Well, that’s a start.
As the captains began to argue some of the finer points, Saanji toyed with the opal ring—a woman’s ring—on the little finger of his left hand. Maryssa had given it to him a moment before she’d flung herself off the parapets—choosing death over giving birth to Karhaati’s child. Saanji shuddered. He was glad the captains were no longer watching him. He seized a pitcher of wine and filled his goblet until it overflowed.
Brahasti el Tarq paced the outskirts of his compound, eyeing the slave pit in particular. Despite the late hour, he could not sleep. But it was not the screams that kept him awake. He was used to the screams. After all, he had made more than a few captives scream himself. It was the silence he found disconcerting.
For weeks, the Sylvan women held captive in the pit had fought off Brahasti’s men with admirable resolve. Some of them had been forest dwellers, but most were Wyldkin, already accustomed to a hard life spent fighting Olgrym. A few had even been killed when they came close to fighting their way free with bare hands. Ever since Chorlga’s visit, though, things had been different. The Dragonkin had given Brahasti a recipe for an ancient, noxious elixir, with orders that the women be forced to drink it on a daily basis. Chorlga claimed it would greatly increase the women’s fertility, as well as the chance that they would give birth to Shel’ai.
Brahasti had been skeptical. The elixir’s exotic ingredients, ranging from snowthistle, queensroot, and frogleaf to the bone marrow of an urusk, included ingredients like felberries, which Brahasti knew were poisonous. Yet Chorlga had been true to his word. Unfortunately, the foul elixir had had another effect that Chorlga had not mentioned: it had sapped the women’s will, dulled their wits, and left them like walking dead.
Brahasti sighed with disappointment. The women’s eyes resembled wet stones. They made almost no sound—not when Brahasti’s men descended into the pits for a bit of fun, not even when they noticed their bellies beginning to swell. Brahasti wondered if any of the women still had the presence of mind to realize that they were pregnant. He decided it did not matter. Nearly all thirty of the Sylvan females were with child—which was good, since the sport had gone out of it.
Brahasti was starting to wonder if there was even any sense in guarding the pit anymore. Days before, a careless warrior had dropped a knife within easy reach of a Sylvan girl while climbing out of the pit. The girl might have easily snatched it up and stabbed him in the back—she surely would have weeks earlier—but the girl simply rocked herself, oblivious to the weapon at her feet. Brahasti did not expect that any of the women could have escaped even if his men weren’t there, thanks to the Jolym.
He lifted his gaze from the pit to its tireless sentries. He shuddered. Two Jolym stood at opposite edges of the pit. A third guarded the only gateway into the compound. Before the elixir had taken effect, he’d seen a Jol move with surprising quickness to seize a Sylvan girl who had been about to climb to freedom. Another time, as a test, Brahasti had ordered one of them to tear a man in half for disobeying an order. Without speaking and without the slightest hesitation, it seized the condemned man, displaying strength that rivaled an Olg’s.
If Karhaati ever calls me back to the front, I have to take these three with me. Even the Bloody Prince wouldn’t be able to threaten me then.
Brahasti shook his head. Why go back to the front at all? He’d loaned his strategic brilliance to Prince Karhaati, just as he’d loaned it to Fadarah before that, and that had gotten him very little. Chorlga was another matter: he was the first true Dragonkin that Brahasti had ever seen, maybe the last one left alive. Based on what Brahasti had witnessed already, Chorlga’s power easily surpassed that of any of the Shel’ai, including Fadarah.
Brahasti faced one of the Jol. Moonlight reflected off its armored chest. He scrutinized it for the slightest movement but saw none. It still looked like a propped-up suit of armor.
Chorlga gave them life. And he has a whole army of these things to the east!
Brahasti smiled. Chorlga was the true power on Ruun, the worthy master he had been waiting for. He appreciated Brahasti’s talents in a way that none of his previous masters—the Red Emperor, the Sorcerer-General, the Bloody Prince—had managed to do. All Brahasti had to do now was be himself, and the rewards and recognition he so richly deserved would rain down on him.
Careful, the Dhargot warned himself. Fadarah got overconfident. Look what happened to him.
Brahasti decided to check on things at the gate of his compound. He headed away from the slave pit, ignored the lazy salute of a couple sellswords who stood up from their campfire at his approach, and waved to Dagath. The one-eyed sellsword was just coming into the compound, a pitcher of wine in hand.
Brahasti frowned. “Drinking on duty again?”
“No, General. It’s Farl’s watch. See for yourself.” Dagath gestured vaguely at the gate.
Brahasti tensed. He was willing to be lax with Dagath because the man got results, but boredom was making the sellsword captain too impudent. “Farl’s watch just started. You sound like you’ve been drinking since sundown.” He paused. “Remember what the Jolym did to Pate? Drink on duty again, and I’ll have them do the same to you.”
Dagath winced. He lifted the patch off his eye and scratched the dead, scarred socket. “Won’t happen again.” He took a step then stopped so suddenly that he almost lost his balance. “Will that be all, General?”
“Almost.” Brahasti nodded back toward the slave pit. “Pick me out a girl. Whichever one has the most fight left in her. I’ll take her in my room when I’m done inspecting the grounds.”
When Dagath was gone, Brahasti turned on his heel and walked out the gates. Two more sellswords stood watch. Both reeked of fran-té, but they stood and saluted as he passed. Brahasti decided to deal with them later. He crossed over the dry moat and stopped in the shadow of a wooden watchtower. A grubby sellsword descended a ladder in time to meet him.
“G’evening, General.”
Brahasti considered backhanding the man for forgetting to salute, then he noticed the shortsword hanging from the man’s belt. He drew it and examined it, appreciating its simple but fine craftsmanship. “Isn’t this Dagath’s?”
“Was.” Farl grinned. “I won it in a dice game.”
“You beat Dagath in a dice game, and he didn’t gut you in your sleep?”
Farl blushed. “I told him I’d give him a chance to win it back tomorrow. Wasn’t Dagath’s, anyway. He says he stole it off some dumb squire he met on the road.”
This caught Brahasti off guard. “A squire?”
Farl nodded. “Like, from the Lotus Isles.”
“Did Dagath kill him?”
“Didn’t sound like. He got away somehow. Dagath thinks he killed his half brother or something. Swears he’ll catch up and get revenge someday.” Farl chuckled softly.
“Where was this?”
Farl shrugged. “East of here, I think he said. South of Lyos, near the Burnished Way.”
Brahasti glanced at the shortsword again, noting its fine balance and bright, waisted blade. It was unmistakably Ivairian. Brahasti remembered the letter he’d received weeks ago from Prince Ziraari. The letter claimed that a cousin of the Dhargothi princes had gone missing. There were rumors that he’d died in a duel with an Isle Knight of Ivairian descent.
Could be a coincidence. Either way, it never hurt to have powerful friends. Capturing the Ivairian and sending him to Prince Ziraari as a token of friendship might go a long way to helping him establish his position. Or else I could send him to Karhaati as a peace offering. Depends on which prince seems stronger once the snows melt, I suppose.
Brahasti flipped the sword, caught it by the hilt, and slid it into his belt. He walked out to where the third Jol stood. It looked so dark in the absence of torchlight that Brahasti might have mistaken it fo
r a ghastly tree.
“Too bad I can’t send one of you to look for this Isle Knight,” Brahasti muttered. “Gods know how I’d ever find him, anyway.”
Shade almost could not believe his eyes, let alone his luck.
As they lay on the dew-damp plains, surveying the compound, a single figure stepped off the bridge and joined the armored Olg keeping watch beyond. Rays of moonlight fell upon coldly handsome, familiar features.
“That’s Brahasti,” he told Zeia through mindspeak. “If we kill him first, his men will be leaderless.”
Shade sensed Zeia’s doubt before she replied. “A scream is a scream. By the time we’re done killing those three, the rest will be warned.”
He almost laughed. “See? The little one is going back inside the compound. Are you telling me that two Shel’ai can’t dispose of two guards without making noise?”
“Two Human guards, yes.” Zeia gave him a cold look. “But Brahasti’s friend appears to be an Olg in full armor. Or did you somehow fail to notice?”
Shade hesitated. “Wytchfire can burn through armor.”
“Yes… but not quickly. And whoever takes down that Olg will be a lot weaker for it.”
Shade took a deep breath and let it go. Zeia was right. Still, when Brahasti turned and started back into the compound, it took all of Shade’s willpower not to stand up and kill him right then.
Zeia touched his arm. “We’re not here for revenge. We’re here to make amends for Fadarah’s sins.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Shade scowled at the necessary reminder. “Muddle the Olg’s senses so we can get past it. I’ll do the same to the two guards on the other side. We won’t start killing until we have to.” Slowly, quietly, he rose to his feet. “Remember: if we’re spotted, don’t hesitate.”
Zeia stood, too. “This isn’t my first battle.” She undid her cloak and let it fall. Shade did likewise. They moved stealthily through the shadows. Crouching low, they approached the Olg from the side. When they were close enough, Zeia touched Shade’s arm. Both Shel’ai sank to one knee.
Zeia closed her eyes, and Shade imagined her carefully extending her consciousness into the Olg’s mind, confusing its sense of hearing so that its ears would not register the sound of their footsteps as they crept past it. Shade smirked. He had the harder job: muddling both the hearing and the eyesight of the two guards who were looking right in their direction.
Shade prepared himself, willing his mind through certain thought exercises designed to improve his focus. He was nearly ready when Zeia grabbed his arm. “Something’s wrong.”
Before Shade could answer, the Olg turned to face them. Both hands came up, each one holding a blade. Instead of shouting a challenge or howling a warning to the other guards, the Olg charged.
“So much for stealth,” Shade muttered. One hand came up, already trailing wytchfire. He unleashed a blast that struck the Olg’s chest with the force of a crossbow bolt. Instead of crashing to the ground, the Olg shuddered, righted himself, and kept charging. Moonlight glimmered off blackened armor.
“Tough bastard,” Shade conceded. He took a step backward and unleashed a second blast. Zeia joined him. Twin streams of wytchfire rammed into the Olg’s chest. Armor rang as though struck by a hammer.
The Olg stopped, as though he had just run headlong into a solid stone wall. Though the Olg still had not screamed, Shade imagined the force of their blows resounding through armor, shattering ribs like glass. He imagined the magical heat of their wytchfire seeping in, transforming the Olg’s armor into an oven and broiling his organs. But still the Olg did not fall.
Armored legs carried it forward in great strides, devouring the final few feet that separated the combatants. Blades glistened. For the first time, Shade noticed that the Olg wore an eerily placid facemask wrought entirely of brass.
Shade shoved Zeia one direction then dove in the other. He bit back a scream as something cold and sharp kissed the back of his thigh. He sent out another blast of wytchfire, striking the Olg’s knee.
The Olg’s leg buckled but did not fold. Then the Olg swung both blades at the same time. One angled for Shade’s face. The other stabbed down toward Zeia’s back with uncanny precision as she rolled away.
Shade leapt backward, drew his sword, and unleashed another torrent of wytchfire. He targeted the blade in the Olg’s other hand, turning it just enough so that it missed Zeia’s back and sank into the earth. Then Shade swung his sword in a hard, fast arc. He meant to drive the Olg’s remaining weapon out of the way and push his sword beneath the Olg’s facemask. However, his sword turned off the Olg’s, unable to force it down.
Shade stepped back again. Hearing shouts, he looked past the Olg and saw men running across the bridge, their swords drawn. He counted six, all Human. Rather than rush to the Olg’s aid, they hung back and watched.
Bad choice, Shade thought. As the Olg swung at Zeia, she backpedaled, both of her hands spouting wytchfire. Shade side-stepped, spotted a dark gap in the Olg’s armor, and thrust his sword into the back of the Olg’s thigh. He pushed hard. “Now we’re even,” he muttered.
The Olg whirled with frightful speed. Unable to free his sword in time, Shade ducked then leapt sideways to avoid another swing. He cursed as his wounded leg gave out. He fell hard but managed to roll away. He brought both hands up, fingers splayed, and poured more wytchfire onto his enemy. “Die, damn you!”
He unleashed more and more flames, driving the Olg back. He maintained the deadly outpour until he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A dull, jarring pain swept through his brain—he was running out of strength. If he kept fighting with magic, he could die of exhaustion.
Shade pressed his hand to his wounded thigh. Wincing, he forced himself onto his feet. The armored Olg was still standing. Somehow, it had died on its feet, Shade’s sword still jammed into the back of one leg. The Olg’s cuirass glowed red hot.
Shade turned to face the rest of the guards. Zeia struck first, unleashing a blast of wytchfire that burned down one and scattered them like leaves. Then, glancing at Shade, she took notice of his wound. She started toward him. As she passed the Olg, one of the Olg’s blades flew up. Zeia screamed. As she fell, she blasted the Olg one last time. The Olg’s cuirass flared even brighter. Still, the Olg stepped forward and thrust a second blade next to the first.
For a moment, Shade could only stare. With frightful nonchalance, the Olg dragged both blades free, turned, and faced him. Moonlight shown off its grinning brass facemask. Dark, unblinking eyes regarded him in silence.
Zeia lifted her head. Blood ran from her lips. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Not an Olg…”
Shade nodded dumbly. His opponent charged, its blades dripping Zeia’s blood into the dark grass. With no time to dive clear and shaking with exhaustion, Shade lifted both his hands. Wytchfire exploded from his fingertips, splashed over the brass facemask, and clawed at the eye holes.
The armored figure jerked then pitched forward. Shade pressed his hands against it, but its weight bore him down. He feared he would be crushed, but both blades stuck in the earth, one on each side of him, propping it up. Wincing, Shade crawled free.
“Not an Olg,” he repeated. He crawled toward Zeia. She had managed to roll onto her side, both hands pressed just beneath her ribcage, but she could not sit up. Shade got behind her and positioned her head on his lap. He looked up.
Sellswords watched them from a distance. More had crossed the bridge. At least twenty milled near the watchtower. Brahasti was among them, a wolfish grin on his face.
Shade stared back. Forcing a defiant smile, he motioned for Brahasti to come closer. The general laughed. He said something that Shade could not hear. The sellswords laughed, too. Then Shade spotted two more huge figures crossing the bridge, their armor gleaming coldly. They took up position in front of
Brahasti and the others. Some of the sellswords produced crossbows and loaded them but kept the armored figures between the Shel’ai and themselves.
Derision turned to panic. “Two more… Zeia, I can’t…” Shade shook her. “Can you stand? We have to run.”
Zeia did not answer.
Shade looked down at her. He blinked then gently lowered her head onto the ground. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the cold earth and tried to stand. He’d risen only halfway before he fell back down. He glanced up. The gleaming steel was almost on top of him. Shade clenched his eyes shut then opened them. With the last of his fading strength, he pushed himself to his feet and faced his attackers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Out of the Water, Out of the Dark
Bokuden watched as sunrise gilded the grove of dogwood trees south of Saikaido Temple, burning away the mist known for centuries as the Dragon’s Veil. He imagined the clearing where he’d faced off against his fellow squires so many years ago, sparring with wooden swords. He thought of the salmon pond where he used to sit as a boy, reading and rereading the ancient legends of Fâyu Jinn when he should have been studying the ponderous dogma of the Codex Viticus. He turned his attention back to the temple, scrutinizing the one thousand clean, white steps carved painstakingly into the bluff. He smiled faintly, remembering those mornings as a squire when he’d lamented those thousand steps and the Shao masters who’d made him climb them.
I can’t climb them so well anymore, either. One wrinkled hand touched the hilt of his adamune then slid down to the scabbard, touching the long row of notches representing the men he’d slain in battle. But I’m not dead yet.
The Grand Marshal turned his gaze westward, out beyond the island, to the blue waters of the Burnished Way. Cranes and seagulls cavorted in the morning mist. There was no sign of the Jolym yet. But he knew they were coming.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 16
