No, he thought. I will not fail. Not here. Not now.
He struggled back to the surface. His hands found the ice. Wytchfire flared, blinding him. Frantic, furious, he melted the ice and clawed his way out.
And then, he was on the plains again, standing outside Cadavash. He stood alone. The Nightmare lay facedown on the snow, unmoving. Wings of ash had formed beneath his body; Chorlga barely had time to register the curious sight before the wind blew them away. A stabbing pain in his chest drew him back to his senses.
Not much time…
He would have to finish the task on his own. Though he had spared one single Jol—his oldest and strongest—he had already sent him away, lest Chorlga be tempted to command the Jol to carry him to his destination. With the addition of the Nightmare, Chorlga’s powers had become too volatile. Touching the Jol would either release that power too early or melt it completely.
“I have commanded armies, slain kings, defied gods. I can walk a hundred feet on my own.”
Still, he stooped to retrieve the staff he’d placed there earlier, suspecting he would need it. He took a deep breath and started out. Step by agonizing step, he hobbled away from the dead dragon-worshippers and the rows of silent, kneeling Jolym. Rather than return to Cadavash, he made his way south across the snowy plains.
Slowly, the darkness began to tighten around him. He felt as though the world itself were squeezing him inside some great, invisible fist. Though he did not have far to go, what might have taken him just a few moments in the past now took ages. His senses betrayed him. His vision blurred. Normally all but immune to the cold, he felt it piercing him on all sides, like arrows made of ice that pierced him bone deep. Sometimes, though, the cold vanished, and in its place, he felt searing, maddening heat. The vise-like pressure of the air around him intensified.
Worst of all, though, were the screams.
He mistook them for the wind at first, until they grew louder, and he realized with frightful clarity that they emanated from within. Chorlga shook his head, trying to block them out. He had anticipated this, having experienced some of these symptoms when he drained power from Namundvar’s Well, but the internal cacophony was worse.
He spun. His staff shuddered as though it supported far more than just his weight. Then it snapped. Chorlga could not catch himself. He pitched forward into the snow, which struck his face with the hardness of stone. A new kind of pain spread in waves throughout his entire body. He closed his eyes and screamed, adding his voice to the grisly chorus in his head.
I can’t do this. I’m going to fail. I’m going to die.
Fresh panic filled him. In his quest for power and vengeance, he’d defied both the gods and the Light and broken laws even the cruelest Dragonkin had never dared to test. What torments would they inflict upon his soul if he perished now?
Chorlga opened his eyes. He began to crawl through the snow, inch by inch. The earth raked him, tearing through his clothes, shredding his flesh as though freshly fallen snow had somehow been transformed into a field of broken glass. But still he crawled.
Finally, when he feared he could go no farther, he saw it: a nub of white bone lying in the snow, swirled faintly with crimson. His heart leapt. That bone joined another, then another. He lifted his head. Countless bones spread out before him, each one meticulously joined to the next with collars and chains wrought of kingsteel.
Somehow, Chorlga found the strength to kneel. The countless voices in his mind stopped screaming. The terrible cold melted away, replaced by a giddy warmth. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the enormous skeleton of Godsbane to the darkened heavens. He gave Armahg’s Eye a wolfish grin. “You have failed.”
He waited for the heavens to answer. He half expected the gods, or the shades of El’rash’lin, Silwren, and perhaps even Fadarah and the Nightmare, to appear before him, blazing in the darkness, begging him not to proceed. But all he heard was a distant, mournful wind blowing across the empty plains.
Chorlga closed his eyes. He extended one hand and touched the very tip of one wing bone. An icy jolt raced up his arm, but Chorlga answered with wytchfire. Purple flames raced down his arm, pulsing from his fingertips. The dragonbone soaked up the flames like parched earth welcoming the rain.
Chorlga unleashed more. All that he had absorbed, he funneled slowly, carefully, through his fingertips. Wytchfire filled the first bone then overflowed to the next. Inch by inch, purple flames spread throughout each of the countless bones that formed the dragon’s six great wings. Then they spread to its serpentine tail, its four limbs, and its cavernous ribcage.
Finally, they crawled up a long neck to its gargantuan skull, which rested on its side in the snow. Wytchfire filled the skull, pouring into it like water siphoned back into a bottomless well. Chorlga wondered if it would be enough. Then, finally, purple flames overflowed the eye sockets, flickering toward the heavens in bright, unforgiving tongues.
But Chorlga was not finished yet.
The creation of a single Jol had taken a full year—the scrap of himself needed that long to blossom into a crude form of consciousness. For a dragon, that would take longer—perhaps an entire century. But Chorlga could not afford to wait. So he gave more of himself than he ever had. Into Godsbane’s bones, he poured not just the power he’d absorbed from his dragon-worshippers and all he’d taken back from his Jolym but as much of himself as he could give without dying.
A second, wild surge of panic filled him. What good would it do to establish a new empire on Ruun if he lost all that he was in the process and became a thing no more mindful than one of his Jolym? What revenge on the gods and all these paltry races could he savor if he sacrificed all ability to feel?
That will not happen. My fury is as deep as the water beneath the frozen crust of the Wintersea. I will endure.
He renewed the process, pouring out still more wytchfire. The flames darkened, reminding him of the telltale, darker blood that leaked from a mortal wound. But he did not stop. He forced himself to continue despite his blurred vision, the ache in his chest, a deep feeling of deflating organs, and bones gone brittle.
Finally, he withdrew his hand. Wytchfire continued to course through the bones, darkening them from stark white to ash gray. Wytchfire pooled in the eye sockets, continuing to blaze there though it dimmed everywhere else.
Chorlga struggled to stay on his feet. Indescribable weariness flooded him. But he forced his eyes to stay open. He felt a new presence beginning to awaken. It felt simultaneously ancient and new. Raw anger roiled in the air, tangible as his own fogging breath. For a moment, he feared that too much of Godsbane’s own wrathful consciousness had been recalled from the Light and that he would not be able to control his own creation.
Then the wrath dimmed, and the wytchfire blazing in the dragon’s eye sockets brightened. Tendrils of wytchfire flickered between the bones. The now-blackened kingsteel chains that joined the bones creaked but held. The wings stirred.
A fresh surge of exhilaration made Chorlga forget his exhaustion. “Godsbane,” he whispered, “whom do you serve?”
Slowly, the Dragonjol lifted its head. Enormous pools of wytchfire regarded Chorlga. Its jaw opened. The Dragonkin trembled. Instead of speaking or exhaling fire, the Dragonjol bowed its massive head. Horns twice the length of lances dipped toward the ground. Its voice rang through Chorlga’s mind like a thousand trumpets.
“I serve the Emperor of Dragons. His enemies are my own. Let all who would defy him tremble.”
“Let us put that to the test.” Into the Dragonjol’s mind, Chorlga projected an image of his first target. The Dragonjol responded at once by lifting itself off the snow. Its tail snapped back and forth. Its massive wings spread, flexed, and began to move. Though no membranes of flesh joined the wing bones, the Dragonjol rose.
Chorlga watched, speechless.
; The six wings beat in perfect synchronicity. Somehow, though, the Dragonjol made no sound save the rattling of the kingsteel chains that joined its bones. The ghastly, flaming apparition hovered then rose higher. Chorlga watched until it vanished from sight, winging westward. The rising sun glinted off the collared bones of its long, whipping tail.
Chorlga’s strength failed. He pitched face first into the snow. For the first time, he realized that where Godsbane had lain, the snow had been transformed to ash. The smell of charred flesh filled his nostrils.
He imagined what was to come. A pang of guilt rose up within him, but he squelched it away. With the last of his fading strength, he summoned his only remaining Jol to carry him into Cadavash, where he could rest. Then, confident that he was safe, he surrendered his own senses and assumed those of the Dragonjol. He felt as though his own body were drifting at fantastic speed through the clouds, filling lungs the size of a house with crisp morning air. His eyes seemed to stare down at the lands of Ruun, now awash with red-gold sunrise.
Chorlga’s eyes filled with tears.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Crossroads
Rowen woke on a straw bed in a gigantic tent, facing a massive fire. Smoke from the fire escaped through a hole in the ceiling. A cauldron of sweet-smelling stew bubbled over the fire, which was so hot that sweat beaded on his forehead, even as his stomach growled. Rowen looked under a thick blanket and saw that he was in his underclothes. He turned left and saw his kingsteel cuirass resting on a table, cleaned and polished, along with the rest of his possessions.
He turned right and saw Jalist Hewn.
The Dwarr smiled from his chair. “Locke, my friend, you’ve got either the greatest or the worst damn luck in the whole world.” He stood. In place of his former attire, he wore a ringmail vest of leather and steel. His bare, powerful arms reached for the long axe leaning against his chair. The long axe was bright, newly forged metal, with a long shaft of wood wrapped in dark leather and banded in silver. Jalist moved it aside, leaned forward, and squeezed Rowen’s shoulder.
“I know. You didn’t get Igrid out. The Iron Sisters told me. By the way, the one named Haesha says she’s sorry for cracking your skull. She did it to save your life, but it turns out she struck a bit too hard. Good thing we had a Shel’ai handy to heal you.”
Rowen resisted the impulse to curse at the mention of the Iron Sister who had thwarted his attempt to reenter the sewers of Hesod and find Knightswrath. “What Shel’ai?”
“One we haven’t met before. If we had, we’d remember.” He shook his head before Rowen could ask his next question. “Don’t worry about her. You’ll meet her soon enough. Now, about Igrid…”
Rowen sat up, winced through his headache, and got out of bed. Despite his dizziness, he started to get dressed. “I’m glad you’re alive, my friend, but Igrid is the least of my worries.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“What happened to the girl?”
“You mean the child you rescued? She’s safe. She’s with some clerics. She tried to see you a couple times. And she’s not the only one. You’ve been asleep for two days.”
Rowen froze. “Two days?”
Though they were alone, Jalist lowered his voice. “Listen, Locke, it wasn’t just the lump on the skull that Haesha gave you. I don’t know what happened to you in Hesod, but you went mad as a dragonpriest for a while. They had to tie you down to the bed. You were raving like some beggar who’s smoked too much fran-té.”
Rowen’s hands shook. “Two days…” He thought of Knightswrath, lying in the city sewers all that time. Surely, the Bloody Prince had it by now. “I’ve got to get back into the city.”
“Igrid can wait. Trust me.”
“This isn’t about Igrid.” Rowen started for the tent flap. Jalist grabbed his arm. With astonishing strength, he pushed Rowen backward.
“Hold still and calm down, Locke. Whatever you plan on doing, it can wait until you get your armor on and a little sense back in that porridge you call brains.” He handed Rowen a sweetbitter leaf. “Chew that first. Your breath smells like you’ve been eating raw urusk for the past month. Might want to remedy that before you meet royalty.”
Rowen forgot about Knightswrath for a moment. He chewed the leaf until its sweet taste turned bitter, then he spat it out. He gratefully accepted the cup of cold water that Jalist handed him and drank half of it in one gulp. “Are you secretly a king or something?”
“Thank the gods, no. I don’t think my heart could handle any more surprises.”
“I hope mine can.” Rowen winced as the headache returned.
Jalist plucked the cup of water from Rowen’s hand, poured it out, and filled it with wine. Rowen drank deeply then went back to donning his armor. Jalist helped him.
“I’m surprised you aren’t ordering me to rest,” Rowen said, “especially if I was as crazy as you said.” He wondered if Jalist had exaggerated. Rowen remembered having no nightmares related to Knightswrath, Chorlga, or Silwren, as he had before. Chorlga had not attempted to speak to him through dreams. But the comparison to those who smoked too much fran-té alarmed him. He’d seen slum dwellers in the Dark Quarter who became so addicted to the intoxicating, hallucinatory substance that not having it for even a short period of time drove them raving mad.
“My friend, after all I’ve seen the past few days, something tells me the best thing I can do is just help you get this armor on.” Jalist went to a different table across the tent and came back with two Ivairian blades: a bastard sword and a shortsword, both waisted, with brass crossguards and wire-wrapped handles. He gave them to Rowen.
“Where did you get these?”
“Royce left them for you.”
“And who in Fohl’s hells is Royce?”
As though in response, the tent flap opened. Two figures walked in. A slender, balding man of medium build wore full armor. His cuirass bore the gilded engraving of a crowned horse. Beside him walked a pudgy man in dark scale armor. At the sight of the latter, Rowen started to draw one of his swords. Jalist stopped him.
“This is Prince Saanji of Dhargoth.”
“So?”
Prince Saanji smiled faintly. “Despite how that sounds, I’m a friend. Glad to see you aren’t howling like a rabid animal anymore.” Before Rowen could answer, he said, “I won’t stay. I just wanted to meet the famous Isle Knight who’s been the source of so many implausible barroom tales.”
Saanji glanced at his Ivairian counterpart. “If you want to chat with the newest recruit in our army of madmen, I’ll just go meet with Haesha and the Iron Sisters, maybe see what we can do about getting them outfitted with some armor and decent weapons.”
The Lancer nodded, and the Dhargothi prince left. When the Dhargot was gone, the Lancer faced Rowen. He gave Rowen a suspicious look then bowed. “My name is Arnil Royce. I met Igrid on the road, north of the Red Steppes. I’m sorry to hear that you couldn’t get her out of Hesod.” He paused. “And given what I’ve been hearing lately about Chorlga, the Nightmare, and all those gods-damned Jolym, I’m even sorrier to see that you no longer have a certain sword of fire hanging at your side.”
Rowen looked from the Lancer to Jalist, then back to the Lancer. “I feel like I just walked into a tavern, but the bard was already halfway through his song.”
Royce smirked. “I don’t doubt it. Your friend can answer most of your questions, I’m sure. In the meantime, I have some of my own, and a few thousand men whose lives depend on what you have to say.”
Rowen recovered from his surprise enough to gird the two swords Jalist had given him. “Point me toward Hesod, because that’s where I’m going. If you want to talk, we can talk along the way.” He started toward the tent flap.
Royce moved to block him. “Apologies, Knight, but Jinn’s sword will have to wait. I’m
sure Zeia will be here to talk to you about that in a moment, anyway. In the meantime, I’ve already spoken with the Iron Sisters, but they’ve spent most of the past few months in a dungeon. So I need to know what you know about the strength of the Bloody Prince’s forces, if he has any Jolym in the city, and how likely it is that the slaves might rise up and fight with us.”
Rowen considered trying to force Arnil Royce out of the way. Though not an Isle Knight, and a bit smaller, the man had the look of a seasoned warrior. Rowen knew a little about the fearsome reputation of the Lancers who served the king of Ivairia, where his parents had lived long ago.
Royce seemed to sense Rowen’s thoughts because one hand moved toward the brass, anthropomorphic hilt of his bastard sword. The Lancer raised one eyebrow. Rowen touched one of his own swords, but Jalist intervened.
“Well, Locke, you heard him. Did anybody discuss troop strength and the morale of their slaves while you were hiding in a tavern or sulking around in the sewers? No?” The Dwarr faced the Lancer. “I’ve been in the city, too, you know. I already told you, Karhaati has more men than you and the renegade prince combined, plus elephants and siege engines besides.”
Royce turned from Rowen to Jalist. “That’s why I need to know if I can count on a few thousand slaves rising up against their masters. If not, this will be one of the least successful sieges in the history of Ruun.”
A voice said, “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about Atheion.” A newcomer entered the tent and smiled. “Hello, Squire. I’ll have you know, you gave us a less-than-merry chase.”
Rowen’s eyes widened. He sidestepped away from the others then bowed deeply before the armored woman. “Commander—”
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 43
