Though his Earless had initially mocked him for these preparations, the jeering had stopped once they started hearing reports of the dragon. Now, they praised him. Even the dark-haired she-Knight, Aeko Shingawa, appeared to approve of his plan—before she, her Isle Knights, and the Dwarrish sellsword had deserted him, too.
Saanji felt a rush of irritation, then he thought of where they were going and decided to drink in their honor. No matter how skilled they were, a handful of Isle Knights and one Dwarr could hardly have made so great a difference in the siege. Besides, he still had a few hundred Iron Sisters on his side.
“Where is Captain Haesha?” He looked around and saw only his own men. “I don’t see any Iron Sisters. Why aren’t they watching?”
One of his bodyguards cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Prince, but we already told you. They’ve gone to sneak back into the city. They’ve attacked the sewers where they’re sealed off—”
Saanji frowned. “Lousy plan. My dear brother’s army is still too strong. Why didn’t I try to talk them out of it?”
“You did, m’lord. Captain Haesha wouldn’t listen. She said there were captives and citizens who couldn’t wait. You said if she opened up a path into the city, you’d send in a thousand men to assist her.”
Saanji’s frown deepened. “Gods, I need to stop making promises to beautiful women.”
“She said she’d make you their Iron Prince if you helped her take the city,” someone said.
Saanji decided to ignore the touch of mockery in the man’s voice. He watched smoke rise over the city. Then he stood up, tottered, and caught his balance before one of his bodyguards had to assist him.
“If the gods want another bloodbath, they can make one up themselves. I say let’s let our men grow fat, old, and shameful.” He looked around for agreement. When no one spoke, he continued. “If the Iron Sisters actually do cut a way into the city, we’ll mass at the palace and work our way out from there. In the meantime, write a message, tie it to an arrow, and fire it over the walls. Blunt the tip so it doesn’t kill anybody. Hard to read an offer for truce if it’s got blood on it.”
He took a drink, turned, and saw one of his servants poised with a quill and parchment. He wondered why then remembered. “On the message, write—”
A warbling trumpet blast cut the winter air.
Saanji had been trying to memorize the meaning behind all the various pennants, gestures, and trumpet blasts employed by an army, but this one eluded him. He only knew that the blast had come from behind him, in his own camp. “What is that?”
“Attack from the rear,” someone said.
Maybe the Jolym are still alive. Saanji dropped his wine and reached for Royce’s sword. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He wished, too, that he’d wiped his brother’s blood off the blade.
Another, slightly different trumpet blast sounded. He turned to his bodyguards. They frowned. One said, “Doesn’t make sense. The sentry must be a fool.”
“Why?”
“He’s warning of an attack from above, but we’re too far from the city walls—” The bodyguard broke off, eyes widening. Men exchanged terrified looks.
Saanji turned to a table that had been placed beside his chair in the snow. His helmet rested on the table. Suddenly, though, it had become three helmets. He chose the one in the middle. As he slipped it on, he looked around. Everywhere, horses screamed, and men panicked.
Cursing, Saanji surprised himself by climbing onto his chair then stepping onto his table. He waved his arms to get men’s attention, nearly falling off the table. “Well, lads, look on the bright side. You’re about to see something nobody’s seen in more centuries than Zet had inches on his cock. Think of how popular you’ll be in taverns!”
A few men laughed.
“Stay calm. Remember the plan. Remember what I told you…” Saanji trailed off, wondering if he’d remembered to make sure his strategy had been fully discussed throughout the camp. He decided that if he hadn’t, it was too late to worry about that.
“Right about now, my dear brother’s soul is crisping in one of Fohl’s hells. So are lots of men who wanted you dead. One day, maybe we’ll see them again. If so, let’s tell the bastards that before we died, we managed to bring a gods-damned dragon out of the sky!”
Men cheered. Saanji waved Royce’s sword then leapt off the table. Somehow, he managed to land without falling. One of his bodyguards brought his new horse: a spirited bloodmare left for him as a present by the Queshi prince. The bloodmare’s dark eyes regarded him suspiciously. It pawed the ground.
Sighing, Saanji took the reins. He tried to fit his foot into the stirrup. It took three tries, but then he pulled himself up into the saddle with hardly any help. Straightening, he looked up. At first, he saw nothing but clouds. Then he spotted the most fearful thing he’d ever seen winging in from the east.
He paled. He considered turning south and riding as fast as his bloodmare could carry him. Instead, he howled and rode east through the camp, waving his sword. As he did so, he wondered if his men found his appearance emboldening or if they merely thought he’d gone as mad as Sir Fey. He hoped it was the former.
As someone rolled the dead man off her and helped her up, Igrid wiped the blood from her eyes.
“Is that yours or a Dhargot’s?”
Igrid glanced at the speaker, a familiar Iron Sister, and said, “Hard to say. Same color.”
Haesha put Igrid’s sword back in her hands then carefully peeled away the bloody cloak that Igrid had wrapped around her naked body. Haesha whistled. “I’ve seen raw meat bleed less than this. Lie down. We’ll finish this. I’ll leave a Sister to guard you.”
“Like hells, you will. Just wrap me up tight and cover me in armor.”
Haesha raised one eyebrow then gestured. Iron Sisters streamed past her, charging up the steps that led into the palace. Haesha took off her own tabard and put it on Igrid. Removing her own sword belt, she wrapped it around Igrid’s waist and cinched it tight.
Igrid winced and looked down. Already, blood was soaking through the tabard. “I’ll be fine,” she said before Haesha could speak. “I’ll be no safer here than I’ll be in the city streets.”
“Then go down through the sewers. You can make it out. It cost us, but we cleared a path.”
“And I’m sure dragging my open wounds through sewer water will do wonders for my health.” Igrid grasped the belt and cinched it even tighter. “Armor.”
Haesha went to the nearest slain Dhargot and peeled off his cuirass. She helped Igrid don it. “If you want greaves and vambraces, fuss with those yourself. I have a city to take back.”
Igrid nodded weakly. She was tempted to ask Haesha what was happening outside the city. From eavesdropping on the lecherous Dhargothi healers, she’d heard rumors that Arnil Royce was there, along with Rowen Locke. But Haesha was already bounding up the stairs after the other Iron Sisters.
Igrid took a moment to catch her breath, then stripped the Dhargot of his armor. She winced with every motion, feeling as though her insides were spilling out. She wondered if she should reconsider Haesha’s advice and try to slip out of the city through the sewers. That had been her original plan before she’d chanced across a mass of Iron Sisters, just as they were trying to batter their way back into the dungeon.
She stopped and listened to the sounds of battle raging in the palace above her. From what the Iron Sisters had told her in the few moments they’d been together, Igrid knew that the Bloody Prince had been killed. His officers were fighting each other for supremacy, even as the city itself was under siege.
The Bloody Prince is dead…
The thought provoked a strange ambivalence within her. She had not forgotten what the despicable prince had done to Ailynn. She’d wanted to kill him herself and would have done so wit
hout hesitation. But he had saved her.
“Whatever he did, he did for his own reasons,” she muttered. Finished donning her armor, she considered a helmet then decided against it. Better that she leave her hair uncovered. At the moment, the last thing she wanted was to be mistaken for a Dhargot. Leaning against the wall for support, she started up the stairs.
As she moved, she thought of the one-eyed sellsword. She’d seen him earlier. He’d either been killed by the other Iron Sisters or fled for his life. She hoped he was not still in the palace, hunting her. Another time, she might have welcomed the challenge of such an obviously skilled opponent, but right now, she was hardly at her best.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she realized that the sounds of battle were growing more and more distant. The Iron Sisters must have cleared the palace of enemies and moved out to the city beyond. She should be there, with them. She tried to hurry, but the pain made her stop again.
I’ll be useless in a swordfight, she realized. She remembered hearing that this palace had once housed three armories. One was supposed to be on the same floor as Queen Sharra’s bedroom, filled with her trophies of war. If she could make her way there and find a crossbow, she might still be of use.
Though she dreaded the thought of climbing so many stairs, Igrid decided she had no choice. She made her way cautiously through the palace, still leaning against the wall for support. She passed dead Dhargots and Iron Sisters alike, along with a handful of slaves who might very well have been killed by the Dhargots for sport or at the hands of Iron Sisters by mistake. She tried not to look at their faces. Near one end table, she spotted a pitcher of wine.
Muttering a prayer of thanks, she took a long drink, then she poured the rest of the pitcher’s contents beneath her cuirass, hoping it might clean her wounds. She winced at the sting, then tossed aside the pitcher and kept going.
By the time she reached the topmost floor of the palace and located a crossbow, she hardly had enough strength left to move. Nevertheless, she used a winch to arm the crossbow and dragged it down to the hall, to Queen Sharra’s bedchamber. With some hesitation, she reentered the room that had been her prison, edging around the guards she’d killed earlier. She dragged the crossbow out to the terrace. She looked out over the city.
Her eyes widened. She could see fighting in the streets. A few rooftops burned. Crowds rushed to and fro. She could not tell from this distance who was fighting, but the screams of the dying were unmistakable. Igrid wondered if she shouldn’t try to find the strength to go out and fight after all. Then the screaming changed.
What had been shouts of battle just moments before, intermingled with cries of pain, became a collective cry of panic. The streets flooded with people all running in the same direction: back toward the palace. Igrid lifted her gaze.
“Sweet gods…”
She dropped the crossbow. It discharged. The bolt glanced off the stone terrace and clattered off in the corner, though Igrid hardly realized it. A great winged, burning thing swept across the sky. She shook her head, unwilling to believe her eyes. But then the dragon’s bony maw opened, and great sheets of purple flame poured out, scouring one street after another.
Igrid wondered where the flames were coming from, since the dragon appeared to have neither scales nor flesh. Then she noticed something equally curious: whenever the dragon turned and banked back over the eastern wall, spears joined to ropes and nets flew into the air. Most fell short, but a few rattled between its bones. Soon, the dragon was tangled.
Its mouth opened as though to scream with rage, but no sound issued forth. Only then did Igrid realized that aside from the strange rattling of chains that hung from its bones, the dragon made no sound whatsoever. Yet its fleshless wings flexed, somehow beating against the air.
For a moment, it looked as though all the ropes and nets had finally tangled its wings too much to move. Then the thing flared with wytchfire that seared along all its bones, burning away the ropes and nets. The dragon rose higher. It belched a seemingly endless sea of purple flame over the eastern walls, then turned back on the city. It chose a new direction and started flying again—heading for the palace.
Igrid lifted her crossbow, remembering too late that it had already gone off. She cursed, fumbling with the winch. Her hands shook. By the time she’d nocked another bolt, the dragon was nearly upon her. Great, dark eyes with pupils of purple flame seemed to stare right at her. Igrid lifted her crossbow. Then she laughed at the absurdity of killing such a creature with such a weapon.
Still, she pulled the trigger. The crossbow shuddered. The bolt leapt forward into the winter air. It fell short. The dragon continued soaring toward her, filling up her vision. She wanted to run but could not tear her gaze away. She fell to her knees and waited for the end.
But the dragon stalled in midair. Purple flames blazed along its bones, brighter than ever. The dragon jerked, flapped its wings, and twisted its head from side to side as though screaming. The flames grew brighter still, until Igrid had to look away.
When she looked back, she saw the dragon plummeting out of the sky. Chains flailed and rattled. The bones separated, jumbled, and crashed onto the city streets. A blinding glare caught her eye. Igrid turned her head just in time to see an enormous ball of flame rising into the eastern sky, traveling faster than thought.
“What…”
Before she could complete the thought, Igrid felt a wave of numbness sweep throughout her entire body, emanating from her wounds. She winced. Then she fell against the railing as everything went dark.
Rowen felt a terrible heat sweep past him, different somehow from any other wytchfire he’d ever seen. The glare blinded him. He lost sight of Chorlga. Forced to shield his eyes, he fell back. The glare seared through his eyelids, scalding into his mind the impression of flames that poured endlessly like water into a dark, empty hole.
When all the flames had been swallowed, the glare vanished. He opened his eyes. Chorlga still sat on his throne of dragonbones. His robes smoldered, almost entirely burned away. Most of his flesh remained charred or crusted with dried blood, but he was still alive.
Rowen hefted Knightswrath and started toward him. The hilt felt red hot in his hands, but he could not let go. He could not stop until Chorlga was dead. Somehow, though, he seemed to be moving in slow motion. Before he had gone halfway, Chorlga stood. The Dragonkin’s eyes dulled to the color of stone.
“So much lost. And still, here we are.”
The ghost of a smile formed on Chorlga’s lips. Then his body blurred, grayed, and disappeared altogether. Where he had been, the air shimmered then returned to normal. Knightswrath pulsed with scalding heat, then the flames vanished from its blade.
Rowen stood, breathing hard, staring at the empty throne. Wytchfire had scorched the bones. At the foot of the throne lay Shade, facedown. His clothes had been mostly burned away, leaving nothing but blackened flesh. Rowen figured he must be dead. He considered stabbing him to be sure but shook his head.
Gods, what did I do? He was my ally…
“And Kayden’s tormentor,” he muttered.
He turned to see Zeia stumbling toward him. No hands of fire capped her scarred wrists. Nevertheless, Rowen lifted Knightswrath and stepped into a guarded position.
Zeia smiled slightly. “It seems we still have a long way to go before we trust each other, Human.” She lowered her gaze to Shade. Her expression softened. Slowly, she knelt and turned him over. Rowen winced when he saw the massive, scorched wound he’d made in Shade’s chest. He knelt, placing Knightswrath on the floor to one side. Zeia held Shade’s head with a scarred wrist, then ignited one flaming hand and closed his staring eyes. The hand flickered and disappeared. She continued to support his head with her wrist then lowered his head back to the floor.
“Chorlga isn’t dead yet. We have to follow him. We have
to finish it.” Her voice sounded flat, exhausted.
Rowen glanced down at Knightswrath. No blood showed on the blade. Zeia’s face reflected in the steel. For a moment, she looked like Silwren. Rowen picked up the sword, moved it to the crook of his arm, and offered Zeia his hand.
“I’ll find him.”
Zeia regarded him in silence then stretched out one arm. A hand of violet flame reappeared, fluttering weakly from her wrist. Rowen hesitated, then grasped it and hauled Zeia to her feet.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Dragonward
Rowen stared out at the vast, icy expanse, red with sunset. Aside from dreams and visions, this was the first time he had ever actually been this far north. For a moment, he felt utterly alone—despite the great army massed behind him.
Someone touched his arm. He turned. Igrid appeared next to him. She wore the gleaming mail and tabard of an Iron Sister. Her red hair hung in short war-braids from the back of her helmet. It had been three months since he’d entered Hesod with the armies of Prince Saanji and found Igrid in the palace, near death. He’d used Knightswrath to save her, but she was still weak. He’d pleaded with her to stay behind—but she’d refused simply by flashing her crooked smile.
“It’s almost over,” Rowen whispered. “He’s just ahead. I can feel him…”
Igrid started to embrace him then stopped. Her crooked smile looked forced. “Is one allowed to hug a Sword Marshal without permission?”
Rowen scoffed. The title, bestowed upon him only six days ago, seemed as ludicrous as the extravagant new armor he was wearing. In place of a crane balancing on one leg, the azure tabard hung over his cuirass showed a white, nine-petaled flower with a golden heart. But the armor never seemed to fit as well as what he’d had before.
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 52
