“You assembled them before you even asked me?”
“I had a feeling you’d say yes. But if you want to stay and try your luck with King Loslandril after I’m dead, you’re free to try. Hells, maybe I’ll lead the rescue party myself. I suppose the danger’s about equal.” He cleared his throat. “My men won’t love you. They don’t even like you. But they won’t betray you. I can promise that. And this: if they can, they’ll get you there and back in one piece.” Briel glanced down at Knightswrath. “Though I suspect they’ll be relying on you for protection as much as the inverse. If you can bring all of them back unharmed, I’d appreciate it.”
Rowen knew better than to promise that, either.
Briel hesitated, uneasy. “That’s it, then. Good luck, Human.” He turned to walk away.
“What about the child?”
Briel stopped. “The child?”
Rowen glanced at the bodyguards, some of whom were within earshot. He drew closer to Briel and lowered his voice, uncertain the news was common knowledge. “The Shel’ai girl you told me about.”
Briel nodded. “Funny how things change in a day. But I’ll keep her as safe as I can.”
Rowen frowned. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’ll have to do. Besides, what do you care? You don’t even know her name.”
“Then tell it to me.”
Briel shrugged. “As far as I know, her parents didn’t bother to give her one.”
A surge of sadness hit Rowen. Blinking back tears, he cleared his throat. “Name her Sariel.”
Frowning, Briel asked, “Do you know what that word means?”
Rowen nodded.
Briel stood in silence for a heartbeat then cleared his throat. “Why all this concern over one squalling infant you’ve never even seen?”
“I haven’t seen those Sylvan women you’re sending me to rescue, either.”
“Fair point.” Briel sighed. “Then how about this? So long as I’m alive, Sariel will be safe. But I don’t expect to stay alive for long without your help. So see this done, and help both Sariel and me reach old age. Agreed?”
A hint of raw desperation in his eyes, Captain Briel waited for an answer. Rowen bit his lip. Finally, Briel sighed, turned, and walked away.
Rowen found Snowdark saddled just outside the bulwark that the Sylvs were using in place of the ruined World Gate. The spirited piebald palfrey perked up at the sight of him, straining against the Sylvan attendant holding the reins. Smiling, Rowen took the reins and patted the familiar horse’s neck. He was sorry that he had not been able to visit her more often, let alone liberate her from the stables where the Sylvan horses seemed about as friendly toward her as the Sylvan people were toward Rowen.
“Enough of that,” he promised. “We’re going north again. Open plains. Probably running for our lives before long, so I hope you’re well rested.”
She had already been loaded with his few possessions, apparently taken from his room. These included an ancient scroll taken from the famous Scrollhouse of Atheion. To contain the scroll, the Sylvs had gifted him an ornate, waterproof container wrought of silver. Rowen opened the container to make sure the scroll was inside. He doubted the Sylvs would steal it—priceless though it was—but Silwren had risked so much to get it for him, to say nothing of what its lost histories could mean to the Knighthood.
If they’re willing to believe a word of it, that is…
Rowen stowed the flask his bodyguard had given him, fit one foot into the stirrup, and hoisted himself into the saddle. Only then did he turn to face the Sylvs waiting for him. Though he’d spied them immediately, milling restlessly near his horse astride their own mounts, he had deliberately avoided the impulse to greet them. He was tired of exchanging words and looks with people who hated him, and a glance confirmed that these people were no different.
Five men, all dressed in brigandines and forest-green cloaks, were armed with longbows and curved swords. Four looked young, even by Sylvan standards, while the fifth had white hair and wore a patch over one eye. The older Sylv urged his horse closer to Rowen’s. When he waved, Rowen saw that the Sylv was missing two fingers on his right hand. Judging from the bandages he wore, despite his calm expression, the loss had happened fairly recently.
“Greetings, Knight. I’m Sergeant Rhos’ari.” He introduced the other Sylvan men, each of whom offered a curt nod. After introducing all the men, Rhos’ari pointed to a woman who had turned her horse away from them and was already waiting some distance down the road. The old Sylv’s expression soured. “That’s Kilisti. She says she can lead us north, to that Dhargothi compound. But we’ll have to get around Godsfall and Quorim first.” He seemed about to say more but stopped himself.
Rowen gave the woman a hard look. That she had not even waited for his arrival was a bad sign, but he could deal with her later. He glanced at the faces of the men he was to command. They were the first men he’d commanded since his brief stint as a gang leader in the Dark Quarter. He sighed. “Captain Briel tells me you all volunteered. I can’t imagine you’re happy about it. But I’m glad for the help. Thank you.”
Iventine cleared his throat. “We aren’t here for you, Human.” He spat on the ground.
Rhos’ari broke in quickly. “I think what Iventine means, Knight, is that we’d all rather stay and help drive the Olgrym from our lands, but those are our people—our women—being held captive out there. If the Dhargots really are trying to breed more wytches, then saving those women is the most important thing we can do right now.”
Rowen forced a smile. “I see Captain Briel isn’t the only one who fears the Dhargots might be up to something worse than slave trading. So be it. We don’t have to like each other to have common enemies.”
Rhos’ari nodded a bit too quickly for Rowen’s liking. “We’ll follow your orders, Knight. Don’t worry about that.”
Rowen tapped Knightswrath’s hilt, realizing he might very well summon its power and read the Sylvan sergeant’s mind if he wanted to. Instead, he urged Snowdark away from the World Gate, half hoping the other Sylvs would refuse to follow.
He quickened Snowdark’s pace until Kilisti was right in front of him. Though she was armed like the other Sylvs, she wore the dark fighting leathers of a Shal’tiar. Her armor was torn in several places and speckled with dried blood. Rowen cleared his throat. The woman did not slow.
Rowen swallowed his irritation and said, “You’re the one called Kilisti. Tell me—”
The woman hissed for him to be quiet. Without turning her head, she said, “We’re close to the capital, but there might still be Olgrym hiding in these forests. Keep your voice down unless you want a fight.”
Rowen’s face warmed. Though none of the other Sylvs made a sound, he did not have to turn around to feel their eyes on him. He wondered if the Shal’tiar fighter was testing him or merely offering sound advice in a curt manner. He decided to pretend it was the latter. Lowering his voice, he said, “We won’t reach the Ash’bana Plains until morning—and that’s if we ride all night.”
“Your knowledge of my homeland’s geography is impressive, Knight. Your point?”
Rowen felt his face heat further. “Just that we’ll need to camp somewhere safe. Is there any place you’d recommend?”
“No camp. You said yourself, we’ll reach the plains by sunrise.”
“And beyond the plains is Godsfall. You may relish the idea of traveling through Olgrym country while tired, but I don’t.”
Rowen hoped his tone would get his point across, but Kilisti’s quick response said otherwise. “Sylvs can go days without sleep. Nap in your saddle if you need to, Knight. We’ll keep you safe.”
Rowen heard someone chuckle behind him. He bit back a curse then grabbed Kilisti’s arm. She jerked away as though touched by fire. Steel fla
shed. Snowdark reared even as Rowen swung up his hand and met Kilisti’s blow with his vambrace. Sylvan steel sparked off kingsteel armor. Rowen grabbed Knightswrath’s hilt but did not draw. He forced another smile.
“Is it common for Sylvs to attack their commanding officers?”
Rowen was mid-sentence when Kilisti turned her horse and faced him. Rowen managed to finish without pause, but the sight of the Sylvan woman’s face made him wish he’d drawn Knightswrath after all. At least a half dozen scars crisscrossed her cheeks. The tip of her nose was gone, along with the tapered points of both her ears. But most striking of all were her eyes, which were not azure like other Sylvs’, nor violet like those of a Shel’ai, but ice blue. Rowen had not seen eyes like that among any of the Sylvs, save Captain Essidel. Those eyes had lent the late Captain of the Shal’tiar a certain air of foreboding calm. In Kilisti, though, those eyes flashed with murder.
“You are not my commanding officer. Essidel was. Briel, after him. Not you.”
Rowen heard the others surge forward to join them. To his relief, Sergeant Rhos’ari urged his horse between them. He said something in Sylvan to Kilisti that Rowen did not catch.
Kilisti gave Rhos’ari a scathing look, spat on the ground, then faced Rowen again. “Apologies, Knight. You startled me. That’s all.”
Unable to formulate an appropriate response, Rowen merely nodded.
Sergeant Rhos’ari spoke up again. “I heard your question, Knight. There aren’t any villages left north of the capital. The Olgrym burned them all. Same with the Shal’tiar forts. Might be a Wyldkin village left somewhere—”
Rowen shook his head. “We’d have to go too far west to find it.” He thought quickly. “Que’ahl is closest. We’ll stop there.”
Rhos’ari blinked. “I just told you, Knight, all the Shal’tiar forts were burned.”
“I heard you. We can hide in the wreckage, if needs be. If I recall, Olgrym are superstitious. Lots of people died at Que’ahl—I know. I was there. The Olgrym won’t go near it. We’ll rest until sundown then travel north under cover of darkness.” He watched the Sylvs exchange glances. “I’m not asking, damn you.”
He guided Snowdark past them and continued on, hoping he was going in the right direction. He thought of Igrid. Something in Kilisti’s demeanor reminded him of his first encounter with the Iron Sister. She’d been drunk, lamenting the destruction of Hesod by the Dhargots. Despite this, she’d nearly killed him when he’d made the mistake of getting too close. Despite his foul mood, the thought of Igrid made him smile.
CHAPTER TEN
The Hill
Igrid was barely beyond the gates of Lyos when a man pushed past her, running back into the city. The man’s face was ashen. He had one hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood welled between his fingers. A glance at his blood-speckled toga told her that he was no slumdweller, and the tempting coin purse still hanging from his belt told her that he had not been robbed. A moment later, two men of the Red Watch stumbled up King’s Bend. One supported the other, who was missing an arm.
Igrid’s pulse quickened, but she resisted drawing the stilettos from her sleeves. She helped up an old man who had fallen and was about to be trampled, then did the same for a young nobleman, plucking the coin purse from his belt before she pushed him toward the safety of the city gates. Then, pivoting, she picked up a crying child who could not keep pace with his mother, who was already holding two babies under her arms, and carried him through the gates herself. She sat him down then ran back out.
Somehow, in just those few scant moments, the chaos on King’s Bend had doubled. Citizens streamed up the road by the dozens. Others raced toward the slums on the south side of the hill. Street vendors abandoned their wares while others tried to hastily load their goods into carts. Some of the carts had overturned, spilling contents that were either stolen or kicked aside in the rush. A few men fought.
Igrid turned, tempted once again to return inside—then she saw a glint of metal down the curving road, at the base of the hill. More screaming citizens ran past, knocking her out of the way and obscuring her view. She side-stepped off the road, hoping for a better look.
Far below, men in scarlet uniforms emblazed with the falcon of Lyos—some on foot, others on horseback—were locked in a pitched battle against a company of Isle Knights. Sunlight flashed off swords. Igrid’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then she shook her head. No tabards, no sigils. Yet the attackers wore full armor.
Lancers, maybe?
She shook her head again. The Ivairians had no conflict with Lyos. Besides, if Arnil Royce had spoken the truth, the Lancers were busy fighting the Dhargots. Her eyes narrowed. The Red Watch was losing. One man fell, then another. Horses cried. Some bolted, tossing their riders. By now, most of the citizens on King’s Bend had either fled back into the city or run to the Dark Quarter. More men of the Red Watch streamed toward the battle. A trumpet sounded. Below, the Red Watch was desperately calling for reinforcements.
A guardsman got behind an enemy and shoved his sword deep into a chink in his armor—an unmistakably mortal blow. But when the guardsman withdrew his blade, no blood darkened the steel. The armored figure did not even seem to notice the wound, though it turned and cut down the guardsman with strange, frightful nonchalance.
A shudder ran through Igrid’s body. All the armored men wore steel or brass facemasks. That meant their voices would have had a distinctive, metallic reverberation. She listened closely but all the shouts, screams, and frantic orders that echoed in the afternoon air seemed to issue from the throats of the Red Watch.
Those are not men.
She turned back to the gates of Lyos. A young, frightened guardsman caught her eye. He beckoned to her. “Back into the city, miss! The king says shut the gate.” As he spoke, a final squad of Red Watch rode out on horseback, looking determined but none too eager to join the fray.
The guardsman at the gate called out to her again. Igrid glanced at him then back at King’s Bend. Most of the people were inside, though a few dozen still struggled up the road, hauling carts or wounded loved ones. Meanwhile, the Red Watch had all but lost. Despite their advantage of numbers and their horses, they couldn’t hold the armored men at bay. The shining armor closed ranks and marched slowly, quietly, up King’s Bend. Blood ran from their weapons. Some of their facemasks wore ghastly smiles. Men of the Red Watch began to panic. Some fled back up the road. Others fled the hill altogether, forsaking the struggling citizens they were sworn to protect.
Igrid touched her stiletto. She knew she could do nothing for the ones locked outside the gates, aside from urging everyone to make for the Dark Quarter. Time to save my own skin. Even Rowen couldn’t blame me for that. Nothing I can do out here, anyway.
But somehow, her feet disobeyed, carrying her away from the gates instead of through them. The guardsman called out to her again, pleading and frantic. Then she heard the city gates slam shut.
Fen-Shea emerged from his little house, holding a blackened mace with a long handle wrapped in snakeskin. He rubbed his eyes.
Though technically still a resident of the Dark Quarter, Fen-Shea had received special permission to have his house built a little higher on Pallantine Hill, where he had a better view of the slums. This was in recognition of his service at the Battle of Lyos, and hero or no, he was still the leader of the Bloody Asps—and gangmen were not welcome in Lyos.
He could see the source of the cries that had woken him from his midday slumber. “Either I’ve been smoking too much fran-té, or this damn city’s under attack again.” He glanced at the other members of his gang who milled about, many of them half naked, all stunned into silence.
Finally, one said, “Dhargots?”
Fen-Shea fingered his famous necklace of rodent skulls. “Don’t think so. There’d be warning if it was.”
“Then what?”
> “Gods, Will, if I was smart enough to know that, I wouldn’t be living here, now would I?” Fen-Shea pointed. “You two, go see what’s happening.” He turned south.
A crowd was rushing into the Dark Quarter, screaming and frantic. Are they lost, suicidal, or did they just get locked out of their own city?
Then Fen-Shea saw a group of frightened men and women, all half naked. He might have mistaken them for brothel workers who had been driven from their labors before they had time to dress, but the spiritual symbol of Dyoni—a nude, smirking hermaphrodite—hung around their necks. He spotted an old priest of Armahg in blue robes, too, looking almost as out of place as the others.
“Send some boys to make sure those clerics don’t get harmed,” he said to Will. “Last thing I need is the gods turning against me.” Then he turned back toward the sounds of battle. He listened then shook his head. “Might need to run. Lem, you and Dirk find all the boys and get them armed. Warn the other gangs, too, I guess. Though if they ain’t already bristling, they’re probably too deaf to care about. Remind everybody I’m in charge here.”
A fresh chorus of battle cries nearly drowned out his final statement.
Fen-Shea turned back toward the door of his house. A pretty young woman stood in the doorway, half naked, holding a squalling infant to her breast. “Cadney, get back inside!” he snapped. “No, wait.” He listened a moment longer, clutching his mace. “Forget all that. Get Little Thass in the wagon and ride east. Go now. Don’t pack a thing. I’ll send some boys to keep you safe.”
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 11
