Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Then she saw no more.

  “Well,” Jalist said dourly as he and Rowen stood outside the city, watching the winged visage evaporate from the night sky above Atheion, “do you think they know what we did?”

  Rowen sensed it was a jest, but he answered anyway. “They’ll put it together quick enough. Turns out, we’ll have Noshans hurling spears at our asses after all.”

  Jalist held tight to the reins. Like Rowen, he was having trouble controlling his mount. All the horses, save Silwren’s, were still frightened by magic; the dragon-like visage rising from Atheion, even at this distance, had left the very air charged so that it prickled their skin like a storm of tiny, invisible needles. “How long do we wait for her?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Better brace for a fight, then.” Jalist pointed.

  Men were amassing at the squat half-moon wall near the outskirts of Atheion. Rowen wondered if Captain Reygo had already been roused from slumber and told that the disappearance of a prisoner coincided with a magical visage rising from the jailhouse.

  He imagined Silwren trying to control all that power, to keep herself from killing again. A rush of cold chilled his blood. If she had not joined them yet, perhaps the power had been too much for her. “Silwren’s not coming.”

  Jalist asked, “Is she dead?” His blunt tone made it hard to tell whether the Dwarr wished it so.

  “I don’t think so. I think she’s… staying away from us.” Rowen felt Knightswrath’s hilt and found it so warm that he had to take his hand away.

  Jalist raised one eyebrow. “Then it’s time to go.”

  “Good idea,” a voice said. Igrid materialized out of the shadows, a crooked smile on her face. “Is that third horse for me?”

  Rowen tensed. Despite the distance, he could hear shouts coming from Atheion. They had not been spotted yet, but that made no difference. It would not be hard to track two—let alone three—fleeing on horseback. “You’re not coming with us. Take Silwren’s horse and ride south. Quesh is your best bet. They’re kind to women.” He paused. “I don’t expect thanks, but if you have half a shred of honor, you’ll say a prayer for the wytch who spirited you out of there. You have no idea what she risked doing it.”

  Jalist eyed the armed Noshans in the distance. “Locke, finish your farewells and set your spurs, for gods’ sake!”

  Igrid met Rowen’s gaze. “Save your stern words, Knight. I’m coming with you.” She went to Silwren’s horse, pulled the reins from Rowen’s grasp, and swung easily into the saddle.

  Jalist turned. “We’re not going on a pleasant little ride about the country. You come with us, you’ll likely end up with a dozen Sylvan arrows in your tits.”

  “I know. She told me—though her phrasing was a bit more eloquent.” Igrid faced Rowen again. “Your wytch told me where you were going. And she told me why. I thought it was just a dream, but then I opened my eyes, and here I was.”

  Rowen regained his senses and shook his head. “This is no joke. We’re bound for the Wytchforest. And by the Light, the hells, and every other damn thing I can swear on, I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

  Igrid made a pouty face that evaporated back into her crooked, mocking grin. “And here I thought we were getting along so well.” Her expression sobered. “Listen, Knight. I don’t understand half of what you’re planning, but I know it has something to do with the Dhargots. Your wytch told me as much. So if helping you means more Dhargots dying—whether it’s Sylv or Knights or gods know who kills them—then I’m with you.”

  Rowen scowled. “No. That’s my final answer.”

  “Good. I’m tired of arguing. Besides, do you really want me at your back or up front, where you can see me?” Before Rowen could answer, Igrid snapped the reins and took off.

  Jalist said, “If you want to kill her, I’ll loan you my knife.”

  Rowen looked over his shoulder. The Noshans had organized. Their spearheads glinted in the white glow of Armahg’s Eye. “I might take you up on that.”

  He gave Snowdark full rein. Jalist followed. The two men uttered a stream of curses as they hurtled after the former Iron Sister, melting into the cold western darkness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CHASE

  Rowen led them west as fast as they could ride, given the supplies burdening their horses. They rode through the night and considered stopping at dawn for a few hours of rest, but they chanced upon a drovers’ village, and a warning of Lochurites in the area persuaded them to stop at an inn. Rowen half hoped that when he woke scant hours later, Igrid would already be gone. But they found her in the stables, already dressed and ready.

  They rode southwest, hoping to circle the mountains and approach the Wytchforest from the south. But they stopped at sundown when Jalist spied riders pursuing them.

  Rowen said, “Noshans, probably. If we ride hard, we can stay ahead of them.”

  Igrid produced a spyglass, without explanation of where she’d gotten it, and looked. Frowning, she lowered it. “Sorry, Knight, but those aren’t Noshans. I see dark armor and red horses. Seems I’ve gotten you into trouble.” She sounded almost sorry.

  Rowen snatched the spyglass from her and raised it to one eye. “Damn.” He passed it to Jalist.

  Igrid said, “The southern road has too many hills. You can see them from here. We won’t outrun bloodmares that way. Better we go north.”

  Jalist scoffed. “And risk not only berserkers and these bastards following us, but even more Dhargots when we pass by Hesod?”

  Rowen took the spyglass from Jalist and looked again. He counted four dark figures but six red horses. Rather than sell the bloodmares of their two slain comrades, the Dhargots had brought them along. A horse carrying only its own weight would not tire as easily as one carrying a rider. That meant the Dhargots could rotate mounts and stop less often for rest. “We can’t outrun them, no matter which direction we go.” He turned to Igrid. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into leading them away from us.”

  Jalist hefted his long axe. “If you can’t talk her into it, maybe I can.”

  Igrid reached behind her and drew a knife she must have stolen from the same village where she took the spyglass. “Feel free to try, Dwarr.”

  Rowen touched Jalist’s arm to stop him. He checked the position of the sun. Dusk, a great blue-black wall of shadow, was creeping along the eastern horizon. “They’re expecting us to keep riding southwest. We’ll keep that way for now then turn north once it’s too dark to see our trail. Night will be on our side.”

  Jalist said, “Good! Gods know nothing else is.”

  Igrid said, “No need. You two have bows. Give me one of them. I’m a good shot. If one of you is half as good as me, we might kill all four before they get close.”

  Rowen shook his head. “They’re wearing armor. Besides, they have crossbows. Big ones. I saw them in the stables.” He passed the spyglass back to Igrid. “Southwest then north. Let’s go.” He snapped the reins and took off, half hoping once again that Igrid would choose her own path.

  They pressed on as hard as they could. When darkness swallowed them, they turned north. Instead of galloping, Rowen led them in a quiet, stealthy canter. No one spoke. They rode until dawn then stopped in a thin copse of trees to rest. When they set out again, still half exhausted, Rowen took Igrid’s spyglass and scanned the southern horizon.

  Jalist asked, “Did it work?”

  Rowen lowered the spyglass and rubbed his eyes. “No.”

  Jalist swore. “No way they could have seen us change direction!”

  “They didn’t. They just guessed.” Igrid turned to Rowen. “You’re too predictable.”

  Rowen said, “Enough talk. All we can do now is ride hard and hope they’re just as tired as we are.” He patted Snowdark’s neck in sympathy then snapped the reins.

  When they stopped again, it was not to rest, though their horses were lathered with exhaustion. Rowen cursed.

  Jalist asked,
“Is this good or bad news?”

  Ahead lay a Noshan village. A few thatched huts were nestled against a small lake, a nearby cattle pasture, and a squat adobe temple dedicated to Armahg. A few small naked children played in the shadow of a windmill. Then someone spotted them. Parents rushed to grab their children while a few farmers formed a ragged line, armed with shovels and dung forks.

  Jalist said, “We could ask for help.”

  “No, we’ll ride on.”

  Igrid said, “Good idea. If we’re lucky, the Dhargots will think we hid here. While they’re busy torching and butchering, we’ll get away.”

  Rowen glowered at her. He could not tell if she was joking. But she had a point.

  Jalist said, “Don’t go getting any grand notions, Locke. These people are under the protection of their king. The Dhargots won’t want an incident. They might just poke around a while, then go.”

  Rowen glanced at his friend. You don’t sound like you actually believe that. He sighed. “Jalist, find us a place to set up an ambush. Igrid, help him.” Before Jalist could object, Rowen spotted an old man who looked like a cleric. He rode toward him, holding up one hand in a gesture of peace.

  The cleric met him halfway, smiling uncertainly. “An Isle Knight! I’ve not seen one of your Order in years, not since—”

  “We’re being chased, Father. Four men, bent on murder.”

  “Lochurites? Fear not, my son. We have hunters who can—”

  “These aren’t Lochurites. These are Dhargots.”

  The cleric’s eyes widened. Rowen wondered which ghastly story the old man was playing over in his mind. “We… have no quarrel with Dhargots. This land is full of hills. Better you ride on.”

  Men spoke in hushed, angry tones. “Ride on!” someone shouted from the crowd. Others seconded him.

  Rowen held up his hands again. “Better for you if we don’t. The Dhargots will think you’re hiding us, whether we stop or not.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “I promise, you won’t have to fight. This is our battle, not yours. But you need to seek shelter right away!” Rowen gazed out at the sea of angry stares. He could not blame them. He had brought these troubles down on them. If the Dhargots got past him and harmed any of the villagers, it would be on his head. “Just get out of sight!”

  He whirled Snowdark about and rejoined Jalist and Igrid, who were engaged in a heated argument over how and where to establish their defense. Jalist wanted to fashion wooden stakes and create a palisade. Igrid preferred to take refuge with their bows on the temple rooftop.

  “Not the temple.” Rowen pointed to where the old cleric was frantically gathering the people and herding them inside. “That’s where the villagers are hiding.”

  “It’s also the best place for an archer,” Igrid countered.

  She was right, but they had to keep the Dhargots away from the villagers. “No time for a palisade, either. We either catch our breath and take up positions here or else we turn around and charge the Dhargots on the field.” Rowen grimaced. Neither option sounded good.

  Jalist said, “These shortbows probably won’t pierce that scale armor of theirs. We’ll have to aim for their horses. That’s riskier but better done from the ground.”

  Rowen pointed to a cart loaded with hay. “We’ll use that to block the street. If we have to, we can light it on fire. Bloodmares are afraid of fire, just like any other horse.”

  “I remember,” Jalist grumbled.

  “We should spread out,” Igrid insisted.

  Jalist said, “These are trained Dhargot warriors. Not berserkers. They’ll attack as one. If we don’t do the same, they’ll gang up and pick us off one at a time.”

  Igrid frowned as if she meant to argue.

  No time for this! He dismounted and approached Igrid’s horse. Drawing his dagger, he offered it to her. “You better be as good with a blade as you say, Iron Sister.”

  Igrid took the blade with a sour look, deftly twirling it between her fingers. “Watch and learn.” She dismounted, gesturing for Jalist to do the same. Igrid gathered their horses, led them behind an adobe hut, and tied them off while Rowen and Jalist dealt with the cart.

  “Nicely done,” Jalist muttered.

  They hauled the cart to block the village’s only street, then Jalist set about lighting torches. He used his knife to sharpen the butt of each so they could be thrust into the ground when they weren’t needed. Rowen surveyed their position. They stood near the heart of town with a row of squat buildings on either side. The Dhargots could only come at them out in the open, from the east or the west.

  Rowen heard the cries of the villagers—some scared, mostly angry—as they took shelter in the temple. The temple doors thudded shut. He listened for the click of a lock or the woody scuff of a crossbar but heard neither. He glanced at Jalist and saw that the Dwarr was thinking the same thing.

  “Damn village can’t afford a lockmaker?”

  Rowen shrugged. “Won’t matter. They won’t get past us.”

  “You sound more confident than I feel.” Jalist leaned his long axe against the cart, within easy reach, and nocked an arrow. “Never was much good with a bow…”

  “Don’t worry. Just aim for the big red blurs with four legs.”

  Jalist turned and cursed him but grinned despite himself. The thunder of approaching hooves had replaced the angry, frightened din from the villagers.

  Igrid rejoined them. “You any good with a bow, Knight?”

  Rowen handed her his shortbow and his quiver of arrows. “Not as good as you said you are. Let’s hope you weren’t just boasting.”

  “Lucky for you, I never boast when it pertains to bloodshed.” Igrid nocked an arrow and faced eastward.

  Four riders slowly crested the nearest hill, two more crimson horses trailing them. The men looked neither tired nor surprised. One pointed. Rowen heard laughter.

  “Smug bastards,” Jalist muttered.

  Rowen frowned. “Pretty confident for men with three sheltered archers blocking their way.”

  Igrid took careful aim. “They’ll pay for that.”

  Rowen said, “Don’t fire yet. That’s at least five hundred yards. They’re too far.”

  Igrid snapped, “This isn’t a tilting yard, and you aren’t my wise, grizzled teacher, Sir Knight.” Despite her biting tone, she relaxed her arm and held her fire.

  Jalist scowled at their still-unmoving enemies. “Their crossbows will have better range. If they start firing, we’ll have to just duck down and wait for them to get closer.”

  Rowen said, “They’ll taunt us first. Let them get close then—” He stopped himself. Isle Knights were honor bound to let their enemies make the first move.

  Jalist said, “We aren’t writing poetry here, Locke. Kill them however we can and brood about it later.”

  Rowen hesitated. “Don’t fire until I say.”

  Jalist nodded, and Igrid said nothing. Rowen was about to remind her that it was largely her fault they were in this predicament, but at that moment, the Dhargots started forward at a slow trot. The bloodmares tossed their heads with restless anger, clearly uncomfortable with the pitifully slow pace.

  Jaanti led them. The Dhargothi ambassador swayed derisively in the saddle, not even bothering to draw his sword or nock an arrow into the crossbow hanging from his saddle. The three warriors behind him had already nocked their crossbows and carried them in the crooks of their arms.

  Jalist whispered, “Almost close enough.”

  “Wait for me,” Rowen hissed through his teeth. He kept one hand on Knightswrath and his gaze fixed on the approaching riders. Only two hundred yards separated them—close enough for shortbows, though the aim would be difficult. Two hundred yards shrank to one hundred, fifty, then twenty. Finally, the Dhargots reined in directly in front of Rowen and Jalist then stopped at the outskirts of the village.

  Jaanti raised one mailed fist in a sign of deference that did not coincide with the cold smile beami
ng beneath his half helm of blackened steel. “Parley,” he called out. “Can I trust your honor, Isle Knight?”

  Rowen flushed then cleared his throat. “Approach.” Out the corner of his mouth, he said to Igrid, “He’ll try and goad you, but let me do the talking.”

  The Dhargots drew closer and closer, towering and steely on their huge bloodmares. The painted eyes of the ambassador’s guards narrowed murderously as they regarded Rowen and his companions.

  “Close enough,” Rowen called.

  The ambassador laughed. “We are well within range of your little bows now. Good thing you Knights are men of honor. My name is Jaanti, in case you’ve forgotten. I am nephew to the Red Emperor and cousin to the Bloody Prince.” He pointed. “I just want her.”

  This sadistic bastard is Dhargothi royalty? “I don’t think she likes you,” Rowen answered.

  “Such things have never stopped me before.” Jaanti settled back in his saddle, idly taking in the scene before him, as though daring Rowen and his companions to strike first. “I see a village without people. Are they hiding? Either way, I’ll have to put them to the sword unless you give me a reason not to.”

  Rowen seethed. “These people have nothing to do with this.”

  Jaanti urged his horse a little closer. Spittle dripped from its red jaws, landing on the cart that separated them, soaking into the straw. “I believe you. Give me the woman, and I swear on Zet’s burning corpse, no one else will be harmed. I’ll even toss you a handful of coins, if your honor will let you accept them.” The Dhargot lifted a heavy coin purse and shook it with a metallic jangle.