Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

Still, Essidel saw no horses. “The Shel’ai were riding bloodmares.”

  “Maybe they abandoned them.”

  “Or they were smart enough to hide them.” Or they aren’t even here. He ordered the rest of the company to hold their positions while he crept ahead, alone. He moved as slowly as a shadow, crawling and creeping between toppled pillars and shattered temples. Though he heard nothing but the sound of wind through the trees beyond, he half expected to be burned alive any second. But no Shel’ai were in sight. He was about to give up when he peered into the remains of what might once have been a storehouse and found a herd of ruddy horses. A few turned to regard him with indifferent yellow eyes.

  The Shel’ai must be close. Essidel fixed his gaze on a single structure that might once have been a great hall. The high, circular walls were relatively intact save for a web of palm-wide cracks and a few breaches big enough for a man to pass through. He saw a flash of violet light inside, and his pulse quickened. A wave of uncertainty washed over him. If Fadarah and the rest of the Shel’ai were in there, Essidel was facing the only place in all of Ruun that was even deadlier than the besieged World Gate.

  This is madness! I should go back to the capital, tell Seravin, and come back with a thousand fighters. He thought of the platforms and bridges that connected the branches of the World Tree with the surrounding wytchwoods. Bypassing the Olgrym would have been a simple matter.

  But that would take too long. In the meantime, Shaffrilon would fall. We’d have to abandon the city entirely… the king would never agree to that. Essidel studied the great hall again. I could surrender. Hide a knife somewhere. Wait until I get close to Fadarah then—

  He dismissed the idea, reminding himself that Shel’ai could read minds. Even if they did not kill him on sight, they would never be so easily fooled. He considered other strategies that he’d employed against the Olgrym in the border wars: tactics built on diversion, surprise, and subterfuge. But Shel’ai were not Olgrym.

  The clouds broke, and light glinted over the ruins. Essidel glanced up at Armahg’s Eye. He considered praying for help then decided against it. He regarded the distant starry swirl for only a moment before returning to Khi’as and the others, who had taken shelter behind a low, ruined wall. He explained his simple strategy.

  Khi’as looked doubtful. “We could surround the place, wait for him to stick his head out—”

  “I counted six gaps in the wall, as good as doors. No telling where he’d come out. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that we’ll be seen… or sensed.” He glanced at the great hall’s dark, open doorway and suppressed a shudder. “I’ll go in alone.”

  Khi’as opened her mouth to argue, but Essidel saw movement and silenced her. He pointed. A figure in a white-and-crimson cloak had just emerged from the shattered doorway. Essidel tensed, but the Shel’ai moved slowly, without purpose.

  Still, he’s a sorcerer. And he’s facing us. If those damned magical senses of his—

  The Shel’ai glanced left and right then opened his cloak, loosened his britches, and started to piss.

  Essidel glanced at Khi’as. “We wait,” he said, using hand signs.

  But a moment later, what little luck had graced them so far abandoned them. The Shel’ai turned sharply in their direction. Essidel could tell by the man’s tense posture that it was no idle motion. The Shel’ai had heard something, but he had not seen them yet. Essidel grimaced. That’s it. No choice now but to run.

  Khi’as touched his arm. For a long time, neither blinked. Then they both nodded in silent agreement. Without taking his eyes off the Shel’ai, who was slowly approaching the ruined wall, Essidel extended one hand behind him.

  One of the Sylvan fighters crouching behind him quietly placed a shortbow in Essidel’s hand. An arrow followed. Essidel crawled sideways until he was behind a wytchwood sapling twice as broad and tall as he was, then rose to his knees and nocked the arrow. He had only seconds to act. Still, he took a deep breath and held it. If the Shel’ai heard or sensed the arrow, he would burn it in midair and warn the others. We’ll all die.

  He held the breath, cleared his mind, and drew back the bowstring. Squinting, he let the bowstring go with a snap. The arrow leapt into the darkness, narrowly missing the top of a toppled column, and caught the Shel’ai in the cheek. It sank nearly feather deep. The Shel’ai stiffened. His mouth opened. Wytchfire sprang to his fingertips, twirling violently. But Khi’as was on her feet, bow in hand. Her arrow sank into the Shel’ai’s chest. Two more Sylvs fired. One arrow caught the dying man in the shoulder, another in the side. He took a step back toward the great hall, stumbled, and fell.

  Wordlessly, Essidel retrieved his own heavy quiver of arrows and stepped out from cover. Khi’as followed, another arrow on her bow, her curved shortsword already loosened in its scabbard. The others followed.

  Essidel smiled tightly. The Sylvs were not Shal’tiar, but they made no sound. With luck, they might slip into the great hall undetected. He had no way of telling how many Shel’ai were inside, but once the fighting started, numbers would make no difference. Essidel had no delusions that he or any of the other Sylvan fighters would get out of there alive. But he knew that Fadarah, because he was part Olg, would be easy to single out. So long as Fadarah died, nothing else mattered.

  Still crouching, he ran as fast as he could while moving quietly, weaving through a maze of rubble and toppled structures. He and his band of archers were nearly to the great hall when another cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. Essidel swallowed a curse and loosed the arrow.

  The Shel’ai’s violet eyes widened a split second before she gestured. An invisible gust of magic batted aside Essidel’s arrow. But Khi’as’s arrow followed too quickly and caught the wytch between her breasts. She screamed and fell backward into the great hall.

  That’s it. They know we’re here. Best we can do is run and hope they don’t follow. He faced Khi’as. “Get the others out of here. I’ll stay for Fadarah.”

  Khi’as answered by fitting another arrow and firing at the first figure who appeared in the doorway. A flood of wytchfire burned her arrow to ashes, but she reached for another.

  The others had fanned out and taken cover where they could. They loosed arrows at the doorway as quickly as they could. The Shel’ai retreated inside, unleashing another storm of wytchfire in the archers’ general direction before he went. Essidel crouched low and felt the fire pass overhead, singeing the back of his neck. One of the men behind him screamed, but Essidel knew better than to waste time turning around.

  He loosed another arrow. Khi’as did the same. Only by then, they had no target. Essidel heard muffled shouts from within the great hall. Facing a gap in the stone wall, he glimpsed movement and loosed an arrow. The arrow missed by the width of a finger, rebounding off the stone wall.

  “Nice shot,” Khi’as said dryly.

  “Save your breath for prayers. If one or two of them get out—”

  Waves of wytchfire struck them from the flanks. Essidel heard screams and felt heat roiling all around him, whitewashing the night with awful brilliance. Pain stabbed all his senses. He reeled a moment before he managed to employ the mental discipline of a Shal’tiar and will away the worst of it. Still, unable to see, he fired on instinct then discarded the bow in favor of his shortsword.

  How did they get around us so fast? He heard a muted cry to his right. Khi’as. He shoved past the sound and stabbed in what he hoped was the direction of her killer. His sword passed through empty air. Then he jerked. He felt as though a lance of molten steel had been thrust clean through his thigh. He staggered, turned, and threw his sword. He heard a scream. He managed a smile of grim satisfaction before another fiery lance opened his chest to the world.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MERCY

  Shade lowered his hands and watched the final tendrils of wytchfire fade from the battlefield, leaving behind only corpses and blackened stone. He turned, about to order Avesha to lead a search
of the surroundings, but she sat on the ground, leaning against a ruined wall. Three arrows protruded from her cloak, each one centered in a growing red stain.

  Fadarah stood just outside the great hall, huge and armored, his fierce, tattooed face utterly expressionless in the darkness. But for a moment, Shade sensed from him a wild surge of grief.

  Zeia stepped in front of him, blocking his view. Soot blackened her young face and clung to her dark, close-cropped hair. Tears glistened in her violet eyes. “We lost Hathia and Brinn.”

  “And Avesha.” Shade pointed.

  Zeia gasped. She started toward Avesha then stopped and turned back to Shade. “Three more dead, and still, the World Tree is not ours!” She cast a spiteful glance at Fadarah.

  “Quiet your thoughts, sister. This was not his fault.” Shade expected Zeia to nod meekly in agreement. In all the years he’d known her, she had never displayed any ferocity, save toward her enemies.

  Instead, Zeia pulled away. “For one who calls himself the Sorcerer-General, our adopted father seems remarkably inept at both magic and strategy!” She pointed at Avesha’s corpse. “She saved my life. Que’ann saved hers. Now they’re both dead.”

  Shade winced at the mention of the grandmotherly old Shel’ai who had used her powers almost exclusively to heal. She had died at Lyos. “I know that. But Fadarah rescued her, just as he rescued me. He saved all of us—”

  “We should have kept some of the Olgrym as bodyguards. You said that yourself.”

  Shade glanced past Zeia and saw Fadarah watching them, listening. “It was a risk. They crave bloodshed, not guard duty. If we’d kept them here—”

  “Then this wouldn’t have happened!” Zeia trembled, despite the wytchfire appearing in bright plumes from her clenched fists. Shade stepped back, wondering if she would lash out in her grief. Instead, she addressed those Shel’ai standing around her—all those left alive. She spoke words that, given her fury, must have been broiling inside her for quite a while, carefully hidden.

  Shade glanced at Fadarah again. “Should I stop her?”

  Expressionless, Fadarah crossed his arms and slowly shook his head.

  The others listened. Some wept. A few crossed their arms and angrily turned their backs on her, but Zeia persisted. She spoke of every failure and every home they’d lost. Gradually, the weeping Shel’ai began to nod.

  Shade moved so that he blocked the approach to the ruined storehouse where the bloodmares were stabled.

  Zeia faced Fadarah across a field of ashes and blackened bone. “You’ve killed for too long from a distance, General. When was the last time you looked into the eyes of your enemy? If you did, you’d know the Sylvs will never surrender.” She turned slowly, facing each Shel’ai in turn. “I’m going back to Coldhaven. I’m going to protect the children we left behind. I’m going to make sure they have nothing to do with this war… and I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me.”

  She backed away from Fadarah, wytchfire still roiling at her fists. But the Sorcerer-General continued to regard her in stony silence, arms crossed. Zeia continued to back away. Then she turned on her heel and strode off into the darkened forest.

  For a long time, no one spoke or moved. Then one of the Shel’ai lowered his head and followed Zeia. Two more followed. Some of the others stared at them with contempt, but most looked away.

  Shade hurried to Fadarah’s side. “You can’t let them go. The others will see it as a sign of weakness—”

  “They thought it was weakness—not mercy—when I let the Nightmare die. When I released the Unseen. Even when I let that Soroccan merchant go after he tried to kill me, when killing him would have brought nothing but flies. All my mercies.”

  Shade frowned. “General, you should rest—”

  Fadarah gave him a look so withering that Shade took a step back.

  “Let me go after them,” Shade tried. “Just to talk. It will be a kindness. When they get back to Coldhaven, the ones we left to guard the children will think they turned craven and abandoned you. It’ll be a fight—”

  “Let them go. We have other concerns.” Fadarah’s voice grew distant. “Zeia was right. I am not blameless. My sin is that I have hesitated. But no longer.” He raised his voice. “Gather yourselves. We follow Doomsayer’s hordes to the World Gate.”

  No one moved. Then Shade heard a faint whimper. Miraculously, one of the Sylvan fighters had survived. A woman, burned nearly head to toe, stirred. Her body too ravaged even to scream, she began to crawl feebly along the dirt toward the corpse of a Sylvan captain. Shade realized she might just have been trying to reach a weapon.

  Shade started toward her, wytchfire gathering at his fingertips, but Fadarah grabbed his shoulder and stopped him. The Sorcerer-General drew his two-handed sword and strode toward her. He loomed over her for a moment. With supreme effort, the dying woman rolled over and faced him. Her mouth opened as though to speak, but only a pitiful, wet rasp emerged.

  Fadarah knelt. He removed his gauntlet and pressed one large tattooed hand to the burned woman’s face. The woman winced in agony as Fadarah’s fingers probed her raw nerves. Then a soft violet glow began to drift like fog from Fadarah’s hand. Her body drew it in like water soaking up a sponge. The woman gasped, as much in surprise as in pain, and arched her back, reflexively grasping the hand that had touched her. She might have tried to shove it away, sensing what was to come, but Fadarah was far too strong.

  The Sorcerer-General urged more and still more healing energies into her body, until at last, he withdrew. He looked pale and exhausted, as though he’d just returned from a great battle, but he stood, eyes fixed on the burned woman at his feet. The burns remained, but he had accelerated her healing by weeks, if not months. She was in far less pain, and her milky eyes had cleared. She even tried to sit up.

  Shade frowned, surprised by Fadarah’s act of mercy.

  Fadarah helped her. “What is your name?”

  The warrior woman tried to speak, choked, then tried again. “Khi’as,” she managed. She eyed the nearby corpse of the war band’s leader. The man’s body was charred, his face fixed in a ghastly smile. Khi’as trembled. Then she fixed Fadarah in a defiant gaze. “If you mean to interrogate me, you’re wasting your time. I know nothing.”

  Fadarah shook his head slowly, unblinking. “I’m not going to interrogate you.” Fadarah held her gaze. Then he drove his sword through her breasts, clean through her body, and deep into the ground. The woman’s eyes widened. She did not cry out. Fadarah stepped back, leaving his gigantic, dark sword where it was. He held her gaze until she died. Then he turned and swept his eyes over his final handful of cloaked disciples.

  “I trust I’ve made my point. The time for mercy has passed. Now is the time for fire and blood. All who agree, let them follow.” Fadarah stalked off toward the horses. One by one, the others followed, until only Shade remained.

  As he heard his companions saddling and mounting their unruly bloodmares, Shade approached the dead Sylv. The smell of her charred flesh filled his nostrils. He held his breath, knelt, and closed her eyes. Then he stood and hurried after his master.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  FAREWELLS

  Igrid woke to knocking on her door and sat up straight, knife in hand. Her first thought was that it was the Red Watch, coming to arrest her for all she’d stolen over the past few days. But no one cut purse strings as deftly as she did. Besides, she’d taken care to dress differently and move to a different inn every night.

  The knocking resumed, becoming louder and more insistent. She rose cautiously from the bed. Naked, she shivered in the cold, realizing she had forgotten to close the shutters the night before. A fine layer of frost had formed on the windowsill, and she could see her breath. She started to reach for her clothes then stopped herself. If the person pounding on her door was after her blood, the distraction might be a good thing. She reversed the knife in her hand so that the blade was concealed behind her wrist. She moved quickly across the ro
om, unbarred the door, and yanked it open. Her right arm tensed, ready to plunge her knife between the neck and shoulder of whoever was standing beyond.

  In the doorway stood Arnil Royce. Instead of armor, he wore a richly embroidered tunic covered by a plain cloak. His eyes widened. “You have a curious manner of greeting visitors, Iron Sister.”

  Igrid cursed. She considered shutting the door in his face and going to dress herself first, but she opened the door the rest of the way and returned to the bed to fetch her cloak. “I haven’t seen you in six days, you bastard. I asked the palace guards about you, and they said they had no idea what I was talking about. For all I knew, Typherius threw you in a dungeon.”

  “The king’s men were bound to keep my presence here a secret.” Arnil entered her room and closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “Who’s worried? Do as you like, Lancer. I just—”

  “Wanted to make sure you were properly rewarded for getting me to Lyos alive?” Arnil smirked, even as Igrid felt her cheeks redden. “If I may say, Iron Sister, it’s hard to find you when you keep changing inns and hairstyles… though I’d wager I could have simply followed the wails of robbed merchants and broken hearts.”

  Igrid could not decide whether that was a compliment or an insult. “Well, Lancer, you’ve found me. May I ask your purpose in so boldly entering my room?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, possibly desire, but he bowed. “I came to take my leave of you. I’m heading north within the hour.”

  The pit of her stomach felt hollow, though she could not say why. “The king granted you an escort, then?”

  “He won’t get involved. But a company of Isle Knights arrived in Lyos last night. There was talk at first that they’d come to reinforce the city, but the latest reports say the Dhargots have stopped at Cassica.” Arnil hesitated. “I asked around, and it turns out the Knights are on a different kind of mission. They’re trying to locate your friend, Sir Rowen Locke.”