Funny. I never thought that armor fit, either.
He squeezed Igrid’s hand and turned north again. He wondered what the others saw. Probably nothing, he realized. To him, though, the Dragonward appeared as a broad, soaring wall of pale purple fire. The closer he drew to it, the more his senses tingled. He felt a dreadful heat welling up within Knightswrath, too, warming the entire sword as it hung at his side. He fought the impulse to draw it. He had not drawn the sword in weeks. Nor did he intend to now—not until he faced Chorlga.
Someone else stepped forward and joined them. “How do you know he won’t teleport away?”
Rowen turned and regarded Jalist. The Dwarr wore the Lyos-red uniform of a Captain of the Guard, bestowed upon him when they’d passed through the city days ago. But Jalist looked no more comfortable in his new uniform than Rowen figured he looked in the armor of a Knight of the Lotus.
No, it’s more than that, Rowen realized. Some of the mirth had gone out of Jalist’s eyes. They looked dark now, even for a Dwarr’s. Rowen glanced at the luminstone hanging around Jalist’s neck, bound in a silver chain, and wondered again if leaving it on Leander’s body had been the right thing to do.
“He won’t,” Rowen said. “He can’t anymore. He used up all the power he’d taken from Godsbane just to heal himself. He used up most of his own since then, trying to get away.”
Jalist grunted. “Well, he won’t get away this time.” He turned and looked behind them.
Rowen turned, too. He stared at the vast, rippling host of armored riders waiting behind him. Mostly Lancers and men from the Free Cities, the men had been with him almost since he’d left Hesod. But others were new.
Small forces of Dwarrs and Queshi had joined him a few weeks ago, as eager as anyone to avenge their slain princes and countrymen. After them came two hundred Sylvs, sent by Captain Briel himself. Kilisti led them, mounted on Snowdark—whom she announced she had no intention of relinquishing.
Others were noticeably absent. Prince Saanji had gone west with his Earless. His father, the Red Emperor, was still alive—and he still had ten thousand fanatical Dhargots in his service. Saanji’s war had only just begun. Rowen intended to help, eventually. In the meantime, to everyone’s surprise, Zeia had elected to go with Saanji. So had a contingent of Iron Sisters, led by Haesha.
Rowen was not entirely certain yet whether all the men who followed him were truly his allies. Days ago, as they marched along the coast near the Burnished Way, nearly a thousand Isle Knights had come to join them, accompanied by an equal number of squires and Noshan militia-men. Their leader, Wyn Kai, said they’d been sent by Crovis Ammerhel, the new Grand Marshal of the Lotus Isles. With a strained smile, Sir Kai had gone on to say that the new Grand Marshal had formally validated Aeko Shingawa’s recent promotion of Rowen to Knight of the Lotus. Furthermore, Crovis had declared that he be made a Sword Marshal and invited back to the Isles to take command of Saikaido Temple.
“He’s calling you back for a reason, Squire,” Aeko had insisted. “Stay away. I’ll go back and see what’s happening on the Isles while you chase the Dragonkin.”
So Aeko had gone, too. A week had passed, and there had been no word from her since.
Perhaps strangest of all his new would-be allies, though, were the Shel’ai. At Zeia’s suggestion, he’d offered amnesty and protection to any Shel’ai who wished to return and join him in his final push against Chorlga. Most had refused. But a few had returned, dressed in bone-white cloaks that now bore a new sigil: a hand of purple flame.
Though these Shel’ai had been vital allies in helping him track Chorlga from one end of Ruun to the other, their presence had caused no small amount of unrest in the army. Once Chorlga was gone, Rowen had no doubt that most of the Shel’ai would disappear again.
Most… but not all.
There were still matters to attend to in the Wytchforest as well. But first, he had to deal with Chorlga.
Rowen glanced east, far out beyond the ice, where a line of ships was just barely visible. One of them was the Winter Prayer, commanded by his old friend, Hráthbam. While Kilisti and the Sylvs patrolled to the west, Hráthbam and a small host of Soroccan sailors did the same to the east, bolstered by Sang Wei, a squad of Isle Knights, and a handful of the best archers the Queshi had left. But Rowen doubted any of that would be necessary.
He turned to face the Dragonward again. “It’ll end there, with me,” he said wearily. “I’m going on alone.”
“Wrong,” Jalist said.
“Right,” Rowen said. He squeezed the Dwarr’s shoulder. “For once, listen to me. Stay here, my friend. You’re in command while I’m gone.”
Jalist gave him a sour look. “Presuming that even half these people will listen to what I say, what should I do if Chorlga attacks us? I don’t remember hearing about axes and arrows being of much use against a Dragonkin.”
Rowen smiled slightly. “Chorlga is weak now—weak enough that it wouldn’t take magic to kill him. But he won’t attack you, because to do that, he’d have to get past me. And he won’t.”
Jalist and Igrid exchanged looks. “Fine,” Jalist said finally. “I’ll stay with this camp of rabid Locke-worshippers and stave off frostbite while you two go give the Dragonkin a proper burial.”
Rowen turned to face Igrid. “No.”
Igrid flashed a crooked grin and said nothing. She just turned north and started walking. Jalist chuckled. Rowen swore. Then he hurried after her.
“When we find him, stay behind me,” Rowen said.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Igrid snapped.
Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. “I know. But you can be set on fire. I can’t.”
Igrid raised one eyebrow. She rapped her knuckles against his armored left arm, where the skin from shoulder to elbow had been left permanently red and wrinkled from Chorlga’s wytchfire. For some reason, Knightswrath could not heal the itching, sometimes maddening burn.
“That’s different,” Rowen insisted.
“If you say so.” Igrid faced north again. “But if you want to be my shield, Sir Fey, feel free.”
Rowen gave her a sour look. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” She’d been using that name sporadically ever since she’d heard Prince Saanji use it.
“At least I don’t call you that in front of your men.”
“Actually, you do.”
Igrid shrugged. They continued in silence for a while, then she stopped. Her expression turned deathly serious. She pointed.
“I know.” Rowen squeezed her arm and stepped in front of her. One hand rested on Knightswrath’s dragonbone pommel. He started forward again, easing toward the cloaked figure.
Dressed in a gray cloak, Chorlga stood motionless, back turned, nearly invisible against the ice. As Rowen drew closer, the Dragonkin still did not move. Rowen did not draw Knightswrath despite the growing heat of the hilt.
Chorlga stood so still, facing the silent, roiling wall of fire that was the Dragonward, that Rowen began to wonder if the Dragonkin had fashioned a new Jol in his own image. Then Chorlga lowered his hood and turned. Despite himself, Rowen winced.
Chorlga’s face remained burnt, his features ruined and twisted. He grinned nonetheless. “Good evening, Sir Locke. It seems you have found me at last.”
Rowen took one step forward, then another. He heard Igrid moving a short distance behind him. He was glad that for once, she’d listened to him and stayed back. He flexed his fingers around Knightswrath’s hilt, ready to draw it the moment Chorlga moved to attack.
But Chorlga tucked his burnt hands back into the sleeves of his gray robe. “After Cadavash, I went to Godsfall, then to the Dead Shores.”
“I know,” Rowen said. “I followed you.”
“I thought I could get the Olgrym to fight for me,” Chorlg
a continued. “They followed Fadarah. They followed Shade. Why not me?” His grin faded. “But no one would listen. Even those who were afraid of me. Why do you suppose that is?”
Rowen eased even closer, turning his eyes slightly left, then right. He searched their surroundings for some sign of a trap. He saw only bare, empty ice.
“I’m surprised the wytch is not with you,” Chorlga continued. “The one with no hands.”
Rowen thought he caught a hint of admiration in the Dragonkin’s voice. “Shall I deliver a message for you?”
Chorlga appeared to seriously consider it. “No,” he said finally. He removed his hands from his sleeves. Rowen tensed, but the Dragonkin merely lowered his arms to his sides. He regarded Rowen in silence then slowly turned westward. “Twelve centuries I’ve walked this wretched continent, and this is to be my last sunset. Strange that it ends here, on the Wintersea. Fitting, though, I suppose.”
Rowen measured the distance between them. He was nearly close enough to slash the Dragonkin in a quick draw, but he hesitated to step any closer because that would also leave him less room to defend himself if Chorlga attacked with wytchfire. Besides, he didn’t just have to defend himself. He had to protect Igrid, too.
But I can’t let him get away. I can’t let him get past me.
Rowen waited. Meanwhile, Chorlga stared, unblinking, into the sunset. Then the Dragonkin closed his eyes and tipped his head back. The grin returned. Slowly, he turned back to Rowen. He opened his eyes. This time, the pupils looked as gray as granite.
“Well fought, Sir Locke.”
Without waiting for a response, Chorlga turned toward the Dragonward, raging just a few yards beyond. He stretched out his arms and walked forward. He kept walking. As Rowen watched, Chorlga stepped right into the Dragonward.
Pale purple flames washed over him. Chorlga shuddered but did not scream. He kept walking. The flames brightened. Chorlga’s whole body shuddered then withered into ash. For one moment, his ashes flared in the Dragonward like stars—then they, too, burned away.
For a long time, Rowen stared.
Finally, backing away, he wrested his hand off Knightswrath’s hilt. He reached down and took Igrid’s hand. “Let’s go,” he said, unable to say more.
EPILOGUE
Igrid sat on a stone bench in a newly planted grove of dogblossom trees, watching the children play. She disliked seeing them play so close to the fissure, despite the stone wall—gated and guarded—that now separated Cadavash from the outside world.
Though all the children but Thessa had violet eyes, they seemed to welcome the Hesodi girl easily enough. In fact, the only untrusting stares came from the faces of the Isle Knights who guarded the new gates into Cadavash.
And my face, probably.
A tiny scream drew her gaze back to the infant in her arms. Sariel had woken again. The infant writhed ferociously in her blanket but stilled the moment Igrid looked at her. Violet eyes stared back. Squelching a feeling of panic, Igrid hummed a lullaby and smoothed back the infant’s platinum hair, tucking it behind her tiny, tapered ears.
Sariel smiled, yawned, and went back to sleep.
Igrid stood, readjusting the infant—whose name, according to Rowen, meant Echo. As she emerged from the circle of dogblossom trees, she saw Rowen heading toward her. He was scowling. Before he had a chance to speak, Igrid pressed Sariel into his arms. “Hold your damn daughter,” she said, not unkindly.
Rowen blinked then obliged. Sariel woke, stared at Rowen with wide, purple eyes, and opened her mouth to cry. Rowen kissed her forehead, and the infant went back to sleep.
Then he directed his gaze back at Igrid. “You don’t have to do this. Briel sent nursemaids—”
“She doesn’t frighten me,” Igrid lied. Staring at Rowen, though, she wondered once again what Knightswrath had done to him. He had not worn the sword in months; still, though, he had nightmares. And more than once, she thought she’d heard him call Silwren’s name in his sleep. She wanted to hate him for that, but after Chorlga’s defeat on the Wintersea, she’d confessed her own sins: that she’d tried to steal Knightswrath from him once before, and Silwren had intervened. He’d been quick to forgive her. In fact, he confessed that he’d sensed as much when he’d found her in Hesod and healed her. She did not know whether to feel relieved or enraged, though she could not say why—only that sometimes, she wished he’d hated her for a while.
Shaking herself, she said, “What’s wrong?”
“Word from the Lotus Isles,” Rowen answered. Sariel began to stir. He smiled at her then lowered his voice. “From Aeko.”
“About Crovis?”
Rowen nodded. “He’s more powerful than ever. He has the whole Council and the Noshans convinced that he alone saved the Lotus Isles. And he’s angry that I haven’t gone back.”
“Angry that you didn’t give him Knightswrath, you mean.” Igrid thought of the sword, locked away deep in the sorrowful depths of Cadavash, near Namundvar’s Well. As far as she was concerned, it could stay there.
“Well, Aeko says he’s trying to force his way into King Shigella’s tomb. She says he thinks there’s something in there… maybe another sword like Knightswrath.”
Igrid felt a knot of panic. “Is there?”
Rowen shook his head. “If so, Chorlga never mentioned it. Neither did El’rash’lin. And nothing was ever written about it.” He paused. “There must be something in there, though. Nobody can break through the stone. The whole thing’s sealed by some kind of magic. Zeia said it isn’t Shel’ai, either.”
“You’ve been there. What do you think?”
Rowen hesitated. “It felt… older. Dragonkin, I think. Maybe Nâya built it. I don’t know. I’ve told Matua to learn all he can about it.”
Igrid nodded. She’d seen the cleric of Armahg weeks ago, and still marveled that he’d survived his encounter with the Nightmare—an encounter that had reduced half the Scrollhouse and a good portion of Atheion to ash. But Matua had not escaped unscathed. He’d lost one arm, and half his face had been burned to the texture of rippled silk. Yet, thanks to Rowen’s invocation of Knightswrath’s power, he could at least live without pain.
Thessa stopped playing long enough to wave.
Rowen waved back then studied the Isle Knights in the distance. “I have one hundred Knights here… maybe half of whom I trust. I have Aeko and Sang Wei back on the Isles. I have Jalist back in Lyos and Briel in the Wytchforest. And the Shel’ai.”
Igrid glanced at the cloaked figures speaking in the distance, milling near the gates, their white robes emblazoned with the hand of purple flame. They seemed to sense her scrutiny. Turning, they nodded at her, stone faced.
Igrid nodded back, suppressing a shudder. She was tempted to ask about Zeia and Saanji, if Rowen had any further word on their campaign since they had unexpectedly refused Rowen’s help in battling the Red Emperor. She decided she did not want to know.
Instead, she touched Rowen’s burned arm, left bare by his sleeveless tunic. When he turned, she kissed his forehead. As an afterthought, she forced herself to kiss Sariel’s forehead, too. “And me.”
Rowen smiled. “And you.” Shifting Sariel to one side, he leaned in and kissed her. As he did so, Igrid felt the cold, brass pommel of Rowen’s new sword press into her belly. She shifted. Sariel cried.
Igrid winced then smiled. “It’s going to snow soon,” she said.
Rowen nodded. “I know. Come inside. I’ll build a fire.”
Dear Reader,
We hope you enjoyed Kingsteel, by Michael Meyerhofer. Please consider leaving a review on your favorite book site.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Meyerhofer grew up in Iowa, where he learn
ed to cope with the unbridled excitement of the Midwest by reading books and not getting his hopes up. Probably due to his father’s influence, he developed a fondness for Star Trek, weight lifting, and collecting medieval weapons. He is also addicted to caffeine and the History Channel.
His fourth poetry book, What To Do If You’re Buried Alive, was recently published by Split Lip Press. He also serves as the poetry editor of Atticus Review. His poetry and prose have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Brevity, Ploughshares, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Rattle, and many other journals.
He and his fiancée currently live in Fresno, California, in a little house beside a very large cactus.
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