Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  He went down to the river and found a little boat abandoned in the reeds. “Well, it’s no horse, but it beats walking.” He searched the village again, salvaged a skin of wine and dried fruits from an empty tavern, and returned to the boat. He looked south. By the light of Armahg’s Eye, he saw a broad, glistening arm of stars writhing across the plains in his direction, moving low against the ground. He stared, momentarily awed by the strange sight. Then he shook himself.

  No, not stars—unliving, metal men who want to slice me into little pieces. But something tells me the bastards swim even worse than I do.

  Jalist took a long swig of wine. Even though he knew they could not possibly see him, he raised one fist and made a rude gesture in the Jolym’s direction. Then he climbed into the boat, grabbed the oars, and pushed off.

  Though Jalist could not imagine anybody was close enough to hear him, he was careful not to lift the oars out of the water once he began paddling. He began sweating fiercely beneath his cloak, but he knew better than to slip it off and breathe in the cold night air. The last thing he needed was to get sick while he was already fleeing for his life.

  He wondered where he should go next. He wanted to hurry west so that he could find Rowen Locke and warn him what he’d seen, but Rowen was on the opposite end of the continent. Jalist would need a horse and supplies to reach him. Like many sellswords, he’d hidden small caches of coins and weapons in various hiding places around the Simurgh Plains, but all were too far away.

  Besides, even if he evaded the Jolym then bought or stole a horse, riding straight west was suicide. Since he’d parted ways with Rowen, the Dhargots had spread across more than half of the Simurgh Plains, conquering Free Cities left and right. The coming winter might have slowed the Dhargots’ conquest, but to reach the Wytchforest, Jalist would still have to pass thousands of them. If he were lucky, they would only rob him. More likely, they would torture or kill him purely for sport.

  He glanced northeast, wondering how far away the Lotus Isles were. As far as he knew, the Dhargots had not yet declared war on the Isle Knights. The Dhargots were bloodthirsty, but they weren’t stupid. If Jalist were under the Knights’ protection, the Dhargots might think twice about harassing him. Besides, the Knights would surely be interested to learn that an army of nearly unkillable creations had quietly decimated a nearby kingdom. If Jalist could convince the Knights that he was telling the truth, perhaps they would help him search for Rowen Locke.

  After all, Rowen’s a Knight! Then Jalist shook his head. A Knight that half the other Knights want dead. He thought of Crovis Ammerhel, the haughty Knight of the Lotus who wanted Knightswrath for himself. Jalist had met the man only once, outside the gates of Lyos, but that meeting had been enough to confirm all that Rowen had said about the man.

  Jalist was still rowing when he thought of the last time he’d helped Rowen reach the Wytchforest; they’d tried to avoid the Dhargots by veering south, near Atheion, the City-on-the-Sea. Repeating that would be suicidal, given how they’d left the city. But south of Atheion lay the Southern Basin, home to the realm of Quesh, where nomadic tribes raised famously fleet red horses called bloodmares. The Queshi had always maintained passable trade relations with the Dwarrs. They might offer shelter to survivors of the Jolym massacre.

  That’s where I’ll find Leander… if he’s still alive.

  Jalist grinned. If he could buy or steal a bloodmare, he could get to the Wytchforest by following the southern coast. The horse’s speed might even make up for the time he would lose finding a ship to carry him down the eastern coast, past Stillhammer and the endless desert of Dendain. That would also save him from having to worry about Dhargots, Lochurite berserkers, Isle Knights, and any of a dozen other enemies.

  But that still leaves the Jolym.

  He looked over his shoulder. What he saw made him swear under his breath. Countless glints of steel swarmed along the shoreline. Jalist wondered if the Jolym would swim after him. Instead, their entire host seemed to have wheeled eastward, continuing their pursuit along dry land. He could not see them clearly in the darkness, but they spread out in the distance like a huge sea of steel. What he had first calculated to be a few hundred now seemed to number close to a thousand.

  Gods, why are they still following me? He paddled faster.

  Years before, he’d helped the Locke brothers escort a merchant to the Wintersea. The merchant had been half mad and poor, but the trip had given them an excuse to see a new part of Ruun. Rowen had even hoped they might see the Dragonward hugging the frozen shoreline; though, if it existed, it was as invisible as the legends claimed. But one day, near a spot of coast where the water was unfrozen, they’d seen something else: a great, terrible fish with fins and many teeth pursuing a much smaller fish, following it with dogged tenacity, ignoring closer prey that it might have caught more easily.

  Jalist’s hands white-knuckled his oar. He had the awful feeling that he was that little fish and the Jolym intended to pursue him with the bigger fish’s same mad, hungry devotion. Cursing, he thrust the oar back into the water and pushed as hard as he could.

  By the time the sun rose over the eastern hills, staining the grasslands like blood, Jalist had the sinking suspicion that he’d been wrong. The Jolym had either given up or had simply happened to be marching in his direction all along. He might have cheered, but something gnawed at him. Climbing a hill, he studied them in the distance. They were still a few miles behind him, but they had divided into two large steely masses. The larger half appeared to be marching northeast, turning unmistakably toward the Burnished Way.

  “Guess I won’t have to convince the Isle Knights.” He studied the remaining force. There couldn’t have been more than two dozen. If those others are attacking the Isle Knights, where are these going? He decided it made no difference. He had a plan.

  Descending the hill, he hurried westward. Three hours later, he watched from his hiding place in a copse of trees, heart racing, as the Jolym shambled past. He breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone. It would be easier to reach the coast now. From there, he could head south, skirting Stillhammer and the desert, and head into Quesh as he’d intended.

  Jalist continued to watch the smaller force of Jolym as they marched north, until they were out of sight. He had a good idea where they were going. He imagined what the Jolym would do once they reached Lyos.

  That’s Rowen’s city. He just risked his hide saving them from the Throng. Now, the Jolym will tear it to pieces.

  He’d been able to count the Jolym as they passed. Of the eighteen, most appeared to have been wrought entirely of iron, though three were blinding bronze. All the Jolym had blades in place of hands. Their dark eye sockets reminded him of cold charcoal.

  Jalist swore. Under other circumstances, he might have laughed at the thought of eighteen warriors doing much damage to a well-fortified city, but he’d already seen what the Jolym could do. Besides, he doubted anyone in Lyos knew the Jolym’s weakness, which he’d discovered by accident.

  I don’t have time for this. I have to find Rowen. And Leander.

  He rubbed his eyes. “And I’d appreciate a gods-damned nap and some breakfast!” But he realized he would get neither. Turning north, he set out at as fast a pace as he could manage.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ripples

  Chorlga slumped against the weathered stone of Namundvar’s Well. He shook from exhaustion, his eyes clenched tight. Still, he grinned. It had taken hours, but it was over. Even though he had not yet beheld the fruits of his victory, he’d done it. Even the mighty Nekiel had never dared to attempt such a feat.

  Of course, I had help.

  He almost laughed. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up and looked around. For a moment, he wished he were somewhere else—outside under the open sky or, better yet, under the cooling shade of wytchwood trees—rath
er than deep in the dank vaults of Cadavash, surrounded by dead dragonpriests. By the flickering glow of a hundred candelabra, he saw them littering the cold chamber floor all around him.

  Young and old, male and female alike, all the dragonpriests lay on their backs, eyes wide and mouths agape in expressions of ghastly euphoria. Though damp with sweat, their green robes showed no sign of injury. But Chorlga could sense the lingering psychic shadow of their last moments, their final screams of pain and triumph.

  He returned his attention to the task at hand: determining the whereabouts of the Dragonkin he’d just resurrected. Chorlga had hoped the dead man would simply materialize in Cadavash, right next to him. On more than one occasion, Chorlga had seen the freshly dead brought back to life by Dragonkin magic as a reward for valorous service.

  But this was different. There had been no body. The Nightmare had been dead for months. In order to keep his mind malleable, it had been necessary to resurrect him as he had been—powerful but mad. That added an element of unpredictability to his resurrection. He might very well emerge anywhere, belched out by the Light. Chorlga had always been warned against resurrecting anyone who had been dead for too long, lest they leave too much of themselves behind. The Nightmare might be even more unpredictable than before.

  Chorlga hoped he would not have to search the length and breadth of Ruun to find the Nightmare. Then again, the search would give him time to regain his strength and prepare himself for what was to come.

  Chorlga swept his gaze over the chamber again. Though it appeared that all the dead were dragonpriests, he had to be sure. He had no idea what the Dragonkin looked like now. He hoped he would be able to sense him, but if the man were unconscious, that could be difficult. Slowly, carefully, Chorlga checked every one of the more than two hundred corpses in the chamber. But all were green cloaked, wide eyed, and lifeless.

  Chorlga smiled. He’d absorbed many of these bone-worshippers when he reached Cadavash, building his strength, just as his kind had once drained the life force of dragons. Once he’d shown those who remained what he intended to do, they had sacrificed themselves without hesitation. Their willingness lent extra potency to their sacrifice, granting him even more power than he could have seized otherwise.

  Still, their fanaticism unnerved him. Even at the height of the Dragonkin Empire, the Dragonkins’ subjects had never worshipped them with even half as much fervor as these priests showed for dead dragons. Their madness had nearly overwhelmed him. Also, there had been the visions.

  What happened to drive them to that kind of madness?

  Chorlga rubbed his eyes. The visions still swirled through his mind: sensory fragments, brief images, and raw jolts of sound. He did not know if they were the result of his briefly augmented powers or just some kind of prophetic warning sent to him by the Light. Of course, he would have to sort through them, but that could wait until he’d recuperated.

  Leaving the chamber that contained Namundvar’s Well, Chorlga made his way to a set of stairs that led directly up to the surface. The stairs had been concealed behind a false wall, and the only footprints in the thick dust were his own.

  Last night, he’d descended into Cadavash in the traditional manner, with a legion of sacrificial dragonpriests behind him. But he had no desire to traverse those same reeking, subterranean streets lined by self-mutilating worshippers and countless shrines devoted to dragonbone. He reckoned at least a thousand people were waiting up there, anxious for his return. With his heightened senses, Chorlga could feel their roiling need to serve him. They would kill or die for him. He was their emissary of dragons. They would wait hours, days, even weeks for his return. As far as Chorlga was concerned, they could wait forever—or until he needed another sacrifice.

  For now, I have to find my Nightmare.

  Chorlga started up the stairs then stopped and glanced back at Namundvar’s Well. He felt something stir: a faint tingling in his senses that filled him with dread and guilt. He shook himself free of it. Gathering his strength, he ascended the long dark staircase as quickly as he could.

  Long before he had a body, he felt the thick silence hanging over the corpse-filled chamber. It seemed to him that he existed everywhere in the chamber at once, that he had no flesh and thus no senses, yet he sensed everything. The fingers of light topping the candelabra flickered and gradually died, one by one, returning the room to darkness. The only sound was the occasional, especially loud lamentation from the dragon-worshippers filtering through the stone floors of the chambers above. The darkness thickened until it became like stone.

  Then, something sparked to life.

  Faint at first, a pale glow drifted up from the stone mouth of what appeared to be just an ancient, ordinary well. The glow intensified. Gradually, the chamber gave itself back to the light. Then he felt his body take shape.

  Just a shadow at first, slowly the shadow took on substance, shaping him into a small man crumpled facedown next to the stone well. He stirred then lifted his head. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees. The hood of his cloak fell. White light streaming from the well illuminated a face of twisted features, as though the small man’s body were busy suffering every malady at once. Violet eyes blinked. And with the opening of his eyes, he collapsed entirely into his own body.

  The pain was too great for him to scream. Slowly, mercifully, it subsided. With great effort, he pushed himself onto his feet.

  “Chorlga—” He choked on his own speech, as though using it for the first time. “All these years we fought the Sylvs, the Humans, each other. Turns out we should have been fighting you. Only we didn’t even know you existed.” He shook his head. “Clever. So bloody clever, aren’t you? But you didn’t know, when you brought him back, that you’d bring me back, too.”

  As the small man smiled, he felt his face tense and strain like a cracking sunburn. “But you should have. I died with Iventine. We melted into the Light together, like two ripples of water.”

  The small man winced abruptly and fell against the mouth of the well. He clutched his chest as though his heart had burst. His breath came and went in wet, ragged gasps as though he were rediscovering how to breathe. “Gods, it hurts to live this long. I can’t even imagine how it must be for you.”

  Eventually, the small man straightened, even as the glow streaming from the mouth of the well began to dim. His gaze passed over the corpses of the dragonpriests. He shook his head.

  “So much life wasted on madness. So much time. Now, I’m here. And I can feel the Light slipping away from me the longer I stay. I can feel myself forgetting.” He paused. “Silwren is gone. Fadarah will be dead, too, before long. I can feel them all slipping away.” He eyed the dark stairwell in the distance. “And I’m still talking to myself. I guess some things don’t change.”

  He turned and peered into the well. He stared for a long time. Finally, nodding to himself, he took a step. He almost fell but caught himself and took another, then another. Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of corpses toward the stairs he knew Chorlga had taken.

  The light streaming from Namundvar’s Well continued to dim with every step he took. By the time El’rash’lin reached the stairs, the chamber had been plunged back into cold, blinding darkness. Even so, pressing his hands to the rough stone walls on either side of him, El’rash’lin climbed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Columns

  One hundred Knights rode across the Simurgh Plains, silent save for the jingle of armor and harnesses and the occasional rustle as the wind ruffled their cloaks and azure-blue tabards. Though the thin crust of snow slowed their pace, the Knights maintained their neat formation and steely composure.

  Nevertheless, Aeko Shingawa could see their frustration in their terse scowls and the way they held their reins a bit more taut than necessary. She could hardly blame them. They should be back at Saikaido Temple, sipping te
a or lotus wine in front of a fire, not slogging through cold, war-torn lands on what most of them regarded as a fool’s errand.

  But it isn’t. Rowen needs our help… if he’s still alive.

  From her position at the head of the column, she looked over her shoulder again, wondering how many of the Knights would betray her before their mission was done. Any other time, that would have been unthinkable. Isle Knights were known for nothing if not their dutiful sense of honor. But times had changed. Aeko had done what she could to select trustworthy Knights, but for every Knight who genuinely respected her or Grand Marshal Bokuden, two favored Crovis Ammerhel. And Crovis wanted what Rowen had—Knightswrath.

  But by the Light, he’s not going to get it.

  Aeko scrutinized her Knights. At least a fourth were women. Some carried long-bladed spears, but most only carried curved, long-handled swords and knives. None carried a shield, since the kingsteel glint of their armor made it clear that they had little to fear even from crossbow bolts.

  All the Knights wore tabards bearing the sigil of a snow-white crane balancing on one leg. A handful wore the additional sigil of a white golden-horned stag. Those men rode ahead of the others, a bit haughty in the saddle. Like the lesser Knights behind them, the Knights of the Crane, nearly all of the Knights of the Stag had the dark eyes, olive skin, and braided, uncut hair common to natives of the Lotus Isles.

  A few had the paler skin of mainlanders, but most of these had been admitted into the Order by virtue of their pedigree—their lineage could be traced all the way back to Fâyu Jinn’s first roster of Isle Knights who had served during the Shattering War. Though thousands of mainlanders sought to enter the Knighthood and paid a large sum to be trained in the Knights’ lore and the ancient Shao fighting styles, fewer than one percent of these ever actually became Knights.