Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Chorlga smiled again. “Such tantrums are not kingly. But if it will make you feel better, you may throw as many pitchers at me as you like. We can make it part of our agreement.”

  Loslandril expected the guards to rush into the chamber, alerted by the noise, but no one appeared. He reminded himself that the sound of the cracking marble pedestal had not brought them, either. Perhaps Chorlga had already killed them. “What would you have me do—beyond surrendering my kingdom?”

  “A simple thing. Hardly anything, really.” He stepped forward, withdrew something from his cloak, and offered it to the king. When Loslandril did not accept it, Chorlga turned and laid it on the cracked pedestal.

  The small black knife appeared to be made out of glass. Though it bore no markings or distinguishing characteristics, the sight of it oddly sickened him. He knew at once that there was something dreadfully special about this knife. “Who am I to kill?”

  “You already know, great king. You need not do it yourself, but I want the wytch dead by morning.”

  “How do you even know she’s here?”

  “When one like her is close by, I feel it. Luckily, that is a skill she has not yet mastered. Nor will she.”

  Loslandril glanced at the knife. He could not move to take it without stepping away from the table. He decided to continue stalling. “She could kill me or whomever I send with a touch. How will one little knife do what whole armies could not?”

  “My dear king, surely even a Sylv can sense the obvious. That is no mere knife. In ancient times, such blades were called freyd. They absorb magic like water into a washcloth. This is the last. With it, she will be helpless before you.”

  “Then why not use it yourself?”

  “Face to face, she may sense what I am—and sense, in turn, what the freyd is. In the hands of a Sylv, she will not. And by the time she does, the blade will already be in her.”

  Loslandril considered using the knife on Chorlga but doubted he could move that quickly. “Or perhaps you’re afraid that she’s too powerful for you.”

  Chorlga’s dark grin returned. “I have watched this one for quite some time, without her even knowing it. I even considered trying to make her my ally. But I do not think she would agree to such a thing, and though she is far weaker than I am, I see no need to risk facing her now.”

  Loslandril eyed the man carefully. He knew he should simply nod in agreement, but he had wanted to ask a single question for fifty years, though he doubted the answer would surprise him. “How is it that you are here?”

  Chorlga touched the pedestal again. It cracked no further. “Another man would have asked what I was first.”

  “I know what you are. I think I knew the moment I saw you. But I thought all the Dragonkin were banished beyond the Dragonward.”

  “Perhaps I was just good at hiding. A better question would be to ask why I have shown you such generosity instead of simply reducing your bloodline to ash.”

  “I don’t have to ask that. I already know. You’re afraid the realms will form another alliance against you. If they do, you’ll lose. For all your power, you’re just one man. So, like the Shel’ai, you’re hoping we’ll all kill each other and save you the trouble.” Loslandril feared he had gone too far. He expected Chorlga to curse him, taunt him, or even kill him.

  Instead, Chorlga laughed. “Great king, you are an insect. The alliance you speak of could not happen, but even if it did, I would burn through it like a fire through straw. Your armies pose no more danger to me than a child’s playthings. If you doubt me, send your fastest rider east, all the way to the Stillhammer Mountains, and see what I have done there. That is just the beginning.” He paused. “But while you await his return, watch me burn the marrow from your son’s bones.”

  Loslandril turned from the Dragonkin’s unblinking gaze and stared at the glass knife. “Rid us of our enemies, and I will rid you of Silwren. And in ten years… Sylvos is yours.”

  He expected a response, but when he looked up, Chorlga was gone. Loslandril dared to hope it had all been a dream, but when he picked up the glass knife, it was so cold that he had to pry his fingers loose. The glass knife fell to the floor but did not shatter. He felt sickened, torn between weeping and vomiting.

  He grabbed a letter off his table—a letter from a village pleading for help against the Olgrym—and used it to pick up the knife. He threw it on the table. By chance, it landed next to the sword. Their blades touched. The knife recoiled like a living thing, sliding across the table, nearly falling to the floor again.

  Loslandril stared. Then he went to retrieve the knife again. But before he could pick it up, he saw Quivalen staring at him. His body went cold even though he had not touched the freyd again. “My son, how long have you—”

  “Long enough.” Quivalen choked. “Father, I heard…”

  Loslandril shook his head, even as he realized that Chorlga must have known the prince was there. “Lies. Just lies, my son. He wants to trick us.” He moved to embrace him.

  Quivalen recoiled. “I heard the pact you made—”

  “Another lie. I simply said what I had to say. I won’t surrender the city. If I have to kill one wytch to save my people, so be it. After that, we can—”

  Quivalen pointed at the knife. “You should use that on me. I am a Shel’ai…” He spoke the word like a curse.

  “Not anymore. Do you understand?” Loslandril glanced past his son and saw an open door. Beyond the door, two guards lay motionless on the ground. One lay facing them, his face impossibly pale. His eyes had been burned away.

  By the time Loslandril wrenched his gaze from the dead man’s blackened eye sockets, Quivalen had picked up the knife. Unlike Loslandril, he seemed able to hold it without freezing pain. The prince held the knife for a moment, studying it, then raised it to his own throat.

  For one moment, Loslandril remembered how he had very nearly carved out his then-infant son’s eyes with a different knife. Shaking himself from his daze, he screamed his son’s name and broke into a sprint. Quivalen looked up a moment before Loslandril tackled him. They crashed into the table, struggling for the knife.

  Quivalen had always been frail, but suddenly, he fought with appalling strength. In the struggle, Loslandril slashed his own palm, bit back a scream, and lost his hold. Quivalen rolled away, rose to his feet, and held the knife to his own throat.

  When he saw the blood welling from his father’s fist, he blanched. “Father, you’re hurt…” The prince seized a silk napkin, rushed to his father’s side, and pressed it to the wound.

  Loslandril accepted the help, waited until his son was close, then snatched the knife from Quivalen’s grasp and tossed it away. Unnatural rage filled him, and he wanted to strike his son. Instead, he rubbed his scarred chest through his robes. Loslandril felt very old. He slumped to his knees.

  “My son, you’ll not harm yourself. Too much has already been given in your name. You’ll not squander it. For me, for your mother, I’ll have your word on this.” He locked Quivalen in a fierce gaze. “Swear it.”

  Quivalen recoiled again. “Father, I’m sorry—”

  Loslandril reached out with his wounded hand and grabbed his son by the tunic. He shook him. “Swear it!”

  Quivalen nodded, weeping. “I’m sorry. Father, I swear it. I swear. I won’t do that again. I won’t.”

  Loslandril continued to clench his son’s tunic of golden silk. Finally, Quivalen pried himself free. He backed away. Loslandril stared at him. The two embraced, weeping.

  “No more,” Quivalen gasped. “Don’t sacrifice any more…”

  “I won’t,” Loslandril promised. “Just this one thing. Just one last thing, and Sylvos will be safe.” At least, for now.

  Loslandril spotted the knife, lying under the table, and went to retrieve it. He hesitated a moment, but when he picked it up, it did not feel quite so cold anymore. He switched it to his wounded hand, clenching it tightly despite the pain. He refused to let it go. “One more d
eath.”

  Quivalen touched his shoulder. “Father, let me do this.”

  Loslandril shook his head. “You have never killed before.”

  Quivalen shook him. “Yes, I have. I have, Father. Years and years ago… a Shel’ai baby, born in one of the villages. I heard, and I did what had to be done. And I can do it again.” He seized his father’s wrist, the one holding the knife.

  But Loslandril did not believe him. “I don’t want you stained by this.”

  “So you’d rather stain yourself?”

  Loslandril almost laughed. “All kings murder, even if they don’t actually wield the blade. You would learn that, in time. If there was time… ” Before he could stop himself, he was weeping again.

  Quivalen held him a moment then took the knife from his grasp. Loslandril moved to stop him, but he was too slow. Quivalen rose to his feet and stepped back. He looked down at the knife.

  “Don’t worry, Father. I can do this. I have to do this.”

  Loslandril stood. He braced himself, preparing to fight his son for the knife again. Quivalen backed toward the door, waving the glass knife to keep him at bay. “Stay here, Father. Please, just stay here. I’ll come back when it’s done.”

  Despite himself, Loslandril smiled. Jalthessa, he has your stubbornness.

  Quivalen backed out the door, stepped over the dead body of a guard, and closed the door behind him. Loslandril moved to follow, but when he opened the door, he saw his dead bodyguards. Though all their eye sockets had been blackened, the rest of their bodies looked unburnt—as though the fire had been inside them, dragged out through their eyes. Loslandril thought once more of what Chorlga had done to his son when he was an infant. Shaking, he closed the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  HOMECOMING

  Jalist woke just as the morning sun was rising off the distant blue of the Burnished Way. He had camped amid the crags of the Red Steppes, a day from his homeland. His small campfire had died while he slept, so he woke to see frost on the grass. He rubbed his cold legs, stretched, and rose quickly, anxious to get his blood flowing.

  I should be used to this. Maybe I’m just getting old.

  He had traveled light since leaving the Wytchforest, sometimes riding through much of the night, avoiding fire, and living off dry rations to avoid attracting undo attention. But the Dhargots ruled the Simurgh Plains, patrolling and looting at their leisure.

  For a time, he had traveled farther south, hugging the Noshan Valley, thinking he would be safer there. The previous week, he’d spotted a band of Noshan warriors battling a crazed pack of Lochurites. The sellsword and tracker in him told him not to intervene. It was not his fight, and there was no profit in it. But when the Lochurites started gaining the upper hand, some of them so drugged and wide eyed that they kept fighting even after sustaining mortal wounds, the Housecarl in him won out.

  A thrown sword brought down one Lochurite. A sweep of his long axe took out another. The remaining wildmen turned to face the new threat, which allowed the Noshans time enough to rally. They aligned their bucklers into a shield wall and closed in, finishing the fight with spears.

  The Noshans had thanked him with a skin of wine and fresh news. Atheion, they said, was in turmoil. A great Dhargothi host led by one of the Bloody Prince’s brothers was wintering at Hesod. That was not far from the mouth of the valley, and rumors had spread that the Dhargots were threatening to lay siege to Atheion by winter’s end if the City-on-the-Sea did not voluntarily join the empire.

  Jalist had already seen the host from a distance, a seething mass of tents, chariots, and loud, ponderous war elephants, but the news alarmed him. The Noshans further informed him that the Red Emperor’s other two sons had hosts of their own shoring up their eastern positions on the Simurgh Plains, not far from Lyos.

  Which is next for them—Lyos or the Wytchforest?

  He remembered the stories of how the Wytchforest remained in eternal summer, regardless of the snows blanketing the outer lands. A Dhargothi host with ample provisions and a foothold in the forest might very well find the Sylvan kingdom almost as hospitable as one of their already-conquered cities. But would they help Fadarah, as they’d promised, or try to take the Wytchforest for themselves?

  He worried for Rowen. But he reminded himself that Rowen must be safely in Shaffrilon by then. The Dhargots would be the least of his worries.

  After parting ways with the Noshans, Jalist’s journey had gone better for a few days. Then the Dhargots caught him. The scouting party, only five strong, did not seem anxious to fight the grizzled sellsword. But they demanded he surrender his horse.

  Jalist had almost refused, but one of the men had a loaded crossbow. They took most of his supplies, as well, including his shortbow and the wineskin the Noshans had given him. Worst of all, they took his long axe. But they let him keep his shortsword after he convinced him that he’d fought for the Dhargots in the past.

  Now, waking on the Red Steppes, cold and hungry, he could not wait to see his home. Still, he dreaded it. The Stillhammer Mountains were not likely to be friendly to an exiled Housecarl who had not only committed the ultimate male taboo of favoring men over women but had pursued their own prince besides. That Leander had reciprocated hardly mattered. It did not matter that Jalist had been gone for nearly ten years—Dwarrs had memories as perpetual as the stone on which they lived.

  Jalist glanced down at the black wingless dragon tattooed to his right biceps—the mark of a Housecarl. They might kill me. Then again, King Fedwyr was an old man. He could be dead by now. If Leander’s on the throne, maybe things are different.

  He ate the last of his dried rations and continued on. He was out of provisions, but he had managed to conceal his coins from the Dhargots. By nightfall, he would be close enough to Tarator to find an inn and buy himself a mug of stout Dwarrish beer.

  Of course, he would have to conceal his tattoo if he wanted to avoid questions best left unanswered. His brigandine and plain clothes were sleeveless, but he had a ratty cloak that he could wear until he found something better. In the meantime, he dirtied a rag with mud formed from the red clay of the steppes and knotted the rag around his arm so that it would look at a glance as if he had simply bandaged a wound.

  Late in the afternoon, Jalist found a stream and refilled his waterskin. Then he followed the stream southward to a grove of trees. There he stopped and drew his sword.

  The bodies had been picked clean by birds and greatwolves, but amid the bones and rusted metal, the sigils of the clashing forces were still discernable. The first, a bloody dragon impaled on a spear, was obviously Dhargothi. But the other, a visored helmet topped with a golden crown, astonished him.

  What in all the hells were Lancers doing this far south? He rummaged among the dead for useable weapons, but as he suspected, rain and blood had left all of them rusted through. He did find a small pouch of iron crowns on a dead Dhargot and a handful of copper coins on the corpses of Lancers and their squires.

  Wealth is for the living. Feeling a bit better about his fortunes, he followed the foothills as they gave way to the realm of the Dwarr.

  Jalist remembered one particular village with the uncreative name of Stonehome, on the outskirts of the realm. Like most Dwarrish settlements, Stonehome was really just a loose cluster of adobe cottages, home to craftsmen and goatherds. But it had uncommonly good beer.

  That had been almost ten years ago, but he doubted much had changed. His stomach growled at the thought of bread and tavern stew. Given his extra coin, he could afford to stay there a few days before pressing on for Tarator. That would also give him time to gather information and plan his next move—especially as far as Leander was concerned.

  His father probably married him off to some nobleman’s daughter. He may be no more pleased to see me than anyone else. This thought gave him a jolt of panic. He realized how naively hopeful he was—not to mention how lonely he’d been, especially lately. But if nothing else, it would be go
od to be back among his own people, eating Dwarrish food and conversing in his native language.

  Jalist’s steps quickened. He knew it couldn’t be far. Then he heard the cawing of crows and saw their dark wings blackening the sky farther south. He cursed. Some farmer must be slaughtering his livestock. A bit many crows for that, though… He loosened his shortsword and slowed his pace. The hills ahead of him were scattered with boulders and patches of trees. He knew there was a lake nearby as well. Shepherds and goatherds would be there, perhaps even a few children splashing in the water. But when he reached the lake, no one was there. No people, no animals. Moved on to better grazing land, maybe?

  When he reached the village, he could tell right away that something awful had happened there. There were no bodies, but the signs of battle were evident in the smashed doors and overturned carts.

  He spotted the inn at the center of town. Rather than approach it directly, he skirted the village first, crouching low, listening. He expected to hear voices and laughter coming from the inn—if not Dwarrish voices, then maybe some company of sellswords that had taken up residence there.

  He crouched outside one of the inn’s windows and listened. Nothing. The door was open—hacked off its hinges, more like it. Jalist stared into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to change, then he entered slowly.

  The inn’s common room was in total disarray. Tables and chairs had been smashed. Bits of wood and shards of pewter mugs and bowls covered the floor. Though he saw no bodies, the floorboards had been stained too dark for spilled beer.

  Jalist flexed his fingers around the hilt of his shortsword. He found the larders fully stocked, though the kitchens looked as though a pitched battle had been fought there as well. Meat had been left to rot, but he suspected wolves and wild dogs had already taken care of most of it.