Chorlga stared, speechless. Sensing his agitation, the Nightmare had risen like some faithful hound, wytchfire burning all around him. But Chorlga did not give the order to attack. He probed El’rash’lin’s mind. The Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin had unwalled his thoughts. Chorlga saw that he was not lying. He shook his head in disbelief.
“This cannot be… I was in Sylvos. If the Sword had been there, I would have sensed it. If Silwren had done this—”
“You should have sensed it, with all your power. All the control you think you have. But you didn’t, did you?” El’rash’lin shook his head. “When you brought Iventine back from the dead, when you drained those poor fey bastards to increase your power. You saw glimpses of what Silwren had done, but you ignored the visions. And what will you do now? Burn cities and frighten children? Is that what you’ve spent the better part of ten centuries planning? Is this the lofty empire you hoped to design, Dragonkin?”
As though in answer, a fresh chorus of battle cries echoed across the Simurgh Plains. Instead of panic, these rang out with defiance. Puzzled, Chorlga faced Pallantine Hill. He looked once more through the eyes of a Jol. Puzzlement became disbelief. Another host of defenders was charging his creations, originating not from the gates of Lyos but from the slums far below. What was more, the host was armed with bows and spears. As Chorlga stared, the wretched slum dwellers took aim and loosed a cloud of arrows—aiming for the eyes.
Chorlga winced as one Jol after another fell. He was about to order the rest to charge the slum dwellers when the Jol he was temporarily inhabiting was struck down. A raw jolt sent Chorlga reeling. He quickly regained his senses, but rather than see through yet another Jol’s eyes, he issued a mental command. All the remaining Jolym quietly turned their backs on the arrows and began to march away.
Back on the hill again, fully returned to his own body, Chorlga faced El’rash’lin. Though the latter did not speak, his twisted lips had lifted to form a broader, mocking smile. Chorlga tensed. Wytchfire pulsed from his hands.
“I will cast myself into the Dragonward before I cede this land back to the dogs.”
He brought his hands up. His fingers uncoiled. He expected El’rash’lin to defend himself; the old man simply stared back as wytchfire flowed over his body, burning his shadow into the plains.
Chorlga stood there, his breath ragged. Then he faced the Nightmare. The young man had stopped rocking and was staring at the scorched grass where El’rash’lin had been. Then he started rocking again.
“Follow,” Chorlga called out. He started down the hill, his fingers still clenched into fists.
The small company made its way through the ravaged Wytchforest, where corpses of Sylvs and Olgrym still scattered the forest floor. Fighting the impulse to pinch his nose, Rowen employed an old trick he’d learned as a sellsword. He breathed deep, forcing himself to take in the smell of the surrounding rot without retching, so that it would clog his senses and he would forget it was there more quickly.
“Gods, I thought they’d gathered all the bodies by now.”
“Just the ones near the capital,” Rhos’ari answered. “Too many kin to bury, too many Olgrym to burn.”
“And we still have a kingdom to defend,” Iventine added coldly.
Rowen resisted the urge to reply.
Rhos’ari called out to him, “Wait a moment, Knight.”
Rowen reined in and turned to see Rhos’ari unslinging his bow. The others did the same—all save Kilisti, who drew her shortsword. Rowen marveled that Rhos’ari was able to draw a bow despite the missing fingers on his right hand. Indeed, he held the bow awkwardly and winced, but his arms were steady. Rowen was close enough to Rhos’ari to see a burgundy smear of a poison called quickdeath on the arrow’s tip. It was the strongest, fastest poison the Sylvs had, though like all poisons, even quickdeath had trouble bringing down an Olg.
Before Rowen could ask what they were doing, Rhos’ari took aim and loosed an arrow into the corpse of a nearby Olg. The arrow met its target with a sickening thud. The corpse did not stir. The other Sylvan warriors loosed arrows of their own, each choosing a separate target. Rowen finally understood. He’d seen the trick before: a man lay on a battlefield, surrounded by the slain, pretending to be one of them. Then he attacked whoever ventured near. Rowen remembered how a variation on this strategy had nearly gotten him killed by a cruel, one-eyed sellsword named Dagath. He drew Knightswrath.
“Everything smells dead here.” Still, he scrutinized the fallen Olgrym for movement. As he did so, he felt a pang of sorrow. Their hulking forms looked obscene, almost surreal in contrast to the sleepy beauty of the surrounding trees. Their ash-gray skin, pulled taut over muscular bodies, was crusted with dried blood, bristling with arrows. A few stared up at the leafy canopy with wide, fey eyes.
Rowen thought back to the Olgrym’s night charge on the Shal’tiar fort of Que’ahl, when all the Olgrym had howled like rabid beasts and some even lit their own bodies on fire. The Shal’tiar and their Wyldkin allies had succeeded in defending Que’ahl that night, albeit at great cost, but the Olgrym’s pent-up fury had been enough to wash over the Wytchforest.
He was still contemplating this when, to his left, Rhos’ari took aim at another Olg. This one kneeled against a tree about thirty feet away. Though it was covered in dried blood, no arrows protruded from its body—it wasn’t moving. But when Rhos’ari’s arrow struck its shoulder, the Olg howled and straightened. One bloody arm retrieved a spear from the forest floor.
Rhos’ari reached for another arrow. “Damn.” Despite his age, he moved with lightning speed, nocking his arrow as the Olg charged. He fired. Two other Sylvs fired, too. Three poisoned arrows punched fresh holes in the Olg’s chest. Still, he did not slow. One great arm flexed, hauling back the spear, then snapped forward.
Rowen’s heart leapt into his throat as he moved Snowdark into the Olg’s path. The spear struck him full in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Rowen grunted as the earth hammered the breath from his lungs. Dimly, he heard the snap of another bowstring, then another. Snowdark screamed. A Sylv screamed—in rage first, then panic. Rowen fumbled for his sword, realized he was still holding it, and pushed himself up into a sitting position.
One of the Sylvan warriors dangled between the Olg’s fists. The Olg had crushed his skull with his bare hands, despite the fresh arrows in his chest and arms. Rhos’ari and another Sylv named Faeli flanked the Olg on horseback, swords drawn. The Olg howled again. He drew a blade from the dead Sylv’s belt, turned, and cut Rhos’ari’s horse out from under him.
Rowen swore and pushed himself to his feet, using Knightswrath as a crutch. He spotted Snowdark in the distance, unharmed. He took a step toward the battle, but a jag of pain swept through his chest, driving him to one knee. Rowen swore again, leaning heavily on Knightswrath. His kingsteel breastplate had kept the Olg’s spear from hurtling clean through his body, but the force had still broken his ribs. If he kept moving, he might pierce a lung. He looked up.
The wounded Olg was on his knees. Kilisti stood behind, coolly dragging her shortsword from the back of the Olg’s neck. The Olg toppled face first onto the forest floor, atop the corpse of Rhos’ari’s horse. Rowen spotted movement behind Kilisti. He tried to shout a warning but coughed blood.
A second Olg charged out from the trees. This one did not howl. Instead, he pounced to the attack, an axe in each hand. But Faeli was already in motion. The Sylv wheeled his horse around, and the beast reared up. Flailing hooves caught the Olg in the face. Somehow, the Olg swung anyway. Faeli leapt clear of the saddle before his horse could fall. The Olg swung again, missing Faeli’s head by a hair’s breadth. Wide-eyed, Faeli fumbled for a weapon, trying to crawl out of the Olg’s reach.
I have to help…
Rowen took another step. A fresh jolt of pain swept over him. He fought the wild impulse to tear away
his armor and tried to keep going, but staying on his feet took all his resolve. Knightswrath wavered in his grasp.
Rhos’ari was still struggling to rise. The other two Sylvan warriors dismounted and drew their swords then hesitated. But Kilisti was a blur of motion. She leapt past Faeli, feigned a lunge at the Olg’s face, then danced back. The two circled each other. Rowen watched, dismayed. The Olg towered over her. Blood from Faeli’s horse ran from the Olg’s axes.
But Kilisti’s ice-blue eyes did not blink. She ducked beneath the Olg’s first swing then another. Then she leapt sideways and slashed the Olg’s thigh. Instead of falling, the Olg answered with a sound like laughter and followed her, still swinging. Kilisti dodged one blow, ducked beneath a second, then rolled to escape a third. The Olg kicked her in the ribs as she did so. Rowen winced, imagining her pain so vividly that he forgot his own. He hefted Knightswrath, lowering his eyes to its kingsteel blade. He willed it to life.
He feared for a moment that it would not work. After all, his attack against Fadarah had been instinct. But the adamune turned searing hot in his grasp, so suddenly that he almost dropped it. Violet flames blossomed from Knightswrath’s blade. Heat raced up his arm, into his chest. The pain in his ribs disappeared, replaced by a dizzying warmth. Rowen laughed without knowing why. Then, with a wild shout, he broke into a run.
The Olg faced Rowen, eyes wide. Dimly, Rowen was aware of the Olg’s towering height, bulging muscles, and bloody axes. Then he swung. The Olg swung one axe to counter. Knightswrath cleaved through steel as easily as air, then kept going.
The Olg howled in pain and looked down to see his own chest burning.
Rowen stepped forward and stuck Knightswrath in the Olg’s chest again. Wytchfire poured and pulsed from the blade. The Olg shuddered. Then flames leaked from his eyes, his nostrils, and his open mouth. But before he could howl, his entire body collapsed into ash.
Rowen stood over the scorched grass, shaking with exhilaration. Ashes blew in his face. Knightswrath’s burning blade pulsed, brightened, then dimmed. He stared at it, laughed with giddy warmth, and sheathed it.
Only then did he see the others staring at him, horrified.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Earless
Saanji shifted uncomfortably as he paced the battlements of Cassica, tugging at his robe. Built for a warrior, the garment did not fit him properly. Too large in the chest and arms, it hugged his gut, making him look like a ripe tomato. But Saanji still preferred that to armor.
Sweet gods, how am I still alive?
He’d been asking himself that question for days. He’d marched his disgraced force to Cassica two weeks ago, per his brother’s orders, fully expecting Karhaati to kill him as soon as he arrived. That was, after all, the Dhargothi way. Karhaati was strong; Saanji was not. But the days had turned into weeks, and instead of having him impaled or strangling him in front of the men for a bit of sport, Karhaati had simply ignored him. For the Bloody Prince, that was practically a loving gesture.
Saanji contemplated this as he strolled along the walls of the conquered city, followed by half a dozen bodyguards. He tapped the hilt of his shortsword, still unaccustomed to the weight on his belt. Though Saanji trusted his bodyguards to protect him from any would-be assassins hiding among the conquered people of Cassica, he did not think they would protect him from his brother.
Saanji paused, glanced over the walls, and wondered how his own men were faring. He’d received no further reports since that great fire blazed up to the south, accompanied by a sinister cry. Karhaati had ordered Saanji’s men north, to camp a mile from the city, almost as soon as they’d reached Cassica, insisting it was necessary to protect his border from Lancers.
But Saanji knew that was a half truth. Karhaati had ordered Saanji’s men away because they disgusted him, just as they disgusted the rest of the Dhargots in Cassica. Like Saanji himself, the so-called Earless had rejected the usual Dhargothi ways. Another time, they would have been killed for that. Yet Saanji’s men—some, the noted veterans of past wars; others, the cowardly sons of noblemen—were important enough that, for now, Karhaati preferred to let them live on in humiliation. But that didn’t explain why Karhaati hadn’t improved his standing by wringing the life out of the Tomato Prince.
Saanji reminded himself that Karhaati might not even be his greatest threat, given what he’d witnessed on the walls the other night. He’d seen the flames with his own eyes. That had been no mere wildfire or the doing of the Shel’ai, since they were all still fighting in the Wytchforest. It could mean one thing: the Nightmare had returned.
But who is that demon fighting for? Fadarah’s in the south—if he’s even still alive. Why would the Nightmare be here?
Saanji wondered if it had something to do with their father. The emperor had made a deal with Fadarah, sure, but he’d ordered Karhaati and his other sons to break it should the Shel’ai display any sign of weakness. Perhaps the emperor had a secret plan of his own, to rid himself of all three sons before one could try to wrest the crown off his aging head. He might have expected the Red Emperor to be that cruel, but not that clever.
Saanji heard footsteps. He tensed. Then he turned, saw who was coming, and forced himself to relax, if only to avoid giving Karhaati another excuse to kill him. “Good afternoon, Brother.” He nodded. His bodyguards moved aside at Karhaati’s approach—a little too quickly for Saanji’s liking—and bowed.
Ignoring them, Karhaati stood before Saanji. Not for the first time, Saanji marveled at how different they were. Though not as large as his other brother, Ziraari, Karhaati was almost as tall, with muscles that strained beneath his scale armor. An impressive necklace of dried ears hung around his neck. Unlike Saanji’s shortsword, which he’d simply snatched at random from the armory, Karhaati’s had a dragon-shaped pommel with rubies for eyes. Karhaati’s eyes were darkly painted and beamed coldly, so that Saanji felt as though he were being scrutinized by a wolf.
Karhaati smiled. “Well met, brother.” Karhaati embraced him.
Surprised, Saanji returned the gesture, only slightly heartened by the fact that Karhaati did not have a knife in his hands.
“I was just napping when I dreamt of a field choked with dead men. A great victory had just been won for our father.” Karhaati paused. “You won that victory.”
Looking past his brother, Saanji thought he saw some of the bodyguards snicker. He could not blame them. “Tell me, in your dream, did our dear father’s heart swell with pride or burst from surprise?”
Karhaati tensed. Saanji wondered if his brother would strike him. Karhaati waved his hand, dismissing Saanji’s bodyguards as well as his own. The two squads fell back to a discreet distance, mingling until the two forces were indistinguishable. Karhaati squeezed Saanji’s shoulder. “You should not speak so, especially in front of the men. You are a prince in the Dhargothi Empire. You should conduct yourself accordingly.”
Saanji feigned a look of shame. “You are right, dear brother. I ask your forgiveness.”
“Better you beg the Dead God for courage. You will need it soon.”
Saanji had been about to make another joke—one acknowledging the absurdity of praying to any god with dead in his title—but Karhaati’s final statement gave him pause. “What do you mean?”
“Those Lancers attacked our supply lines again last night. Somehow, they slipped right past your men.” A faint, mocking smile touched Karhaati’s lips. “Royce is proving to be more of a nuisance than I can ignore. I’d go after him myself, but those Isle Knights are still out there somewhere, trying to evade capture after they killed my emissary. And I have Lyos to worry about. And… there have been strange reports of late.”
Saanji wondered if his brother was referring to the Nightmare.
“So I’m sending you.” He smiled as Saanji felt the blood drain from his body. “What’s the
matter, brother? You’re out of wine, and Cassican women smell like dogs. I thought you’d be thrilled to leave here and have a bit of fun.”
“Chasing after a bunch of mad Lancers isn’t my idea of fun.”
“Not chasing. Hunting. Royce has only two hundred men with him. You’ll have five thousand. They might as well be rabbits.”
Rabbits with twelve-foot claws. “Maybe you could find some other ill-suited task for me to perform. Cleaning the stalls for your war elephants, perhaps?”
Karhaati tapped his sword hilt for emphasis. “I think not. Ride north, take command of your force, and hunt Royce down. Chase him into Ivairia. Chase him to the Wintersea, if you have to. But I want an example made of him—or his corpse, if you can’t take him alive.” Karhaati paused. “I don’t think I need to tell you what the men say behind your back. This will be your chance to change their opinion of you.”
Saanji nodded contemplatively. “You might be right. Can’t waste my whole life with wine and whores, can I?” He started to walk away, but Karhaati grabbed him. All pretense of kindness evaporated from the Bloody Prince’s expression. He leaned in so close that Saanji could smell the faint musk of decay wafting off Karhaati’s gruesome necklace.
“Enough of your playacting, brother. You’re a Dhargot, not some book-loving fop from Atheion. Understand?” His hand squeezed around Saanji’s upper arm, almost completely encircling it.
Saanji looked past Karhaati’s shoulder and saw the bodyguards grinning in the distance. He forced an obliging smile. “As you say, brother.”
But Karhaati did not let him go. “I’m sending you to kill an enemy. Succeed, and you’ll find me a kinder ally than Ziraari. I swear it on the Dead God.” He seized Saanji’s face, pinching his jaw so hard that Saanji’s eyes watered. “Fail, and you’d better hope Royce opens your fat belly with his kingsteel longsword. Or else I’ll do something far, far worse.” He paused. “If you doubt me, dig up Maryssa’s bones.”
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