Matua grimaced. “You’re too kind. I’d call them wolves, but that would be cruel to wolves. If you know anything about my order, you know that Armahg cautions us against passing judgments over entire people”—he glanced at Silwren—“but in the Lochurites’ case, I make an exception.” He spat in the fire for emphasis, muttering a Queshi oath over the faint hiss.
Jalist nodded in agreement. Silwren knew of the Stillhammer Mountains, where most Dwarrs made their home on the eastern shore of the midlands, but she had never heard of the Lochurites.
Matua seemed to read her expression. “The Lochurites roam the hills south of the valley. Don’t know where they got their name since they don’t have any cities or towns, much less a king. They just rove about, raping and reaving. They tried invading Quesh not too long ago, but our riders put a quick and bloody stop to that. So they moved on to the Noshans.”
“Sounds like they’d get along well with the Dhargots,” Jalist muttered.
“Lochurites don’t even use iron. They think bronze is some kind of sacred metal sent by gods, so that’s all they’ll use for weapons. They’re fanatics, even worse than dragon worshippers. They don’t mind dying. They swallow some kind of poison before battles. It yellows their eyes and drives them mad. Berserkers, some call them. Even their women and children fight.”
Rowen said, “Atheion has a standing army. Why don’t they hunt them down?”
Matua scoffed. “Most Noshans stay near Atheion, tending their herds or trading goods brought in on ships. Lochurites don’t attack cities. They just prowl about, scouring camps and villages, looking for easy prey. So the Noshans don’t have much reason to get worked up about it. But I bet they are worried about the Dhargots.”
Silwren said, “They aren’t the only ones.” She looked at Rowen.
Matua leaned forward. “There’s talk of them sweeping across the Simurgh Plains. Makes me wonder, if things don’t work out in Atheion, if we’d even have villages to go back to. And that’s if we even make it to Atheion in one piece!”
Rowen asked, “Doesn’t your group have any fighters?”
Matua laughed. “Guards cost money. We can hardly afford bread. But we’ve got a few weapons, here and there.” He tapped his rusty sickle-sword.
Silwren saw the concern in Rowen’s eyes. She guessed what the Knight was thinking. She could not decide whether to feel irritated by the Human or be proud of him.
“Maybe we could help,” Rowen said. Jalist groaned, but Rowen continued. “We could escort you to Atheion. In the meantime, we don’t have extra weapons, but we can help you carve some spears from old tree limbs. Harden them with fire, and even if they don’t push through a bronze breastplate, they’ll drive the wind out of a man—drugged or no.”
Matua blinked in surprise then grinned. Some of the others looked displeased, but most wore expressions of relief. “You have our thanks, Sir Locke! And you’ll have coin for your troubles—no, don’t refuse it. If you know the Queshi and hospitality, you know that’s an insult. Just nod and give me whatever courteous reply they taught you on the Isles.”
Rowen grinned, and Silwren knew his pleasure came as much from the use of his title as from anything. She did not listen for Rowen’s reply. She looked away.
Rowen, you’re no figure in a tale of hope and heroes. By the Light, you have no idea what you’re risking. We were supposed to make haste through the valley, not act as bodyguards. If there’s a fight, if I lose control…
She studied the faces around her: gnarled priests, fretful old women, a few wide-eyed children gazing upon her with fearful fascination. She wondered how many would die were she forced to unleash her full power to protect Rowen. She spooned some of the stew and raised it to her lips. It was hot but bland. She ate it anyway and tried to smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOHL’S DAUGHTER
By midday, Rowen began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He had risen early and, with Jalist and the priests’ help, begun fashioning crude spears. But the task quickly proved to be daunting and mostly useless. Some priests refused the weapons, claiming that even holding them betrayed their vows. Others accepted them, only to use them as walking sticks. None save Matua seemed to have any idea how to use them. As they set out, Rowen even saw a few of his meticulously crafted, fire-hardened spears simply cast aside, abandoned in the grassy plains. Silwren watched, always from a distance, and said nothing. But her stern, unblinking gaze made her disapproval clear.
That was only the beginning. The ragtag group rose late, traveled slowly, and stopped often. Though they had a handful of horses, all were laden with supplies and required almost as much coaxing as their masters did. Children cried. The old took only two steps for his three. Many seemed to breathe in air only to exhale complaints.
Rowen seethed, trying to conceal his mounting frustration. He’d offered to escort these people without first consulting Jalist or Silwren, thinking that the loss of a couple days would not seriously hinder them. In fact, if they traveled south around the valley, they could reach the Wytchforest and avoid the Dhargots entirely. But with every delay, he imagined his enemies—Dhargots, Lochurites, Shel’ai, and Isle Knights—drawing closer.
Jalist appeared next to him. “Well, Sir Locke, what did you expect? Remember that Ivairian merchant we helped escort a few years back? He insisted on bringing his wife, his servants, his concubines, his legitimate children, and, what, a half dozen bastards?”
“I’d nearly forgotten. This bunch isn’t that bad, though.”
“You’re right. They’re worse. If we get killed doing this, I’m blaming you.” The Dwarr kept a wary eye on their surroundings—plains, a few rocky hills, and a distant crescent of mountains—his long axe always in hand.
“We won’t. Even if we’re attacked, we have Silwren.”
“Then why did you waste all that time carving spears?”
“Just a precaution, and one we probably won’t need. We’re well into the valley now. The Noshans must be patrolling these lands.”
“Ah, yes. The brave Noshan warriors. There’s some of them now.” Jalist pointed to a distant rise, where three shepherds were tending a flock. One of them waved. Jalist waved back. “We’re doomed.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be in Atheion by nightfall.”
“And will we find the streets turned to wine and the rooftops to strawberries when we get there? At this pace, we’ll be lucky to get there before winter!” Jalist glanced over his shoulder, scouring the priests and pilgrims with a murderous stare.
Jalist had a point. Rowen sighed and went to talk to Matua. Trying to smile to soften what he was sure was an unmistakable edge in his voice, Rowen said, “Forgive me, Father, but we must quicken our pace.”
The disheveled cleric nodded, unsurprised. “I agree. In fact, I have been praying for that at least five times a day for two weeks now. So far, Armahg has declined to answer.”
Rowen had already had his fill of sarcasm from Jalist and did not need it from the cleric as well. He took in their surroundings. They had a good clear view for miles. Aside from the occasional drover, the land seemed sparsely inhabited. In fact, were it not for Matua’s tale, he might have thought this realm as safe and uneventful as any.
“If we are attacked, lead the group onward. We’ll deal with the Lochurites.”
“And you’ll be welcome to them. But I doubt you’ll dampen your sword here, Sir Locke. These Lochurites aren’t an army. They rove in gangs of three or four. If they see you and your friend, armed and armored, I’m sure that’ll keep them away.”
“Just the same, make sure everyone stays together. Even if someone has to relieve themselves, they shouldn’t go alone. Modesty’s not worth dying for.”
“Tell that to Haesha.” Matua added, “She’s the young priestess of Dyoni.”
Rowen scowled. “So far as I can tell, Priest, everyone in your group is wearing clothes.”
“Oh, I don’t mean she’s naked. I mean, she keeps wandering
off, then coming back. She’s been drunk since we found her. She’s the refugee who made it out of Hesod… though she hasn’t said two words about that, or anything else, since we found her.”
“Is she wounded?”
“I don’t think the Dhargots got to her, if that’s what you mean. We just found her wandering south of the city. She had blood on her, but it wasn’t hers. Beyond that, I know nothing.” He paused. “Have you ever known a follower of Dyoni?”
Despite his irritation, Rowen smothered a grin. Those who followed the God of Earthly Pleasures were famous for their lively barroom and bedroom exploits, to say nothing of their provocative attire—if they wore clothes at all. He had even known a certain flaxen-haired brothel worker who spoke often and longingly of becoming a priestess of Dyoni.
“I’m doing the work anyway,” she used to say. “Might as well earn divine favor while doing it!”
Matua frowned. “I thought Isle Knights were above such things. Meaning no offense, of course.”
Rowen shrugged. “Ivairian Lancers are supposed to be chaste, though few are. For the Knights of the Lotus Isles, though, the laws are a bit… lax in that area. The Codex Lotius only calls for restraint. All things in moderation, that kind of thing. Besides, I wasn’t always a Knight.”
The cleric did not smile at his joke. Rowen sighed. Remembering another prejudice of the Quesh, he was glad he had said nothing about Jalist’s preference for men. He decided it was time to cut his losses. He bid his farewell to Matua—who was already distracted, trying to help a mother with a colicky infant—and went to Silwren.
The Shel’ai woman rode stone faced, obviously keeping her distance from the group. He rode next to her for awhile. When she did not speak or acknowledge him, he finally broke the silence. “You’re angry with me.”
“Perhaps I am not the only one who can read minds.”
Rowen considered telling her that he regretted his decision as much as she did. “I was hoping you’d say I was wrong.”
“I already told you, Human—”
“Rowen,” he corrected. “Gods, are you back to forgetting my name again?”
Silwren raised one eyebrow, looking down at Knightswrath. “That’s no tin blade you carry, Knight. You wear one of the few relics left in all of Ruun that proves the Oath of Kin is real. With that sword, you might compel the Sylvs and the Knights to fight together. You could save thousands of lives. Instead, we’re safeguarding fifty.”
She’s right. “You’re wrong. These people needed our help. A Knight of the Crane doesn’t turn his back.”
“Don’t they? I’ve heard otherwise.”
“Enough. So what if the Dhargots keep killing? What do you care if Humans kill other Humans?”
“I don’t. But you do.”
Rowen was about to argue with her, to remind her that she herself had betrayed the Shel’ai to save Lyos from the Throng, but he sensed that was going too far. Instead, he decided to check on the priestess of Dyoni. He rode back to the ragged column of clerics and crying children. Some bowed at the sight of him. Others shied away when they saw his anger. Rowen ignored them and scoured the ranks until he spotted her.
At the rear of the column walked a young woman about Rowen’s age, perhaps a few years younger. She wore mismatched traveling clothes. Her trousers, much too big for her, were held in place by a belt of knotted rope. Her tunic, on the other hand, was much too small.
The breath caught in Rowen’s throat. The woman was clearly Human, though her exaggerated curves hinted at Dwarr blood somewhere in her lineage. She had brilliant red hair, even more scarlet than his. If not for the color of her hair, he might have mistaken her for the brothel worker he had just been thinking about. But this priestess was even more striking.
She was also very drunk. One hand white-knuckled a wine pitcher, the contents of which sloshed over the pewter rim with her every other step. The other hand held a drawn knife. He would not have taken her for a priestess at all were it not for the silver emblem pinned to her clothes: a nude, androgynous figure holding a chalice, back turned to the viewer.
While followers of Dyoni could be irritatingly heavy drinkers, given what the woman must have seen at Hesod, Rowen could hardly blame her. Still, the other refugees were giving her a wide berth. He dismounted and led Snowdark by the reins, walking slowly until Haesha caught up with him. When she did not acknowledge his presence, Rowen cleared his throat.
Haesha answered by twisting on one heel and slashing at his face with her knife.
Rowen recoiled, narrowly avoiding a fresh scar. At the same time, Snowdark reared, and he almost lost hold of the reins.
“I’m in mourning,” she slurred. “These knees stay closed. Fuck your horse if you’re lonely.”
She tried to drink from her pitcher, spilled a mouthful of wine on her tunic, and stumbled. When Rowen drew closer, about to catch her, steel flashed at his face again. The tip of her knife slashed his tabard and sparked off his armor, leaving a bright scratch in his breastplate.
“Wait, I just want to—”
“Half the men in the midlands want the same thing. I don’t need a description.” She turned away, dropped her knife. She tried to pick it up, missed, spilled some wine on her trousers, cursed, then managed to retrieve her knife and leap to her feet in one oddly graceful motion. Seeing that he was still staring, she gave him a mocking curtsy and stumbled on.
“I’m not a midlander,” Rowen said, furiously inspecting the tear in his tabard. “I just want to talk. Matua said you might—”
At the mention of the Queshi priest, Haesha spat a string of obscenities.
Rowen recoiled, trying to keep his eyes on the blade flitting about in her hand. He was tempted to try to wrest it away from her before she cut herself, but he was not sure if it was worth the risk. Instead, he mounted his horse and gave her the same wide berth the others did. Some were trying not to snicker.
As he rode away, he heard Jalist in the distance, chuckling softly.
Rowen’s mood had not improved when Matua found him later.
The cleric, on the other hand, looked as though he were fighting back a grin as he said, “I heard you had a conversation with Haesha.”
Rowen had let a mother and child ride Snowdark while he traveled on foot. He’d done this not just out of generosity but also because he was tired of the priests’ and pilgrims’ snickering. Unlike the others, though, the Queshi priest seemed unamused.
“You could call it that.”
“Careful with that one, Knight. I should have warned you better. She’s a fetching sight, but so is a campfire. Only a fool would try to lay his hands on either.”
“Save your breath, Priest. The only way I plan on touching her is at the other end of a sword, if need be.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. She sleeps like a stone once she’s drunk enough. That’s why you didn’t hear her when you met us on the road. Good thing, too, or else you might have ridden on.”
I still might, Rowen thought, eyeing the scratch in his breastplate. The first dent in his armor had come not from battle but from a drunken priestess he had only been trying to help.
Irritated, he tugged at the straps securing his breastplate. Though his armor was made of kingsteel, lighter and stronger than most other armor on the continent, it still weighed on a man who was used to wearing nothing heavier than a brigandine. He had finally begun to grow accustomed to the weight, and he liked the respect it got him. However, the heat and straps still bothered him.
Once I get to Atheion, I’m going to pile it in the corner of some tavern room and let it gather dust while I gorge on that famous food and wine.
He chided himself. Do I really intend to stay in Atheion that long? Both Silwren and Jalist had only reinforced his certainty that he’d made a mistake in not riding toward the Wytchforest as fast as possible. Still, for better or worse, he’d become the leader of the group, and as vainglorious as he admitted it was, he rather liked the idea. He
had spent most of his life taking orders—from his brother, from the gangs in the Dark Quarter, from whatever merchant had hired him as a sellsword, even from the trainers on the Lotus Isles. If he intended to remain a Knight, though, he might one day lead men into battle. He had better get used to the idea soon.
The hours wore on. They were still far from Atheion, though the strange inland sea known as Armahg’s Tears, upon which the city resided, was in view. It shone on the eastern horizon like a broad, blurry sheen. Rowen could hardly believe the size of it. He had not seen such a thing since he’d stood on the Lotus Isles and stared at the ocean—though in the case of the ocean, the mists of the Dragon’s Veil kept him from really seeing it.
But I’ll see Armahg’s Tears. I’ll stand on the shores and watch the fishing skiffs come in. I’ll see the city with streets of water.
He glanced up at Armahg’s Eye. The starry swirls gleamed faintly in daylight. He thought how fine it would be to have so many beautiful things named in his honor then flushed with embarrassment at the thought. He walked ahead of the others and found Matua again. Tired of discussing Haesha, he asked about the distant sea.
The Queshi priest smiled. If Rowen had lost any favor by failing to show adequate ill will toward prostitution, he regained that and more by asking the right question. “The sea was formed from the tears shed by Armahg when the other gods cast her lover, Zet, also called the Dragongod, from the heavens. Some say that the sea was even used by Zet’s dragons to wash his bones. And when Armahg’s tears moistened those bones, they blossomed and gave birth to all the races of the world.”
Rowen nodded carefully. He wondered if the cleric actually believed the preposterous tale. He remembered discussing such matters with Hráthbam, the dark-skinned Soroccan merchant who gave him Knightswrath, who agreed that most priestly tales were childish nonsense.
Rowen was about to ask about Atheion’s famous Scrollhouse when he heard a familiar voice shouting his name. He whirled, Knightswrath already half drawn, and saw Jalist thundering toward him. Unwilling to surrender his own horse, as Rowen had, the Dwarr had taken to patrolling the surrounding lands. He rode back to the column so quickly that his horse’s hooves kicked up a flurry of dirt.
Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) Page 5
