They should know better. Then again, he doubted the Olgrym were acting under Doomsayer’s orders. The chieftain who had somehow united all the Olgish clans had a rare and wholly uncharacteristic appreciation for cunning and strategy. That made him dangerous. But the group probably consisted of renegades from one of the other clans—the Ash-Hands or the Skullshards—out to distinguish themselves.
That was fine by him. He would have preferred sneaking up on the Olgrym that night to cut their throats or doing battle behind the strong walls of Que’ahl, but every Olg they killed right away was one they would not have to fight later. He signaled.
A squad of Sylvan footmen in black leather brigandines and blackened mail took up positions on either side of him. They formed a long row of grizzled fighters armed with longbows and curved shortswords. None flinched. Most had been fighting Olgrym nearly as long as he had. But he caught other small indications of fear: fingers tightening around weapons, a restless step, and a deepening frown.
Essidel cast a critical eye over their defenses again. His men had taken up position in a shallow trench. One side was piled with earth and bristling with sharpened stakes angled to face the charging Olgrym. The Olgrym could simply have wheeled east or west and tried to flank them, but for a suicidal war-band such as the Olgrym’s, the only honorable attack was one delivered straight at the enemy’s throat.
All the better for us. Essidel issued no orders. None were needed. Each Shal’tiar warrior took a firm stance behind the heaped earth and sharpened stakes. They loosened their blades and nocked arrows to their longbows. The tips were poisoned with burgundy smears of quickdeath, a deadly mixture of crushed felberries and wytchwood sap—the strongest poison the Sylvs had. But against Olgrym, a killing shot to the throat, the eyes, or the liver was better than relying on poison. They were just too big.
Essidel loosened both his curved shortswords, withdrawing them a finger span from their well-oiled scabbards of tooled leather. Then he picked up his longbow. Like his clothing, it was black. He reached for the quiver at his belt. It contained a variety of footed arrows: broadheads, bodkins, and even flint-tipped arrows designed to break apart once they entered the body. He chose a broadhead because it would make a larger wound. He fit the slender arrow to the string, sighted down the shaft, and waited.
Sunlight glinted off the arrow’s tip, shimmering off the thin sheen of quickdeath. The taunts and bloodcurdling shouts of the enemy grew more intense, as did the reek wafting off their bodies. The Olgrym were almost within longbow range, provided the Sylvs aimed high. Another force might have decided against firing right away. Despite their great size, Olgrym could sprint nearly twice as fast as any man. Some would think the best tactic was to wait, aim, and make the shot count.
But as fast as Olgrym could run, Sylvs were even faster at nocking arrows. Essidel raised his bow to a forty-five degree angle and let the bowstring slip from his fingers. The other Shal’tiar warriors followed suit. A dark cloud of poisoned arrows rose into the air with an ominous snap. After rising higher and higher, they fell, their steel tips glinting in the sun. Metal sought flesh, sank through gray muscle, and bit bone. A dozen Olgrym were struck—some in the neck or face, others in the chest and shoulders—but even the mortally wounded pressed on, taking a few more steps before they stumbled and crashed to the plains.
Essidel reached for another arrow, nocked it, and aimed, all in one smooth motion. The other Sylv followed his lead. They fired a second volley, reduced their arc, and fired a third. The Olgrym were less than fifty yards away. Their feet pounded the earth, shaking the ground.
Essidel swallowed his fear and counted. A third of the Olgrym were dead already, but he knew that was not enough to stop them. He drew out three arrows at once and nocked them all. He pulled the string back, steadying the bow despite the unusual weight. The other Shal’tiar did likewise. The tide of Olgrym rolled closer. Essidel waited, waited, then fired.
A thick mass of arrows leapt from the Sylvan line, nearly parallel to the ground, and shredded the foremost Olgrym. Some still pressed on, blood crazed, half a dozen arrows in their bodies. Essidel cursed. He tossed his bow over his shoulder, drew both his shortswords, and braced himself.
The Olgrym must have seen the sharpened stakes, but they did not slow. Instead, they hurled their bodies at the Sylvs’ position, impaling themselves, howling and thrashing like rabid greatwolves in their efforts to move forward. Essidel kept from flinching as Olg blood splattered his face.
Each wooden stake, as wide as a man’s arm, sank three feet in the earth, but the wood buckled and snapped under the weight of Olgrym bodies. Howling, those in the rear shoved their mortally wounded comrades on, inadvertently using them as shields. Essidel stepped back. The other Sylv did the same. The bodies of Olgrym fell like a leaden rain where they had just been standing. Fresh Olgrym clawed and shoved past.
Then the real fighting started.
Minutes later, after what felt like a lifetime, the battle was over. Essidel wiped the sweat from his forehead then wiped the blood from his shortswords using the corpse of the Olg at his feet. He counted again. All the Olgrym were dead… as were half his men. He maintained a stoic expression.
No tears in victory, he thought, echoing another Shal’tiar motto, though he had never really cared for that one. He studied his surviving fighters and chose one who appeared unhurt and the least winded. “Briel, take word to the general. Tell him the Olgrym—”
The crisp blare of a trumpet shattered what he had been about to say. Essidel tensed. He thought for a moment that a fresh host of Olgrym was bearing down on them. Olgrym wrought their booming war horns from the bones of dead dragons, but that horn blast had been crisp and metallic.
He turned in time to see a thick mass of armored figures gathering on a distant rise. They spread out, forming a long line of men and horses. Essidel stared. The men wore flashing mail, gleaming half helms, and brilliant-azure tabards. He wondered for a moment if he had lost his mind.
Briel cleared his throat. “Captain, should we—”
Essidel sheathed his blades. “No, go report to Seravin. The rest of you, at ease. Humans or no, these are Knights… allies from the days of the Shattering War. Wait here. Tend the wounded. I’ll go and see what—”
The Knights’ trumpet sounded again. Essidel turned in time to see the glinting formation explode into action, rolling down the hill like a ribbon of azure and steel. Essidel thought for one wild moment that the Knights had spotted a second force of Olgrym bearing down on them and were spurring to intercept them. He looked around. Aside from the Sylvs, the corpses of the Olgrym, and the wave of Knights thundering toward them, Brai’yl Run was empty.
Even then, Essidel could not believe it. Humans… Isle Knights… attacking Sylvs? He grabbed Briel, who was just finished cleaning his blades and was turning to go. “Forget the Olgrym. Tell the general we’re being attacked by Isle Knights!”
Briel’s eyes widened. Stunned, he stood for a moment then ran. Essidel glanced back at Sylvos. Sylvs were quick runners, nearly as fleet-footed as Olgrym. He and the rest of his fighters could make it to shelter, even on foot, but they had to cover Briel. Essidel started to draw his swords but changed his mind and retrieved a longbow. “Aim for their horses. The Knights will be thrown from their saddles. Don’t bother trying to cut through their armor. Nothing can cut through kingsteel. Just stab their necks below the helmet or right through their visors.”
He glanced at his men’s faces again, noting both their weariness and their confusion. Still, they sprang to action. They retrieved their longbows and formed up in staggered lines, using the corpses of slain Olgrym as a barrier between them and the onrushing Knights. Those Shal’tiar who were too wounded to stand nocked arrows, willing to fight as long as they had breath in their bodies. Luckily, Shal’tiar trained to fire their bows even when kneeling or lying down, to fight even when in agony.
Essidel nocked an arrow. If they could get the poison around the Kn
ights’ famously impenetrable armor, the men would die almost instantly. If… He drew back the arrow until the feathers touched his cheek. He held his breath, cursing whatever new trick the Known Gods seemed to be playing. Then he let the bowstring slip from his fingers.
CHAPTER THREE
A CHANGE IN DIRECTION
As her group rode south, Silwren glanced to the right. Sylvos, what her new companions called the Wytchforest, was still just a blur on the western horizon, a wall of green gowned in clouds. She doubted the others’ eyes were sharp enough to see it, but the sight of her homeland filled her with dread.
They drove me out. The other Sylvs… my own people… they tried to kill me! They killed my birth parents. Why am I going back?
Fadarah had been fond of saying that the next time an exiled Shel’ai set foot in Sylvos, it would be at the head of an army. She no longer wished to see all her people suffer and her homeland burn, but that did not change one basic fact: Sylvs born with Shel’ai abilities were routinely murdered or, at best, exiled. Her people—if they could be called that—had the direst of crimes to answer for.
But I am only one woman. One Shel’ai can neither change their minds nor punish them for their sins. Then again, she was not quite a Shel’ai anymore. A sense of loneliness flooded her, accompanied by memories of Namundvar’s Well. She fought back a sudden swell of tears, though she could not quite say what had caused them. She had seen, even been submerged, in the Light. She should still carry some remnant of that joy, that bittersweet serenity. But the raw power drawn from the Light also threatened to drive her mad—if it didn’t kill her first. Me… and those around me.
Besides, Rowen had gazed into Namundvar’s Well, too. He had seen the Light, just as she had, but he seemed to be devoting all the energy he could spare to not thinking about it. She could not blame him. After viewing paradise and having it torn from his grasp, how could he think about it with anything but despair?
Rowen touched her arm. She jumped then looked where he was pointing. A band of travelers had made camp in the distance.
Her companions tensed. Rowen had one hand on his sword, and Jalist was trying to look casual as he palmed his long axe. There appeared to be about fifty of them: some women and children but mostly old men, all dressed in rags.
Rowen asked, “Refugees from Hesod?”
Jalist shook his head. “Not bloody enough. Clerics and pilgrims, I’d guess. Doesn’t look like many of them are armed.”
“Looks like they follow Tier’Gothma and Armahg,” Rowen said, scrutinizing the emblems on their colored robes. Some had a cluster of grain stalks under a quarter moon, and others a swirl of stars.
“Should we ride around them?” Jalist asked.
“Let’s see if they need help first.” Rowen dismounted and led his horse on foot. He held the reins in one hand, resting the other casually on his sword hilt.
Jalist did the same, pretending to use his long axe as a walking staff. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking, Locke. They do.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you coming, sorceress?”
Silwren caught the wariness and disdain in the Dwarr’s gravelly voice. She wondered if these pilgrims would hate her for what she was, just as so many other Humans had. She wondered if they would threaten her. If they do, I’ll kill them.
She dismounted and followed after the others. As Rowen’s group drew nearer, the travelers shrank back. A few produced staffs or small knives, but only one—an old man—wore a sword. That man left his sword sheathed and came ahead of the others to greet them. The old man’s robes might once have been blue, but they had long since faded to almost white. He wore the starry, swirling emblem of Armahg, but his gray beard was patchy and uneven. He looked less like a cleric than a beggar, but he smiled warmly. Sunlight glinted off his coppery skin and earrings—he wore several in each ear—and she heard a faint Queshi accent in his voice when he said, “Welcome, friends. Will you share our fire?”
Rowen spoke for them. “If it pleases you. Are you from Hesod?”
The cleric’s smile faded. “No… but we heard the screams while we were traveling. We’re pilgrims from half a dozen towns to the north. We’re bound for Atheion, to visit the Scrollhouse and the temples. If all goes well, we’re hoping to stay there.” He lowered his voice. “We did find one refugee from the city, but she’s asleep now.”
Rowen nodded, unkempt red hair hanging in his eyes. “We aren’t clerics, but we might be able to help, if you have wounded who need tending.”
Silwren wondered if he meant for her to heal them. She’d kept her hood drawn so far. Despite her trepidation, she smiled. She could tell how hard Rowen was trying to sound courteous, ever mindful of the balancing crane he wore on his tabard. If all the Isle Knights were like him, the Lotus Isles might actually become what it claims to be.
The cleric smiled. He looked Rowen up and down. “A Knight of the Crane! Why, I haven’t met anyone from the Isles in years. You don’t have the appearance of an Isleman, though.”
“I’m Ivairian by birth. I trained on the Isles. Knighted less than a month ago.” Rowen introduced himself, then Jalist. “And this”—he gestured, a faint worry in his eyes—“is Silwren, our friend.”
Silwren braced herself and lowered her hood. The cleric’s smile vanished, and he reached for the rusty sickle-sword hanging from his belt. Whatever courtesy had been poised on his lips was replaced by a vulgar oath.
Rowen stepped in front of Silwren, sword half drawn. Jalist followed with a sigh, readying his long axe.
But the cleric held up his hands. “Peace, Knight! You only caught me off guard. My eyes may have been soured from countless hours reading books by firelight, but they still know white-and-purple eyes when they see them.”
An uneasy murmur swept through the company of pilgrims. Some reached for makeshift weapons. Others pulled children close or backed away, muttering curses and oaths.
Rowen said, “We’re travelers. Nothing more. We mean no harm to anyone.”
“Good news for us.” The Queshi priest turned and waved and his companions. “Lower your weapons, brothers. An invitation is an invitation.” He offered Silwren a wary smile. “Whatever blood’s in your veins, you’re free to join us, if you like. But first, you’ll have to forgive me. My addled brain didn’t catch your name as it flew by.”
“Silwren,” Rowen repeated.
The old cleric’s eyes widened. “The Wytch of Lyos?” He grinned and turned to Rowen. “And you’re the Knight who protected her.”
I need no protection now.
Meanwhile, the Queshi priest laughed. “The Heroes of Lyos, right here in our camp. I should have guessed! We’ve heard your story… a version of it, at least. I’ll wager such tales take on a life of their own, after a time. Perhaps you could tell us the version you like best.”
Rowen smiled slightly. “Perhaps.”
The pilgrims relaxed a little at the sound of their leader’s laughter, though they still gave the trio a wide berth as they followed the cleric to one of many campfires erected in the center of camp. Several priests offered to care for their horses. One offered them a wineskin, though Rowen offered it to the Queshi priest first.
With a forced smile, Rowen said, “Honor does not permit me to drink before our host.”
Silwren concealed a smile. She did not need magic to know that Rowen was lying.
The cleric raised one gray eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Knight. We had no time to poison it before you arrived.” He winked, drank, and passed the wineskin back. Then he turned, issuing orders to bring food for their guests.
Jalist leaned toward Rowen’s ear as the Dwarr accepted the wineskin next. Silwren’s acute Sylvan hearing caught him saying with sarcasm, “The Heroes of Lyos?”
Rowen whispered, “If you could avoid telling them you fought for the other side, I’d appreciate it.” The Knight faced the cleric again. “Forgive me, Father. You’ve shared your wine with us, but not your name.”
Th
e old cleric blushed. “Apologies. I am Matua. I’m originally from Quesh—as you might have guessed by the color of my skin, if your eyes are any better than mine.”
“I’ve been to your lands once, years ago. I remember the red horses your archers ride. ‘Lightning on four legs,’ they say. I’ve never seen anything move so fast!”
Matua laughed. “Bloodmares? Fast, sure, but ill tempered.” He indicated a scar just beneath his jawline. “One gave me a toss when I was a child. If you’re a Queshi, falling off your horse is like being caught stealing from the temple coffers. My prospects as a fighter seemed bleak, so I went north instead. I think my father was glad to see me go. Been moving about the Simurgh Plains ever since, one village to another.” The cleric’s expression sobered. “And your story, Lady Silwren?”
Silwren felt all eyes on her. She’d taken the wineskin from Jalist and handed it back to Matua without drinking. “Not one I delight in sharing, if you’ll forgive me.”
Matua nodded, unfazed. “Some stories, especially the painful sort, are better shared. Others, not. As it’s your story, we’ll trust that judgment to you.”
Clerics appeared with bowls of stew. Silwren took hers and smiled at the scowling man who delivered it, but she did not eat.
Rowen said, “I’m surprised you stopped for the night. If anybody got away from Hesod, the Dhargots will be hunting them. They can’t be more than two days away from you.”
“It’s not the Dhargots we’re afraid of. I don’t think they’ll come this far south. But I’ve passed through Nosh before, and I remember the Lochurites have a fondness for attacking camps at night. Better we sleep here, do most of the rest of our traveling tomorrow. Don’t have to worry about being so quiet in daylight.”
As though on cue, a baby began crying somewhere in the camp.
“I heard about the Lochurites while I was in Quesh. They’re midland raiders, right?”
Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) Page 4
