Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Igrid bit back an insult and nodded. A man of the Red Watch took her horses while another led her to a modest two-story inn that did not appear nearly as extravagant as she’d hoped, but she reminded herself that it was better if people did not realize the wealth she had hidden under her cloak. She rented a room, hid her possessions, then left for the stables.

  There, she found the stablemaster, a bored, gray-haired man in gilded sandals and a silk toga. She introduced herself, parted her cloak, batted her eyelashes, and sold all the horses for just a little less than the outrageous price she’d requested. While she had originally intended to keep one for herself, she decided against it. She had no need for a war horse if she truly intended to stay in Lyos. She could buy a palfrey or a pony later, if she liked.

  As she headed back to the inn, she kept a sharp eye for thieves—even as she deftly cut the purse strings of a Noshan sailor, a Queshi merchant, and a Red Watch guardsman who tried to strike up a conversation but kept his gaze fixed on her cleavage instead of her eyes. She hid most of her new wealth under a loose floorboard and went back down to the Common Room. She made sure to sit facing the stairwell leading up to her floor, sitting at an angle so she would see if anyone tried to enter her room. The inn was crowded and boisterous, which suited her fancy. She ate her fill then cheerily shared wine and company with a Red Watch sergeant, a young priestess of Dyoni, and a middle-aged prostitute-turned-brothel-owner.

  She also worked her way through the crowd, dodging gropers and stealing what she could, just to keep her hands limber. By the time she retired for the night, she’d appropriated a stiletto with a pearled hilt, a pair of sandals that looked to be her size set with gemstones, a handful of copper coins, a slim volume of poetry from the Lotus Isles, a gemstone ring, and most daring of all, a horned half-helm of enameled steel.

  Igrid thought she had done her work unnoticed, but the aged prostitute who called herself Sheen approached her with a sneer and pointed to the bulge in Igrid’s cloak where she’d stashed her stolen goods, except for the half-helm, which she had placed under her barstool and concealed with a dropped shawl. Igrid bribed her to say nothing. The old woman pocketed the coins professionally then praised Igrid’s skill and offered her a job.

  Igrid politely refused. “I mean to start a brothel of my own.”

  Sheen laughed. “Another dreamer! Well, Lyos is the place for it. Take my advice, girl: buy the favor of the Red Watch and the Temple of Dyoni as soon as you can, whatever it costs. For bodyguards, your best option is a few squires who failed training at the Lotus Isles. Good fighters. Plus they’ll still have a sense of honor about them.” She rolled her eyes. “Red Watch men might serve, but they’re more likely to steal from you. Never deal with anyone from the Dark Quarter, if you can help it. And deposit everything you can spare with the Lenders’ Guild. They’re expensive but trustworthy.” She added, “Oh, and leave that half-helm downstairs. It belongs to the son of the man who runs the Blacksmiths’ Guild. He’s not someone you want as an enemy, and there’s nowhere you can sell the helm where it won’t be recognized.”

  Igrid thanked the woman, handing her another coin. She was glad she had not mentioned the fact that she’d lived in Lyos before. Given the manner in which she’d left her last brothel over two years ago, the less these people knew about her, the better. She finished her wine, discretely depositing the half-helm under the barstool next to her, and went upstairs—just as the helm’s furious owner was beginning his search.

  She found her door shut, but she still entered tensely, one hand gripping the pearled hilt of her new stiletto. A would-be thief or rapist might break into her room but lock the door behind him then lie in wait. But her room was empty. She undressed, washed with tepid water from the basin on the nightstand, and lay down. She smiled. The bed had clean sheets. She expected slumber to steal over her right away, but she found herself thinking of Arnil.

  By then, the First Lancer had surely spoken with the Lyosi king. Because the Lancer had not already returned, she suspected he probably did not intend to. She wondered if the king had agreed to help him. He certainly had no great reason to. And the Lancer could not purchase bodyguards or supplies for the trip, since Igrid had all his money.

  Maybe he’ll try to slip through on his own. That would be foolish, though. Ivairia was at least three days north and west of the city, and thousands of Dhargots might block the way. Igrid felt a pang of worry then chided herself. After how coolly the Lancer had acted at the gates, she was uncertain why she cared what happened to him.

  She thought of Rowen again, of the light on his armor and the dumb trust in his green eyes. Before she could stop herself, she began to cry. She cursed in the darkness, hugging the stiletto to her breasts, half hoping that someone would break into her room just so she could stab them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  PARTING WAYS

  Their wounded don’t scream… Jalist had taken a while to pinpoint the cause of his new unsettled feeling as he watched the Sylvs tending their wounded and dying. Some had lost limbs. Others had been pierced by great Olg blades that left wounds twice as wide as a man’s palm. Many would die within the hour. Had they been Humans or Dwarr, they would have been screaming, crying, and shitting themselves. Courage made no difference. Jalist had seen the bravest Housecarls weeping and calling for their mothers. After all, a body and mind could take only so much, and the legends claimed that even Zet wept after the terrible torments inflicted by the other gods as punishment for making dragons.

  But the Sylvan warriors, men and women alike, were almost completely silent. They did little more than wince and shake or, from time to time, offer a low whimper. And the children of Que’ahl, some of whom were surely watching their parents die, bore their grief in the same way. Jalist might even have mistaken them for Jolym if not for the wetness in the Sylvan children’s eyes.

  Moved by pity, Jalist approached the nearest child—a boy standing stoically near what surely was the corpse of his father—and squeezed his shoulder, thinking to comfort him. But the boy glanced at him, cold and uncomprehending, and moved away.

  “Save your pity, Dwarr. To our kind, it is an insult.”

  Jalist turned to see Briel leaning heavily on a spear. His black brigandine was bloody and slashed in half a dozen places, yet the exposed flesh had been washed clean. Jalist saw no trace of wounds.

  The Sylvan fighter followed his gaze and scowled. “You have your Dragonkin sorceress to thank for that. Had I been conscious, I would have refused her help.”

  “And died because of it.”

  “A return to the Light, far from all of this… I’d have welcomed it.” He nodded after the boy who had just been mourning his slain father. “Wyldkin and Shal’tiar sometimes have to keep their children close by, even in battle. Against the Olgrym, most of the fighting is done at night. Knives and shadows. The children learn early on to keep silent. A cry at the wrong time could get everyone killed. It’s a lesson we remember all our lives. Olgrym have literally ripped men to pieces and raped women to death, trying to illicit a sob of pain or a cry for mercy. Always, they fail.”

  Jalist stared at Briel, trying to discern whether the pride in the man’s voice was a product of guts or madness. Perhaps a little of both. He glanced at the nearby corpse of an Olg, riddled with arrows. Gods, if I had to fight them all my life, I’d go mad, too. “I believe our hour has nearly elapsed. We should go before your captain has to make good on his threats. Where is Silwren now?”

  “Other side of the stronghold, with the Knight. More wounded there. We thought she was done. She was beginning to look a bit… unraveled… but she insisted on continuing.”

  So she found the magic to heal dying men who hate her, but she couldn’t bring herself to kill Fadarah, Shade, and an army of Olgrym threatening to kill us all? Jalist shrugged. “These are odd days.”

  Briel did not reply. The moon crested the smoking walls of the stronghold and glinted coldly off the blade of the Sylv�
�s spear. Jalist glanced up. The skies over the forest looked so foreign. Even Armahg’s Eye seemed so cold and unfriendly. Not like home. Not for the first time, he thought of lying on the grassy hills of Stillhammer, beyond the great fortress of Tarator with its bright banners and gray walls. He thought of Leander, strong and lean with breath like wine, lying with him. He started to smile, but the memory quickly left him feeling hollow.

  He was almost glad when Briel’s equally unfriendly voice interrupted his thoughts. “When the wytch is finished, I’ll escort you out. Captain Essidel has ordered it.”

  “How kind of him. I doubt we could find our way out the gates without such a skilled guide.”

  “I am not your guide. I will wait for you on the plains, south of the stronghold.”

  Jalist frowned. South? “Save your energy, Sylv. We’ll find our own way out.”

  Briel took a step closer, and Jalist tensed. Briel spoke in a whisper as sharp as arrows. “I was nearly cut to pieces, Dwarr. I should be dead. Even those few of us who have actually seen Shel’ai magic know that what your wytch did is far beyond what any Shel’ai can do.”

  Jalist heard a tremor in the Sylv’s voice, uncertain if it was awe or fear.

  “So understand, this was not my choosing. In this, I agree with the general. And I want nothing more to do with your wytch—now or ever. But I am a member of the Shal’tiar. I follow my captain’s orders. And it seems the wytch impressed him enough to change his mind.” Briel gave him a final icy look before he stalked away.

  Jalist swore. Then he had an idea. Briel would be waiting south of the stronghold. Maybe Silwren and Rowen did not yet know that Captain Essidel had changed his mind. Maybe if he said nothing…

  He shook his head. He had seen the look on Rowen’s face—determination bordering on madness. He knew that look. Rowen would make his way into the Wytchforest, all the way to the World Tree, no matter how pointless or suicidal the task was.

  But do I have to go with him? Jalist cursed himself. He might have been disgraced among his own people and a worthless sellsword besides, but he had given his word—or implied as much. He would see Rowen Locke safely to the legendary World Tree and the Sylvan city of Shaffrilon. After that, he was on his own.

  And then what? Go back to Stillhammer and let them kill me? Or head south and die in some ditch for a few copper pennies?

  “Decide that later,” he grumbled and went to find the others.

  The Wytchforest seemed to grow at their approach, stretching from the earth like an impossibly high wall glazed in moonlight. Jalist thought again of the legends of the World Tree. His pulse quickened when he realized he would see it soon enough. He thought of Leander again.

  Strange. I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately, you beautiful gods-damned coward. Too afraid to stand up to your father, too scared to come with me. Jalist shook his head. He turned his attention to Rowen instead. The Knight had donned his kingsteel armor and tabard, both damaged and repaired, not unlike the Knight himself.

  Rowen was trying to read from that scroll again in the moonlight. It must have been too dim, or else he was too agitated to concentrate, because he quickly gave up. He was trying his best to appear stoic, but Jalist knew him well enough to recognize the fear and excitement behind Rowen’s steady gaze. He was anxious to reach his destination and deliver the speech he had been mentally rehearsing for weeks, but he was also afraid—and for good reason. If the Sylvs actually believed that the Isle Knights had allied themselves with the Olgrym and the Shel’ai, what would they do to Rowen, regardless of Knightswrath?

  No, Briel will protect him. And so will Silwren. He studied the Shel’ai next. Moonlight mingled with the glow of Armahg’s Eye and spilled through her platinum tresses as she rode beside him. He had to admit, she was beautiful. Still, he did not trust her. But she will keep him safe. Everything has led to this. Besides, she’s as much an enemy to the Sylvs as Rowen is. Best they stick together.

  Briel said, “We are close to Sylvos and far enough from Que’ahl. Best we camp here and enter in the morning. The forest guards will be… less apprehensive if we approach in daylight.”

  You mean less likely to fill us with arrows. Jalist watched as Briel set camp. It wasn’t much of a camp. The Sylv slept on the bare earth, which suited Jalist fine, but he also forbade the building of a campfire. That irked him.

  What, you think it’ll spread all the way to the Wytchforest? It was said that the Wytchforest could not be burned down, though the Olgrym had certainly tried many times. In fact, some even said that some kind of ancient enchantment left behind by the Dragonkin guarded the Wytchforest and protected it from the ravages of winter. That would be nice, he thought, noting the chill in the air around them.

  Rowen had drawn away from the others, sword in hand, and was busy practicing the martial dance of the Isle Knights. Jalist had seen him practice it often enough to tell that he was improving. Each movement was strong and quick, graceful in a way Jalist found alluring until he stopped himself.

  The dance was difficult without armor; with the added encumbrance, it must have been grueling. Yet when Rowen finished, his face damp with sweat, he began again without pause. He completed the long series of movements, blending balance with speed and strength, then, to Jalist’s surprise, rested only a moment before starting a third time.

  Jalist approached him. “You’re going to strain something—and not in a good way.”

  Rowen scowled but did not slow. “I need to practice more. I’m tired of almost dying. I need to be better.”

  “Seems you’ve been doing just fine for yourself.”

  Rowen turned on his heel, slashing upward, then down. He leapt about, disemboweling imaginary foes sneaking up behind him. Sweat flew from his face. “No, I haven’t.” He sank into a low stretch then leapt back up on his toes and executed a series of lightning-fast lunges and parries, ending in a full-body turn and slash that would have cleaved a foe’s head from his shoulders.

  Rowen finished the dance and leaned heavily on his sword. “I barely beat Kayden. Even though he wanted to die, he had to fight me as hard as he could. It was luck as much as anything. And that Dhargothi princeling could have killed me any time he wanted. Someday, if I live long enough, I might have to fight Crovis Ammerhel. And he’s better than both of them combined.”

  Or just give Crovis the damn sword and be done with it. When Rowen began the martial dance a fourth time, Jalist shrugged and left him alone. Let him sweat the melancholy out of his blood. Besides, he’s probably right.

  As Jalist sat alone, his thoughts drifted back to Stillhammer. Winters in the mountains were notoriously cruel, much worse than in the Free Cities or the midlands, but also exhilarating for how they tested one’s mettle. Jalist remembered wintering in the deep vaults of Tarator with the other Housecarls, shivering in his brigandine and thick fur cloak before perpetually inadequate hearth fires, trying to appear fierce as he guarded the king and, from time to time, shared looks with the king’s soft-eyed son.

  There I go, thinking of Leander again. He cursed so sharply that Briel looked up. Jalist pretended to have stubbed his toe. Then he decided to busy himself with his new weapon, an elegantly curved long axe that he’d taken from the Sylvan armory. He straightened in time to accept the rations that Rowen handed him: spiced bread, plus some dried meats and fruits and warm wine to wash it down. The Knight seemed calmer, though half dazed from exhaustion. Jalist drank deep and passed the wineskin back.

  Rowen said, “Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “Plenty of things, like the fact that we could use a damn fire.” He made no effort to lower his voice.

  Briel said, “The Olgrym succeeded in getting suicide troops past our defense lines. They’d see our fire. Besides, even if they didn’t, the archers guarding Sylvos might mistake us for Olgrym and send a squad to blanket the area with arrows.”

  Jalist gave the Sylv a look that was cold in more ways than one.

  Rowen
sat down beside him, though his eyes lingered on Silwren’s cloaked figure standing alone in the distance. “You still don’t trust her.”

  “Any reason I should?”

  “She’s going to keep me alive.”

  “Will that involve standing about and looking scared while Sylvs, Olgrym, Dhargots, demons, and gods know what else try to give your innards a suntan?”

  Rowen scowled. “Lower your voice. We’ve talked about this. Every use of magic is a risk for her—”

  “A risk she takes, and survives, when it suits her. And don’t pretend you aren’t thinking the same damn thing!” Jalist shrugged. “Listen, I’m not saying she’s Fohl’s concubine. She’s done some good things. But relying on her is like praying to the gods when somebody’s got a knife to your throat. Trust yourself, not her.”

  Jalist saw Silwren tense in the distance. He wondered if she was using her magic to eavesdrop on their conversation. He tightened his grip on his new long axe, though he remembered how easily Fadarah had thwarted his attack—and Fadarah wielded only a flicker of magic compared to Silwren’s.

  Rowen put one hand on his, pushing the axe down. “She fought her own kind at Lyos. She helped us at Atheion. What more do you want from her?”

  Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? “She could have finished this by killing those purple-eyed bastards. Instead, she spirited them away. Every day is another chance for her to end this, and she doesn’t take it. But she’s pretty, and you’ve seen her naked, and she acts helpless even though she isn’t, so I may as well be talking to a wall.”

  Rowen winced at the insult then laughed. “You’re wrong. At least, I hope you are.” He sighed. “So are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind? Who’s Leander?”

  Jalist tensed. “What—”

  “I try to keep my distance when it’s dark, but the fact is, you talk in your sleep.” Rowen smirked. “Wouldn’t have thought much of it, but the past few days, I’ve heard you mutter that name at least a dozen times while you were awake, too. So who is it? An enemy? Some old lover? A god I’ve never heard of?”