Karhaati hoped this bloody act would drive a wedge into the alliance. He’d hoped that, at the very least, it would compel Arnil Royce and his Lancers to return to Ivairia in order to safeguard their homeland. It had created the opposite effect. More and more Lancers had ridden south. Karhaati estimated that, in addition to Saanji’s four thousand renegades, Arnil Royce had close to a thousand Lancers and twice as many footmen.
But that won’t save him if I take my entire army into Ivairia. Karhaati wondered if he should. That would mean postponing his attack on Lyos and braving the even harsher winters of the north, but there would be benefits, too. The island nation of Sorocco was rich and easily accessible from Ivairia’s coast. Karhaati had no navy, but once Saanji and the Lancers were dealt with, come spring, he could build one.
Or else Karhaati could abandon the north entirely and march south, for Atheion. The City-on-the-Sea was a tempting target, too. Ziraari had been poised to invade it before; now that he was gone and his army had joined Karhaati’s, sacking wealthy Atheion made sense.
Karhaati cursed. Power and plunder, he understood. But when it came to complicated military campaigns, with all their convoluted tactical elements, one direction seemed as good to him as another. Maybe I’ll leave it up to Brahasti… provided I don’t have to have him impaled for violating orders.
Karhaati’s bloodmare reared up so suddenly that he nearly fell from the saddle. He tugged at the reins and raked the beast’s flanks with his spurs. He managed to regain control of his war horse, but then a commotion drew his attention. He glanced over his shoulder to find his bodyguards—all mounted—in a similar predicament. Some had already been thrown from their saddles and lay on the ground, struggling to rise. One had even been trampled to death by his own horse.
By the Dead God, what’s happening?
Though his bodyguards’ destriers were accustomed to the smells of blood, rot, and filth that perfumed the Field of Shame, they might still have been spooked by the smell of a wolf or the sight of a snake. Not so for Karhaati’s bloodmare, though. That unnerved him. He looked about, scanning the ghastly forest of dead men for a threat. A moment later, he found it.
A column of footmen approached from the south. Sun glinted off full armor, but Karhaati saw no banners. Karhaati frowned. He withdrew a Soroccan spyglass from his saddlebag. His frown deepened when he lowered the spyglass a moment later. He snapped his fingers. The captain of his bodyguards rode forward. The man had been thrown from his horse and had just climbed back into the saddle despite blood running from his forehead.
“I see a hundred fools where they aren’t supposed to be.”
“Yes, my prince. Shall we get you inside and call the archers?”
Karhaati resisted the urge to strike the man. “I want three hundred cavalrymen outside the city gates, on the double. I’ll lead the charges myself. Meanwhile, have the watch captain send fifty chariots to cut off the trespassers’ escape.”
The bodyguard saluted and rode away at once.
Karhaati scrutinized the distant column of footmen. It writhed across the plains like a metallic serpent, seemingly unhindered by the snow. Though he could not fathom what a hundred heavily armored men were doing on foot, let alone where they’d come from, it made no difference. They were on his lands.
Karhaati rode down to the gates to await his men. Dimly, he realized that his orders—which the captain of his bodyguards had not questioned—were a mistake. The snows would definitely slow his cavalry, but they would do worse to the chariots. The wheels would get stuck almost as soon as they were outside the gates. His charioteers would be lucky to make it onto the battlefield in time to witness the fighting, let alone cut off the trespassers’ escape.
The Bloody Prince considered amending his orders, then decided against it. He could not appear flawed before a Dhargothi host. That would only embolden all his would-be assassins. Better he claim that he’d given the order to test the charioteers’ loyalty or to amuse himself as he watched them struggle in the snow.
Karhaati drew his sword and fixed his gaze on the steely serpent glinting in the distance. One hand idly touched the ears hung around his neck. He wondered how many he would add before the end of the day. Grinning, he savored the familiar, reliable heft of his sword and braced for battle.
Jalist tugged at his hood, wishing he’d been able to leave Lyos a day or two later. A fierce chill had set in almost as soon as they passed through the gates and rode onto the Simurgh Plains. Jalist’s lungs burned, and the skin on his face felt as taut as a wind-blown flag. But delaying his departure had not been an option. The king of Lyos was adamant that Jalist set out at once on his fool’s errand to find Silwren, and his so-called bodyguards seemed more concerned with getting him out of the city than with actually protecting him.
Jalist glanced over his shoulder at Vardan and Braggo. They rode just behind him, stone quiet, their faces wrapped against the cold. Over chainmail surcoats and the scarlet tabards of the Red Watch, the men wore heavy cloaks that covered their weapons: matching crossbows and longswords, which they carried with the ease of men who knew how to use them. They’d hardly spoken since leaving Lyos, offering not so much as a curse when the winter wind clawed at the four riders. But Jalist did not mind the quiet.
Though Braggo was tall and lean, obviously a full-blooded Human, Vardan looked to have some Dwarrish blood somewhere in his ancestry. He was shorter and stockier, with arms almost as thickly muscled as Jalist’s. His eyes were so brown that they were almost black, and his skin had a faint gray tinge. Both men were middle-aged. Jalist was surprised that the king had sent two of his last surviving veterans to shepherd him on his way, but he reminded himself that if the Jolym or a Dragonkin—or both—returned to attack Lyos, a couple of extra swords would make no difference.
Jalist glanced down at his new tabard, faded scarlet and patched in places. Its sigil was still unmistakable—the falcon of Lyos. What would Rowen say if he saw me like this?
Turning westward again, he surveyed the snowy, rolling hills that dominated the horizon. Maelmohr’s cock, how am I supposed to find Silwren in all this? Distant wisps of smoke, too big to come from villages, told him that the Dhargots were already everywhere.
He looked over his shoulder again, glancing past the two men of the Red Watch, to where Igrid brought up the rear. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing. She was certainly dressed for the part. Before leaving Lyos, the Iron Sister had exchanged wispy gowns for a brigandine, matching greaves, tassets, and vambraces, a helmet with a noseguard, a pair of shortswords, and most surprising of all, a Queshi composite bow.
Jalist concealed a smile. As a sellsword, he was familiar with Queshi bows. Explosively powerful, their elegant, curving design was ideal for firing on horseback. But they were made of laminated wood and bone in a process that took an entire year to complete. A good Queshi bow cost as much as a war horse. Jalist wondered if Igrid had stolen the composite bow from the armory or taken it off a wall in the palace one afternoon when no one was looking.
The Dwarr rubbed his temple. “Gods, I need a drink!”
“I think you’ve drunk enough lately, Dwarr.”
Jalist turned to scowl at Igrid, concealing his surprise that she’d managed to ride up beside him without him noticing. “Not by half, Iron Sister. These days, I don’t drink, my hands shake. That’s dangerous when you’re swinging a big damn axe.”
Igrid scowled back at him, even as the cold winds died down a little. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
Jalist shrugged. “I’ll stop calling you Iron Sister when you stop calling me Dwarr.”
“I wasn’t born an Iron Sister, you dunce. Gods, I was only in Hesod for a year.”
Jalist did not miss the spark of grief and anger in her voice. He wondered if she was remembering how that year had ended: with the brutal siege
of Hesod, which had culminated in the killing or brutalizing of nearly all her fellow swordswomen. Igrid had escaped that by disguising herself as a priestess and running south, into the valley of Nosh, where she’d chanced upon Rowen, Jalist, and Silwren.
I’m not sure this one’s ever stopped running. He felt a pang of sympathy for Igrid, even as he made sure his coin purse was tucked well out of her reach. “How’s your skull?”
“Thick as ever,” Igrid answered with a smirk that instantly reminded Jalist of Rowen. “Sore, I guess, but nearly mended. Those Lyosi clerics can work wonders if you pay them enough.”
“I won’t ask where you found the coin for that.” Jalist chuckled. “So tell me about that Ivairian captain of yours.”
Igrid shifted uncomfortably, obviously caught off guard. “What about him?”
“You said you met him south of here, near the Red Steppes. That must have put you close to Stillhammer.”
“I never saw your homeland, if that’s what you mean.”
“I never said you did.” Jalist gestured with his thumb back to Vardan. “That one says there’s rumors of a Lancer lord riding around in the snow with no more sense than we have, nipping the Dhargots wherever he can. Just wondered if it’s the same man.”
Igrid just said, “Probably.”
“You think the Lancers will form some kind of alliance with Lyos?”
Igrid shrugged. “Royce might. But from what I hear, the Ivairian king is even more of a simpering idiot than you are.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
The winds quickened, and the snowfall intensified. Near sunset, Jalist was relieved beyond words when he spotted a village in the distance. He slowed his horse, reminding himself that caution was called for, but he saw no sign of Dhargothi occupation. “Surprised they left this place standing.”
Braggo rode ahead to find an inn while the others lingered at the edge of the village. The tall man returned soon enough and informed them that the inn was deserted. Apparently, all the villagers had fled. But shelter was shelter, so Jalist declared that they would spend the night in the inn.
“I’ll check the larders for food.” He glanced at Igrid. “If you’d like to search the town for valuables, feel free.”
Igrid answered with a withering look before following him into the inn. Braggo and Vardan led the horses toward the adjacent stables, loosening their swords as they went, just in case the village turned out to be less abandoned than it seemed. Jalist realized that now would be a good time to flee, but he did not relish the idea of navigating through snow and darkness on foot.
The squat inn, with its dirt-floor common room, three adjoining rooms, and a small kitchen, looked to have been picked clean before the villagers fled. Jalist and Igrid quietly split up and searched, but found nothing but broken chairs, a child’s ragdoll, and a cast-iron pot that must have been too heavy to carry.
Jalist lamented the lack of wine but shrugged. “Dry rations, it is. At least the walls will keep the winds out.”
“At this point, I’d settle for a slab of charred urusk meat and a bowl of paupers’ root.”
Jalist spotted a small pile of dried wood and set about starting a fire in the hearth. Twilight had darkened the inn, but soon, a fire drove back the shadows.
“A far cry from Lyos,” Igrid muttered, watching a fat spider wriggle along the bare, dusty bar. She took a sip from her waterskin and looked around. “Gods, whoever heard of an inn without music? Empty towns make my skin crawl.”
Jalist had sat down on one of the few surviving chairs, but he leaned forward on his long axe. “Saw plenty like this in Stillhammer.” He looked away from her and pretended to study the fire.
“Did you… know anyone there?”
“Of course.”
“Did anyone get away?”
Gods, is she trying to make conversation now? Jalist gripped his axe. “Don’t know. Didn’t see another living soul the whole time I was there, unless you count the Jolym.”
“Not really.” Igrid walked over and passed him the waterskin. “Somebody must have made it out. Even the Jolym couldn’t wipe out an entire kingdom. Gods, there must have been ten thousand Dwarr there!”
“Ten thousand in Tarator alone.”
Igrid whistled. “You said the whole Jolym force was only about—what? A hundred? No matter how tough they are, there’s no way—”
“Probably had a lot more than a hundred, starting out.” Jalist jabbed the fire with the shaft of his long axe. “I didn’t see any dead Jolym, but they could have hid them. Can’t believe my people wouldn’t have made an account of themselves.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t.”
Jalist scowled at her then shrugged. “If anybody got away, they didn’t go north, or we’d have seen them.”
“South, then?”
“Dendain is south. I doubt they’d run into the damn desert.”
“I meant west of there, into Quesh.”
“Where the Queshi would probably riddle them with arrows for trespassing.” Jalist started to lift the waterskin then changed his mind and passed it back. “When this war’s over, maybe I’ll go look for them.”
Igrid answered with a crooked smile. “You don’t really think either of us will survive this war, do you?”
Before Jalist could answer, the inn door opened. Vardan and Braggo returned, uncomplaining, despite their pale skin and the snow in their hair and beards. Jalist waved them toward the fire. “See anything out there?”
Vardan shook his head.
Braggo said, “A couple stray dogs. Poor things looked hungry.” He pulled off his gloves and held his hands over the fire. “Might take them some food once I’ve thawed out a bit.”
“No point in that,” Vardan snapped. “They don’t learn to fend for themselves, they’ll be dead inside a month, anyway.”
Braggo glared at him but said nothing.
“We’ll leave at first light,” Jalist said. He pointed. “That room has two beds… well, two pallets of straw. But it’s all yours.”
Vardan cracked his neck then flexed and unflexed his fingers over the fire. “I’ll sleep out here on the floor so I can watch the door.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Jalist said. “We can bar the door. Get some rest.”
Vardan looked angry then smiled. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I’ll sleep better if I know my ears aren’t going to end up tied around a Dhargot’s neck.”
“Same here,” Braggo said. He nibbled a slab of dried, heavily peppered meat then accepted Igrid’s waterskin with a gruff nod of thanks. When he was finished with it, he passed it to Vardan.
Vardan drank, then asked, “Do we keep straight west or veer south? Nosh might be safer.”
“But out of the way,” Braggo countered.
“And we didn’t exactly leave Nosh on friendly terms last time we were there.” Jalist cast a sidelong glance at Igrid. “We need to find Silwren fast. The quickest way to the Wytchforest is straight west, past Hesod.”
Igrid tensed at the mention of her former home, but Braggo was already protesting. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but the Dhargots are bound to spot us.”
“They’ll see us, but they won’t stop us. We’re going to run into the Dhargots sooner or later, so we might as well do it now.”
Igrid cocked her head. “Just what in the fey hells are you talking about, Dwarr?”
“Uniforms,” Jalist answered. “We find some Dhargots… officers, preferably… and take their uniforms. We pretend we’re escorting a prisoner back to Dhargoth.” He gave Igrid a pointed look.
Igrid’s green eyes flashed with rage. “No.”
Braggo and Vardan exchanged looks. “Might work,” Braggo mused.
“Or they might think we’
re deserters and shove our asses down on sharpened stakes,” Vardan growled. “I’d rather join a dragon cult.”
“Whoever heard of deserters escorting a prisoner?” Jalist countered. “Besides, I can write. I’ll scribble some orders from a general giving us safe passage back to Dhargoth. If we are challenged, that’ll take care of it.”
“Like hells it will!” Igrid backed away, touching her sword. “Look in a mirror, Dwarr. You look about as Dhargothi as I do.”
“True. But Dhargots hire sellswords sometimes.” I should know. I’ve worked for them before. He glanced at Vardan and Braggo. “As for these two, paint their eyes and dress them in black scale armor, and nobody will be the wiser.”
But Igrid was already shaking her head. “I told you, no. Go stand in the fire, Dwarr. I won’t go along with this.”
“We’d need ears,” Braggo mused. “Enough for a few necklaces.”
Jalist smirked. “Well, if we’re bothering Dhargots for uniforms, we might as well take their ears, too.”
“Perfect,” Vardan grunted. “Now, we just need to find a squad of Dhargots small and dumb enough that the four of us can kill them without dying in the process.”
Braggo looked doubtful. “Captain, maybe Nosh is a better idea. If the Noshans come after us, we can press the horses and outrun them.”
Jalist thought about the Lochurite berserkers they’d fought while passing through the valley. A bizarre clan of barbarians that roamed Nosh, the Lochurites—men, women, even children—imbibed mysterious drugs that gave them great strength and ferocity but also drove them mad. He had no desire to encounter them again.
But heading to the Wytchforest by way of Nosh would take us by Quesh… Jalist thought of Leander—maybe he could still find Dwarrish refugees in the south. With great effort, he pushed the thought from his mind.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 23
