and Jalist feared she would fall, but she held her ground.

  Everyone else stared, paralyzed. Jalist retrieved his long axe, marshaled his courage, and strode to Silwren’s side. Along the way, he retrieved Knightswrath—Rowen had dropped it in the chaos—and pressed it into the dumbfounded Knight’s hands. As he did so, he noticed the handle was blazing warm, as though it had been brushed by Silwren’s wytchfire.

  Jalist fixed his gaze on Briel. He admired the Sylv for holding his ground when the others had run, though he looked as though he might be sick. Jalist said, “No more pleasantries. As my friend said, we have words for your commander. Fetch him now.”

  Briel trembled then seemed to wake from a dream. “I will—”

  “No need,” a voice said. “I am here.”

  A new figure strode through the open gates of Que’ahl and approached the group. The middle-aged Sylvan warrior wore a black brigandine, like the rest, though the sternness to his demeanor transcended even the chilly fierceness of his ice-blue eyes. He was unarmed but faced Silwren as though her display had been nothing but a parlor trick.

  “I am Essidel, Captain of the Shal’tiar. If you have words, speak them to me.”

  Rowen moved forward, taking Silwren’s place. “I am Rowen Locke, Knight of—”

  “I heard. I was approaching when my sergeant ordered the archers to fire.” Essidel cast a scathing look at Briel. “That is not the order I would have given.” He faced Rowen. “We should find somewhere else to talk. If the Dwarr and your wytch promise to behave, you may come inside. I vow on my honor that no Sylv will harm any of you.”

  Rowen said, “She’s not my wytch, Captain.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk about it in the barracks. Follow me.” Essidel led them through the gates toward a squat structure. Once inside, they faced rows of tables and a handful of Sylvs. The Captain of the Shal’tiar dismissed the other Sylvs with a quick word in his own tongue. Only Briel remained, though he stood at the rear, one hand on his sword.

  Essidel gestured to a long table. No one sat. Rowen laid Knightswrath on the table. Its blade rocked gently, gleaming in the lantern light. Essidel, who had been fetching a pitcher of wine, paused for a moment and stared at it. “Is that really Fâyu Jinn’s sword?”

  Rowen nodded firmly.

  “It’s pretty.” Essidel picked up a goblet from the table, filled it with wine, and handed it to Rowen. He filled another for Jalist. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain two things. First, how you stole Fâyu Jinn’s sword, and second, how anyone—even a Human—could be dumb enough to bring it back here and ask an enemy for help.”

  “The sword came to me honestly,” Rowen said. “I didn’t steal it. And the Sylvs aren’t my enemies.”

  “Yet you are an Isle Knight.” Essidel set the wine pitcher down without filling a cup for Silwren. “One of the very order who have been plaguing our borders for weeks.”

  Rowen said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then I’ll explain. I’m talking about a company of Isle Knights riding around the Ash’bana Plains, attacking Wyldkin villages. I’m talking about the company of Knights who charged my men just moments after we’d finished fighting for our lives against a host of Olgrym.”

  Rowen was speechless, but Silwren stepped forward then gripped the table for balance. Jalist saw that she was still reeling from her display at the gates of the village, though he marveled that she had kept her powers in check at all. She said, “You claim those were Isle Knights you were fighting?”

  Essidel nodded gruffly, keeping his eyes on Rowen.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they were Humans dressed up in the same kind of swirly armor worn by this fool.”

  Rowen said, “How many of them did you fight?”

  If the question caught him off guard, Essidel recovered quickly. “Fifty attacked my men, just a few miles north of here.”

  Silwren said, “And they fought you to the death?”

  “No. They charged us. We rained arrows on them. Then they wheeled and ran for their lives.”

  “And these other raids?”

  “A few Knights here and there. Usually, they just shoot crossbows, though a Sylvan child has more skill than the best of them.”

  Silwren continued, “Captain, how many dead Isle Knights have you actually examined?”

  “When they charged us, we wounded half a dozen, probably mortally. But they limped off.” Essidel hesitated. “They always take their dead with them…”

  Jalist spoke up next. “Have these Knights ever actually killed anyone? Think hard, Captain.”

  The rage slowly faded from the Sylv’s face.

  “Odd. These men spend years learning how to kill, but they haven’t managed to kill even one Sylv yet—or wound one, I’ll wager. Not one old man, not even a child scurrying for cover.” He took Essidel’s silence for an answer.

  Silwren said, “You see steel and scowls and thundering hooves, but were you to actually touch these illusions, they would fade like mist before a quickening sun.”

  Essidel filled another goblet and straightened. “You ask me to believe that the Shel’ai are trying to turn us against the Isle Knights. For what purpose?”

  Rowen answered, “The Dhargothi hordes are claiming the northlands for themselves. Sooner or later, they’ll unfurl their empire all the way to the Lotus Isles. We might not be able to beat them.” Rowen blushed with shame as he said the last.

  Essidel gave Rowen a curious look. “I could believe in the existence of an alliance between the Shel’ai and Dhargoth. Both have malice that eclipses their honor.” His ice-blue eyes flicked over Silwren. “But the Shel’ai have no need to poison an alliance between the Sylvs and the Lotus Isles. We have our own war to fight with the Olgrym. We can’t help you, Human.”

  Rowen winced. “But the Oath of Kin—”

  “Was made ten centuries ago. We Sylvs are long lived, Human. I myself have seen two hundred summers. We remember things you do not.”

  “I have a scroll from Atheion, written during the t
ime of the Shattering War. It says—”

  “I don’t care what it says. The Olgrym are massing. Fadarah appears to be their ally. If the Dhargots are their allies, too, we’ll be fighting all of them before long. We can’t send men to liberate your precious Free Cities when we’re fighting for our lives here.” He paused. “If you’d come with a few thousand Isle Knights to help us, things might be different. But you’re alone.” He picked up Knightswrath, his movements eerily fast, and passed the sword hilt-first to Rowen. “I’m supposed to kill any Isle Knight I see. But your story makes sense. So take your heirloom and go home. I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

  Rowen returned the sword to the scabbard at his side. His green eyes flashed with defiance—or perhaps mere stubbornness. “I came to speak with King Loslandril, not one of his captains.”

  “Then go, Human. If you know what a tree looks like, you should be able to find Sylvos. This king’s captain will not stop you. But those archers in the trees definitely will.”

  “How about you help us reach Shaffrilon alive?” Jalist asked.

  Essidel took a sip of wine. “Sorry, Dwarr. I’m busy.”

  Rowen set down his cup. “I am not here for my health. I swore on my honor to carry this sword before your king. If it can be done, then I will do it. And if your race have as much need as mine to be reminded of their oaths, then I will remind them.”

  Essidel snickered. “And how will you do that, Knight? We Sylvs are not so easily swayed by flowery words. King Loslandril will not be easily swayed, either. I told you, we have our own people to fight for.”

  Rowen scowled. “It doesn’t take honor to fight for your loved ones. Even an Olg would do that. Honor means swearing your sword to the people who deserve it. In the Codex Lotius, it says that prudence leads to death, but honor leads to a good death. In other words, Sylv, courage is not prudent. Neither is honor. But whatever they are, they’re worth more than gold, more than kingsteel, more than my own blood.”