All my Knights want to go back to the Isles. And here I am, forcing them to stay and fight to defend a home that isn’t even their own.
Aeko sighed, glancing over the parapets at the distant Jolym. Then she heard someone approach and turned to see Captain Reygo ascending the steps. The Noshan’s face was taut with cold. She guessed he’d run all the way from King Hidas’s palace, crossing one bridge after another until he’d moved from the heart of Atheion to the shoreline. His eyes were dark with irritation.
“Lady Shingawa, the king sends his response to your plan.” Reygo waited for Aeko to nod. “With respect, he says no.”
Aeko nodded again, unsurprised. A few days ago, she’d proposed a daring strategy to the king, who had sworn to give her idea due consideration. But as soon as she’d seen the captain approaching her, she’d known the king’s answer would be no.
“But, Captain, I was correct in assuming that the skiffs can be unmoored and sailed down Zet’s Blood like boats, correct?”
Reygo’s face flushed. “Yes, m’lady. But as the king pointed out last week, the skiffs are joined by bridges and walkways, some of them centuries old. Relocating the entire city of Atheion to the Lotus Isles would mean destroying them. The clerics would object. So would the people.” He paused. “And so would I.”
Aeko withdrew a scrap of parchment from her belt. She handed it to the captain. “I trust you’ve seen this?”
Reygo gave it a cursory glance and nodded. “My king showed that to me days ago.” He handed it back.
Aeko glanced down at the message that had been sent from the Wytchforest. The raven carrying it had been shot down by Noshan hunters before the strange message could be delivered, but the nervous hunters had found the message and carried it to Atheion themselves. “These Jolym are the product of a Dragonkin… one who has been sowing destruction across the entire continent, careful not to reveal himself. He’s cunning. He is not to be taken lightly, nor are his servants.”
“I take my enemies seriously,” the captain said pointedly, “but you’re asking us to uproot our city, effectively end our entire way of life, over a scrap of Sylvan paper and a few hundred armored curiosities who are too afraid to do anything but stand there.” He started to walk away.
Aeko grabbed his arm. She pointed at the Jolym. “When the ice is thick enough, those bastards will be able to walk right up to the palace and put your king to the sword. I wonder if you’ll be glad you kept your precious bridges then.”
The Noshan captain shook his head. “No disrespect, Lady Shingawa, but I have two thousand trained swords under my command. I can draft another five thousand, if necessary. And we have your Knights. That’s more than adequate to beat five hundred dull-witted demons in rusting armor.”
Aeko’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a great deal of experience fighting armored demons, Captain?”
“No,” Reygo confessed, “but I’ve spent most of my life fighting berserkers. You ever see a Lochurite, Lady Shingawa? I imagine they’re a lot like these Jolym. They’re so drugged, they don’t feel pain. They’ll literally come at you until you cut off their heads or chop the legs out from under ’em.”
Aeko remembered hearing that the fey, tribal folk had a long tradition of sending not just men, but women and children into battle. She studied the captain’s stern expression, wondering how many of the latter he had faced. “Lochurites might be mad, but they’re still flesh and blood. Jolym aren’t.”
“Whatever you say, Isle Knight. I have to get back to my duties.”
“You’re the Captain of the Guard. Your city is under siege. What duties do you possibly have that don’t involve you standing beside us on this wall?”
Reygo smirked. “Atheion is a trade city. And there’s the Scrollhouse. You might not believe this, but my job involves more than whoring and bar fights.” He saluted. “If something changes, let me know. If the Jolym attack, one of my men will come get me.” He turned and left.
A few Isle Knights who had been eavesdropping shook their heads in displeasure, though the Noshans standing next to them snickered. A few Noshans uncorked wineskins. Others nibbled on breads and sweet rolls brought to them by pretty, well-dressed women carrying baskets.
Disgusted, Aeko ignored the rumbling in her stomach and turned back to the battlements. She faced the stark white plains that spread beyond the Jolym beneath a crisp, pale sky. Minutes turned to hours. Anger became boredom. Aeko blinked and pinched her wrist with gauntleted fingers, trying to stay awake.
Matua did not know whether to feel honored or insulted.
The aging cleric had always wanted to see the inside of Atheion’s Scrollhouse, a repository of knowledge and literature that predated the Shattering War. He had even become a cleric of Armahg in order to fulfill that dream, since they were tasked with maintaining and safeguarding the famous structure. But upon arriving in Atheion, he’d promptly realized that one could not simply wander into the Scrollhouse and read to his heart’s content. Even the king could not enter unannounced.
But the discovery of a theft had necessitated some changes. Outraged, the high priests had declared that every last scroll, book, antique, artifact, and scrap of parchment be cataloged so that they could ascertain the extent of the theft. That meant countless hours of labor. So low-ranking priests like Matua had been drafted to comb through the aisles of the Scrollhouse and see it done—under guard, of course.
Thus, Matua had finally been allowed to enter the Scrollhouse. The novelty had quickly worn off when he realized the tedium and frustration of his assignment. Instead of being allowed to actually sit down and read the books and scrolls, reveling in their ancient knowledge and wit, he simply had to note their titles, offer a line or two of description, assign them a number that denoted their location within the Scrollhouse, then move on.
By the end of his first day in the Scrollhouse, Matua knew that dragons had once lived in the ocean as well as on land, that Ruun was only one of five continents located throughout the world, and that the key ingredient in kingsteel came from a mountain of fire that had fallen from the sky and landed on the Lotus Isles eons ago. One legend said that it had been cast down by Armahg as a test, for whichever realm possessed kingsteel was destined either to protect the helpless or to become itself a nation of bloodthirsty conquerors.
He’d learned of herbs that could increase or decrease the likelihood of pregnancy, including some that raised the odds of a Shel’ai being born to a Sylvan mother. He’d read that Dwarrish darksoil, which could grow food without need of sunlight, was made from the ground-up bones of dragons. And perhaps most fascinating of all, he’d learned that their sun was but one sun in a vast armada of stars called a galaxy and that Armahg’s Eye was not actually the looming eye of a goddess but another such galaxy moving slowly toward them across a great, immeasurable void.
But every scrap of knowledge brought with it the frustration of having to return the book or scroll to its shelf before he could immerse himself fully, prodded on by guards who would not allow a cleric to spend more than a couple minutes with a given piece. By the end of the first day, practically weeping with frustration, Matua had very nearly refused to keep working. But every scrap of knowledge gained was still more than his head had held before, so he kept coming back, savoring what he could.
Besides, the work kept his mind off the siege. Matua had seen the Jolym standing beyond the walls, and he’d heard tales of what they could do. He’d been glad for any distraction from them. But then he’d stumbled upon an ancient book with pages that seemed both like and unlike paper. The book, written in his native language, Queshi, detailed the creation of the Jolym, describing how each Jol required not only a tremendous outpouring of Dragonkin magic but a significant sacrifice on the part of the maker. The Dragonkin had to carve off a little piece of his own soul, which would grow in the darkness of the Jol’s a
rmor like an unholy flower.
After a year, the Jol would have a rudimentary consciousness. It would function like the perfect slave, loyal and tireless, vulnerable only if an injury to its eyes freed its vaporous fragment of self. Thereafter, Matua could not help but ponder a frightful idea: if a single Dragonkin had fashioned all the Jolym laying siege to the city and all the ones rumored to have decimated Stillhammer and the Lotus Isles, how much of his own soul had the Dragonkin sacrificed? How much was left?
He was still in the Scrollhouse, contemplating this, when Captain Reygo arrived.
Matua tensed at the sight of him. After Rowen Locke and Silwren had fled Atheion, just as the visage of a ghostly dragon appeared over the city, the captain had seized Matua and interrogated him. Matua’s wrist and jaw still ached, reminding him of the captain’s less-than-friendly manner of asking questions.
Matua hoped the captain had only come to check on the clerics’ progress, a daily formality required by the king to show his respect for the high priests, but the captain spotted Matua and walked straight at him. Matua smiled, suppressing a groan. “Good morning, Captain. The cataloguing continues. So far, we’ve uncovered no other missing—”
“If I wanted a report, I’d ask one of the high priests,” the captain snapped. “The king wants me to inspect the chamber where the theft took place.”
Matua blinked at the captain’s tone, which was even harsher than usual. “That chamber has already been inspected, Captain.”
“But not by me. They may have left clues. The king would like to know for sure that it was an Isle Knight who committed the theft, since we just so happen to have a couple hundred of them camped out in our city.”
He’s lying. Matua forced himself to keep smiling. “As you wish, Captain. I’m sure the Scrollhouse guards can show you—”
Captain Reygo stepped a bit too close, glaring down at him. “You show me.”
Matua glanced over the captain’s shoulder, looking to the Scrollhouse guards for help. Two looked away. One shrugged. Other clerics who were close enough to hear what was happening looked away, too. Matua sighed. He realized that he should have expected this.
“Right this way,” he told the captain. “The Scrollhouse has lower levels built right into the skiff. Technically, we’ll be going underwater—”
“I know my own city better than you, I think.”
Matua nodded. “Forgive me. I just wanted to warn you that it can feel a bit strange. Watch your step. These stairs can be treacherous.”
The captain chuckled coldly. As Matua led the captain through the Scrollhouse—away from witnesses, down one set of stairs after another—he saw the captain’s shadow moving on the wall beside his own as though trying to devour it.
Aeko’s eyes widened. “Sir Wei, your spyglass, please.”
The young Isle Knight standing next to her obeyed.
Aeko looked then cursed. “Sir Wei, find Sir Crovis. He’s probably drilling near the palace. Tell him I need him here right away.” She paused. “Tell him the Lochurites are coming.”
Sir Wei blinked with surprise, glanced over the walls at a distant shape on the horizon, then hurried off. Aeko looked through the spyglass again then turned to the closest Noshans. At the mention of the Lochurites, all had reached for weapons. Aeko spotted a sergeant and gestured for him to join her. She offered him the spyglass and pointed. The sergeant cursed, too.
“They don’t look drugged yet,” Aeko said. She listened, trying to tune out the bustle of trade and morning activity. She winced when she heard a far-off chorus of barbaric wails. But they sound like it.
Soon, others heard it, too. Hammers froze mid-swing. Dockworkers set down their crates and wiped their brows, turning westward. Men and women called for quiet. An ominous hush fell over the shoreline, punctuated only by the creaking of skiffs and sails. When the Lochurites’ wailing knifed the air, distant but unmistakable, Noshans paled. Women screamed, grabbed their children, and ran. Men clutched their weapons. A few abandoned their posts, already shaking with terror.
Aeko ignored the chaos. “How many do you see?”
The Noshan sergeant paled. “Thousands…”
Aeko snatched the spyglass back from him. “Three thousand,” she estimated. “Go find Captain Reygo. And send someone to warn the king.”
The sergeant left at a sprint. He looked decidedly grateful for a chance to leave the wall. Aeko handed the spyglass to one of her own officers then loosened her adamune. “Bring everyone in, then close and seal the gates. If you’re standing on the wall and you have hands, pick up a bow.”
The Isle Knights reacted at once. Some went to man the handful of ballistas and catapults lining the walls, since Aeko had already deduced that they could use them with better effectiveness than the Noshans who maintained them. The Knights’ eyes glinted not with fear but with measured eagerness.
Meanwhile, the Noshans reacted with far less calm. A few readied bows and crossbows, while others reached for spears, but a great many shied away from the battlements. More fled their posts. Aeko ordered them to stand their ground. Her fellow Isle Knights did likewise, but it made no difference.
Aeko reminded herself that as crazed and bloodthirsty as the Lochurites were, they’d always avoided Atheion, preferring to attack the smaller settlements throughout Nosh. The Noshans in Atheion were not accustomed to combat. They needed one of their own to give them courage.
“I need the king or Captain Reygo standing next to me. Or both,” Aeko shouted. “And someone find out what’s keeping Crovis.”
No sooner had she said this than she spotted the Knight of the Lotus riding gallantly across the bridges of Atheion, toward the wall. Sunlight glinted off his kingsteel armor. More Isle Knights streamed after him. The retreating Noshans slowed at his approach. Some stood to one side, bowing. Others fell in behind him. Some of Aeko’s Knights even began chanting Crovis’s name.
Crovis pretended not to notice, though his ghost of a smirk said otherwise. He dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of his supporters, and hurried up the steps to Aeko’s side. One of Aeko’s supporters offered him a spyglass. Crovis produced his own. When he saw the Lochurites, he clicked his tongue. “Perhaps they only want to scratch their names into the Jolym’s backsides.”
A few Knights, and even a few Noshans, smiled at his joke.
Aeko said, “These could be the reinforcements the Jolym were waiting for.”
“A few thousand half-naked savages with bronze weapons? Gods, I hope so.” Crovis tucked away his spyglass and drew his adamune. “Stand your ground, men!” he shouted to Knights and Noshans alike. “The tongues of women and minstrels have no time for cowards.”
More men laughed. Aeko looked around. While women could become Isle Knights, it was still a rarity. Of the two hundred Isle Knights there, she was one of only three women. She saw them in the distance, their faces covered by kingsteel facemasks. She wondered if they had bristled at Crovis’s remark, the way she had.
A Noshan soldier ran up to her, nearly out of breath. He reported that he’d been sent by the sergeant, who had gone looking for Captain Reygo at the Scrollhouse. When Aeko asked about the king, the soldier shrugged. Aeko pointed. “Get to the palace. Tell the king I want him here now.” The soldier started to go, but Aeko grabbed his arm. “I said I want the king. Not one of his stewards, not his cook, not his gods-damned fortune teller. The king. Understood?”
The Noshan nodded. Aeko let him go.
Crovis chuckled. “I’m guessing that’s rather less friendly than what Hidas is used to.”
Aeko glanced at the advancing tide of Jolym and Lochurites. “So is this.”
As soon as they reached the deepest, darkest chamber in the Scrollhouse, Matua moved over to a thick stone table and set down the lantern he’d brought to light their way. Th
e Queshi priest sighed.
Captain Reygo set down a lantern of his own, glanced at Matua, and tightened his gloves. “Lots of people dying these days,” the captain said in a low voice. “Dhargots and Lochurites tearing up these lands, thanks to the Shel’ai. And what do you do? You let a Shel’ai into this city!”
Reygo took a step forward.
Matua took a step back, holding up his open hands. “You’ve already questioned me on this. The high priests did, too. They said I wasn’t involved in what happened.”
“You’re friends with Knights and wytches,” Reygo scoffed. “The king may be a fool, but I’m not. The Isle Knights are here to take us over. They think they can frighten us into paying them taxes, like they did with Lyos. But Atheion is stronger. We don’t bow to Knights who sit in temples and try to look holy while they’re counting their riches. We bow to nobody but our own king.”
Matua said, “Unless you’ve failed to notice the copper color of my skin, let me remind you that I’m not a Noshan. I’m not a Shao, either. And I’m certainly not a wytch.”
But the captain did not appear to be listening. “I lost good men in front of the gates. Those metal bastards cut them to pieces. I think the Knights had something to do with it. And I bet I’m not the only one who thinks that.” He drew his sword.
Matua frowned. “Are you really going to kill me over this?”
“Kill an unarmed cleric of Armahg? No, Priest, that’s not the kind of man I am.” The captain cast his sword away. “But I am going to break your arm.”
Matua did not answer. Instead, he held out his left arm.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 33
