Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  She had pushed herself up on her elbow and was staring at him weakly. “How… many Olgrym?”

  “All of them,” Rowen answered.

  Silwren stood then swayed unsteadily. Rowen moved to help, but Jalist shook his head.

  “You keep watch. I’ll carry her. She weighs two feathers, anyway.” He wrapped one strong arm around Silwren’s waist. “Sorry to treat you like a bag of potatoes, Sorceress, but we’re out of options.” Though he was a full head shorter than she was, he easily hoisted her over his shoulder.

  Silwren did not protest, though Rowen caught her unmistakable grimace. He smothered a grin then sobered when he heard another surge in the battle. The cries of the dying Sylvs drowned out the clash of steel.

  “Hurry,” he said, rushing out. He looked around, trying to find some means of escape, but all he saw were the tightly lashed logs that formed Que’ahl’s walls.

  “What kind of damn town only has one entrance?” Jalist said. He gently lowered Silwren onto her own two feet.

  “The kind that’s probably used to repelling a host half this size.” Rowen turned to Silwren. “Can you burn a way out?”

  “I… I don’t think so.”

  Rowen considered climbing over the walls, but there were no stairs or ladders nearby, and the highest rooftop sat well below the tops of the fort wall. He considered making a crude grappling hook with rope tied to a sword. They had no rope, but he’d seen coils of it in the armory. Or else they could try to dig under the walls, but the upright logs that formed the walls of the stronghold were likely sunken deep in the earth.

  He turned to Jalist. “How long would it take you to cut through?”

  Jalist started to laugh. When he realized Rowen was serious, he stepped forward and studied the stout stronghold walls. “Six or seven years.”

  Rowen fit an arrow to his longbow. “How about a few minutes?”

  Jalist raised one eyebrow. Then he took a firm stance, his long axe in both hands, and went to work.

  The Dwarr was fiercely strong, and the axe blurred in his grasp, sending a shower of woodchips in every direction. He sounded like the Olgrym hacking at the stronghold’s gates, but Rowen saw at once that even Jalist could not work as quickly as necessary. He swallowed a surge of panic and turned, focusing on the still-empty streets.

  Silwren joined him. A little of her color had returned, but she was shivering. She touched his arm. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help you. Not without… great risk.”

  Rowen heard the shame in her voice. He squeezed her hand. “You saved us at the gates. No way you could’ve known the Olgrym would attack tonight. Just bad luck.”

  Rowen listened to the steely chop of Jalist’s axe on wood. The sounds were growing farther and farther apart. He fixed his gaze ahead. A bend in the streets of Que’ahl prevented him from witnessing the fighting elsewhere, but he could imagine how awful it was. He confessed to Silwren, “I made Briel think I was going to bring you.”

  She squeezed his hand but said nothing.

  Surely, by then, the Olgrym must have hewn their way into the fortress. Soon, they would slaughter the rest of the stronghold’s defenders and sweep through the streets, killing anyone left in hiding. He thought of the children and the Wyldkin women in the temple. He couldn’t just leave them.

  He started forward, but Silwren grabbed his arm. Rowen smiled thinly. “I take it you were reading my thoughts.”

  “The Olgrym are close. We’ll never get away with a herd of children following us.”

  Rowen deliberately removed her hand from his arm. “Odd that a Human would have more concern for Sylvan children than you do.”

  Her wince told him that his words had wounded her.

  “Stay with Jalist.”

  The Dwarr’s face was slick with perspiration, but he continued hacking away. Rowen sprinted down the brazier-lit streets. He saw dark figures in the distance but could not tell if they were Olgrym or Sylvs. Mercifully, the temple was close. The Wyldkin stood guard outside. He called out to them in Sylvan, insisting he had a way out of the stronghold. Then he stood, catching his breath, and waiting for their answer.

  He heard rustling from inside the temple, followed by stifled crying. The Wyldkin women glanced at each other. He could see they were skeptical, but they were also practical. If scores of bows and blades could not hold back the Olgrym at the gates, what hope did they have in the temple?

  One said something Rowen could not hear then rapped on the temple doors. Wood scraped wood as a heavy crossbeam was lifted out of the way. The doors opened, and the third Wyldkin woman appeared. She gave him a cold look, but the three spoke in quick whispers. Two went back inside to gather the children.

  Rowen kept a wary eye on the streets, flexing his bowstring. Just a little longer…

  But time had caught up with him. A thick, ghastly knot of Olgrym appeared a hundred yards away, their bodies smeared with blood and gore. Rowen counted one dozen, then two. He hoped the Olgrym would not see them, but one pointed and howled.

  The third Wyldkin woman cursed. She screamed a warning to her comrades. They appeared a moment later, dragging some children and pushing others. Some of the older children carried smaller ones. One girl had armed herself with a splintered makeshift spear she must have fashioned from a broken candelabrum.

  Rowen pointed. “Around that corner, then three blocks away. My friends will guide you to safety.” At least, I hope so.

  He could see they still did not trust him, but that made no difference. Even a slight chance was better than none. The children ran, creating a ragtag column that still moved far too slowly for Rowen’s tastes. One Wyldkin woman went with them. Two stayed behind. They said nothing but joined him, stone faced, longbows in hand.

  The Olgrym, seeing the majority of their would-be prey escaping, howled again and broke into a sprint. They surged down the streets, knocking over braziers in a shower of cinders, sometimes tripping over and fighting each other in their haste.

  Gods, it’s finally about to happen. I’m going to die.

  Rowen realized one of the Wyldkin women was talking to him. She repeated herself, speaking decent-enough Common Tongue despite her accent. “What is the battle cry of your people?”

  Rowen’s senses were so soaked with fear that it took him a moment to realize what she was asking. Finally, he answered, “Singchai ushó fey.” He was about to translate the Shao phrase—No courage without fear—then realized there was no point.

  The first Wyldkin aimed down the shaft of her arrow and let it fly. The second followed suit. Rowen did the same. All three arrows found their marks, but the charge did not slow in the slightest. Fear quickened Rowen’s limbs, allowing him to nock and fire another arrow nearly as quickly as the archers beside him. He saw an Olg draw an arrow from his gut, toss it away, and keep charging, but the Wyldkin arrows converged on the Olg next to him and brought him down. He fell, tangling the legs around them, slowing the charge.

  I should have taken a spear from the armory. Rowen fired a third arrow but could not tell how grievously he’d wounded his target. The ground shook as the Olgrym approached. Sylvan bows twanged beside him. More arrows drew blood, but somehow, the charge quickened.

  Rowen threw down the bow and drew his borrowed shortsword. He reached out and plucked a torch from a nearby brazier as well. As he did so, he realized numbly that this was his chance for one final, profound thought. But he could think of nothing.

  Then the Olgrym were upon them. Rowen had the sudden feeling that he was dueling a gigantic boulder tossed in advance of an avalanche. The odd thought made him smile, giddy with fear, despite the panic knotting his muscles and nerves. He had hoped to stand his ground, but already, he was backpedaling as fast as he could, ducking beneath the bone-crushing swings of an Olg’s axe. A little blood dripped off the tip of his Sylvan shortsword. He’d managed to cut the Olg’s arm, though the beastly warrior did not seem to notice.

  I’m still alive. So far, I’m stil
l alive.

  The Wyldkin women were not so lucky. One had fallen before she could draw her sword, an Olg’s spear pierced almost completely through her body. The other had run—not out of cowardice, Rowen sensed, but the hope that she could lure the Olgrym off the children’s trail. It had not worked.

  Rowen felt his back strike something solid. He ducked. The Olg’s axe rang off a brazier. Rowen swung blindly then sidestepped—directly into the path of another Olg who was driving a spear at his chest. With as much luck as skill, he managed to turn sideways and parry the thrust, though the force of the blow jarred his sword arm. The Olg’s face was so close to his that he could smell his putrid breath. The thing seemed to be smiling. Rowen thrust his torch into the Olg’s smile and pushed hard.

  Cinders burned his hand, but the Olg howled. Then he backhanded the knight, driving him toward the one with the axe. The second Olg simply reached out, caught Rowen by the arm, and threw him to the ground. Rowen grunted as the air left his lungs. He looked up to find a gray mountain blocking out the starlight. He tried to stab the mountain, but it sprouted hands that wrenched the blade from his grasp.

  Then Rowen heard the beautiful twanging of bowstrings. The Olg fell backward, away from him. Hail after hail of arrows poured out of the night, slashing into the Olgrym’s ranks.

  From the direction of the stronghold’s gates came a squad of Sylvan archers. More filled the platforms above. Another squad of swordsmen, led by Briel, moved to flank the Olgrym. Somehow, despite how quickly they aimed and fired, they did not strike him by mistake.

  Rowen might have cheered, but he thought of Silwren and Jalist, not to mention the Sylvan children. He clawed his way back to his feet and fumbled for a weapon. The first thing he saw was the dead Olg’s axe. It was absurdly large and heavy for him, but it was better than nothing. He hefted it and ran to find his friends.

  Luckily, the Olgrym were too busy clashing with the Wyldkin and Shal’tiar to notice him. There seemed to be more Sylvs than he would have expected, given that the Olgrym had already carved a path into the stronghold. He hoped he would not get tagged by a stray arrow.

  He followed a trail of tipped-over braziers, considered picking up another torch, then realized he would need two hands to swing the axe. He heard the din of battle ahead, distinguishing Jalist’s angry cry through the noise, and ran faster. He rounded the corner in time to feel a wave of heat wash over him. Purple fire flowed like water from a broken dam. A wave of sheer force followed the fire, knocking him to the ground.

  Silwren! He fixed his eyes on the blaze, forcing them open despite the glare. Enormous bodies struggled in the violet wash, writhing and burning. Then they were gone. The fire vanished, too.

  He expected to see Silwren standing there, madly triumphant, her body still washed in tendrils of light and wytchfire. Instead, a hooded man wearing a white cloak sewn with crimson greatwolves turned from the cinders of the Olgrym to Silwren, who was crumpled on the earth, stunned but alive.

  Gods, who is that? Rowen could not see the man’s face, but it made no difference. Aside from Silwren and El’rash’lin, Rowen had never met a single Shel’ai who had not promptly tried to kill him. He glanced past the cloaked man and saw the corpse of the third Wyldkin woman nearby, a longbow still clutched in her hands. Panting, Jalist stood in front of the Sylvan children, a dead Olg at his feet. Beyond him lay the portion of the wall that Jalist had been attempting to cut through, chipped but still largely intact.

  Rowen caught Jalist’s eye. They both looked at the cloaked Shel’ai again. Then they hefted their weapons and started forward.

  The cloaked Shel’ai lowered his hood, revealing coldly handsome features and a vague, wolfish smile. “I was supposed to help them reduce this fort to ashes. Instead, I saved you again. I should not have done that, my love. Why do you think I did that?”

  Rowen froze in his tracks. It was Shade, Silwren’s one-time husband, the one sorcerer who had pitted Rowen in battle against his own brother. Raw anger filled him, enough to drive him mad. Rowen charged, heaving the axe over his head, howling for blood.

  Shade turned, his face registering only the slightest hint of surprise. Slender wrists came up, igniting with tendrils of wytchfire. Rowen saw his doom in those tendrils, but he did not slow.

  “No,” Silwren said. She rose, a wisp of wytchfire sputtering weakly from one palm.

  Shade frowned. Though his white pupils were fixed on his former wife, he waved his hand in Rowen’s direction.

  Rowen’s legs flew out from under him. The fall drove all the air from his lungs. The ponderous axe flew from his grasp. Rowen cursed in his mind, lacking the breath to form the words, and tried to lift himself.

  While the Sylvan children cowered or stared with wide eyes, Rowen heard the Sylvan fighters mopping up the remaining Olgrym in the distance. Shade had not yet seen Jalist. The Dwarr was crouched low and circling, moving through ash and cinders, his bloody long axe glinting in the torchlight.

  “You won’t kill me,” Shade said confidently. Rowen feared for a moment that he was addressing Jalist then realized he was speaking to Silwren. She did not answer, though wytchfire continued to flicker weakly from one hand.

  Shade began to circle her, never taking his eyes off her. Bright tendrils of wytchfire still coursed the length of his forearms. “How many times have I saved you, my love?”

  “As often as you have tried to kill me, my love.”

  “A vexed heart does strange things.” Shade lowered his wrists, though he did not dismiss the wytchfire. “Enough. Had it been anyone else overseeing this attack, you would be dead now. But it wasn’t. It was me.”

  Silwren retreated a step but smiled coldly. “I do not think the Light brought you here, husband.”

  “I healed you after Atheion. Even now, I’d welcome you back. So would the others. So would our father, if you would let him.”

  Jalist was close. Just a few more seconds… Silwren must have seen the Dwarr’s approach as well. Rowen wondered for a moment if she would warn Shade.

  If she does, I will kill her. Rowen rose to his feet, shaking with the fury of his own conviction. Silwren, if you can hear my thoughts, hear this: let him die. Shade dies tonight, or by the gods, I will come after you. And unless you kill me, too, I’ll cut out your heart and squeeze out the blood like water from a washrag. I swear it.

  He saw her shudder and wondered if she heard him.

  Jalist broke into a mad dash. He raised his axe with both of his strong hands, a terrible fierceness in his eyes. The glinting axe fell. Rowen waited for the spray of blood.

  It did not come. A huge, armored shape appeared, as though emerging from behind an invisible curtain, directly in Jalist’s path. Fadarah caught the shaft of Jalist’s axe and stopped it in mid-air. Before the stunned Dwarr could react, the armored figure flung him aside.

  Shade jerked away, startled by the sound. “Father!”

  Fadarah gazed down at the axe he had wrenched from Jalist’s hands. Wytchfire poured from his grasp. Wood turned to ash. Steel melted. Fadarah turned and regarded Silwren. “Hello, my daughter.”

  Silwren retreated another step, her face pale. Aside from the din of battle still raging in Que’ahl’s streets, the only sound belonged to the frightened, crying children. They had retreated and pressed themselves against the wall as far as they could go.

  Rowen faced Silwren. He meant only to think his words, hoping she would hear them, but he shouted them instead. “End this. For gods’ sake, kill them. Kill them both!”

  Fadarah smiled. “What now, my daughter? Do we three kill each other?”

  “Go,” Silwren commanded, her voice breaking. Her wrists came up, wytchfire igniting at her fingertips. Weak at first, the tendrils brightened. Fire became light that flickered and pulsed around her body, forming the vague outline of a dragon.

  They can’t kill her. She’s too powerful… but she can kill them! But she had not even called upon her magic to defend herself against the
Olgrym, too afraid that she would lose control and kill everyone around her. What would happen when she did? Do it, Silwren, he thought, hoping she heard him. Unleash hell. Gods, kill us all if it will end this. Do you hear me?

  She turned to him and shook her head. She turned back to Fadarah. “Go.” Her voice did not break. She waved her hands. Both Fadarah and Shade disappeared.

  Rowen yelled in furious disappointment, but a fresh chorus of screams reached his ears. He turned in time to see a handful of Olgrym driven into view, hard-pressed by a swarm of Sylvan swordsmen. Though many had already been slashed or cleaved by swords and arrows, they raged on as though the only thing that mattered to them was killing as many Sylvs as they could before they were finally killed themselves.

  The Sylvs seemed happy to oblige. Even dwarfed by their enemies, each Sylvan warrior charged like a madman. Rowen got the impression that they would have done so even if the Olgrym had had the upper hand. Rowen had meant at first to join the battle, but he stood and stared, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the fighting. He even forgot the sudden rush of anger he’d felt when Silwren let Shade and Fadarah go. He gaped as the two forces hacked themselves to ribbons.

  “Gods, I’ve never seen anything like that…” Jalist said, joining Rowen. “Not even at Lyos. You?”

  Rowen could not wrest his eyes from the scene. “No.”

  Only one Olg remained. The beast howled in defiance and swung his greatsword in a massive, two-handed swing. The Sylvs were too close to dodge the blow, and blocking it was impossible. Three Sylvs fell in bloody heaps. But the blow was costly. Before the Olg could recover for another swing, the Sylvs swarmed him, stabbing and slashing. They kept slashing, even after the Olg had fallen.

  One Sylv lifted his head and spotted Rowen and Jalist. He gave them a ragged look, separated from the rest, and approached. Torchlight played off his chilling expression and black brigandine further darkened by blood. So much blood covered his face that Rowen did not recognize him. Then the Sylv wiped his face on his sleeve and regarded Rowen with ice-blue eyes. “Hello, Knight.”