The Dwarr looked surprised. “I am. Well met, Knight. I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I make it a point of remembering the faces of turncoat sellswords.”
Jalist smiled slightly. “Locke forgave me for that a long time ago. Besides, I’m the one who talked the Throng into revolting.” He added, “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
“So I’ve heard. Some tell it differently.”
Jalist raised one eyebrow. “Like Crovis? I remember him, too, you know. He was just a Knight-Captain then, but I guess raiding the treasury of Lyos and pretending you single-handedly won a battle are enough to get you a promotion these days. And didn’t I hear something about him plundering Phaegos because it didn’t want to pay taxes?”
Aeko smothered a grin when the Dwarr’s loud voice drew angry stares from nearby Knights. “I didn’t know the Dwarr took such an active interest in the politics of the Free Cities.”
“Didn’t you hear? The king of Lyos made me his Captain of the Guard.”
Aeko wondered if he was joking. “Then what are you doing here?”
“That’s a long story.” Jalist looked around. “To be honest, seeing this city from the outside, I didn’t expect to find anybody alive in here. The whole front of the city’s abandoned. Then I heard noise… men fussing with the skiffs, pulling up anchors that look like they haven’t been raised in five hundred years. Saw the Scrollhouse, too. I’ve never seen so many crying clerics before.”
Aeko glanced back at Crovis, who was busy being congratulated. “Why are you here? I thought you were with…” She trailed off, leaving Rowen’s name unspoken. She did this even though she’d already lowered her voice so no one would hear, including Sang Wei, who stood a few steps behind her.
“I was. He’s alive, if that’s what you’re wondering. He wanted to meet you here, but he’s gone back to Hesod first.”
Aeko momentarily thought the Dwarr was joking.
Jalist sneered. “I know. I told him the same thing. But there’s someone there he cares about.”
Aeko took Jalist’s arm and pulled him away from the other Knights. “Silwren?”
Jalist shook his head. “The wytch is dead… though how she died might take some explaining, too, if you’ve got the time.”
Aeko glanced back at Crovis again. A few Knights were watching her. Sooner or later, someone would realize who he was. “Get out of here,” Aeko said. “Don’t let any Knights see you. Meet me by what’s left of the wall in half an hour. We’ll talk then.”
Jalist nodded.
Aeko watched him go then turned around.
Sang Wei frowned at her. “Wasn’t that—”
“Never mind,” Aeko said. “I’d like to know how a peasant-Knight knows so much about the Codex Viticus.”
Sang Wei blushed. “My great-great-grandfather was a Knight of the Lotus. But he was stripped of rank after… an incident. After that, my family made a point of learning the law.”
Aeko frowned. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“No one has. We were lucky. All the records from that time were lost in the Spring Fires. Better if I just pretended I was the first Wei to earn my adamune.” He hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself, Knight-Captain.”
“Gladly, Knight-Lieutenant.” Aeko glanced past him. “I wonder if Sir Crovis has even stopped to realize something peculiar about our enemies.” She paused. “The Nightmare and the Jolym both serve the Dragonkin. They’re on the same side, along with the Lochurites. Yet when the Nightmare appeared, it lashed out blindly, burned up half the Lochurites and killed some of the Jolym… if kill is the right word.”
“Do you think our enemies are fighting each other?”
“Maybe the Nightmare just can’t be controlled. I recall hearing that Fadarah and the sorcerers had plenty of trouble with that.” She added, “Strange that the Jolym take their dead with them.”
Sang Wei snickered. “Do you think they bury them?”
“Maybe they just don’t want us to be reminded that they’re mortal.” She sighed. “Speaking of the dead, we need to form a detachment and gather our own. But first, let’s go congratulate our new leader before the words rot in my stomach.”
Chorlga stared into the unresponsive darkness of Namundvar’s Well. Finally, he spat in it. Then he straightened and closed his eyes. At his command, the sights experienced by all of his Jolym, all over the continent, poured into his mind in a dizzying fury. He reeled then sifted through it all with practiced determination.
First, he saw through the eyes of the Jolym massed around Cadavash, amid the cries and madness of the dragon-worshippers around them. Pushing these aside, he lingered on the token force he’d left on the Lotus Isles, still methodically hunting Knights in the shadows of their ruined temples. Dismissing these, he moved on to the hundreds of Jolym scouring the rest of Ruun.
Through their eyes, he saw the endless snowy hills in which they walked, searching for Rowen Locke and, more importantly, for El’rash’lin. His Jolym had already probed the remains of Brahasti’s compound then broadened their search from the Ash’bana Plains to the Wintersea. On the latter, they’d found what looked to be the remnants of a settlement. That must have been where all the Shel’ai had been hiding. El’rash’lin was probably with them. But where are they now?
Chorlga had sent some Jolym back into the ravaged kingdom of Stillhammer, others north toward Ivairia and Sorocco, and still more as far west as Syros. He checked on their progress. As he had anticipated, the Jolym stalked mercilessly through city streets, tore apart villages, and moved like battering rams through forests roiling with thieves, beggars, and wolves.
Through the eyes of his Jolym, Chorlga saw the screaming faces of people who ran, pleaded for mercy, or foolishly tried to fight. He paid them no mind. He was running out of places to search. He’d been reluctant to send his Jolym into Lyos, since the people there had demonstrated some ability to defend themselves. He saw little point in searching Quesh, Dhargoth, or what remained of the kingdom of Nosh, but that left only the Wytchforest. Given the Sylvs’ history with Shel’ai, Chorlga doubted that El’rash’lin would have sought sanctuary there, but it was always a possibility.
Chorlga opened his eyes, staring down into the unyielding darkness of Namundvar’s Well. “Why doesn’t he just come out and fight?”
But Chorlga already knew the answer. The strain of being made a Dragonkin had followed El’rash’lin back from the dead. He was not much more stable than the Nightmare. If he pushed himself too far, trying to protect all the kingdoms of Ruun from the Jolym, he might lose himself completely. Chorlga might be able to control him. Then he would have not just one Nightmare at his disposal but two.
“But why isn’t he guarding the Isle Knight, at least?” Chorlga shook his head. He’d expected to find them together. He’d thought El’rash’lin would stay with the Knight to help train him so that he might finally begin to control Knightswrath’s power. But something told him that the Knight was still somewhere near Hesod—alone.
The Isle Knight did not greatly concern him, but El’rash’lin did. The old man was clever. Since he was not strong enough to destroy Chorlga, he might be searching for a way to eliminate his champion. Chorlga turned, scowling at the ragged madman rocking himself on the cold stone floor a short distance away. “Some champion…”
Chorlga considered the city of Atheion, the remnants of which were even now struggling through the icy waters of Zet’s Blood, toward the open sea. The Nightmare’s destruction of much of the Scrollhouse was a terrible blow—millennia of knowledge lost—but Chorlga had already spent countless hours poring over those ancient tomes. They said nothing of consequence.
Maybe El’rash’lin is only hiding, forcing me to spread my Jolym all over the continent to search for him. After all, he
cannot leave. The Dragonward—
Chorlga froze. The power of the Dragonward, which increased in proportion to the being attempting to pass through it, would not permit El’rash’lin to leave Ruun. If he tried, it would kill him. Chorlga had not thought of it past that, but he did now.
He turned. His eyes narrowed on the rocking figure. The Nightmare began to whimper. “He’s going to throw himself in,” Chorlga said finally. “He thinks that will kill him for good… and you with him. And he may be right.”
Chorlga’s pulse quickened. Though the Dragonward surrounded all of Ruun, El’rash’lin would surely make for the closest part. Chorlga thought it over for a long time. Finally, he realized he had four choices.
He could reroute his Jolym back to the Wintersea, trusting that their sheer strength and numbers would be enough to “kill” El’rash’lin, causing him to reappear elsewhere on Ruun. At least that would give Chorlga time. But it would cost him many Jolym, and besides, he doubted they could intercept El’rash’lin in time.
He could go there himself, to the very edge of the fearsome Dragonward, but a teleportation spell would leave him weakened. Being near the Dragonward would slow his recovery, as well. El’rash’lin might actually be able to kill him then.
Chorlga considered his third option: sending the Nightmare. But he and El’rash’lin were almost evenly matched. If El’rash’lin had any additional Shel’ai helping him, he could prevail—or, without Chorlga there to keep the Nightmare in line, El’rash’lin might convince him to jump into the Dragonward himself!
That left only one option: Chorlga and the Nightmare would have to teleport to the Dragonward together. Chorlga could drain power off his servant, use him to absorb the brunt of El’rash’lin’s attack, then finish him off himself. When El’rash’lin came back to life, he might even be mindless enough for Chorlga to control.
But all that will take time. I’ll have to trust Ruun to the Dhargothi princeling.
The Nightmare whimpered again, interrupting his thoughts. Chorlga felt an unexpected stir of pity for the man, tinged with irritation. Then he realized there was a fifth option—riskier than the others but one that El’rash’lin could not possibly have anticipated. It would grant him such terrifying power, all the kingdoms would simply surrender to his will.
One I’ve considered before…
Chorlga made his decision. He turned and stroked the Nightmare’s hair as though he were a cowering pet. “Have no fear, young one. You’ll be dead soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Shortswords
Karhaati listened to the sweet music of catapults. Not far from where he sat astride his bloodmare, surrounded by bodyguards, the catapults’ great oak arms hurled wave after wave of rocks and fireballs at the gigantic temple. The marble walls had already been cracked, and the wooden roof had burned away. Still, he ordered his exhausted engineers to load and fire the siege weapons. He had half a mind to work them to death.
Of all the temples in Hesod, he had hoped to save this one, even going so far as to station guards outside to keep it from being looted and spoiled. An architectural marvel, as big as a palace and supposedly more than a thousand years old, it honored not just one but all the gods—including Zet and Fohl, whose statues had once adorned the others on the temple steps. Zet’s winged statue stood thrice the height of a man, bigger than all the others, and armored. Fohl’s had been much smaller, ominously cloaked, its back turned. All had been exquisitely carved by master stonemasons, right down to the slightest details: Zet’s scales, the ripples in Fohl’s cloak, and the taut skin of Tier’Gothma’s milk-filled breasts. They were unlike anything Karhaati had seen in his own kingdom.
Nevertheless, at his command, his catapults destroyed them. He’d had no choice. By sealing themselves in the temple, the Iron Sisters had forced his hand. He had hoped that burning down the temple roof would smoke out the Iron Sisters, but even when smoke poured out the temple windows, they would not come out. He glanced around, appreciating how the remaining Hesodi citizens stood in the streets and gawked, aghast. Some looked as though they wanted to intervene. But given how poorly the last revolt had gone, Karhaati doubted they were foolish enough to try again.
He had always loved the sound of catapults. But they had been firing almost nonstop for two days, and still the temple stood. Cracked, blackened, and no longer recognizable as a place of worship, still it remained, as though taunting him. Even the poetic justice of attacking the temple with Hesodi catapults, appropriated when he took command of the city, could not stave off the discontent building within him. But he dared not suspend the attack after so clearly stating his intentions in front of the men.
Then he thought of his guest. He thought of her lying in his bed, drugged and asleep, naked except for the stained bandages wrapped around her ribs, thighs, shoulder, and of course, her throat. He thought of her red hair against the white silk of his pillow. His blood quickened. He imagined riding back to the palace like the conqueror he was and having his way with her. Then he shook his head.
No, not this one.
He turned to his newest bodyguard, a one-eyed sellsword who had just recently arrived in Hesod after abandoning Brahasti. Karhaati had been tempted to kill the man for that alone, but he appreciated the sellsword’s gall. “You, go back and check on the woman. Make sure nobody’s touched her. And don’t you touch her, either, if you value your remaining eye.”
The sellsword nodded gruffly. “Yes, Prince.”
Karhaati decided to stay and oversee the temple siege a while longer, but now that he’d thought of her, he could not erase the woman from his mind. The men had given her to him as a gift, and he could scarcely fail to appreciate its value. She was perhaps the only bit of good fortune he’d had. For that reason, he’d left his most trusted men to see that she was not harmed or even touched by anyone, save his best physicians—all of whom had been told that their survival depended on keeping her alive.
Still, she had been sorely wounded. A soldier had managed to tackle her before she could open her own throat, but the knife had still cut deep. It was doubtful that she would survive, let alone recover enough for him to use her as an adequate test of his sword arm. But he prayed that she would. He had even sacrificed a bloodmare and three young slaves in the hopes that the gods would respond to his plea.
Perhaps one day, if she lives, she’ll even give herself to me willingly. Women of action love men of the same, do they not?
He cursed himself, trying to shake off the thought. The woman was beautiful, sure, but he could always find another beautiful woman. It was her fierceness he valued most. He did not even want revenge on her for all the harm she’d caused. She was a true warrior—more of a warrior than any man he’d ever fought—and how could such a warrior do anything other than what she’d done?
Stones cracked against the temple walls. Smoke stung his eyes. Soldiers laughed while Hesodi looked on and wept. But Karhaati could think of nothing but the woman. He did not even know her name. He smiled, imagining what it might be.
Saanji was grateful that Arnil Royce had a new sparring companion, though he felt a pang of jealousy as he watched the Lancer dueling the wytch. Saanji had purchased the false affections of more prostitutes than he could recall, especially exotic women—dark-skinned Soroccans, olive-skinned Queshi, or any woman who showed signs of having Dwarrish blood in her ancestry—but Zeia had enchanted him right away. He’d been unable to wrest his eyes off her during council meetings, though she’d hardly said a word to him. In fact, he found it more than a little amusing that he would feel such attraction toward a woman with no hands.
Despite her lack of anything past the wrist, Zeia seemed to be fairing quite well against Royce. Hands of violet fire blossomed from her sleeves, each one somehow gripping the hilt of a shortsword. The pommels smoked. Flames spread from her “hands” down the blades, engulf
ing them, causing the air around them to shimmer.
Though it was a stunning sight, Royce appeared to have gotten used to it. He circled Zeia with increasing speed, his kingsteel bastard sword flashing in the afternoon light. Then he charged. Steel rang. Sparks rained down onto the snowy ground. Royce’s sword blurred one direction, then another. Zeia backpedaled, both swords in motion, but Royce was faster. His sword tapped Zeia’s greaves, then her spaulders. Zeia cursed.
He’s not going easy on her, Saanji realized.
Despite her frustration, Zeia seemed glad for the practice. Sweat glistened on her forehead. The ghost of a smirk played on her lips whenever Royce was forced to retreat from her burning shortswords. Though she looked uncomfortable in armor and still refused to wear a helmet, she had already adapted faster than Saanji had. And despite probably spending most of her life relying on wytchfire, with no need to develop melee skills, she’d learned quickly.
Faster than me, Saanji thought ruefully. Then again, she’s learning from the best. He grimaced. Then again, so was I.
Zeia’s daily sparring with Royce had drawn a great deal of attention, too. Lancers and Earless crowded the practice yards, as did the people of Cassica. Though the city’s populace had initially greeted Zeia with hostility, that had changed after Saanji suggested she use her magic to heal some of Cassica’s wounded. Karhaati had left plenty in his wake, and the Bloody Prince had killed nearly all the clerics who might have otherwise treated them.
Zeia had refused at first, but after Royce voiced his support of Saanji’s plan, she consented. For days, she’d helped any Human willing to share her company, somehow able to dispense healing energies through her hands of fire. Zeia’s face had remained stern, her demeanor far from cordial, but she’d successfully healed young and old alike, saving scores of Cassicans from infected wounds. That, plus her unique appearance, had made her a curiosity throughout the city. Everyone came to see the stoic Shel’ai who could summon working hands of wytchfire to replace the ones that had been cut from her body.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 37
