Rowen wanted to shake his head. Instead, he nodded.
“That’s good. It’s not every day that you’re approached by a god.” He took a step closer. “You should not have sent those messages. It was not your place to speak of me before I chose to reveal myself.”
Rowen’s knees buckled. He couldn’t tell whether it was the product of his own fear or if the dark priest was doing something to him, but suddenly, he wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to grovel. He wanted to worship the dark, terrible man, whom he had never before seen but recognized.
“I won’t ask you to talk,” the dark priest said. “Just listen.” He made a sweeping gesture then folded his pale hands back into his cloak. “This world is mine. I took it from Nekiel. I took it from Nâya and Fâyu Jinn. I took it from the gods. And if I cannot have it, I will burn it to cinders before I let it fall to your kind.”
Rowen’s legs shook, worse than before. The dark priest’s voice echoed through him like the beating of a war drum. He wanted to shut his eyes and plug his ears, but he could not move his arms.
“This is the world of your mind, your dreams. I cannot lie to you here. So instead, I will tell you the truth.” He drifted closer to Rowen, though he did not seem to move, as though the earth itself had recoiled to let him advance. He seized Rowen’s face, burning him. Rowen could not break free. He opened his mouth but could not scream, either.
Chorlga said, “Nekiel left me here for a purpose. He told me to dismantle the Dragonward from the inside. So I learned how. For eleven centuries, I’ve drunk freely from Namundvar’s Well. I’ve made myself stronger than Nekiel ever was.”
He let go, shoving Rowen backward.
“The Shel’ai went mad from a single sip. I’ve drunk oceans. So this is my vow to you, Human: surrender Knightswrath, or I will tear down the Dragonward. I will let Nekiel and his kind back into Ruun. I will cloak every kingdom on this continent in a night so dark, it will never know dawn.”
Behind Chorlga, his shadow grew. Wings blossomed from its sides, spreading across the ice. The sun plummeted from the sky like a burning stone. Chorlga laughed. Rowen fell into darkness.
Shade stood on a snowy hill and watched the last of his people file out of the tiny fortress of Coldhaven. Winter winds clawed at his cloak and raked his skin. He winced, though not from the cold. Once again, they were abandoning their home. Coldhaven had never been much—just a wretched little collection of huts enclosed in a low wall of ice and stones, tucked between hills on the Wintersea. Fadarah had not even intended it to be permanent. But some of the children had lived there for most of their lives. Now, they were experiencing for the first time a pain that Shade and the others knew all too well: the bitter sting of being driven from home.
They had abandoned countless temporary sanctuaries from Stillhammer to Ivairia, fleeing armies and mobs, burying their dead along the way. But this was different. This would be the last time.
Shade clenched his fists. Thin, angry tendrils of wytchfire steamed between his fingers. How many times had they said that before, vowing that this would be their final retreat? But they had no choice. They had already stayed in Coldhaven too long. Even if Chorlga did not already know about Coldhaven, it was only a matter of time before trappers or fishermen discovered it. Word would reach the nearest kingdoms. Some king or superstitious, influential cleric would blame the Shel’ai for the next plague to infect his lands and send more swords than their wytchfire could repel.
El’rash’lin is right. We’ve lost the war. Our only chance is to leave Ruun entirely.
But that would not be easy. Most of their strongest and bravest had already died. All that remained were ten children, some barely old enough to walk, and half as many old men and women. There had been no sign of the Shel’ai that Shade had left behind in Ziraari’s camp. Either they had been killed, or they had chosen to strike out on their own.
Of course, we have the Sylvs.
Shade almost laughed at the thought. The Sylvan women they’d rescued from Brahasti’s compound had reluctantly decided to accompany them, knowing that the fact that they were all pregnant with Shel’ai babies meant they’d never be welcomed back into Sylvos anyway. They walked beside Shel’ai in the column, shaking in their cloaks, for they had no magic to immunize them against the cold. El’rash’lin and Zeia grimly led the procession.
The two had hardly left each other’s sides since their flight from Brahasti’s compound. Often, they spoke in low whispers. In the evenings, while the others slept, El’rash’lin helped Zeia practice her magic. Despite her ghastly injuries, she suffered in silence, following El’rash’lin like a dutiful student—a student with no hands.
Shade marveled at the cruelty and injustice of it all. Not only had El’rash’lin refused to use his Dragonkin magic to restore what Brahasti’s men had so painfully taken from her; somehow, Zeia seemed to have completely accepted his decision and abided by it without reproach. Shade’s attempts to mock El’rash’lin had been met with silence. Indeed, Zeia had hardly spoken with Shade at all. At Coldhaven, she’d preferred to spend her solitary hours in meditation, the scarred, puckered stumps of her wrists resting pitifully on her lap.
And now, she was leaving.
El’rash’lin and Shade would conduct the Shel’ai and the Sylvan refugees across the frozen Wintersea, toward Sorocco. Zeia would head south on her own. She would find Rowen Locke and offer him her services and her protection.
Shade’s bitter laugh dissipated in the cold wind. What use would Zeia be? A lone Shel’ai could do little against a Dragonkin like Chorlga, but without her hands, Zeia could do even less. She probably would not even make it off the Wintersea alive. But Shade had given up trying to talk her out of it. He’d tried for hours at Coldhaven, and she’d ignored him, continuing her meditation with just the faintest smirk.
“If she wants to die, I won’t stop her.” Shade started down the hill toward the ragged procession.
El’rash’lin and Zeia had drawn to one side, urging the column to continue on. Both faced Shade. El’rash’lin leaned on a staff. Zeia wore a sword, despite having no hands with which to wield it. Shade approached them slowly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. He decided to try one last time to talk some sense into them.
“Listen, it will take us days to reach the coast. We’ll have to pass right through Ivairia. Even if the Ivairian king doesn’t kill us, even if we find Soroccan merchants along the coast, we’ll still have to buy or steal a ship.”
El’rash’lin offered him a twisted smile. “I know a certain Soroccan who might help us.”
Shade blinked, realizing to whom El’rash’lin was referring. He turned to Zeia. “Don’t go. If you want to die, die with us, not alone in the wilderness.”
Zeia and El’rash’lin exchanged knowing looks. El’rash’lin told her, “It’s time.” Facing Shade, he said, “Let us show you what Zeia has been practicing.”
Zeia stepped away from El’rash’lin. Slowly, she raised her arms. Her sleeves fell back, revealing the stumps of her wrists. Shade winced at the sight of them. Zeia closed her eyes.
Shade frowned. “What—”
Wytchfire unfurled from Zeia’s wrist-stumps.
Shade’s eyes widened. Before he could speak, the wytchfire underwent a stunning transformation. The flames took on a new shape—the shape of fingers. Zeia opened her eyes. She smiled at the look on Shade’s face. Slowly, she lowered her arms and held them out. She waved her new hands in front of Shade, flexing her fingers of fire. El’rash’lin stepped forward. Smiling at Shade, he offered Zeia his staff.
Zeia took it.
The staff smoldered a little where her fingers of fire wrapped around the wood, but it did not burst into flames. Zeia held the staff a moment then turned it slowly, passing it from one burning hand to the other. Her brow knit with concentrati
on. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She turned the staff between her magical hands, faster and faster. Then she stopped, bowed, and returned it to El’rash’lin.
Zeia faced Shade again. The hands of fire disappeared. Her sleeves slid back down, concealing the puckered stumps of her wrists. She said, “You were saying?”
Shade stared, speechless.
El’rash’lin touched Zeia’s shoulder. “Goodbye, my child. Remember your lessons. Remember what you are. We will not meet again in this world.”
Zeia embraced him. When they parted, she bowed again. Then, without saying a word, she brushed past Shade and started south, alone, across the stark whiteness of the frozen sea.
Igrid ordered the Iron Sisters to scatter as soon as they descended into the sewers. Their feet splashed through the filth, the sound echoing off the walls. Rats scurried to keep ahead of them.
Originally, Igrid had intended to lead all the Iron Sisters up into the city and fight their way toward the gates or follow the sewers all the way out to the wilderness, but the Dhargots had followed them. She thought of how many more were quartered in the city above. If the Iron Sisters stayed together, they would only be easier to track.
“Make your own way,” she told them. She knew that some would choose to stay in the city and try to sow insurrection. Others would take their chances in the wilderness. All would probably be dead within a few days.
But at least they’ll die with swords in their hands.
Igrid longed to return to the palace, find Prince Karhaati, and avenge Ailynn’s death. But the splash of Dhargothi boots and the glare of torches filled the sewers. So she ran.
She did not see the clerics. She hoped they’d had the sense to get the orphans out of the sewers and hide them somewhere else, though she had no idea where that would be. She realized that the only relatively safe place for them had been the sewers, and she’d spoiled that.
“No choice,” she muttered. She hoped that was true. Crouching low, she ran headlong through the putrid darkness. Karhaati had sent crossbowmen down into the sewers. Steel-tipped bolts rebounded off the damp stone walls. Occasionally, Igrid heard screams and the clatter of steel.
She started up a stairwell. A few Iron Sisters followed her. Pressing her shoulder against the cistern lid, she shoved it out of the way and clambered up onto the street. It was night. They found themselves next to a tavern.
Igrid recognized the tavern where she and Jalist had stayed their first night in Hesod. It was the last place they should be. On both sides of the street, the windows of inns blazed with light. Dhargots milled nearby. Spotting the Iron Sisters, they drew swords. A few shouted.
The Iron Sisters stood shoulder to shoulder, defiant.
“Scatter,” Igrid told them. She turned and ran. The clash of steel told her that not everyone had listened. Igrid sprinted down an alley, stopped just in time to avoid being seen by a passing squad of soldiers, then ducked out and ran in the opposite direction.
A few Hesodi milled in the streets or stood in the doorways of their houses. Most looked away. An old man threw her his cloak, then shut his door. Igrid grabbed the cloak, pulled the hood over her face, and kept running. Her body ached, and she remembered that she’d been wounded in the dungeon, though she’d not had time to examine her injury.
At the end of the next street, despite her hood, she was spotted. A squad of Dhargots gave chase on horseback. Igrid weaved down one street and up another, then she sprinted through an alley. She emerged, thinking she’d lost the horsemen, and was promptly spotted by a different squad of footmen.
Alarm bells rang throughout the city, and steel clashed in the distance. Igrid howled, hacking so furiously at the Dhargothi footmen that they fell back. She feigned another charge then broke and ran again. She discarded her cloak in an alley. Her lungs burned. She needed to find a place to hide soon, before she collapsed from exhaustion.
Rounding a corner, she encountered a dozen Iron Sisters battling twice as many Dhargots. Igrid stabbed one Dhargot in the back of the neck, cut another at the knee, and snatched up a cloak from the corpse of a third. A crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear. Igrid snatched up a fallen spear and drove it into a Dhargot’s belly just as he turned to face her.
Letting go of the spear, Igrid donned the Dhargothi cloak and raced down another alley. Footsteps followed her. She glanced over her shoulder but saw, instead of Dhargots, two Iron Sisters. Both had dressed themselves in dead men’s cloaks and helmets, though one of the women winced with pain and pressed one hand to her stomach. A crossbow bolt extended between her fingers. The other was helping her along.
Igrid could tell at a glance that they weren’t going to make it. The prudent move would be to leave them behind. She took a step away from them, stopped herself, then caught the wounded woman’s other arm.
“I don’t recognize you. What are your names?”
Before the women could answer, a giant Dhargot in ornate armor emerged at the far end of the alley. Igrid could tell at once that he was an officer and an expert swordsman. Unfooled by their disguises, he blocked their path. He smirked, seemingly unperturbed by the thought of facing three opponents at once.
Igrid glanced over her shoulder. Four Dhargots blocked the other end of the alley. They approached slowly, knowing they had the Iron Sisters trapped. Igrid let go of the wounded woman. “See what you can do about those four,” she told the two women, then turned to meet the officer.
The Dhargot swung too fast for her to counter. He bashed one of her greaves, gouged her tassets, and cut a fresh tear in her brigandine. But then he got careless. He lunged for Igrid’s midriff, pulled back too slowly after Igrid parried, and lost an ear. Blood ran down his neck, but he hardly seemed to notice.
Igrid blinked back pain and exhaustion and threw herself at him. She feigned a stab at his face then changed direction and drove the tip of her sword into his scale armor. She could not pierce it, but the blow drove him backward. She followed, swinging hard. Their swords met. The Dhargot held her in swordlock then advanced with lightning speed. He grabbed her sword wrist.
Igrid kicked him in the groin. He winced but did not let go. She kicked him again, and he answered by kicking her knee. Then he spat in her face and shoved her against the wall. He swung. Igrid ducked. Sparks rained down on her. She dropped to the ground, rolled, and drove her sword into the Dhargot’s foot.
He howled. His blade cut her leg before she could roll away. Dizzy, she reached for one of her daggers, but they were all gone. She’d left her sword in the Dhargot officer’s foot. He wrenched it free and cast it over his shoulder. Then he started toward her, favoring one leg.
Igrid thought back to Rowen Locke’s battle against a Dhargot named Jaanti. The latter had obviously been the superior swordsman, toying with him, but Locke had won anyway. This Dhargot had been toying with her, too, but that was over. He hissed curses through bad teeth and swung.
Igrid raised her forearms. She caught his blade on her vambraces, winced when she felt bones break, and threw herself forward. Her thumbs found the Dhargot’s eyes. She dug in and pressed hard. The Dhargot howled again. He dropped his sword and lurched backward, grabbing her wrists. He lost his footing and fell onto his back. Igrid fell on top of him, still driving her thumbs into his skull.
When she was sure he was dead, she rolled off and tried to grab his sword. But her hands shook, her forearms drooped, and the sword fell out of her grasp. Igrid looked up.
Both Iron Sisters lay dead. Three Dhargots advanced on her. Igrid backed up. Before she could run, four more Dhargots fanned out across the other end of the alley. They locked shields, barring her escape. Igrid watched them advance.
I can’t let them take me alive…
She spotted a long, curved knife in the dead officer’s belt. She stooped and drew it, wincing when pain burned through her h
ands. The Dhargots stopped and braced themselves, thinking she meant to attack. Igrid looked up. The star-wash of Armahg’s Eye lay almost directly above her. She blinked at it. Fresh tears made the stars blur.
“Well, Locke, so much for your daring, timely rescue.” Igrid took a deep breath, held it, and raised the knife to her throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Low Fire
Karhaati stood on a terrace outside his new palace, grimacing as he listened to the chaos that had overtaken his city. Night had fallen, and snowflakes blew in the air, but the streets of Hesod still roiled with activity. Iron Sisters had poured out of the sewers like rats, killing every Dhargot they could. Though vastly outnumbered, they’d succeeded in catching many of his men off guard.
Worse, many citizens of Hesod had sheltered them. Some had even joined in what they perceived as a massive revolt against their Dhargothi oppressors. They had been beaten, of course, but the fighting was far from over. Iron Sisters remained. Now, hunting them down involved a slow, methodical process of sending armed men door to door to search every house and interrogate its occupants.
Meanwhile, at least a hundred armed women had escaped onto the Simurgh Plains. Many were still half naked, meaning they would freeze to death long before they found shelter, but Karhaati had still been obligated to send men after them.
And then, of course, there was the Isle Knight. By some stroke of bad luck, his appearance outside the city had almost perfectly coincided with the Iron Sisters’ jailbreak, sowing further fear and chaos among the ranks. Thanks to his burning sword—which Karhaati cursed himself for underestimating—the Knight had escaped. He had also terrified many of the men and given others the impression that Karhaati was weak and incompetent.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 31
