Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Saanji glanced at the only two people at the table who had not yet spoken. Seated at the far end, Rowen Locke looked as pale as the snow still piled outside Royce’s tent. Sweat glazed his forehead. The sight reminded Saanji of how he himself felt when he ran out of wine.

  It’s that sword. Having it, then not having it, has done something to him.

  Seated beside Rowen was Jalist Hewn. The Dwarr had so far divided his attention between concern for Rowen and furtive glances toward Prince Leander. Saanji had already guessed that the two must have been lovers at one time, though the Dwarrish prince seemed to be making a point of pretending otherwise.

  Deciding that he would receive no help from either, Saanji changed tactics. “At the very least, we should wait for Zeia.”

  Rowen glanced up sharply at the mention of Zeia, but Royce said, “Why?”

  The question caught Saanji off guard, but he formed an answer quickly. “Because she’s a Shel’ai, because she’s fey as a greatwolf, and because she’ll be coming back with a magic sword that, if what I’ve heard is true, can slice through city walls like a hot knife through butter. How are those for reasons?”

  The members of the council all turned to Rowen for confirmation. The Knight of the Crane said nothing.

  After a tense pause, Aeko Shingawa said, “It makes sense to face an enemy when you’re at your strongest.”

  Haesha shook her head. “The wytch might be back within the hour, or a few days from now, or maybe never. We can’t wait.”

  “Nor should we,” Royce added. “If Zeia’s task is as important as she claimed, the more we distract the Dhargots, the better. Short of launching a full attack on the city, I know of no better distraction than summoning all of them to the walls to watch me cut their beloved prince to shreds.”

  Saanji frowned. He settled back in his chair, studying his friend. “Why do I get the impression that you’ve already made up your mind?”

  Royce smiled. “Because I have.”

  Prince Leander cleared his throat. “No offense, Lancer, but you don’t command this host.”

  Haesha laughed. “Well, he certainly commands the biggest share of it.”

  “I don’t presume to speak for the Dwarrs,” Royce added quickly. “This is my fight, my risk.”

  “But this alliance belongs to all of us,” Aeko countered.

  “Says the woman in command of just twenty-odd Knights,” Haesha snorted.

  Aeko faced the Iron Sister, unperturbed. “Says a Knight of the Lotus with years of battle experience and as much desire to watch our enemies burn as you have.”

  Haesha looked prepared to argue, but Kentua stood up, his tall frame nearly brushing the top of the tent. “This bickering will count for nothing if the Jolym attack us from behind. If the Lancer wants to issue his challenge, so be it. I’ll leave this siege to the rest of you. My riders have no interest in Hesod, anyway. Our skills can be put to greater use if we ride east to protect the rear.”

  Leander nodded. “My Housecarls will go with you.” He turned back to Royce. “I assume the Cassicans you command will want to stay with you, since it’s the Dhargots they want revenge on, but if you have any archers, you should send them with us. They’ll be put to best use fighting Jolym.”

  Aeko rose to her feet as well. She held up her hands. “I suggest we not disband our alliance before it’s even one week old.”

  The Army of Three Princes, Saanji thought. Only a week ago, they were calling it the New Alliance. Probably doesn’t bode well that we can’t settle on a name.

  Kentua said, “We’re not disbanding, Knight. We’re facing two great armies, one at Hesod, the other at Cadavash. It makes sense that we divide our forces. Besides, my horse-archers wouldn’t be much use in a siege, anyway. We’re better suited to putting arrows through the eyes of Jolym while our strong Dwarrish friends hold them down.” Smiling, he clapped Leander on the shoulder.

  Saanji turned to Rowen, who was seated across from him at the far end of the table. “Gods, say something,” he muttered, too quietly for anyone to hear. He could feel it all unraveling. Who better to unify them than the man chosen to wield the sword of Fâyu Jinn? But Rowen continued to sit, pale and silent, arms crossed as though barely holding himself together.

  “Our Queshi friend speaks the truth,” Royce said finally. “If the Queshi and the Dwarrs agree to guard our eastern flank from Chorlga and his Jolym, we’ll contend with the Dhargots. Once they’re defeated, or at least once the Bloody Prince is dead and the city in chaos, we’ll march east to relieve you.”

  Leander stood and nodded. “If such aid proves necessary, it will be most welcome.”

  Everyone else still seated rose from their seats, Rowen last of all.

  Royce said, “Then it seems our council is concluded. I’ll issue my challenge to the Bloody Prince within the hour. With luck, he’ll answer at once, and I’ll have him roiling in Fohl’s hells by sundown.”

  Leander said, “The siege is your business, but we’ll stay long enough to watch you kill him.” He reached across the table and offered Royce his hand. Royce shook it.

  Haesha said, not unkindly, “Just so you know, Lancer, I plan on spending the next hour praying that the goddesses let me take your place.”

  Saanji said, “And I’ll be praying that that legendary sword arm of yours doesn’t get overconfident. My brother is no bumbling squire, you know.”

  Royce tapped the hilt of his kingsteel sword. “I never said he was. Luckily, I’m not, either.”

  Sweet gods, I hope so! “Good,” Saanji said. “Then dance circles around the bastard until he’s pissing blood.” He stepped forward and embraced his friend. Then, after casting a final disappointed glance at Rowen Locke, he went out to pace the camp and see if Zeia had returned.

  Rowen rose last from the council table, stirring only when Aeko touched his shoulder and startled him out of an odd daydream. In the daydream, he kept shifting from burning alive to transforming into the very flames that burned him, then back again. He blinked at Aeko then looked around and saw that the others had already left. Two of Arnil Royce’s squires were busy removing the cups and wine from the table. One gave them a sour glance, hinting that he wished them to leave so that they could finish tidying up.

  “So much for the meeting.”

  “Yes,” Jalist said, appearing at his other side. “I think everybody wanted to retire and consider your thoughtful words.”

  Aeko gave Jalist a dark look, but Rowen said, “What did you expect me to say? I’m no general.” He looked down and flexed his fingers.

  Aeko said, “You know more about magic than anyone here, including me.”

  Rowen shrugged. “Royce seems like a competent general.”

  “But he’s used to fighting muscle and steel, not magic. I doubt, present company aside, if any of these commanders have ever even seen wytchfire before.”

  “Don’t forget Zeia,” Jalist muttered.

  “Won’t matter,” Rowen said. “You heard them. They’re only going after the Dhargots right now. Chorlga is my problem.”

  Jalist picked up his long axe, which he’d leaned against the council table, and rested it over his shoulder. “Wake up, Locke. Chorlga is everybody’s damn problem.”

  “But mine more than yours.” Rowen glanced down at the Ivairian bastard sword hanging where Knightswrath used to be. “Somehow…maybe when Zeia gets back with the sword, I can…”

  Jalist grabbed his arm and shook him. “Gods, Locke! Did someone burn the brains out of your skull while I was asleep? What’s wrong with you?”

  Aeko moved to separate them. Rowen blinked as though he’d just been startled awake again. In a low voice, he said, “If so, kill him for me. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

  Jalist’s expression went from angry to worried
. In a softer voice, he repeated, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I should have gone with her,” Rowen muttered.

  “Who? Zeia?”

  Rowen nodded. “Zeia. Igrid. Maybe Silwren. All of them. I should have gone with them.”

  Jalist and Aeko exchanged looks. Aeko said, “Speaking on behalf of every woman on Ruun, I release you from any foolish obligations you have in mind. Now go and get some sleep, Squire.”

  Rowen shook his head. “I should be there when the Lancer kills the Bloody Prince. Besides, I’m not sure sleep would help me.”

  “Fine,” Jalist said. “We’ll watch the Dhargot die, then while the rest of the city is tearing itself in two, you can sleep. I’ll bring you sweet rolls and warm milk and tell you a gods-damned bedtime story, if you like.”

  Rowen half smiled. “You don’t need to play nursemaid, my friend. Go be with your prince.”

  Jalist blushed. “I already told you—”

  A trumpet peal ripped through the morning air. Jalist swore, but Aeko said, “That’s Ivairian. Sounds like the Lancer doesn’t like to waste time.”

  “Good,” Jalist mumbled. He cast a sidelong glance at Rowen. All three exited the tent together. Though Rowen tried to walk ahead of his companions, both hurried so that they stayed on each side of him.

  Karhaati stood on the battlements overlooking the little-used eastern gates and stared at the impossible. An army of Lancers and renegade Dhargots unfurled across the snowy plains, as he had already anticipated it would, but they were not alone. A seemingly endless line of lean, bronze-skinned archers on red horses followed them, accompanied by a tight knot of women in mismatched armor, plus an even stranger sight: at least two hundred stout, Dwarrish Housecarls in gleaming ringmail. And here and there rode Isle Knights in azure and kingsteel.

  The Dhargots manning the battlements began to speak in fearful whispers and point, but Karhaati laughed. “It seems the whole continent has decided to show us what their blood looks like frozen in the ice. So be it.”

  He was about to issue commands to his archers when Dagath pointed. A single Lancer was moving ahead of the army, trudging on foot through the snow, toward the eastern gate. Though his full armor looked identical in design to the other Lancers’, it had been gilded with golden scrollwork. The Lancer stood in the snow, staring up at the battlements, so still that Karhaati might have mistaken him for a Jol.

  Karhaati’s pulse quickened. Does he mean to—

  “Want us to fill him with arrows?” Dagath asked. His voice rumbled with anger. The sellsword’s good eye was bloodshot, as though he had not slept. Nevertheless, he plucked a crossbow from a Dhargot’s hands, spanned it, and reached for a bolt.

  “No,” Karhaati said. “Don’t spoil it. Something tells me this is going to be quite interesting.”

  For a long time, the Lancer stood, unmoving and defiant. Finally, he reached up, removed his helmet, and dropped it into the snow. In a deep, booming voice, he shouted up at the battlements. “I am Arnil Royce, First Lancer to the King of Ivairia. I have come to challenge Karhaati, also called the Bloody Prince, to come forth and answer for the crimes done against my people.” He paused. “If he has the courage, let him arm himself and step out. Let him meet me, so that all may watch him die.”

  Heavy silence fell over the battlements. Karhaati felt the weight of thousands of eyes turning to look at him, awaiting his response. Is this it… my good death? He laughed again. Then he shrugged off his cloak. “So be it,” he said again. He turned to Dagath. “Remember your vow, Sellsword. If I die, kill the red-haired woman. Make it quick.”

  Dagath’s good eye narrowed. “I remember. But… begging your pardon, Prince, I’ve heard of this one. They say he’s Fohl’s own mistress with a blade. Maybe he’s—”

  Karhaati ignored the rest. He touched the dark braid tucked into his belt. Then he removed the braid, tucked it under the neck of his cuirass, and removed each of his swordbelts. He handed his matching shortswords to Dagath. He gave him his thick, heavy necklace of dried ears as well. As much as Karhaati enjoyed wearing it in battle, knowing the sight of it could intimidate his opponents, it could also be an encumbrance. Besides, something told him that this opponent would not be so easily intimidated.

  “Bring me Widowswail,” he said.

  A slave stepped forward and offered him a plain, ancient-looking bastard sword wrapped in dark silk. He took it by its black pommel, admiring the black pearls inlaid in the crosspiece, and drew it. Ghastly scrollwork covered the blade, depicting graphic acts of murder and rapine.

  “The Lancer is mine. Let no one interfere,” he told his archers. Leaning over the battlements, he stretched out his arm. Slowly, he lowered Widowswail until its tip pointed at the Lancer. The Lancer stared back, unmoving.

  “Be right down,” Karhaati called. As he descended from the battlements and ordered his men to open the city gates, he realized that he might have said the same thing to Fohl, the Undergod, and the ghosts of all the men he’d killed, roiling somewhere in the dark earth.

  Saanji tugged at his cuirass, certain that his armor had somehow shrunk and was attempting to suffocate him. “Gods, get this over with,” he muttered. Though he stood at the head of the army, surrounded by Earless, he was torn between striding ahead to be closer to Arnil Royce and retreating back into the ranks so that his brother would not see him.

  He’d already been relieved when the Dhargots had not tried to kill Royce with arrows the moment he stepped within range. Lancers on horseback, carrying massive tower-shields, had been ready to race in and protect him with their own lives. Now the First Lancer stood, stock still, waiting to see if the challenge would be answered.

  Saanji wished Royce had decided to issue his challenge from horseback, lance in hand, though he understood that not everyone would have viewed that as honorable. The Ivairians were unquestionably better at fighting on horseback, so much so that Karhaati might have simply used Royce as target practice for his crossbowmen.

  He thought of the suggestion that Haesha had offered in a conspiratorial whisper outside the tent: that the moment the Bloody Prince emerged from the protection of the city walls, they could erase him with a hail of arrows fired by the powerful composite bows of the Queshi. Saanji had refused. He knew enough about the Queshi to know that they would never agree to such a thing, either.

  Besides, Royce would never forgive me for that. And I can’t fight this war without him.

  As the minutes passed without answer, Saanji wondered if his brother was still asleep or just busy tormenting some poor innocent subject elsewhere in the city. Then he spotted a single armored Dhargot gesture from the battlements. A moment later, the city gates rumbled open.

  Saanji’s stomach twisted. He fixed his gaze on Royce. “Finish it, my friend.” As he stood at the head of a crowding host of onlookers, he began to pray, touching the little opal ring still hanging around his neck.

  Rowen stood at the front of the host, next to Jalist and Aeko. As the duel began, the Lancers and the Earless cheered, thousands upon thousands adding their voices to a growing chorus in the chilly air. His throat tightened.

  The Dhargot who emerged from the gates of Hesod towered over the Lancer. He swung his blade with the lazy contempt of a swordmaster. His size and derisive stride instantly reminded Rowen of Jaanti, the fearsome Dhargot he’d fought in a village outside Atheion. That Dhargot had almost killed him. Rowen’s victory had been chance as much as anything. Jaanti had simply underestimated him and toyed with him for too long.

  Rowen blinked away his weariness and glanced at Jalist. The Dwarr looked back, his dark eyes narrowing. Rowen wondered if they were thinking the same thing. But Rowen had glimpsed Royce’s expression while the army was still massing just beyond bow-shot, before he strode ahead to issue his challenge. The First Lancer looked deadly serious.
Surely, he knew what was at stake. He would not be foolish enough to toy with an opponent as dangerous as the Bloody Prince.

  And Royce’s men love him, Rowen thought, listening to the cheers. What if Knightswrath had passed to him instead of me? He shook off the thought and returned his attention to the battle.

  A kingsteel bastard sword gleamed in Royce’s hands. Somehow, despite the snow and the weight of his armor, the Lancer moved like a dancer. He dodged Karhaati’s powerful swings with apparent ease and jabbed at the Bloody Prince’s armor, leaving dents and bright scratches all over the darkened steel.

  The Bloody Prince’s frustration grew. He shouted curses and insults as he swung. Each time the Lancer retreated, the Bloody Prince chased after him, swinging wildly.

  “He’s got to get tired soon,” Jalist said.

  But the Bloody Prince seemed inexhaustible. He gouged a dent in Royce’s breastplate that made thousands of onlookers gasp in unison, but Royce recovered in the blink of an eye and nearly cut off Karhaati’s head before the Bloody Prince beat him back.

  The two swordsmen paused a moment. Dhargots shouted encouragement and jeered at Royce from the walls, though the Lancer seemed oblivious to everything but his opponent. The Lancer stooped, his kingsteel sword held low, as though it were him and not the Bloody Prince who was beginning to tire. Then he leapt forward.

  A blur of steel, faster than should have been possible, he danced around his startled opponent, moving first one way, then the other. His kingsteel sword rang off Karhaati’s armor again and again. Sparks rained on the snowy earth. Blood followed. The Lancers’ cheers became deafening. The Earless cheered, too. Rowen turned and saw Saanji cupping his hands around his mouth, his eyes wide.