“If he’s even still alive, you mean.”
“He is.”
“Is that a premonition or a frantic wish?”
Jalist laid down his long axe and rummaged through his pack for a loaf of hard bread. He offered it to Igrid.
She shook her head. “Even if Locke put an army together, what makes you think he’d be any good leading it? He’s no general.”
“And I’m no captain.” Jalist nodded toward the gaping hole where the temple’s gates had been. “Might want to hide those swords.”
Igrid turned, following his gesture, toward a little girl peeking into the temple. The child ducked out of sight when Igrid turned, then she looked again a moment later. Jalist clicked his tongue, drawing Vardan’s attention.
Igrid said, “Leave her alone.”
“So she can tell all the other orphans that we’re here and one of them can tell the Dhargots in exchange for not getting their hands chopped off?” Jalist nodded to Vardan, who stood and started toward the temple entrance.
Igrid drew her shortswords. “I said, leave her alone.”
Vardan paused and frowned at her. “The captain’s right. I’m not going to hurt her, but—”
Igrid flipped one of her shortswords, caught it by the blade, and threw it. Jalist shouted a warning, but it was too late. Before Vardan could duck, the pommel of Igrid’s shortsword struck him in the nose. The soldier cursed and stumbled, waving his drawn longsword in front of him.
Igrid plucked the bread from Jalist’s hand. Before he could stop her, she leapt over the fire, danced around Vardan’s blade, and swung her other shortsword. The flat of her blade caught Vardan at the back of his knees, sweeping his legs out from under him. Vardan dropped his longsword, and Igrid kicked it away.
Jalist ran to separate them, but Igrid was already heading for the temple entrance, shouting for the little girl to wait. To Jalist’s surprise, the little girl obeyed. She stopped in the temple entrance, staring at Igrid with wide eyes. One small hand held a ragdoll while her other hand petted the place where the doll’s head had been.
Jalist helped Vardan back onto his feet. The man, muttering a vile string of curses, retrieved his longsword and started toward Igrid, blood streaming from his nose. Jalist restrained him.
At the entrance to the temple, Igrid sheathed her shortsword and dropped to one knee. She called to the little girl again. The little girl’s lips moved, though Jalist could not hear her. Igrid offered her the bread. The little girl approached cautiously and took it. She backed up a little but did not run. The two spoke a moment longer, then the girl turned and ran away.
Vardan started to follow, but Jalist stopped him again. “Unless you’re going to kill the poor child, the damage is done.” Jalist scowled at Igrid, who rejoined them. “You realize letting her go was just as stupid as what you did to Vardan, right?”
Igrid stooped, retrieved her other shortsword, and sheathed it. She looked at the ground. Finally, she said, “The little girl said the orphans are hiding in the sewers. There are clerics with them. She asked if I was an Iron Sister.”
Jalist grimaced. “Tell me you didn’t tell the truth for once.”
“She says there are still Iron Sisters here.”
Vardan stopped cursing. Even Jalist was speechless.
“She says they’re being kept prisoner beneath the palace,” Igrid continued. “Hundreds of them.”
Jalist found his voice. “Lies. She wanted the bread, so she told you what you wanted to hear.”
“I don’t think so.” Igrid’s voice trembled. “She says it’s a secret. That bastard, Ziraari, was supposed to have them all killed, but he kept some alive for sport. One of his men took charge of them after he died. This new prince must have them now.”
Vardan wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “How would she know that?”
“The sewers run under the palace. She said she’s heard them screaming.”
“You’re talking about a palace full of Dhargots,” Jalist countered. “That could be anyone screaming. Just because you want to—”
Igrid returned to the ruined fountain, rummaged through the debris, and retrieved her original clothes and armor. Without hesitation or modesty, she cast off the tattered clothing of a slave and started dressing herself. Vardan blushed at her nudity, but Jalist cursed and grabbed her arm.
“Enough! Even if she’s right, there’s not a damn thing the three of us—”
Igrid twisted free and gave Jalist a shove. “Touch me again, and you’ll lose that hand.” She pulled on a tight undertunic and trousers then started strapping on her armor. Despite the difficulty of working the buckles by herself, her hands blurred.
Jalist said, “Even if those women are here… and gods know I’m sorry if they are… I can’t do anything about this. I have to find Locke. I can’t risk my neck on this.”
“Then don’t.” Igrid finished with her vambraces then strapped tassets to her thighs and greaves to her ankles, over her boots. Lastly, she tugged her brigandine over her head. She picked up her helmet with its noseguard, stared at it a moment, then changed her mind and dropped it back into the fountain.
“You can keep the Queshi bow,” she said to Jalist. “Won’t be much use where I’m going.”
Jalist gritted his teeth. “Dammit, woman, think for a second! Stay with us. Once we find Locke and Silwren—”
“And how many of my sisters will be left by then?”
“As many as will be left after you get yourself killed. Have you forgotten that you’re in a city full of Dhargots? The moment you walk out of here dressed like that, half the city will know about it.”
Igrid paused. Then she threw Jalist’s cloak over her shoulders and fixed the clasp at her throat. “Better?”
Despite himself, Jalist almost smiled.
“Listen to him, woman,” Vardan grumbled. “I don’t care if you fight like Zet himself. You’ll never make it into the palace.”
“I’m not going into the palace. I’m going under it.” Igrid gathered her long red hair, started to tie it behind her head, then stopped. She drew a knife, tugged her braid over her shoulder, and sawed it off. She glanced at the hair, slightly surprised, as though she had not realized what she was doing, then she shrugged and let it fall. Pulling up the hood of her cloak to cover the rest, she took a step.
Jalist blocked her path. “All this based on the word of one hungry child you don’t even know? Listen, before we left Lyos, you told me you wanted to be rich by the time this war was over. See this through, and you will be. But not if you do this.”
Igrid was quiet for a time. Then she turned to Vardan, eyeing the drawn longsword in his hand. “I’m doing this, Lyosi. If you want to fight over it, step forward. I’m ready to die if you are.” She rested both hands on her sword hilts.
Vardan frowned at her. He glanced at Jalist then back at Igrid. His frown became a smile. He sheathed his longsword. “Luck, Iron Sister. Gods know you’ll need it.” He plucked a knife from his boot and passed it to her, hilt first. Igrid accepted it with a terse nod and slid it into her belt. Then she turned back to Jalist.
“Tell Locke…” Biting her lip, she trailed off.
“Listen,” Jalist tried one last time. “Just wait a moment, damn you. I’m telling you I need your help. Locke needs your help. If you’ll just—”
A shrill horn blast echoed through the winter air. Unlike the trumpet blasts that had accompanied Prince Karhaati’s procession, the blast sounded far away, well beyond the city walls. A second blast accompanied the first, then another, then another.
“That’s a Dhargot horn,” Jalist realized. “Someone’s calling for help.”
“There’s no army around to threaten them,” Igrid said.
Jalist caught her meaning. He looked at Vard
an. “Find Braggo. Bring him back here.”
Vardan leapt into motion, sprinting toward the temple entrance.
Jalist tried to summon the right words to convince Igrid to stay. She faced him, resolute, smiling faintly. Finally, Jalist sighed. He stepped forward and embraced her. Igrid tensed then hugged him back.
“Go help him,” Igrid said as they parted. “And… tell him I’m sorry.”
Jalist hesitated, then reached into the fountain and snatched up Igrid’s bow, along with a quiver of arrows. He gave her one final look then hefted his long axe and strode out of the temple without looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the Sewers, in the Dark
Jalist ran to the stables, where a squad of Dhargots was already saddling their horses, speculating in fearful whispers what they would find beyond the walls, but Jalist was faster. He pressed all the coins he had left into a stableboy’s hands, ordering him to saddle Vardan’s horse while he saddled his own, then Braggo’s. He considered waiting then changed his mind. He told the stableboy to wait with the other horses then mounted his own. The Dhargots were still fussing with their saddles and trying to strap armor to their horses when Jalist rode out.
He’d hoped to be the first one out through the gates, but his stomach sank when he saw a second squad of Dhargothi spearmen already marching ahead of him in tight formation. A young officer led them on horseback. He spotted Jalist and shouted, probably demanding to know what Jalist was doing on his own, but Jalist spurred his horse and drove on ahead of him.
Beyond the city walls, the snows deepened despite a rough trail leading away from the gates. Jalist shivered, cursing Igrid for taking his cloak—even though it might very well save her life. He tried to urge his horse into a gallop, but the beast labored to carry him. Jalist glanced over his shoulder, glad that he’d at least outdistanced the Dhargothi footmen. He made it down one hill, then his horse became mired in the snows at the base of another. He dismounted and pulled his horse through the drifts, up the next hill one laborious step at a time. Shouts and screams drove him on. Then, sweating and exhausted, he paused at the top of the hill and looked westward.
At the base of yet another hill in the distance, a squad of Dhargothi cavalry was doing its best to outrun a rampaging band of Olgrym. Most were driving their horses as fast as they could through the snow, but some had either been thrown off their horses or been forced to stop and fight. Another Dhargot rode ahead of the rest, frantically blowing his horn and looking behind him at every step.
The charging mass of Olgrym howled, shaking Jalist down to his bones. He thought back to the Olgish charge he’d witnessed at Que’ahl, when one Olg after another had doused itself in pitch, lit its own body on fire, then hurled itself at the Sylvan fort. Jalist shuddered. He considered running. Then he saw a bright glint in the distance, accompanied by a wild slash of azure.
“Gods…”
He stared a moment, torn with indecision, then spurred his horse down the hill. He fumbled with his bow, trying to fit an arrow to the string. He’d just done so when the land in front of him blossomed into a scalding wash of violet fire.
Igrid considered trying to make her way through the city by sticking to shadows and alleys and entering the sewers closer to the palace, but she quickly changed her mind. Thanks to the arrival of the Bloody Prince’s army, the streets roiled with armed men. Some rushed toward the western gates to see what was happening, but most still prowled the streets of Hesod, looking for trouble. Some of the Dhargots fought each other, but most simply tormented the Hesodi.
Igrid saw laughing Dhargots pelting a street vendor with melons from his cart. They didn’t even seem to notice that the old man had stopped moving. A block later, she passed an old woman being stripped naked and hung from a defaced statue of the Iron Sisters. Igrid’s face burned. She gripped the hilts of her swords but forced herself to lower her head and keep moving.
Shortly after, she saw a young woman—probably one of the last young women left in the city—being dragged into an alley by two Dhargots. Igrid started to pass them then changed her mind. She followed them into the alley, quietly drawing her shortswords. The first sliced through a Dhargot’s neck. The second caught the other man in the throat as he turned, wide eyed.
Igrid freed her blades, turned, and saw a third Dhargot watching her from the street. She cursed. She made ready to throw her blade, but the Dhargot ran, shouting. She grabbed the young woman’s arm and pulled her to her feet. The young woman’s expression was dull and hopeless. She was not even crying. Igrid wondered how many times this had already happened. She shook her.
“I need to get into the sewers. The closest way. Show me.”
The young woman blinked. She looked at Igrid then at the slain Dhargots, as though seeing them for the first time. She nodded. She led Igrid down the alley, up a deserted street, then down a second alley. Igrid heard shouting and the sound of boots stomping the flagstones behind her. She told the woman to hurry.
As they emerged from the second alley, they nearly collided with an elderly couple fleeing a single drunken Dhargot waving a drawn sword with one hand and a bottle with the other. Igrid sidestepped the couple, sank to one knee, and cut one of the Dhargot’s legs out from under him. The couple kept running, but the young woman waited. The Dhargot howled. Igrid hoped their pursuers might stop long enough to help him.
The young woman led her down yet another alley then pointed at a cistern. She blinked at Igrid then ran. Igrid glanced over one shoulder. Either she’d lost her pursuers, or they’d chosen an easier target. After sheathing one of her blades, she used the other to pry up the cistern’s heavy cover. An indescribable stench rolled out. She nearly dropped the lid but forced herself to look down. Wet, rough-hewn steps descended into darkness. Pinching her nose, Igrid lowered herself into the darkness, stopping halfway to drag the heavy lid over the hole.
Igrid closed her eyes, squelching her rising sense of panic. She took a moment to gather her senses, noting the cold water soaking into her boots. She took several shallow breaths through her mouth. Then, when she could manage it, she forced herself to breathe in through her nose. Somehow, she did not retch. She forced herself to take several more breaths until she reasoned she was as used to it as she was likely to become. Then she moved sideways until the ground sloped slightly upward, out of the water and filth. She found a wall and followed it.
The sounds of murder and chaos from the streets above barely reached her. For a time, she heard nothing but the trickling of water and the dreadful skittering of rat claws. Then she heard footsteps running through the water. Igrid hurried toward the sound, gripping her sword in the dark. Then she slipped. She managed to keep her face from falling into the foul water, but the stench filled her nostrils, striking her as though for the first time. Worse, she lost her sword.
She groped for it in the foul water, cursing, but it was gone. Finally, drawing her second shortsword, she started forward again. She headed in the direction of the footsteps. She heard them again. Fearful whispers accompanied the footsteps.
“Don’t run,” Igrid spoke into the darkness. “I won’t hurt you. I’m an Iron Sister. My name’s Igrid.”
No one answered. She wondered if the children were holding their breath. Smart, she thought. She called out again. This time, the children ran. Igrid followed. A slant of light through a grate in the ceiling revealed two little boys and a girl, all dressed in rags, holding hands as they ran.
Igrid let them get well ahead of her. Sheathing her sword, she followed cautiously, careful not to slip. She passed beneath another grate. Waning sunlight from the city above revealed a badly decomposing corpse lying facedown in the muck. Igrid edged around it and kept going.
Ahead of her, the sewers branched off in two directions. Igrid figured the left tunnel was more likely to lead toward the palace, but she heard whispers
coming from the right. She chose the right. Another grate illuminated what looked like a dead dog crawling with rats. Igrid drew her sword and hacked at one that came too close. She pressed herself against the cold wall and edged around the rest.
The sewers branched off again, though garbage almost completely blocked the left tunnel. Picking her way around a broken cart and a pile of what looked like broken furniture, she headed down the left tunnel. She heard voices. Ahead, the tunnel widened. Torchlight shone off wet stone. Igrid sheathed her sword and held up her hands. She approached slowly.
Three clerics, all old men, appeared before her. The filth caked to their robes made it impossible to tell which deity they served, but all held weapons. One also held a torch. A second torch blazed in a bracket on the wall. Beyond them, a throng of dirty children huddled behind two priestesses—one young, one old—in equally filthy robes. Like the men, both were armed.
“I’m not a Dhargot.” Igrid lowered her hood. “I’m an Iron Sister. My name—”
“We heard you earlier,” one of the old men said. “There aren’t any more Iron Sisters.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
The old men exchanged looks. The young woman stepped forward. “There aren’t any more running free, he means.”
Igrid gave them a crooked smile in the torchlight. “I’m hoping to change that.”
“Then you’re an army short,” another of the old men said. He stepped ahead of the others. “Are you the one who gave Thessa the apple?”
“Bread,” Igrid corrected. “Easy, priest. I’m no spy.”
“Who knows what the Dhargots would do?” the old woman objected. “Protect the children. Kill her to be safe.”
The children watched with wide, dark eyes. Igrid noted that many of them had armed themselves with rocks or shards of pottery. A moment later, she spotted the little girl she’d met earlier, though the child looked decidedly less friendly now. Igrid faced the old priest she took to be the leader. “Do I look like I’m in league with the Dhargots? I already killed two of the bastards getting down here—” She stopped herself, realizing her mistake, but it was too late.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 28
