Dagath stepped to one side, in case someone was creeping up behind him, and drew his shortsword. He turned sideways. He listened carefully but heard no sound. All the doors were closed. He started forward. When he reached the guards, he noted that one had been stabbed in the back while his sword was still sheathed. The other had managed to draw his blade before someone slashed his throat so deeply that his head had nearly been cut clean off.
Dagath snickered. He wondered how the Iron Sister had gotten her hands on a blade, not to mention how she’d freed herself in the first place. Karhaati’s bedroom had once belonged to the queen of the Iron Sisters. Perhaps she’d hidden a weapon in there somewhere. Dagath wondered if she’d also hidden gold and jewels, which the Bloody Prince and his men had failed to find.
Worry about that later. He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, standing well back in case the Iron Sister pounced out of the shadows. The door creaked. Sunlight streaming in from the terrace filled the room. He entered, sword raised, but the big room had been emptied of most of its furniture, and a quick inspection told him that the Iron Sister was gone.
“Well, pretty one, you didn’t go out the way I came, or else you would have been spotted. You must still be in the palace.” He proceeded out to the terrace and looked down. Perhaps ten feet below and several feet to one side stood another, smaller terrace. Its stone railing glinted with frost. A spot of blood dotted the snow on the floor.
Dagath cursed. He did not have time to waste on a hunt, though he imagined it would be a short one. Jumping that far must have reopened all the Iron Sister’s wounds.
A moment later, he heard shouts and a clash of steel. He wondered if the gods would consider him in fulfillment of his vow if someone else killed the Iron Sister. He decided not to risk it. He sheathed his sword, climbed onto the railing of the terrace, and jumped down.
He made his way back into the palace, cursing his sore knees, and spotted the Iron Sister at the far end of a corridor. She’d knotted a Dhargothi cloak around her breasts like a sarong. Blood splattered her bare arms, matching the color of her unkempt hair. A shortsword blurred in each hand.
“She’s mine,” Dagath shouted, but the guards ignored him. The Iron Sister had already killed one of them. Three more pressed in, eager for revenge. The Iron Sister backpedaled. One of the guards charged too quickly. The Iron Sister sidestepped and opened his forehead. But she winced. Dagath imagined her wounds leaking beneath her makeshift dress.
The other two Dhargots hesitated. They glanced at Dagath as he approached, then relaxed, sure he was coming to help them. Dagath waited until they’d turned back to the Iron Sister, then he stabbed one in the back. He beheaded the other before the man could turn.
Dagath grinned. “You’re mine,” he repeated to the woman.
He stepped over the corpse of the slave he’d killed earlier and headed toward the Iron Sister. But before they could meet, a chorus of angry shouts made him glance back over one shoulder. Three more Dhargots had arrived just in time to see what he’d done. Dagath cursed. As he turned to meet the Dhargots’ charge, he saw the Iron Sister flash him a crooked smile, turn, and run.
She’s heading for the dungeons, he thought. As he backpedaled, slashing to keep his opponents at bay, he wondered if the Iron Sister intended to flee the city via the same route he’d chosen. He thought of the key around his neck, hidden beneath his armor, then wondered if she could break the lock.
He managed to wound two of the men before one slashed his arm. Another grazed his leg, but the man overextended himself, and Dagath cut him down. He stood for a moment, regarding his final two opponents. All three men were bleeding. Shouts echoed from the streets beyond the palace.
“If I were you, I’d look to filling my pockets and getting out of here,” Dagath advised. The men exchanged glances. They backed away. Dagath did likewise. When he was well away, he turned and limped after the Iron Sister. He started down toward the dungeons, but he made it only halfway before he froze.
More shouts reached his ears, accompanied by a woman’s battle cry and a furious clash of steel. He thought it was just the Iron Sister fending off more guards, but then another woman’s cry echoed up the stairs, followed by a third. Somehow, the Iron Sisters had overtaken the dungeon.
He drew back a step. He thought of the red-haired woman and scowled. He might still get to her, but there was no telling how many Iron Sisters were down there. Besides, she was obviously a skilled opponent. Even tired and bleeding, she would not go down easily. Fulfilling a vow made in the sight of the gods was one thing; dying in the attempt was something else.
“Another time,” he muttered, and went to find a different way out of the city.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Queen of Rats
There was no sign of the dragon. Rowen half expected it to come crawling out of the fissure as soon as he drew close. Then he remembered seeing the massive skeleton suspended on huge iron chains in the depths of Cadavash and wondered if even the great fissure carved into the landscape was big enough to conceal it. Step by step, he forced himself closer.
Rowen thought of the last and only other time he’d been to Cadavash. He’d been acting as a bodyguard for the Soroccan merchant Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas, who wanted to buy dragonbone from the mad people of Cadavash and sell it elsewhere. But they’d arrived in the dragon graveyards and been so overwhelmed by the horror of the place that they had stayed no longer than necessary.
Rowen remembered throngs of worshippers stumbling about, mourning dragons dead for millennia. Their lamentations—sometimes absurdly theatrical, other times chillingly sincere—had been accompanied by widespread ritualistic self-mutilation. Rowen had heard of such fey worshippers before, but he had only ever seen a few here and there during his travels. Seeing them massed at Cadavash, where such madness was not only tolerated but encouraged, had given him as many nightmares as all the ghastly uses of magic he’d seen during the past year.
Now, though, Cadavash stood silent.
The same massive, gray fissure loomed in the distance. Around it stood a smattering of taverns, lean-tos, and shops, many of them frosted with ice. Nothing moved. Above it all sat the temple: a gaudy, red-painted thing supported by pillars and surrounded by statues of Zet. Great bronze doors led into the temple. The doors stood open. Though it was morning, the interior was dark.
The sight of it amid all the silence sent a chill down his spine. Before he even realized it, he’d drawn his bastard sword. He moved forward slowly, trying to minimize the crunch of his boots in the snow. He was glad he’d relieved himself when he felt his body tighten from fear. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, too. The weariness pressing down on his eyelids reminded him how little he’d slept.
Gods, I’m in no shape for a fight, let alone the fight of my life.
He continued edging toward the temple, glancing about the shadows of the makeshift town for enemies. Then something caught his eye: a glint of steel on the plains to the east. Despite his hesitation to turn his back on the temple, he went to investigate. He did not have to go far before he found himself wishing he’d just kept walking toward the temple after all.
East of the temple and the fissure, half buried in snow from the most recent blizzard, lay the frozen bodies of countless dragon-worshippers. Most lay facedown, but those who didn’t displayed the final emotion they’d felt in this life. They lay wide jawed, their eye sockets blackened by fire, blue fingers curled like frozen hooks. Men, women, and children, they lay in contorted heaps in the snow, forgotten, buried only by the falling snow.
And scattered in their midst, all facing away from him, kneeled hundreds of Jolym.
As he drew closer, he wondered how he had failed to notice the ghastly sight from half a mile away. He took a step back, about to turn toward the temple, but something compelled him to check the Jolym first.
He singled out the closest one and edged up to it as quietly as he could. He shuddered when he had to step over the wide eyes of a little boy, noting that his body looked undisturbed. So did the others. Even the wolves had stayed away.
Wolves have more sense than I do…
When Rowen was close enough, he jabbed the Jol in the back. The tip of his sword chipped away a chunk of ice, revealing glinting shoulder blades and muscles shaped into the steel. The Jol did not move. Rowen took a deep breath then moved to stand in front of it. Even with the Jol kneeling, its grinning brass facemask was nearly at eye level. Rowen stared into its dark eye sockets then backed away.
He looked down. At his feet lay the corpse of an old man, his hands still folded as though he’d died while either praying or pleading for his life. Looking past the Jol, he narrowed his gaze on the temple. He forced himself to sheathe his sword. “All right, you purple-eyed bastard, I’m here.” He stepped around the Jol and started toward the temple. “Care to show me what all these lives paid for?”
He braced himself, expecting to hear Chorlga’s voice in his mind, provoking deep feelings of fear and violation akin to finding a thief in his home. But Chorlga did not answer.
Rowen wondered where Shade was, if the Shel’ai was watching. Then, remembering Shade’s warning, Rowen took care to clear his mind. As he walked, he imagined building a wall around his thoughts, brick by brick. By the time he’d gone halfway toward the temple, he imagined Chorlga’s frustration when he found Rowen’s mind transformed from an open book to a sealed, indecipherable scroll.
Then he heard the rattling chains. He spun around but saw only his own footprints. He turned back to the temple, then the adjacent town. Nothing moved there, either. But the metallic rattling grew louder. Then he looked up.
Rowen fell to his knees, shielding his eyes as Godsbane passed over. The skeletal dragon flew so low that Rowen felt the searing heat wafting off its body. Its shadow blotted out the sun, spreading across the snow like a stain.
Rowen forced himself to stand then to look. The Dragonjol’s skeletal wings flapped as it settled onto the ground next to the temple, dwarfing the structure. The ground shook. Tendrils of wytchfire sputtered and coursed along its bones. From time to time, the chains joining them creaked and grated from the effort.
Godsbane turned its head and looked at him.
Rowen looked away. He started to kneel again but stopped himself. No, he thought, then said it aloud. He thought he heard Chorlga’s laugh, though he could have sworn the sound came from the Dragonjol’s toothy maw. He stood there, shaking, until he found his voice.
“If you’re going to kill me, get on with it.”
Chorlga’s voice echoed painfully in his mind, taut with mockery. “I have no wish to kill you, young one. In fact, I wish to reward you. Pledge your loyalty to me, and I will make you my general… maybe even a king, in time, should you prove yourself.”
Rowen wanted to say yes. He sensed in his heart that this was the only way he could survive—and put a stop to Godsbane’s rampage. But he remembered all the Dwarrs and Queshi lying blackened in the snow. He imagined Jalist finding Leander. He thought of Silwren. Though his voice trembled, Rowen said, “No more tests, Dragonkin. I’ve already proven myself. Prince Saanji is dead. Prince Karhaati is dead. Hesod is mine. But you may have it, for a price.”
Chorlga was silent. Then he said, “You’re lying.”
Rowen forced himself to meet Godsbane’s gaze. He flashed a derisive smirk. “Am I?” As he spoke, he imagined smashing down the mental barrier he’d just made. Then he thought of how he’d entered Saanji’s tent and stabbed the sleeping drunkard. He imagined the blood spilling past the brass quillons of his sword to warm his hands, leaving a briny smell that persisted long after he’d washed them.
After that, he remembered sneaking back into the sewers of Hesod, surrounded by reek, slitting the throat of a guard with darkly painted eyes, the feel of the dried ears on the guard’s necklace as they brushed against his hand—then climbing the steps to Karhaati’s room. Once more, he saw the Bloody Prince’s eyes go wide as he woke and fumbled for his sword, one moment before Rowen slashed his throat.
He imagined these things as he had been doing for days, over and over again—as though they had really happened.
Godsbane stirred. The massive skeletal body rose to stand on two legs. Six wings spread, shadowing all of Cadavash. The dark eye sockets flashed with purple fire.
“That’s not what I told you to do.”
Rowen swallowed a fresh surge of fear and smiled again. “I am not your pawn, Dragonkin. I kill who I want. If you want my loyalty, you best earn it.” He paused. “The streets of Hesod run red with the blood of all those who opposed me. If you doubt me, see for yourself. I’ll wait.”
Godsbane cocked its head. Then its neck tensed like a Queshi bow. Wytchfire gathered at its sternum. Its mouth opened wide. But Rowen did not move or blink. Finally, the Dragonjol settled back onto the earth like a sleeping dog.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll claw the truth from your mind and leave you drooling and as senseless as the Nightmare, unless you tell me the truth.”
Rowen calmed himself before he called back toward the temple, “I grow weary of your threats, Dragonkin. While you hide in your temple, my followers are busy carving my likeness in Hesod. My likeness, not yours. They’ve already forgotten you. They wept when I left, and they shall weep again when I return.”
“You will not return unless I wish it.”
Godsbane jerked. The Dragonjol twisted its head back and forth as though screaming, though no sound resulted, save the rattling of the chains joining its bones. It stood on two legs again, crouched, then leapt into the air. Its wings blurred. The great beast rose into the sky.
“We shall see if you speak the truth. If you do, expect pain unlike anything you have ever experienced. If not”—Godsbane’s eyes blazed with purple fire—“expect worse.”
The Dragonjol twisted in midair and flew off to the west. Rowen watched until it disappeared from sight. He summoned all his willpower to keep from smiling. Then another metallic glint caught his eye. A huge armored figure stepped out of the darkness of the temple. He slowly, gracefully descended the temple steps and stared toward Rowen.
The glint of kingsteel was unmistakable. The Jol had been wrought entirely of it. The Jol was even larger than the kneeling ones, and instead of wrists that ended in weapons, it had real hands. As it drew closer, Rowen saw its facemask: an exaggerated expression of sorrow.
Rowen resisted the impulse to draw his swords. He waited until the Jol stopped right in front of him and held out one gigantic kingsteel hand. Rowen unbuckled both his swords and placed them in the Jol’s hand. The Jol’s coal-dark eyes regarded Rowen, then the Jol closed its hand, gripping both swords by their pommels. The Jol’s other hand came up, gripping the scabbards. With frightful ease, the Jol snapped both swords in half. One hand kept hold of the sword hilts while the other released the blades, reached out with surprising speed, and seized Rowen by the cloak.
Chorlga’s voice rang in Rowen’s mind again: “While we wait, Isle Knight, come inside. It’s time we meet face to face.”
The kingsteel Jol turned, pushing Rowen ahead of him. Rowen felt the sun on the back of his neck a moment before the Jol fell in behind him. Its shadow swallowed his own.
Shade knelt in the remains of a dragon-worshipper’s lean-to, eyes closed, building wall after wall in his mind. Sweat ran down his face. He’d arrived in Cadavash just behind Rowen. Though he’d been strengthening his mental defenses for days, he still feared that either Chorlga or Godsbane would sense him. So far, they had not. But Shade sensed the Dragonjol as it flew overhead.
He’d both seen and sensed Godsbane in the north, too, while passing through Ivairia, where he’d witnessed th
e Dragonjol effortlessly reducing an entire countryside to ash. Then, the Dragonjol had been miles away and distracted. Now, it seemed close enough to touch, and a feeling of dread, even worse than what he’d felt in the presence of the Nightmare, filled him. He nearly wept with relief when the Dragonjol flew on, taking with it its own primal essence of anger and deep, roiling sorrow.
But when it was gone, Shade sensed something else: its master.
He’s too powerful, too mad. I can’t do this. The Isle Knight is on his own…
“But what about Zeia?”
His own voice came out in a whisper, tired and raspy, as though it belonged to someone else. Slowly, Shade straightened. Zeia must be in the temple. He sensed her as a weak, ghostly flutter. Chorlga must have taken her as close to death as he could without actually killing her.
That means she won’t be able to help us…
“But she has to,” Shade muttered. He peered out of the lean-to, toward the temple, just in time to see a Jol leading the Isle Knight up the stairs and through the dark mouth of its doorway. He shuddered.
Silwren, if you can hear me… if you can forgive me… please, my love, I need your help!
Shade closed his eyes. Though even the slightest use of magic risked detection, he had no choice. Visualizing Zeia, he stretched out his mind and whispered just one word.
Zeia found herself alone in a temple, surrounded by soot-covered altars, winged statues, and empty wooden pews. She lay in torn, bloody clothes on a short, white staircase that led up to the temple’s principle altar. Icy-white light spilled in through arrow-thin windows. She frowned. Then she remembered.
Using her forearms, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She tried to block out her memories of the terrible, drowning swim into the city, her pitched battle against the Dhargots who spotted her, then her desperate flight into the sewers. She also tried to block out how she’d felt when she finally found Fel-Nâya lying naked in the dark, filthy water. That moment of elation had crumbled just as quickly as it had formed when Chorlga emerged from the shadows right in front of her.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 50
