Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  With just a wave of his hand, the Dragonkin had dispelled her flaming hands, driven her to the ground, and filled her body with pain every bit as terrible as what she’d felt when the one-eyed sellsword had cut off her hands.

  “And now, little one, here you are.”

  Zeia resisted the impulse to turn her head as Chorlga walked past her. She wondered where he had been hiding, if she’d just not seen him, or if he wanted the sport of watching her try to escape. She said nothing as the Dragonkin, extravagantly robed, knelt before her, grinning with his rotten teeth.

  “How are you feeling, little pet?”

  When Zeia did not answer, Chorlga grabbed one of her wrists and pressed one finger into her scarred, puckered stump. She clenched her teeth. A tendril of wytchfire bloomed from Chorlga’s knuckle, danced down his finger, and burrowed like a burning insect into her wrist-stump. The searing jolt swept all the way up to her shoulder, followed by stabbing cold.

  Zeia wept but did not scream.

  Chorlga nodded slightly as though in approval. “You have spirit, little pet. I must say, in twelve centuries, I’ve never seen a Shel’ai do what you can do. As far as rats go, you are a queen. The Queen of Rats. Shall I make you a crown?” He released her wrist and stood up. “We shall have a visitor soon. Can you guess who it is?”

  Zeia shuddered, remembering the Dragonjol—and the visions of all the death and destruction that the aberration had wrought, which Chorlga had taken great delight in forcing into her mind.

  “Oh, no, not Godsbane,” Chorlga said. “Care to guess again?”

  Without waiting for a response, Chorlga gestured. Invisible hands picked Zeia up, spun her around, and carried her up the stairs. As she floated past the altar, she saw something she had not noticed before: a throne made out of dragonbones. She wondered if Chorlga had made the throne himself or if it had already been there when he’d arrived.

  The invisible hands released her. She winced as she dropped face first onto the marble floor. All the breath left her lungs. She braced her elbows against the floor and tried unsuccessfully to push herself up. Footsteps rang off the stone behind her.

  Chorlga grabbed her hair and jerked her head up. “Do you want to know why I hate your kind so much? Shall I tell you?”

  Chorlga started to lift her then dropped her back onto the floor. He laughed then snapped his fingers. A new pair of hands—cold and metallic—seized her and dragged her up. Zeia blinked, momentarily finding herself face to face with an enormous Jol. Then the Jol spun her around, still holding her. Each of the Jol’s hands easily encircled one of her arms.

  “I asked you a question.” Chorlga crossed his arms. Though he grinned, his eyes narrowed.

  Still, Zeia said nothing.

  Chorlga came one step closer. “Let’s try a different question. Like, why have I done all this? Why did I go to such lengths to turn everyone else against the Shel’ai, to turn the Shel’ai against each other? Would you like to know?”

  Zeia whispered quietly, so that he would not hear.

  Grinning, Chorlga stepped closer. “Again, please, little pet. I couldn’t—”

  She spat in his face.

  Chorlga’s grin vanished. He wiped his face and stepped back. “You have some inkling of what I could do to you. Before I actually punish you, though, I’ll let you think about that for a while. If you’re lucky…” He frowned, then his grin returned. “Ah, our visitor has arrived!”

  He snapped his fingers again, and the Jol dropped her to the floor, turned, and headed for the temple doors. Despite its metallic bulk, it moved with impossible quiet and grace. Chorlga knelt beside her again. He followed her gaze.

  “Quite a creation, is he not? Nothing like Godsbane, of course, but still, he was my first one. I made him after the Dragonward went up, trapping me in this rat-infested sewer of a world.”

  Zeia glanced at her captor. For the first time, she noticed that the Dragonkin looked paler than he had when she’d last seen him. Faint tendrils of blood shone in his eyes. Even the color of his pupils had dulled from mist white to stone gray. For a moment, those eyes roiled with sadness and pain. She felt a stirring of pity.

  “Where is the sword?” she asked.

  Chorlga snickered. His eyes brightened. He stood and waved his hand. Fel-Nâya appeared out of thin air. Once again, the Dragonkin held it by the scabbard. Zeia had the sudden thought that if he were ever careless enough to hold it by the pommel, and if she were close enough, she could tear away the scabbard and leave him holding the naked sword. She wondered if that would kill him.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Chorlga said. Before Zeia could chide herself for not guarding her thoughts, the Dragonkin said, “Shall I demonstrate?” He continued holding the ancient adamune by the scabbard then, with just a moment’s hesitation, used his other hand to seize the dragonbone pommel.

  Chorlga winced. Smoke billowed between his fingers. Still, he drew the sword. Wytchfire flared along the length of the blade then clawed its way downward, past the oval crossguard. The purple flames swept up Chorlga’s arms, bright and angry, toward his face. Chorlga gritted his rotten teeth but did not cry out. He let the flames swirl about his face then slammed the sword back into its scabbard. He let go of the pommel. The purple flames disappeared.

  Chorlga faced her, grinning despite his smoking, blistered flesh. When next he spoke, his voice was a chilling whisper. “If you have any thoughts of harming me, Queen of Rats, surrender them now. I assure you, I have spent centuries enduring every torment imaginable.”

  Even as he spoke, his blistered flesh began to heal. By the time he’d settled the sheathed adamune in the crook of his arm and ascended the stairs, he was fully healed. Only the burnt-off arm of his robe suggested that anything had happened.

  Chorlga sat on his throne of dragonbones and waited.

  Moments later, Zeia felt the air go hot. A primal feeling of panic welled inside her. Godsbane had returned. She saw only the Dragonjol’s shadow, which blocked out the light entering the windows of one whole side of the temple, but she could feel it right outside. Swallowing her fear, she studied Chorlga’s expression. The Dragonkin looked distracted… and perhaps just a little afraid.

  Zeia glanced toward the distant gates of the temple. She wondered how far she would make it if she ran. Surely not far enough, especially with Godsbane right outside. Not yet, she told herself.

  Moments later, she felt Godsbane pulling away. She turned back to Chorlga. His expression looked terse but distracted. She guessed he must be in telepathic communication with the Isle Knight. Who else could be coming here if not him?

  Zeia tensed, preparing to make a run for it. But something stopped her. Without knowing why, she let her shoulders sag. She drooped her head, as though she barely had the strength to keep her eyes open. A moment later, the opportunity was gone.

  “Come closer, Queen of Rats.” Chorlga snapped his fingers, and invisible hands of magic hauled her closer to his throne, forcing her to lie at his feet, facing the temple gates. He rested his feet on her side.

  A moment later, the Isle Knight appeared in the doorway, the towering Jol a step behind. The Jol shoved the Isle Knight into the temple. He entered slowly, looking about, then fixed his gaze on Chorlga.

  Zeia blushed. She wanted to speak telepathically to him, to apologize for her failure to retrieve Fel-Nâya, but she did not have the strength. Besides, she thought, what would it have mattered? What could this weak Human possibly have done?

  The Jol guided the Isle Knight through the temple, past pews, altars, and leering statues, until he stood before Chorlga himself. The Isle Knight paled. The Jol continued to hold him with one hand. The other came up, clutching the hilts of two broken swords. The Jol showed them to Chorlga then tossed them onto the ground. They sparked as they struck the stone.

 
Chorlga sighed. “Well, Sir Locke, we meet at last. Strange. I expected more from you.” His feet rose from Zeia’s side. A moment later, an invisible hand brushed her aside. She turned in time to see Chorlga rise from his throne, Fel-Nâya still held in the crook of his arm. The Jol had forced the Isle Knight to his knees. Chorlga bent forward, his face hovering over the Isle Knight’s.

  “So, I believe you were saying something about Hesod, about defying my orders.” Though the Dragonkin grinned, his eyes narrowed. Wytchfire flared from his hands, dancing around his wrists. The Isle Knight tried to meet Chorlga’s gaze, managed to hold it for a few seconds, then looked away.

  Zeia lowered her gaze to the floor. She eyed one of the broken swords. She wondered if she could summon enough magic to hurl it toward the Dragonkin’s throat. She doubted she could do so fast enough to make contact, but it would at least permit her one final act of defiance. Chorlga might even kill her for it, acting on reflex, granting her the mercy of a quick death.

  “El’rash’lin…”

  Shade’s voice was barely a whisper in her mind, as quiet as a breeze through the branches of a forest, then it vanished. She looked about. Chorlga continued to loom over the kneeling Isle Knight, gloating. He had not heard.

  For a moment, Zeia thought she’d imagined it. Shade should have been hundreds of miles from here, well beyond the Dragonward, safeguarding their people. What was he doing here?

  Still letting her head sag, just in case the Dragonkin remembered her and turned to look in her direction, Zeia sat up. She spotted a flicker of movement at the far end of the temple. A cloaked figure had just slipped in through the gates. Crouched low, he slowly made his way through the temple, moving from pew to pew. Then he straightened behind a statue and turned to face Zeia.

  They held each other’s gaze for just a moment, then Zeia looked away. No mindspeak was necessary. She nodded slightly. As Shade continued to creep through the temple, making his way closer and closer, Zeia took a series of deep, slow breaths. She would have only one chance—and it would probably kill her.

  She thought of El’rash’lin and the others—even her enemies—along with all the Shel’ai children yet to be born. One chance would be enough. It had to be. She considered trying to speak a telepathic word into the Isle Knight’s mind, then decided against it. With Chorlga’s attention fixed solely on the Knight, the Dragonkin would surely sense that. She would have to trust the Isle Knight to do his part—and that El’rash’lin’s faith in the man had not been misplaced.

  Or his faith in me…

  Zeia closed her eyes, breathing easily, gradually drawing together all the strength she had left. When she was ready, she opened her eyes, turned slightly, and saw that Shade was in position. The Shel’ai had crouched some twenty feet away, behind another statue, as close as he could get without being detected.

  Zeia rose slowly, dragging her feet on the stone, letting Chorlga hear her. The Dragonkin had the Isle Knight’s face in one hand, pinching his jaw with burning fingers. Surprisingly, the Isle Knight would not scream. But he slumped when Chorlga let him go.

  Chorlga straightened and turned to face Zeia. “What are you doing, Queen of Rats?”

  Zeia looked down. Chorlga followed her gaze to the hilt of one of the broken swords. He laughed. “Defiant to the last.” He spread his arms. “Very well, Shel’ai. Do your worst.”

  Zeia snickered. “I will.” Facing Chorlga, she unleashed the strongest mind-stab she could muster.

  The Dragonkin’s eyes widened. He jerked. Confronted by such an unexpected attack, he panicked. Rather than answer with a mental attack of his own or create a mental barrier, he hurled a storm of wytchfire at Zeia.

  Zeia pitched herself sideways. Fire streamed past her, singeing her arm, burning her clothes. She landed on the marble floor but kept her eyes open. She saw Shade sprinting up the steps toward Chorlga. Wytchfire streamed from Shade’s fingertips. Purple flames engulfed Chorlga’s body. The Dragonkin stiffened then turned to meet the new attack.

  Shade’s wytchfire sputtered and died. Still, Shade charged. He passed the Jol and threw himself at Chorlga. His hands closed around Fel-Nâya’s scabbard. He wrested the ancient adamune from Chorlga’s grasp and turned. At the same time, Zeia stretched out with her mind, picked up the broken sword and threw it at the Jol’s face.

  She tried to drive the shard into one of the Jol’s eyes. But she missed. The bit of broken blade sparked off the cheek of the Jol’s facemask. But that was enough. The Jol turned to face her. When Zeia picked up the second hilt and sent it flying toward the Jol’s face, it released the Isle Knight to bat it away.

  In that instant, the Isle Knight leapt forward. One hand closed around the pommel of Fel-Nâya, just as Shade thrust it toward him. The Isle Knight turned. Even as the Jol reached for him, he hefted the sword.

  The scabbard burned away.

  Purple flames engulfed the blade, the hilt, then the arms of the man who held it. The Isle Knight howled. Fel-Nâya cut a blinding arc through the Jol’s armored chest. Then it swept back up, severing an arm. The Isle Knight took one step forward. Instead of stabbing the Jol through one of its eyes, he cut off its head. Then he turned.

  Zeia turned, too.

  Chorlga pressed his hand to Shade’s back. Wytchfire engulfed him. Shade screamed and fell. Chorlga stretched out his arm and sent a second searing sea of wytchfire at the Isle Knight.

  The Isle Knight lifted Fel-Nâya and met the flames, unblinking. The sword drank in the fire. The Isle Knight took another step forward. Chorlga fell back, his eyes wide. Then he waved his hand and hauled Shade’s burned body onto its feet. Using Shade as a shield, Chorlga unleashed a second torrent of wytchfire.

  This time, it was too much.

  Fel-Nâya drank in most of the flames, but some spilled over, scorching the Isle Knight’s arms. He screamed and staggered. Then he took another step. Chorlga wrapped one arm around Shade’s throat. Shade’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Somehow, he was still alive.

  “Stay back, Knight. Stay back, or I swear, your friend—”

  The Isle Knight took one final step forward and thrust his burning blade clear through Shade’s chest, into Chorlga’s. The Dragonkin’s eyes widened. Zeia thought she saw Shade snicker. The Isle Knight stood there a moment, stone faced, pushing the sword even deeper. Then, slowly, he dragged it out.

  Chorlga and Shade stood together, smoldering. Then Shade fell to the floor. Chorlga teetered backward. Aiming blindly, he unleashed another blast of wytchfire. It sailed clear of the Isle Knight and struck a statue of Zet in the distance. The statue toppled and shattered. Chorlga clutched one hand to his chest. He tried to take a step and collapsed backward into his throne of dragonbones.

  Rowen Locke followed.

  Chorlga turned, his face blackened and crying. His eyes met Zeia’s. She thought he actually meant to plead for help. But then the Dragonkin turned back to the Isle Knight. Blood bubbled between his lips. Nevertheless, he grinned.

  “In my world, Knight, what is given can always be taken back.”

  The Isle Knight frowned.

  Zeia pushed herself up. “Kill him!” she screamed.

  Shaking himself free of his daze, the Isle Knight drew Fel-Nâya back, holding it with both hands. But before he could plunge it into Chorlga’s heart, one whole wall of the temple evaporated in a radiant sea of fire.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  What Was Given

  Saanji sat in a chair at the edge of the camp, a glass of strong wine in hand, and watched smoke rise over the battlements of Hesod. Bodyguards milled around him, many holding shields thick enough to ward off crossbow bolts, in case the city gates swung open and the Dhargots charged onto the field. But Saanji doubted that would happen.

  Only a few hours had passed since he’d slain his brother, and already, he could hear t
he city devolving into chaos. He imagined his brother’s officers fighting each other for dominance. Inevitably, the soldiers they commanded would be forced to choose sides. With luck, enough would die in the ensuing melee that the slaves and captives throughout Hesod would be emboldened to rise up and revolt again.

  If the gods were truly kind for once, whichever general eventually assumed command might even be willing to surrender the city to Saanji, provided that he and the Earless let them slink back to Dhargoth unharmed. Saanji smiled at the thought. Then the smile vanished.

  He remembered what Sir Fey—he could not remember the man’s real name—had said about Chorlga’s dragon. Saanji had woken the next day and, to his own surprise, still felt determined to follow through on his plan to confront Karhaati, but certain, at least, that that part of Sir Fey’s tale had been ludicrous. There were no more dragons in Ruun, let alone dragons reanimated by the same magical processes—whatever those were—that had created the Jolym.

  But word had reached him of some new devilry thrashing the lands to the north, scorching men by the hundreds. He almost pitied the Lancers who had deserted him, since they would only be returning to whatever smoldering ruins Chorlga’s newest champion had left behind.

  And if Sir Fey is right, that thing will be coming here!

  Saanji doubted it, but he’d taken precautions just in case. Ballistae had been made ready to fire ropes and nets lashed to weights, in the hopes that they might tangle a dragon’s wings and drag it down from the sky. In case the dragon operated anything like the other Jolym, Saanji had squadrons of spearmen ready to try to stab the thing through the eyes.