Jalist smirked. A young cleric of Tier’Gothma paused on his rounds and stared at Igrid, wide eyed, from across the great chamber that had been converted into a hospital. Jalist seized the sheet and covered Igrid, wondering if she was immodest or had already guessed that his tastes precluded her gender. “I’m not your bodyguard, Iron Sister. More like your jailor.”
Igrid reached for the nearest weapon—a candleholder—but Jalist held up his hands. “Peace, you humorless wench! I just mean, I plan on keeping track of you until Locke shows up.”
Igrid tapped her fingernail on the candleholder. “And… when will that be?”
“Whenever he’s done fighting the Sylvs’ war for them, I suppose. But he’ll pass through here on his way back to the Lotus Isles. He has to.”
“Him and that crazed, platinum-haired wytch of his.” Igrid tugged at her bandages.
Jalist stared into his cup again. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Last he heard, I was on my way to Stillhammer.”
“Then why aren’t you there now?”
Jalist blinked. He thought of all he’d seen. It seemed impossible that Igrid didn’t know. Then again, why would she? He had not told her, and any Dwarrs lucky enough to have escaped the Jolym would not have come so far north, into Human lands. The only Dwarrs in such parts were either wanderers or outcasts. Jalist had spotted a few from a distance, in Lyos after the battle, and had resisted the impulse to inform them of what had happened to their homeland.
Let them find out on their own.
Jalist looked up. He realized that Igrid was still waiting for an answer. He forced a smile. “I’ll talk about that once, to the king or one of his captains, but that’s it. Get your answers from them.” He stood. “Sleep well, Iron Sister.”
He left before she could reply.
Outside the temple, Jalist paused between matching statues of Tier’Gothma and breathed in the night air. Lyos was finally quiet. Two temple guards nodded to him. Jalist returned their gesture with a shake of his wineskin. He knew he should be enjoying his newfound fame, but the thought of his homeland had drained all the joy from him.
After Jalist had insisted that he was friends with Rowen Locke, which Igrid, dazed as she was, managed to vouch for, the gangs had taken his advice and managed to drive the Jolym off Pallantine Hill. Three Jolym had even been struck down. The heavy shells they’d left behind—armor wrought of steel and brass, each piece joined by intricate straps and hinges—were lashed to mules and dragged into the city for inspection. After collecting their dead, what remained of the Red Watch had ridden down into the Dark Quarter and demanded that the gang leader, Fen-Shea, tell them how he’d driven off the Jolym.
Fen-Shea had directed them to Jalist. Half hero, half prisoner, the Dwarr had been taken to the palace of King Typherius to await questioning. But after waiting until sundown, Jalist decided he’d had enough. He’d slipped out of the palace so that he could check on the wounded, but he had no doubt that by then, word of his whereabouts had reached the king.
Well, they can give me a medal, or they can clap me in irons. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference anymore. He raised his wineskin to the sky. I saved your damn city, Locke. You’re welcome. He tipped the wineskin and drank until wine ran down his chin, then he threw the empty wineskin on the temple stairs. An acolyte quietly hurried over and picked it up. Jalist sat on the temple stairs and put his head in his hands. He was still sitting like that when he heard boots marching in unison. Nevertheless, he did not look up until someone cleared his throat. Jalist frowned, shielding his face from the glare of their torches.
“Gods, are you trying to see me or burn me blind?”
Two men seized him by the arms and dragged him to his feet, but a voice rang out, ordering them to let him go. Jalist was sorry when they did, because he fell back into a sitting position on the temple steps. He tried unsuccessfully to stand. Finally, he bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”
King Typherius came forward, his expression stoic. In place of kingly robes, he wore an extravagant doublet over gleaming ringmail, along with a gilded bastard sword. The king crossed his arms. “My scouts report that whatever tore my army in half has retreated west, toward Cadavash.” He paused. “Meanwhile, my officers told me about the letter you made them send.”
Jalist needed a moment to realize what the king was talking about. When he finally remembered, he nodded. “A warning. The Isles needed to be warned. The other, bigger force was heading their way. Might already be too late.”
“So I hear.”
Jalist rubbed his eyes. “You sent them, right? The messenger birds… you sent all the ones you could, right?”
“We did,” the king said. “I sent emissaries on my fastest horses, too. If the Isle Knights don’t know yet how to destroy those… abominations, they will by morning.”
“If their keeps haven’t already been torn down by then.”
“Birds and emissaries will get there faster than my army, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The severity in the king’s voice made Jalist try again to stand up. This time, he succeeded. With the king standing at the bottom of the stairwell and Jalist three steps above him, they were almost the same height. “No, Sire.” The Dwarr reminded himself that, Rowen Locke notwithstanding, there was no love lost between Lyos and the Lotus Isles.
“Now,” the king said, “I’m told you know what those abominations were. I intended to speak with you at the palace, once I was done conferring with my captains and comforting widows, but you wandered off. So we’ll talk here.”
Jalist had a look at the king’s captains. They followed him with such urgency that at first, he’d mistaken them for bodyguards. All looked young and untried, some barely old enough to shave. Jalist wondered how that could be, then he remembered that the Jolym had sent most of the veterans of the Red Watch to the funeral pyres.
“Well?” The king gave him a piercing look.
Jalist looked away. “I don’t know what they are any more than you do.”
“But I’m told you called them Jolym when my captains asked what they were.”
Jalist shrugged. “That’s what they look like to me.”
“No Jolym have been seen since the days of the Dragonkin. I’m told they have a few husks on display in Atheion, but most people don’t think they were ever more than an old wives’ tale told about living men in armor.”
Jalist felt his anger rising. “Tell that to what’s left of the Red Watch.”
The king scowled. “Jolym or not, how about you tell me how you knew how to kill them?”
Jalist snickered coldly. “The first time I met one, it nearly cut me to pieces. I got lucky. Nothing else worked, so I tried sticking it in the eyes after I got it down on the ground.”
Behind the king, his bodyguards exchanged looks and whispers of disbelief. Jalist could guess why. Each Jol stood at least six feet tall, most seven. They were hollow, but their thick armor made them twice the weight of the stoutest warrior. During his first battle against them, Jalist had managed to hoist one off its feet and dump it on the ground, then stab it through the eyes before it could get back up.
The king gave his men a scolding glance. “Continue,” he told Jalist.
He hesitated. Grief stung his eyes. He had no wish to proceed, but he had no choice. “Those things… Jolym, if you believe the fairytales… they ravaged my homeland, not one week ago.”
The king blinked. “My father traded with King Fedwyr Thegn a long time ago—even met him once, before he became king. He always said it’s good the Dwarrs aren’t our enemies, because Stillhammer is impenetrable… especially the fortress at Tarator.”
Jalist wished he had another wineskin. “Had you asked a week ago, I would have told you the same.”
“Where is your king now?”
Jalist thought of Leander. The night air chilled Jalist’s damp face. The Dwarr wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Dead, probably. So are all his Housecarls.” And his son…
The king shifted uneasily. “And… a few hundred of these things, these Jolym, did that?”
“Closer to a thousand, maybe more. The rest veered east, for the Isles. Didn’t I tell you that?” Jalist took a deep breath and let it go. “Sire, I need a drink and a bed. I’ve told you all I know.”
The king raised one eyebrow at Jalist’s bravado. “I doubt it, Dwarr. You said you’re Rowen Locke’s friend. The last time I saw Rowen Locke, he had a certain kingsteel heirloom that the other Isle Knights very much wanted to take from him.” The king took a step forward and uncrossed his arms. He touched Jalist’s shoulder. “Where’s Locke now?”
“The Wytchforest.”
The king hesitated. “And… Silwren?”
Jalist shrugged. “With him, waist deep in Olg blood, I suppose.”
The king looked about to say more, then apparently thought better of it. He stepped back and gestured to one of his officers. “Get this man a room at the palace.” He faced Jalist. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” Then king turned to go then stopped. “You saved my city. Why ever you did it… thank you, Dwarr.” He bowed.
Jalist returned the gesture, almost toppling off the temple steps. Once the king was gone, two men of the Red Watch seized him—more gently, this time—and guided him back to the palace. After that, Jalist was vaguely aware of one servant helping him out of his leather armor while another offered him food and a bath. Instead, Jalist pushed past them to the bed. He lay down, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he slept.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Long Night
Saanji sat at the head of a long oak table surrounded by chairs. Various officers, who had been forced into his army as punishment, filled the chairs. They had been summoned from their slumber near midnight. Saanji shivered, though he was not sure whether the cause was the contents of the letter or the cold wind whipping through the flap of his tent. The wind stirred the flap again, revealing the darkness beyond.
Gods, what am I doing? Why didn’t I think about this until morning, at least?
Saanji shook his head. To dwell any longer on what he planned to do would only sap what little courage he had managed to rouse. Still, the stares and growing anxiety from his officers unnerved him. He could not remember the last time he’d spoken to them without being drunk. He looked down, pretending to read the letter once again, then back up. “What’s our latest report on Royce?”
The captains shifted uncomfortably. Saanji could have obtained the information earlier, had he made a point of frequenting such meetings, without dragging them all out of bed.
Finally, one captain answered, “Little has changed, my prince. Sir Royce is somewhere in the Ivairian foothills, but his force is small and quick and familiar with these lands. So far, they’ve eluded us.”
“What kind of losses have we had?”
“None, my prince,” another captain continued. “Royce seems to prefer to skirt us and go on harassing your brother’s supply lines.”
The first captain picked up where the second had left off. “Sire, we might still trap them in the foothills and wipe them all out in one battle. If we just marched in force and—”
Saanji shook his head. “I think not… for reasons that will become clear in just a moment.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “This might come as a shock to some of you, but it seems my dear brother, Ziraari, has contracted an incurable case of death.”
Eyes widened. Men exchanged quick looks. A few touched their sword hilts. No one spoke.
After a moment, Saanji continued. “If this letter is to be believed, he forged an alliance with Shade, Fadarah’s right hand.” He held up his hand as everyone started talking at once. “Yes, I know how that sounds. Shade and the other Shel’ai turned on him, somehow ghosted past the guards, and killed Ziraari in his sleep.” He added, “Apparently, my dear brother was found with… parts of him missing.”
Despite the terror knotting his gut, Saanji fought the impulse to smile.
His officers, on the other hand, looked as if they were torn between fainting and bolting. Saanji understood. One asked, “Did… Prince Karhaati send the letter himself?”
Saanji laughed. “Gods, no. I’m sure he would have preferred I know nothing. Only one of Ziraari’s captains appears to have sent letters not just to me and my dear living brother but our loving father back in Dhargoth.” He pretended to study the parchment. “Apparently, Ziraari actually expired some time ago, but his captains were afraid to send word because they feared they’d be punished for letting the killers get away.” He looked up. “We’re lucky. I don’t have to tell you what would have happened had Karhaati received this letter while we were still in Cassica.”
His captains exchanged looks. Once again, no one spoke.
“As it is,” Saanji continued, “I’m sure an emissary will arrive in a day or two, kindly demanding that I return to Cassica. There might even be a letter telling me that Karhaati had to ride off to battle, and he needs me to take command of the city. Something about rebellion and needing my soft hand to sway the populace.” He smiled thinly. “But the moment I set foot in Cassica, Karhaati will have me stripped naked and impaled on a stake. I can only assume he will do the same to my captains since—let’s be honest—none of you are exactly crucial to his campaign.”
His captains exchanged glances again. Saanji had spoken with open contempt for his brothers before, but never so strongly. Saanji studied their faces. Then, looking down, he saw that his hands were shaking. He dropped the parchment on the table and rose to his feet.
“None of Ziraari’s generals are foolish enough to try and take his place. Some will go back to Dhargoth to rejoin my father. But most will flock to Karhaati. By the end of the month, he’ll have half again as many men, horses, chariots, and war elephants as he does now. And I don’t have to remind you that Karhaati already outnumbers us four to one.”
A captain said, “Prince Karhaati sent us to protect his northern flank against Arnil Royce and his Lancers. Perhaps if we could capture or even kill Royce—”
“My dear brother will reward our courage and welcome us back into his good graces?” Saanji smirked. “He kept me alive in case he needed me against Ziraari. Now, Ziraari’s dead. Time to finish pruning the family tree.”
An officer cleared his throat. “Maybe we should go back to Dhargoth. With Prince Karhaati getting this strong, the emperor might be worried. Could be he’ll welcome us back on our own terms.”
“Not bloody likely,” someone muttered. Grumbles of agreement followed.
“Then what do we do?” someone asked.
Saanji said, “Let me tell you a little story about my brother. That might help you decide.” His heart leapt into his throat at the thought of what he was about to do, but he pressed on anyway. “When I was a boy, I fell in love with my cousin. Her name was Maryssa.” He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened, trying to steady his hands. “I know what you’re thinking. Women don’t mean much where we’re from. I doubt any of you can name your own mothers any more than I could name mine. But Maryssa…” Saanji choked. He looked down, afraid to meet his captains’ gaze. “She wasn’t especially beautiful, I suppose, but I was fat and weak, and she was kind. So while my brothers were following our dear father’s example and proving their manhood by raping all the slaves, I sat with Maryssa and talked.” Saanji smiled despite the lump in his throat. “We read books on what Dhargoth was like just after the Shattering War, before famines and in-fighting convinced our ancestors that the Way of Ears was a good idea, and nobody gave enough of a damn to stop them.”
Saanji felt unsteady. He wished he were drunk. “On
e day, Karhaati found us together…” Saanji started to shake again and realized he could not continue. He took a deep breath, let it go, then looked up. He smiled faintly at the lack of expression on his captains’ faces. Saanji knew that stoicism well, for he’d practiced it in the mirror many times, training himself not to retch when their father made them watch an interrogation or stroll beneath ghastly rows of men who had been impaled for some dereliction of duty.
“I wanted revenge. One day, I took a little bottle of poison from the armory. I brushed it onto a caltrop and slipped the damn thing into his boot while he was asleep, way down at the bottom. Only I lost my nerve. I took it out. Gods, if I hadn’t…” He trailed off, realizing he was losing his way.
“Let’s try this.” He straightened. “You’re all here for the same reason I am… namely, because no one’s killed you yet.”
The remark brought scattered smirks.
“You haven’t distinguished yourself by plundering the islands, kidnapping women from the Free Cities, or sticking a knife in the gut of somebody who gave you a sour look. They call you Earless because you wear no trophies around your neck. They think you’re weak. I think they’re wrong. I think the problem is just that you haven’t been given the chance to kill the right person.”
The captains bristled. No one answered, but Saanji could see that he was getting through to them. He pressed on with renewed hope. Piece by piece, he told them his plan. Though he’d been formulating it for weeks and fine-tuning it for days, it still sounded absurd when he said it aloud.
When he was done, his captains sat in stunned silence. Saanji saw at once that some would refuse. Those, he knew, might have to be put to death before they could escape the camp and get word to his brother. But the rest looked intrigued, if nothing else.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 15
