Despite his distance, Rowen could see the Bloody Prince’s eyes widen, too, though for obviously different reasons. Blood trickled from the gaps in Karhaati’s armor. Again and again, he tried unsuccessfully to get away from the stinging blur that was Arnil Royce. Then he stumbled over something—Royce’s helmet, left in the snow—and reeled backward.
Surely, he already knew that was there… “No,” Rowen muttered, though no one heard him.
Rather than allow the Bloody Prince a chance to recover, Royce leapt forward. The tip of his kingsteel blade lunged for Karhaati’s exposed face. Karhaati was looking down. But somehow, he knew exactly where Royce’s sword was going to be. One gauntleted fist caught the blade and jerked it sideways. The Dhargot’s sword blurred.
Royce crumpled. Blood streamed down his armor at the elbow. But he did not cry out. Instead, he lifted his arm to fend off Karhaati’s next blow. Meanwhile, he tried to twist his own sword free. But Karhaati held on, even as blood streamed from his fist. Karhaati laughed. He swung again then again.
In the blink of an eye, onlookers on both sides went deathly quiet. The sound of ringing steel and Karhaati’s laughing grunts echoed in the morning air. Jalist shouted, “Gods, let go of the sword!”
Royce finally surrendered his weapon. With a bestial growl that betrayed no sign of injury, he launched himself at his bigger opponent. The Lancer reached for the Bloody Prince’s face. Momentarily holding both men’s swords, Karhaati stumbled backward, stunned by the smaller man’s ferocity. He let go of Royce’s sword. As the kingsteel blade fell into the snow, the Bloody Prince used his free hand to shield his face from the gauntleted fingers clawing for his eyes. He brought the pommel of his sword crashing down.
Royce suffered the first two blows to the head without acknowledgment. At the third, he stiffened. He stood at a half crouch in the snow, hands still raised, as though frozen. Karhaati took a step backward. He took a breath, gripped his own sword with both hands, and split open Royce’s head.
Rowen felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then all along the battlements of Hesod, the Dhargots cheered. The Bloody Prince jerked, as though hearing them for the first time, then turned. He waved at them with his bloody sword. He turned back to his opponent. Reaching behind his back, he drew a knife. He knelt.
The Lancers’ cries of despair became howls of rage. Dozens started forward, steel drawn, but it was too late. The Bloody Prince held up Royce’s ears. He blinked, unafraid, at the charging host. All along the battlements, crossbows shuddered. Hundreds of bolts thudded into the snow, forming a line between the Bloody Prince and the vengeful Lancers.
Rowen heard Saanji’s voice shouting over the din, ordering the men back. The renegade Dhargothi prince had his own sword drawn, his face deathly pale as he shouted commands. A moment later, the din quieted.
The Bloody Prince still hovered over Royce’s body, though he’d sheathed his sword. Holding Royce’s ears in one fist, he used his other hand to recover Royce’s sword from the snow. For a long time, he appraised the sword, openly appreciating his new prize. Then he shouted Saanji’s name.
Saanji stood ahead of his troops but turned sideways as though afraid to meet his brother’s gaze. Rowen felt a hand on his arm and realized that without even knowing it, he’d drawn his own sword and started forward, only to have Aeko stop him.
The Bloody Prince stood over Royce’s body, lazily swinging Royce’s sword as though it were his own. He taunted his brother, challenging him. Saanji did not move. Finally, Karhaati turned and started slowly back toward the city gates. They rumbled open once more. The Bloody Prince was almost back inside when he stopped, turned, and threw Royce’s sword, end over end.
It stuck in the snow and quivered just a few yards from Saanji. “Just in case you ever grow a spine, little brother,” Karhaati called. The Bloody Prince disappeared back inside the city. The oak-and-iron gates rumbled shut behind him. And all along the battlements, the Dhargots cheered again.
CHAPTER FORTY
Witness
Rowen stood with Aeko at the edge of the camp. A heavy snow had begun to fall, but none of the men seemed to notice it. He shook his head and watched as the Army of Three Princes began disbanding.
Prince Kentua left first. Rowen had seen it in the tall man’s eyes when a stunned company of Lancers hurried to recover Royce’s body and carry it back to his tent. The Queshi prince merely sighed and walked straight to his horse. The other Queshi followed. Rowen thought Saanji would try to stop them, but as turmoil swallowed the camp, the Earless prince was nowhere to be seen.
The Dwarrs left soon after. On foot, they marched after Prince Leander, who looked straight ahead and said nothing. Where’s Jalist? Rowen looked around and spotted his friend in the distance, wet eyed, leaning on his long axe. Rowen started toward him, but Jalist turned and walked away.
“That leaves the Lancers, the Earless, and the Iron Sisters,” Rowen muttered.
“And us,” Aeko added.
“I’m amazed the Dhargots haven’t just ridden out and attacked us already.”
Aeko grimaced. “No need. The longer they wait, the smaller this army becomes.”
Then a Knight of the Stag joined them. Rowen could not remember the man’s name, although Aeko had introduced him earlier as her second-in-command. His expression said that he had bad news.
“Captain Shingawa, the Iron Sisters are leaving.”
Aeko looked as though she were caught between swearing and laughing. “Where are they going?”
The Knight of the Stag glanced at Rowen then lowered his voice. “Back into the city, I think. They say they’re going to fight their way back into the sewers—”
“And die there,” Aeko interrupted. “Has Prince Saanji tried to talk them out of it yet?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him. But I spoke to the Iron Sisters’ captain. She seemed… a little drunk. She kept talking about vengeance. She threatened to kill me unless I walked away.”
Aeko rubbed her eyes. “I’ll talk to her myself. In the meantime, gather the Knights. They’ll need a speech after this.”
The Knight of the Stag nodded and hurried off.
Rowen looked up at the sky. Gods, Zeia, where are you? “If this snow keeps up, it’ll bury half the camp.”
Aeko tapped the hilt of her adamune. “I have to go try and talk the Iron Sisters out of doing something stupid. Then I have to try and convince my handful of Knights to do something just as stupid and stay here. That leaves Saanji for you.”
Rowen blinked. “What makes you think I want to talk to a Dhargot?”
“This one isn’t like the rest. At least, he doesn’t seem like it. Neither are the men who follow him.”
“Good for them. But what do you want me to do?”
“Anything you can. Help him talk to the Lancers. Convince them to stay.”
Rowen looked around at all the armed men milling about in the thickening snowfall, moving stoically between tents, pretending they didn’t hear the Dhargots of the Bloody Prince jeering at them from the walls. “I don’t think—”
“I don’t give a damn what you think,” Aeko snapped. “Either you’re a Knight of the Crane, or you aren’t. I haven’t surrendered yet. If you haven’t, either, put that wytch out of your mind and do something useful. That’s an order.”
Rowen wondered to which wytch she was referring—Zeia or Silwren. He muttered, “Yes, Knight-Captain.” He started to bow, but Aeko was already walking away. Rowen stood for a moment, trying to understand how everything could have changed so quickly. Then he went to find Prince Saanji.
When he found the renegade Dhargot’s tent empty, he approached the closest squad of Earless and asked where their prince had gone. No one knew. He stopped a Lancer next, but the man walked
away without answering as though he had not heard Rowen’s question. Rowen continued on and heard a commotion. Touching his sword hilt, he followed the sound and found an Earless and a Lancer engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument over a horse. Men massed on either side, armed and scowling.
Rowen considered intervening, then decided that he’d better find Saanji as quickly as possible. As he continued searching the camp, he spotted a squad of spearmen in mismatched armor. The men stood in silence around a campfire, glumly sharing a wineskin. Thinking they must be part of the Cassican militia, he delayed long enough to ask what they meant to do. Their quick looks and vague responses gave him his answer.
Moments later, a squad of Lancers nearly trampled him as they rode away, armored and stoic. Rowen wondered if they were going on patrol or simply deserting. Then he passed an old cleric who wore the large-breasted sigil of Tier’Gothma. He thought of Thessa. Following the cleric, he found Thessa in a tent, helping the other clerics tend the wounded. She wore clean clothes, and her small face shone with kindness and urgency.
Rowen smiled. He started toward her then stopped. The last time he’d spoken with her, he’d promised to rescue Igrid. True, it was Haesha who had stopped him—admittedly, to save his life—but he had done nothing since to follow through on that promise. By now, Igrid might very well be dead.
Another promise I couldn’t keep.
Rowen left the tent before Thessa had a chance to notice him. He finally spotted Saanji in the distance, amid a knot of anxious Earless officers. He started toward him. Then he stopped. His vision blurred, as though he were seeing the world through a haze of water.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking it was due to the snow. Instead of dissipating, the blurring intensified. A strange darkness nipped at the corners of his vision, accompanied by a growing feeling of vertigo. The sounds of the camp died away.
Magic, Rowen realized. Panic swelled within him. He reached instinctively for Knightswrath, only to touch the hilts of the ordinary swords at his belt. All sounds continued to fall away, save the sound of his own heartbeat, which grew louder and louder, like an approaching war drum.
Then, as though a sack had been thrown over his face, darkness flooded his sight. He felt in front of him but touched nothing. He screamed but could not hear his own voice. A moment later, the darkness vanished, and he was standing on the Wintersea again.
Sundown spilled across the ice. Though he could not see it, he smelled blood. Chorlga stepped from the sun’s glare, wearing an extravagant robe of black and gold silk, plus a crown of burnt gold. Rowen felt his bowels tighten. He reached for his swords again, but they were gone.
Chorlga smiled, flashing his rotten teeth. “Hello, Isle Knight. My apologies if I startled you. I just thought we should talk.”
Rowen pretended to look around so that he could avert his gaze. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t. I am simply a spot of light in that muddy pigsty you call a mind.” Chorlga stepped closer. He studied Rowen, looking concerned. “Pardon me for saying so, Sir Locke, but you look terrible. Did someone die? Are you dwelling on unpleasant memories?”
Rowen tried to clear his mind. This isn’t real…
Chorlga grinned. “Or maybe you’ve lost something very dear to you.” One hand came up and withdrew Knightswrath from the dark folds of his robe. An ornate sheath of black tooled leather covered the blade. The Dragonkin held the sword by the scabbard.
“Strange to see this again after so long. Incidentally, have you heard the legend that kingsteel was sent by the gods as a test? They wanted to see whether those who possessed it would become protectors or conquerors. Curious that even after all these centuries, your Order has elected to become neither.”
Chorlga held out the sword as though offering it to him then withdrew it. “Do you like the scabbard? To let so venerated a blade go naked was unseemly. Besides, it’s much easier to hold this way. Which reminds me”—Chorlga snapped his fingers—“I believe you two know each other.”
Zeia appeared, kneeling on the ice. Her clothes were torn, her expression dazed. Her arms ended in bleeding stumps, as though her hands had only just been cut off. The blood formed endless pools at her side.
“Don’t be rude,” Chorlga told her. “Say hello, my mangled little pet.”
Zeia looked up weakly. She blinked. Her eyes met Rowen’s. She melted, dissolving into the ice without sound, becoming a puddle of ash and blood. Chorlga smiled down at the puddle. Then he lifted his head. His eyes widened as Rowen came at him.
Rowen clamped one hand around the Dragonkin’s throat. He drove his fist into Chorlga’s face over and over again. Chorlga shuddered. Rowen felt the man’s bones breaking, sagging inward. He kept punching. He tried to wrest Knightswrath out of Chorlga’s grasp, but the Dragonkin would not let go. So Rowen went on punching.
Then Rowen stood alone on the ice, both hands empty. His knuckles bled, dripping onto the ice with impossible slowness. Rowen looked around, but the Dragonkin was simply gone. For a moment, he thought he’d done it. Then a massive, many-winged shadow stretched over his own.
Chorlga laughed. “How spirited of you, Sir Locke. Spirited, but pointless.”
Rowen felt a fresh wash of fear. He forced himself to turn. Chorlga stood before him, unharmed, Knightswrath still in hand.
“Even though you could not see me, I was there when my little prince cut your mighty general’s skull in half. I was close enough to breathe on your neck and stroke that pretty she-Knight’s dark hair. I was that close, and you didn’t even know it.”
Chorlga held the dragonbone teasingly close to Rowen’s hand before he pulled it away. “Now I have your burning sword and your new wytch. I have everything but you. I told you I would stop the killing if you surrendered. You did not surrender. So now, I will show you the true meaning of wrath.”
Chorlga vanished. Then the sun vanished, too. Rowen stood in darkness once more, surrounded by nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. Then Chorlga’s voice rang out in his mind. “El’rash’lin was a fool. He thought that by destroying himself, he could rid you of the Nightmare. But the Nightmare is gone now. So are the Jolym. In their place… I have this.”
The ice flared as though the water beneath had been transformed into fire. Then it shattered like glass. Something huge burst out, dark and flaming. Rowen heard only the rattling of the chains joining the dragon’s bones.
Chorlga was behind him then, whispering into his ear. “I want you to know, Knight, that were it not for El’rash’lin, I might not have done this. Summoning her should have killed me. But he drove me to it. You all did.”
The Dragonjol rose higher and higher, unfurling its skeletal wings. Rowen realized he was on his knees. He tried to rise or look away, but something held him immobile. He wept.
“Magnificent, isn’t she?”
The Dragonjol’s gigantic ribcage began to expand as though the fleshless creature were drawing a breath. Violet flames seared the night air, spurting along each bone end to end. The flames began to gather within the Dragonjol’s ribcage, swirling in a harsh but utterly quiet maelstrom, burning brighter and brighter. The creature’s maw opened.
Rowen choked, “No…”
Chorlga grasped Rowen by the shoulders. His fingernails dug in like claws. “Tell the fat prince to surrender to his brother. Tell all who value their lives to lay down their swords. Then come to Cadavash. Find me in the temple. Worship me, and all shall be forgiven.”
Rowen wanted to say yes. He wanted to beg for forgiveness and promise to do whatever Chorlga asked. But before he could speak, the sea of violet flames gushed from the Dragonjol’s mouth to coat the ice, the Wintersea, and the entire world.
For a moment, Jalist thought for certain that they would kill Rowen. Lancers and Earless had drawn their swords and formed a circle around
Rowen the moment he started screaming. Their eyes widened. When Jalist followed the sound and saw his friend, he was concerned his friend had simply gone mad.
Rowen stood stone still, arms straight at his sides as though pinned there, screaming at the sky. His blank eyes stared. Jalist waved his hand in front of Rowen’s face. Unblinking, he continued to scream as quickly as he could draw breath. When he stopped, his breath came in ragged gasps.
“What happened?” Jalist demanded.
Saanji shuddered, white-knuckling Royce’s sword. “Gods know! He started toward me, like he wanted to talk, then… he just started screaming!”
“Don’t touch him. He’s bewytched,” an Earless warned.
“Kill him before it spreads,” a Lancer suggested. Others nodded.
Jalist unslung his long axe and gave it a warning swing. “Back off, lads. If anybody’s going to split this one’s skull, it’s me.”
Armed men exchanged glances. No one moved. Jalist turned to Saanji for help, but the Earless prince just stared.
Jalist looked around. Earless and Lancers spoke in fearful whispers. He imagined them gathering their courage, preparing to charge. He saw the little Hesodi girl Rowen had saved, clutching the hands of a cleric as she stood nearby, watching with wide eyes. Two Iron Sisters held spears as if they meant to throw them. Then he spotted Aeko Shingawa.
In full battle dress of azure and kingsteel, the Knight of the Lotus shoved her way through the crowd. Her Knights followed. Drawn adamunes glinted in the afternoon light, shining through the thickening haze of falling snow. The Isle Knights formed a protective ring around Rowen. “What’s happening here?” Aeko demanded.
Saanji answered, his face ashen. “What’s happening is that your magic-crazed hero-Knight just lost his damned mind!”
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 47
