Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  And if he’s alive…

  Shade’s mind reeled at the thought of what lay ahead. They’d lost their army. They didn’t even have horses. They would have to carry Fadarah for days and days, through savage lands, all the way back to Coldhaven on the perpetually desolate Wintersea. Even the famed Sorcerer-General would never survive such a journey.

  Once they rested, the Shel’ai might be able to defend themselves against the Human raiders they would surely encounter along the way, but beyond the magical shelter of the forest was winter. Though the fire in their blood protected the Shel’ai against the cold, they would be forced to forage for food. Shade did not think the Sylvs would pursue them beyond the boundaries of the forest, especially with so many Olgrym left behind, but the Shel’ai had plenty of enemies. No one had forgotten that it was Fadarah’s army, the Throng that had ravaged the Free Cities in the first place.

  But since then, they’ve been conquered again by the Dhargots.

  Technically, the Dhargots were Fadarah’s allies. But they’d failed to send forces to help Fadarah against the Sylvs. Besides, the Dhargots were the worst of all the Humans. They valued only strength and prestige but nothing else, not even family. In that, they were even worse than the Olgrym. When they saw the great Fadarah’s army reduced to a mere seven sorcerers, ragged and exhausted, assistance would be the last thing on their minds.

  No, we’ll have to traverse the Simurgh Plains undetected. That will mean avoiding thousands of Dhargothi warriors, plus everyone they’re fighting.

  Shade glanced at Fadarah. Even with the gray tinge afforded by the Sorcerer-General’s half-Olgish parentage, he was too pale. Shade would have expected the big man to be feverish, bathed in sweat, but the Sorcerer-General’s face was frightfully calm.

  Panic rose within him, and he ordered the Shel’ai to stop. Grateful for the chance to rest, they gently lowered the litter onto the forest floor and stepped back, all of them collapsing. Shade knelt and held one fist over Fadarah’s armored chest. Ignoring the ghastly, blood-splattered rend in the Sorcerer-General’s armor, he slowly opened his fingers and closed his eyes. Igniting his magic, he probed the Sorcerer-General’s body for a heartbeat.

  He searched as though searching for a spark in a pile of wet leaves. At last he found it, though it was weaker than before. Though Rowen’s blazing sword had mostly cauterized the wound, it had sliced through one of Fadarah’s lungs, nicked his heart, and carved a path all the way down to one kidney. Only the other sorcerers’ magic, coupled with Fadarah’s incredible will, had kept him alive. But both had limits.

  Shade withdrew his hand. He felt the others’ gazes, though he trusted his tears to answer the question they’d been about to ask.

  They should leave him and save themselves—as Fadarah would wish them to do. Shade gestured. Without hesitation, the men picked up Fadarah’s litter again. With renewed strength, they hurried through the trees, as though help were waiting for them beyond the forest. But that was impossible. Even if they got Fadarah to Coldhaven, even if a dozen Shel’ai came sprinting over the hill right then to assist them, it would make no difference. The great Fadarah would die. Shade pushed the thought from his mind and quickened his pace.

  An hour later, they passed the final wytchwood tree and set foot on the plains. Shade tugged at his white cloak. The ground was snowier than he’d expected. The snow crunched beneath his boots. A wild hope rose within him.

  Humans won’t fight in the winter. If they’ve holed up in their cities, we might be able to slip past undetected.

  Then, as though to mock him, a wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon. Too big even for a burning village, it could mean only one thing: an army was camped nearby. Shade fought back a wave of despair.

  That’s Prince Ziraari. It has to be.

  Like all Dhargots, the crown prince, Karhaati, was paranoid about potential rivals—particularly among his own family. But he also wanted to be close to Lyos, one of the richest cities on the plains. So he’d given his strongest brother, Ziraari, the dubious task of helping the Shel’ai take the Wytchforest. With Fadarah’s host vanquished, Ziraari had no reason to help them. In fact, Dhargots distrusted sorcery as much as other Humans did. Ziraari might well kill them for sport.

  Unless…

  Shade glanced at Fadarah’s still face. He steeled himself then addressed the others. “Take our father east.” He pointed at a copse of trees in the distance. “Guard him well. If I can, I’ll return before dawn. If not… stay with our father until he breathes his last, then make your own way to Coldhaven. From there on, your lives are your own.”

  The others started to protest, but Shade cut them off.

  “If I’m not back by dawn, don’t plan a rescue. I’m already dead.” Not necessarily. The thought of the Dhargots’ favorite method of slow torture—impalement—sent a shiver down his spine. “What happens to me isn’t important. Stay with our father. When he… when he dies”—he choked on the word—“your new responsibility will be to get back to Coldhaven and protect the other Shel’ai, especially the children. Do you understand?”

  One by one, the others nodded. Shade faced them for a moment, feeling as though he should say more but lacking the words. After a final glance at Fadarah, he started in the direction of the smoke.

  Once Shade was alone, he felt his exhaustion even more profoundly than before. He looked west, staring directly into the setting sun. I am a Shel’ai, descended from Dragonkin, who gained their power by conquering beings that soared on six wings and breathed fire into the face of the gods. If it’s my will to stay awake, I will do so.

  Nevertheless, his steps grew heavier and heavier as he trudged northeast across the snowy plains. He was glad his cloak matched his surroundings because he would eventually encounter sentries. Then he reminded himself that the sigil of the crimson greatwolf sewn into his cloak would be visible from a half mile away. He cursed. Undoing the clasp of his cloak, he let it slip from his shoulders and land on the snowy ground. A chilly breeze made him shudder.

  I feel cold. That’s a bad sign. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and continued in his just his fighting leathers.

  He felt a mixture of trepidation and relief when he realized that the Dhargots were making no effort to hide their presence, though little could be done to conceal an army of ten thousand men. Shade could hear the drunken laughter of Dhargothi soldiers mingling with the cries of women being raped. He also heard what sounded like a single man screaming in pain.

  How did we ally ourselves with such people? Shade shook his head. Resisting the urge to turn around, he rested one hand on the hilt of his sword. The sounds grew louder, especially those of the screaming man. An hour later, in the thickening blue-black haze of twilight, he spotted the first two sentries. Both wore scale armor decorated with tassels of black silk. One leaned on a spear. The other leaned on a stake, onto which a naked man had been impaled. Like the sentries, the impaled man had painted eyes and a braided goatee. He was weeping in agony, pleading for help. The sentries laughed.

  Must be a deserter.

  Shade stepped behind a tree, glad his superior Sylvan vision had allowed him to spot the sentries before they saw him. Crouching low, he slipped from one tree to the next. When he ran out of trees, he surveyed the twenty feet of snowy grass separating him from the sentries. He came up with three options: he could circle around them; he could step out from hiding, present himself to them, and demand that they take him to see Prince Ziraari; or he could kill them. He tapped the hilt of his sword.

  The sentry leaning against the stake munched on an apple. When he was done, he threw the core at the impaled man’s head. Though the impaled man hardly seemed to notice, the other sentry laughed then quickly flipped his spear and jabbed the impaled man in the ribs. Blood spurted from the wound. The man screamed but did not die. Shade realized the wound had not been
intended to kill but merely to add to the man’s torment.

  Not that he can suffer any more than he already is.

  Shade felt an unexpected pang of pity. True, the man was a Dhargot and had probably visited this same agonizing death on others, but his cries rang out in the encroaching night, piteous and shrill—a warning to any who dared defy their prince.

  The same prince I intend to ask for help. Shade straightened, took a deep breath, and stepped out from hiding. He approached with open hands raised. The sentries spotted him at once. The one with the spear leveled it at Shade’s chest while the other fumbled to retrieve a crossbow.

  “No need for that,” Shade said in Common-tongue. “I am a friend of Dhargoth… and of your prince.” Hiding the fresh surge of exhaustion it caused, he summoned violet tongues of wytchfire, letting them course along his arms before sending them away. Both sentries backed up, awed. Shade was glad the one had not loaded the crossbow yet, or else he might have shot him by accident.

  “My name is Shade, champion of Fadarah, the one you call the Sorcerer-General. I have drank the Red Emperor’s wine and shed more blood than both of you combined, times ten. If you have any sense, you’ll lower those weapons and take me to your prince. Now.”

  The sentries exchanged glances. The weapons came down. Both men kneeled.

  “Your excellency,” one said.

  “Great one,” said the other, “we will take you to see Prince Ziraari.”

  Shade resisted the impulse to order them back onto their feet, marveling that they would bow before a creature they probably mistrusted and would like to kill, if only for the challenge.

  “Good. Be quick about it. The prince and I have urgent business to discuss.”

  The sentries exchanged a quick, hushed word. Then the one with the spear said, “Avaaji will take you to the prince, Excellency. I must keep my post.”

  Avaaji bowed. “It will be my honor.” He fit his foot into the stirrup and spanned his crossbow before loading a bolt. Then he gestured for Shade to walk in front of him.

  Biting back a smirk, Shade shook his head. “After you, sentry.”

  Avaaji blinked. “Pardon, Excellency, but I must protect you. These lands are dangerous, full of Lochurite berserkers and Noshan raiders. It’s a quarter mile to the prince’s tent. If anything harms you, the prince will see I end up like this one!” He hooked his thumb at the weeping man on the stake beside him.

  “Oh, I think this one can watch our backs just fine.” Shade forced a smile and nodded at the other sentry.

  The sentry with the spear did not return the gesture. “Please let Avaaji protect you, Excellency. It’s our duty and honor to do so.” He tightened his grip on his spear.

  Shade forced a smile. “As you wish.” He took a step. As he was passing Avaaji, he drew his sword, spun around, and flicked his blade over the sentry’s throat. Avaaji’s eyes widened. A gurgle passed his startled lips.

  Shade felt a familiar exhilaration within him at the sight of blood. He thought of all those Humans he’d killed years ago to avenge the death of a Shel’ai friend. He thought of all the Humans he’d killed since. Shaking off a rush of bloodlust, he reached out and slapped the crossbow before Avaaji could fire it. The arrow flew by and vanished in the darkness.

  The other sentry howled. Shade cursed at the noise. Using Avaaji as a shield, grasping the man by a necklace of dried ears that hung around his neck, Shade raised one hand, fingers splayed. Wytchfire burst forth, catching the other sentry full in the chest, bearing him down.

  Shoving a dying Avaaji to the ground, Shade approached the other sentry, scanning for reinforcements. He half expected to see a squad of Dhargots charging toward him. Instead, he saw only darkening, snowy fields.

  They probably just thought it was the impaled man screaming.

  At that moment, though, the impaled man had fallen silent. Shade wondered if he’d died or was merely stunned by what he’d seen. Shade could not see his face in the darkness as he attended to more pressing matters.

  The sentry he’d struck with wytchfire had been badly burned but was not dead. The man fumbled for his spear. Shade stepped on his hand and knelt, pressing the edge of his bloody sword to the man’s neck.

  “You meant to kill me. Why?”

  The sentry’s painted eyes swam with fear and pain. “The prince gave orders. Kill any sorcerer on sight. He said that himself.”

  So much for our alliance.

  “You said it’s a half mile to the camp?”

  The man tried to look at his own scorched chest to inspect the wound, but Shade pressed with his sword, forcing the man to meet his gaze. The sentry nodded. “Half mile. Lots of guards, though. Palisades and traps, too. I can show you the way, if you use that fancy magic to heal me!”

  Shade scanned his surroundings again. “Thank you. But I can manage.” He dragged his sword across the sentry’s throat then wiped it on the man’s sleeve before sheathing it. He heard a whimper from the impaled man. Shade straightened, took a deep breath, and let it go. His breath fogged in the air.

  That was too close. This isn’t going to work. I should just get out of here.

  He picked up the fallen sentry’s spear and turned in the direction of the camp. As he passed the impaled man, he thrust the spear up under the man’s ribs, as high as it would go, and left it there. He thought he heard the man gasp thank you before he died.

  Shade shuddered, wishing he had not left his cloak behind.

  A night breeze blew a fresh misting of snowfall into Shade’s face as he crept toward the camp. He stopped often to crouch behind a tree and listen for sentries, using his magic to heighten his senses. Twice, exhaustion made him retch. Still, he avoided two more sentries before he almost ran straight into a third. Cursing himself, Shade pressed his fingertips to the man’s forehead just as the Dhargot’s eyes widened and he fumbled for a sword. In his weakened state, Shade could produce only a single jolt of magic straight into the Dhargot’s brain: enough to merely render the man unconscious. Shade caught the man’s body and lowered it quietly to the snowy ground. He hesitated.

  If I don’t kill him, he’ll wake up in less than an hour. Or else he’ll be discovered before that. Then again, if I can’t convince Ziraari to help us, I’m never getting out of here alive, anyway.

  Shade decided to let him live. He crept on. He was close enough to the camp that the reek of charred meat and filth overwhelmed him. The cold made him curse his own foolishness for discarding his cloak instead of simply turning it inside out to conceal the sigil of greatwolves. Dismissing the magic that heightened his senses, he continued until he spotted a great sea of campfires ringed by a trench and a palisade. He heard more drinking and the protests of savaged women. He touched his sword hilt again.

  Despite the foul merriment within the camp, plenty of guards strolled about, armed and armored. A few crude bridges that led over the trench and through gaps in the palisade were heavily patrolled and lit by torches. He considered trying to crawl through the trench and climb the palisade then reminded himself that the trench was probably full of caltrops. The wooden stakes of the palisade glistened in the torchlight, probably smeared with animal fat to make them more difficult to climb.

  Shade crouched behind a tree to consider his options. If he’d had time to rest and recover his strength, he might have used his magic to confuse one or two sentries, but that was impossible in his current state. And he had no hope of fighting his way in.

  He considered giving up. Then he remembered the sentry he’d incapacitated earlier. He doubled back and found the man still unconscious. Careful to watch for other sentries, Shade stripped off the man’s armor. He fumbled wearily with the buckles and straps, unaccustomed to handling armor—let alone armor that was too big for him. Moments later, though, he figured he made a passable Dhargot. He ungir
ded his own sword and took the Dhargot’s weapons. He took the Dhargot’s helmet, which was uncomfortable and too big for him, but at least it covered his tapered ears.

  So long as nobody looks too closely and sees the color of my eyes, I should be fine.

  He returned to the palisade. This time, he forced himself to walk out in the open. He tried to lumber, approximating a Human’s gait. He waved lazily to the sentries as he approached. They hardly acknowledged him. Shade crossed the crude bridge and passed through the gap in the palisade. His heart leapt into his throat, but he forced himself not to slow down or grip his weapon.

  “See anything out there?”

  Shade turned to the speaker, glad it wasn’t an officer. “Just what I left in the snow. Still out there if you want it, though it’s probably frozen by now.”

  The Dhargot laughed and waved him on. Shade quickened his pace, grateful he’d been around Humans enough to emulate their accent. He passed a campfire, beside which two men were drinking wine while a third had his way with a naked, dirt-covered woman. The woman’s eyes were without spark, as though she’d long since given up. One of the men offered Shade some wine. Shade forced himself to smile as he waved them off. As he passed, the woman’s eyes met his. If she noticed their violet color, she gave no indication.

  Fighting back pity, Shade made his way through a stinking sea of tents toward the center of the camp. Though he was careful to keep his eyes down in order to avoid eye contact, it was impossible to miss all the standards jammed into the ground. Most depicted the Dhargothi sigil of a dragon impaled on a bloody spear, but others, also done in black and crimson, showed a flexing naked warrior with an enormous phallus. He concealed a sneer.