The sellsword smiled slightly. “Whatever you say.” He tapped the pommel of his shortsword. “Sure you don’t want me to stay close, though?”
“No need. The Iron Sisters can’t reach me here.” He touched the dark braid still hanging from his belt. He wished he had not ordered the stairwell from the basement into the sewers blocked off. He would have preferred to die in battle against crazed women with swords than be stabbed in the back by his own men. And that’s exactly what will happen now that the Iron Sisters have escaped.
He had won countless victories for his men, but no self-respecting Dhargot could follow him for long after this. Even if the soon-to-be-executed General Umaari took full responsibility for the Iron Sisters’ escape in the hopes of gaining favor with the gods before his death, it would make little difference. In a week, perhaps two, Karhaati would be slain. Then only Saanji would remain.
The Bloody Prince sneered at the thought. He considered asking Chorlga for help. The Dragonkin still had legions of Jolym at Cadavash, plus a growing army of dragon-worshipping fanatics. But Karhaati sensed that, like a Dhargot, Chorlga had no use for weak allies. Besides, Karhaati had no desire to shame himself just so he could remain in this world a little longer.
He glanced once again at his one-eyed bodyguard. Though he’d known this sellsword just a short while, he already trusted him more than anyone else in his army. A Dhargot fought for his own glory and to honor the Way of Ears. But this man fought for pay, and nobody could pay more than Karhaati.
He scrutinized the unconscious woman again, thinking he might very well die long before she was well enough to fight him. Might as well enjoy her now. But the thought repulsed him even more than it excited him. This nameless Iron Sister had outfought some of his best men. She was a warrior, through and through. It was not her fault that she’d been born a woman.
“Sellsword, I want you to promise me something.” Karhaati plucked one of the jeweled rings off his finger and tossed it to the bodyguard. “I’m buying your vow in advance, with the gods as my witness.” He knelt beside his bed and touched her red hair, which looked as though it had been hastily cut short with a knife. Then, almost as an afterthought, he withdrew a second jeweled ring and tossed that to the sellsword, as well.
The sellsword was busy admiring the first ring, but his good eye widened even more when he caught the second. “For these, I’d kill my own mother.”
“How shameful, that you know who she is.” Karhaati stroked the Iron Sister’s hair one more time then rose to his feet. “If I die, you are to cut this woman’s throat. Cut deep. I want no one to despoil her… not even you. Is that understood?”
The sellsword looked down at the woman and back at the jeweled rings gleaming on his right hand, then shrugged. “A rich man can always find or buy a pretty woman. Consider this one dead already. I swear it on the gods: I won’t touch her with anything but my knife.”
“Good. Break that vow, and I’ll make you wail in the next world.”
Another messenger entered Karhaati’s bedchamber so abruptly that the sellsword drew his sword and nearly cut him in half before the man could fall on one knee. “Sire,” he gasped, “an army marches toward us!”
Karhaati frowned. “I’ve left no army standing but my own.”
“It’s your brother, Sire,” the messenger said. “Thousands of Earless, riding alongside Ivairians with lances! They’ve marched from Cassica. They’re coming here!”
Karhaati stared a moment. Then he laughed. “How far are they?”
“Two days, Sire. They’ve made camp north and west of Armahg’s Tears. Word just reached us.”
Karhaati thought it over then laughed again. “Assemble my captains.” When the messenger left, Karhaati sat down in the chair beside his bed and began donning his armor. Though his brother was still two days away, it never hurt to look imposing when bracing for a siege. Besides, Karhaati preferred to meet any potential assassins while armored.
“Who the hell marches to war in winter?” the sellsword asked.
“Only the desperate and the foolish. I must confess, I had not thought my fat little brother was either. And to form an alliance with the Ivairians…” He snickered. “I shall enjoy killing him.”
The sellsword cleared his throat. “Do you… still want me to kill general what’s-his-name?”
“Umaari.” Karhaati thought it over. “Yes,” he said finally. “Only do it yourself. Now. And make it quick. If there’s a siege coming, I don’t want the men disheartened by his wailing. Afterward, cut his ears off and hang him from the wall.”
The sellsword nodded. “Count on it.” He hurried out, drawn sword still in hand.
Looks like an Ivairian blade, Karhaati thought. I wonder where he got that.
Dismissing the question, he turned back to the sleeping Iron Sister. He stroked her red curls one more time then made sure she was covered before he slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Allies
Jalist stiffened and swore.
After a sleepless night camping in tents pitched in the snow, they’d broken camp and set out at first light. But they’d hardly begun their journey north, toward Hesod, when Sang Wei came galloping back to the column. The young Knight of the Stag held his spyglass in one hand, the reins in the other. Aeko Shingawa signaled a halt and rode ahead to meet him. Jalist followed.
Aeko asked, “Dhargots?”
Sang Wei shook his head. “Berserkers, I think. And they’re not coming from the north or the west this time.” He pointed south. “I just happened to turn around and saw them.”
Jalist frowned, turning in the saddle. For the first time, he saw a faint glint of steel in the distance. He reached for his own spyglass. “Not berserkers. They’re riding horses. Must be Dhargots that circled around. Could be they mean to trap us between themselves and another force.”
Aeko took Sang Wei’s spyglass. She moved it slowly, checking to the west, north, and east. After a moment, she shook her head. She looked south. “How many do you count?”
Jalist felt a lump in his throat. “Hundreds, I think. They’re riding in columns to hide their numbers.”
Sang Wei said, “I wonder if they’ve spotted us yet.”
A distant trumpet reached their ears. Jalist snickered. “There’s your answer, young Knight.”
Aeko swore. She rode back to the column, Jalist and Sang Wei right behind her. The other Knights had followed their gestures and spotted the approaching force. A few of them looked through spyglasses of their own. “Ride west, for the mountains. Don’t stop. We might cross paths with berserkers along the way. Keep your steel ready.”
She raised her hand, about to signal them to move out.
Jalist grabbed her arm. “Wait…” He raised the spyglass again.
“Seconds count,” Aeko said with a scowl. “What is it?”
Jalist lowered the spyglass and handed it to Aeko, since she’d already returned Sang Wei’s. Tears glistened in Jalist’s eyes, drying quickly in the winter air. “Just look.”
Aeko looked again. “Gods… those look like—”
“Bloodmares,” Jalist said. “Hundreds of them. And the red horse banner of the Queshi.”
Sang Wei’s jaw dropped. Other Knights turned, wide eyed, to look again. Aeko frowned, still looking through the spyglass. “I see the Queshi banner, all right, but there’s something else…”
“White banner with a black dragon,” Jalist said. His voice choked. He wiped his eyes.
Aeko lowered the spyglass. “Jinn’s name…”
Sang Wei looked confused. “Apparently, I don’t know my heraldry as well as I should. Isn’t that the Dhargots’ standard?”
“Not on a white field, son… and not without a spear sticking through it.�
�� Jalist threw back his cloak and tugged up his sleeve. He showed the Knight of the Stag the same symbol tattooed to his right bicep: a black wingless dragon.
Aeko turned to her standard bearer, telling the Knight to raise their colors. Then she turned her horse south instead of west. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she glanced back at Jalist. “Care to handle the introductions, Master Dwarr?”
“Who in the gods’ names starts a campaign in winter?” Saanji tugged at his cloak. He caught a few snowflakes on his gauntleted palm, which glistened in the rising sun, and watched them melt.
“Your brother started it,” Royce answered, riding beside him in the column. “Perhaps that’s something you could discuss with him.”
Saanji touched the opal ring, which now hung from a chain around his neck, beneath his cuirass. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll exchange words. Perhaps even insults.”
“For my own part, I had something more dramatic in mind.”
Saanji frowned. Before he could ask what Royce meant, Zeia said, “Killing the Bloody Prince is no more our priority than taunting him. I’m here to help the Isle Knight… and in so doing, help the Shel’ai.”
Royce turned to look at her. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but I doubt one in ten men in this army gives a burning damn what happens to the Shel’ai. We Lancers are here because the Bloody Prince attacked Ivairia. I’ll let our friend, Saanji, speak for himself.”
Saanji blushed. He happened to be riding between the two and suddenly felt caught in a place where he most definitely did not want to be. “Call it sibling rivalry, if you like.” To Zeia, he said, “My brother is Chorlga’s ally. He also happens to be in command of what is currently the largest army on the continent. And he’s a sadistic bastard, besides. Killing him is about the closest thing to justice that Ruun can muster.”
“And Chorlga commands a host of Jolym, the Nightmare, and his own powers, besides. What will we do if he attacks one flank while the Bloody Prince attacks the other?”
Saanji raised one eyebrow. Part of him wished that Zeia had voiced the sentiment earlier.
Royce said, “If we lift the siege at Atheion, we’ll have the Isle Knights and the Noshans with us… plus, if we’re lucky, that one particular Isle Knight you’re so keen on finding. With our combined strength, we’ll be able to fight anyone—including Chorlga and his demon.”
Saanji noticed that Royce was speaking louder than he needed to. He glanced around at the Ivairian and Earless officers riding within earshot. He smothered a grin, bit back his cynical retort, and nodded. “Oh, of that, I have no doubt.”
Despite Saanji’s best efforts to sound sincere, Royce flashed Saanji a withering look.
“We need to form a better strategy for fighting the Jolym,” Zeia said. Holding her reins with hands of fire, she nodded toward Royce’s vanguard, which consisted of a hundred armored men with heavy lances. “Spears and swords won’t be any help against them.”
Royce said, “We have a thousand Earless archers. If needs be, we can arm more men with crossbows. They take little skill to use, and if you fire enough of them at a target, some are bound to strike home.”
“We’re only talking about a few hundred Jolym,” Saanji reminded her.
Zeia’s violet eyes narrowed dangerously. “Just one Jol nearly killed Shade and myself… two of the most powerful Shel’ai on the continent.”
Saanji shuddered, though he was not sure whether Zeia’s tone or her statement frightened him.
“When we reach Atheion,” Royce said, “we’ll have the Jolym trapped between us and the city’s defenders. We have horses. The Jolym are on foot. Have no fear, m’lady. We’ll mow them down with ease.”
Saanji studied Royce’s expression. He doesn’t really believe that, he decided. “So what do we do after Atheion? Do you think we should give my brother the chance to surrender?”
“Actually, I was thinking I’d cut him down in front of all his men, then string him up by his feet and let his bloody corpse drain in front of the city like a butchered pig.” Royce smirked at Saanji. “I hope that won’t cast a pall over our friendship.”
“You… mean to challenge him?”
Royce nodded slowly. One hand rested on his kingsteel bastard sword. “Do you think he’ll accept?”
Saanji thought it over. “Yes,” he said finally, “but why risk it?”
“It’s a worthy risk. If I kill the Bloody Prince, his men may lose heart. The slaves and captives in Hesod might revolt. We could save thousands of lives—which we’ll need if we’re fighting Chorlga after this.” His eyes narrowed. “Or do you think your brother is better?”
Saanji thought back to the practice yard and of how fast Royce moved, his steel blurring in the winter light. He shook his head. “I’m not questioning your sword arm, my friend.”
“Perhaps you were hoping to make amends with your brother before he goes to the gods?”
Though Saanji guessed that Royce was joking, he touched the opal ring through his cuirass again. “No,” he answered in a low voice. Tears stung his eyes. He cursed himself and blinked quickly, willing them back.
Rowen opened his eyes. Daylight made him wince. Then he shivered. He realized he was lying in a fissure of rocks and snow. He sat up. Thessa was kneeling in the snow next to him. She said something he did not hear. He clawed at the snow, looking for Knightswrath. Then he remembered it was lost. He closed his eyes, biting back a stream of curses and tears.
Silwren… I’m sorry.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up a drawn length of steel.
“Who are you?” a woman’s voice demanded.
Rowen faced the speaker: a tanned, dark-haired woman in mismatched armor, holding a well-notched longsword. Before he could answer, Thessa spoke for him.
“I told you his name. He’s not a Dhargot. He knows Igrid. He’s one of the Knights from the east. Can’t you see the armor he’s wearing?”
Rowen glanced down. Someone had removed his tunic. His kingsteel cuirass gleamed in the winter light.
“Names mean nothing, child. And armor can be stolen by any fool who chances upon a corpse.” The dark-haired swordswoman prodded Rowen’s cuirass with the tip of her sword. The blade sparked. “You’re too pale to be an Isleman. I’d say you’re from the Free Cities, probably a sellsword. So let’s have the truth.”
Rowen looked around. Dozens of Iron Sisters, all armed, surrounded him. A few scowled in his direction, but most faced north, toward a gaping hole in the rock spewing a partially frozen stream of filth.
“I’d tell you my name, but you already said names mean nothing. Judging by the reek, that’s the opening to the sewers. We’re outside the city. You haven’t killed me yet. You haven’t thanked me, either. Feel free to skip both, and I’ll be on my way.”
He started to rise.
The dark-haired swordswoman stabbed his cuirass, knocking him back down. “I’m not in the habit of thanking demons. I might be in the habit of killing them, given the chance… or letting them go if they answer my questions.”
“Where are the Dhargots?” Rowen asked. “They should have swarmed over us by now.”
“They started to, then pulled back. There’s another army close. I think they’re afraid of a siege. But there’s still plenty of those bastards prowling around the sewers.”
In the sewers…
Rowen shook his head, trying to focus on more immediate concerns. He could not imagine who would be poised to lay siege to Hesod. The Sylvan army was in tatters and occupied with the Olgrym. From what El’rash’lin had told him, the Isle Knights and the Dwarrs had their own problems, and he doubted Lyos would send the Red Watch this far in the middle of winter to help a foreign city. He could not imagine the Noshans doing it, either.
The swordswoman jabbed his cuirass again
. “Speak, or I’ll stick this sword where you don’t have any armor.”
Rowen bit back an angry retort. “The girl speaks the truth. My name is Rowen Locke. Igrid was my friend. I came to help her. But I saw her… hanging from the walls.” He glanced at Thessa then back at the dark-haired swordswoman. “So I helped you instead. Don’t make me regret it.”
The Iron Sister frowned. “You don’t have purple eyes or pointed ears. You’re not a Shel’ai. So tell me how you carved through rock so thick, it was going to take us another two weeks to tunnel our way out.”
Rowen pictured Knightswrath lying in filthy water, lost in the darkness of the city sewers. Surely, by now, the Dhargots had entered the temple and found the hole he’d carved. How long would it be before they found the sword, too?
He felt a surge of hope when he remembered how merely picking up the sword had left Briel’s hand blistered. But how long would that keep the sword safe? How long before the Dhargots wrapped it in a cloak or found some other way to carry their great prize back to their prince?
How long before it finds its way to Chorlga?
Rowen started to rise to his feet again. This time, when the Iron Sister tried to knock him back down, he kicked her legs out from under her. Iron Sisters swarmed around him, leveling swords. But none looked willing to get too close.
The dark-haired swordswoman stood, unperturbed, dusting the snow off her mismatched armor. Rowen noted with grudging admiration that she had kept hold of her longsword in the fall. “My name is Haesha,” she said. “I like people to know my name, just in case I have to kill them later.”
Rowen felt a chill run down his spine, remembering a time when a sellsword named Dagath had told him almost exactly the same thing. “Haesha… Igrid went by that name for a while.”
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 41
