Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  The Lancer hesitated. “Sir Arnil, please—”

  The man in gilded armor silenced him with a stern look. “You know the penalty for desertion… not to mention the rest of this.” He pointed at the corpse lying in the doorway of the dung hut and the grubby girl, who was sitting up, dazed, pulling weakly at her torn clothes. “I dare you to say otherwise.”

  The remaining squires looked at each other, panic in their eyes. Neither made any attempt to deny the charges. One fell to his knees and began pleading for his life. Another opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Sir Geoffrey cleaved the head from his shoulders. Sir Arnil approached the pleading man and beheaded him while he was still kneeling.

  Arnil faced the final Lancer. “Sir Geoffrey, by all rights, you should die for this, too.”

  The shamefaced Lancer glanced at Igrid. “Pardon, Sir Arnil, but I didn’t kill the father, and I laid no hand on these women. I just watched.” When Sir Arnil did not answer, Geoffrey said, “We’re well beyond Ivairia’s borders. There are no laws—”

  Arnil slapped the man across the face. The gilded knight was of average build, smaller than Sir Geoffrey, but Igrid could tell at once that the latter feared him. Sir Geoffrey took the blow and bowed, making no effort to raise his sword.

  Sir Arnil stepped back. Igrid followed his gaze to the pregnant girl. She had crawled over to her father’s corpse and was shaking him. Then she stood and kicked him. She looked confused when he did not answer.

  The gilded knight turned to Igrid. “I am Arnil Royce, First Lancer to the King of Ivairia. You have my apologies. This should not have happened.”

  She had prepared to give him a biting remark, but the sight of the girl kicking her dead father had driven the words from her mind.

  Arnil continued. “It is forbidden to strike a Lancer, let alone kill two of them. My men would probably rather I kill you, as well. But as Sir Geoffrey says, this is not Ivairia. And it seems there are… extenuating circumstances here.” He removed a rag from his belt and wiped the blood from his blade.

  He faced the other Lancer. “You may not be a killer and a raper, but you are a deserter. However, the Dhargots are still out there. They’ll regroup and attack again. I offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”

  Sir Geoffrey glanced past his commander, at the other scowling knights, then bowed again. “Thank you, sir. Should I survive, I will submit myself happily to the king’s justice.”

  Igrid was about to ask what that entailed and protest if she found it inadequate, but Sir Arnil scoffed. “May you live so long.” He gestured for the Lancer to rejoin the others then turned back to Igrid.

  Before he could speak, another knight tore through the trees and rushed toward Arnil. The man dismounted in such a hurry that he hardly acknowledged the scene before him before whispering in the First Lancer’s ear.

  The Ivairian commander blanched. He returned to his horse and quickly hauled himself up into the saddle. “Another squad of Dhargots has reinforced the survivors of the first. They are bearing down on us. We must gain a better position and prepare for a countercharge, or we are all dead men!”

  In an instant, the other Lancers forgot all about Igrid, let alone the dead man lying on the grass and the stunned, bloody girl standing over him. They wheeled and rode on through the trees, vanishing in the night. Igrid edged toward the girl, keeping her eyes on Arnil Royce, who remained behind.

  The First Lancer faced Igrid. She followed his gaze to the exquisite dragonbone hilt of the adamune at her side. His eyes widened.

  She braced herself, expecting the First Lancer to demand answers: How had a peasant woman come by such a weapon? Had she stolen it? Perhaps he would even try and take it for himself. Surely, he recognized that it was worth a fortune, perhaps even beyond his station, let alone hers. But the First Lancer merely sighed, withdrew a pouch from his belt, and tossed it at the pregnant girl’s feet. It burst open. Gold and silver coins spilled onto the grass. “For your father. And your child.” He turned his horse and rode away.

  Motionless, Igrid watched as the entire company of men and horses wheeled north, thundered across the darkening grass, and disappeared into the night. Everything seemed impossibly dark and cold. Her head throbbed, and she was having trouble standing. The pregnant girl made no move to gather the coins. So Igrid stooped and gathered them herself, groping in the darkness, careful to leave none of them behind.

  As Igrid straightened, she saw the grubby girl looking at her. The girl still had not spoken. Her dead father lay at her feet like a lump of misshapen wood. The bloodstains on the girl’s clothes looked like shadows.

  I should leave her. Igrid tucked the coin pouch into her torn tunic and considered what to do next. She had no desire to set foot in the wretched dung hut, nor could she expect the girl to go inside with her father’s corpse still blocking the door. She started toward the stream. When the girl did not follow, Igrid went back, took her by the fist, and pulled the girl after her.

  “First things first, girl. We have to wash you up. Then we have to give you a name.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SORCERER-GENERAL

  Fadarah stood in his war tent and listened as Brahasti concluded his report. Despite the great chair behind him, Fadarah did not sit. Brahasti’s voice, as usual, brimmed with arrogance. Not even Fadarah had been able to cure him of the irritating insolence. But for once, it was justified.

  Cassica belonged to the Dhargots. The Red Emperor’s sons had retaken all the Free Cities lost to Fadarah’s army less than a year before, surging across the Simurgh Plains with thirty-five thousand Dhargots, a storm of chariots, and a herd of armored war elephants. Moreover, the Dhargots had shored up their lines with stunning efficiency, actually expanding the borders of their empire by a factor of three while simultaneously allowing virtually no foothold for a potential enemy seeking to challenge their recent acquisitions. Come spring, they would be in striking distance of both Lyos and Atheion.

  The feat should have been impossible, but they’d done it—and the thanks went chiefly to Shel’ai magic… plus the cruel brilliance of Brahasti el Tarq. The man’s reputation for strategy was well earned. He had exceeded even Fadarah’s wildest expectations.

  Of course, I’m still going to kill him when this is over. The thought made him smile. After all, Fadarah was no monster. A sorcerer, yes, and part Olg, but Brahasti was the true sadist. And the Dhargothi general’s death was a long time coming.

  He glanced across the impressive war map at Kith’el. Shade. It had been years since the change, but his son—for Shade was his son in everything but actual birth—still confounded him with the new name. Kith’el had renamed himself another word for ghost after he nearly lost his wife to the sorcerous machinations wrought in the depths of the Dragons’ Graveyard. Of course, Silwren had survived—only to betray them.

  But those were concerns for another time. Fadarah could tell what Shade was thinking without the need for mindspeak: the Dhargots had proven to be eerily capable pawns. Perhaps too capable.

  Fadarah cleared his throat, interrupting Brahasti’s report of troop movements and captured slaves. “You have done well, General,” he said. “I am glad I decided not to kill you.”

  It was not a joke, and Brahasti did not seem to take it as such. But the Dhargot did not blanch or tremble, either. He merely bowed. “As you say, Sorcerer-General.”

  This one has no fear. Only malice. “I am told that you wish to leave the front. An odd request for so ambitious a conqueror.”

  Brahasti nodded. “I have agents in Atheion, but not enough to take the city from within. The Noshans are well provisioned. It will be a long siege, unless they choose to join the empire willingly. In the meantime, Ziraari will mass at Hesod and await your orders. Karhaati can hold the line at Cassica and keep making the Lyosi and the Isle Knights nervous. Meanwhile, the youngest prince—Saanji, the fat one—can guard their supply lines. All is as you intended. So, with your permission, I would li
ke to retire to my estate in Dhargoth—the estate you promised me—until I am needed again.”

  Fadarah scowled. He’s hiding something. “So you think the Dhargots will honor the terms of our alliance and help us claim the Wytchforest?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Liar. Fadarah was impressed, though. Brahasti had learned to clear his mind and, in so doing, shield his thoughts. Fadarah considered using magic to uncover the truth, but that kind of invasive use of magic could cause side effects. In case they needed Brahasti again, he thought it best to leave his faculties intact. “You have a request for me.”

  For half a second, Brahasti looked surprised. Then the Dhargot wisely bowed to conceal his smirk, though Fadarah saw it anyway. “If it pleases you, Sorcerer-General.”

  Fadarah grimaced, remembering some of Brahasti’s more ghastly requests from the previous campaign. “Speak.”

  “The Bloody Prince has amassed a great number of slaves. While I am entitled to a portion of—”

  “Take this up with Karhaati. I have no stomach for slavery and no interest in discussing it.”

  Brahasti bowed. “Your gentle disposition does you honor, my lord.”

  Fadarah conjured a tendril of wytchfire and let it crackle and writhe at his fingertips. He hoped the Dhargot got the message, though he suspected that Brahasti’s eyes widened less out of fear than surprise and curiosity. “Don’t mock me, Human. I could burn the flesh from your bones and use them to brace my litter if I wished.”

  As usual, Brahasti bowed at the threat but nothing more. After a requisite moment of silence, Brahasti said, “I prefer my bones and muscles attached, so I shall endeavor to get to the point.”

  Fadarah saw Shade tense and knew his son wanted nothing more than to burn the tongue out of Brahasti’s jaw.

  Brahasti said, “I fear I misspoke a moment ago. It is not slaves from the captured Free Cities that I desire. My lords have already been generous in that regard. But I was hoping for something a bit more exotic.” Brahasti continued, an awful gleam in his eyes. “I am told that your Olgrym are massing at Godsfall, preparing for a major offensive against the Wytchforest. They’ve already taken some Sylvan prisoners. I’d very much like to obtain some. Female, preferably young—”

  Shade made a sharp gesture, as though to slap Brahasti across the face. The Dhargothi general was ten feet away, but he flew backward, crashed against a table, and slumped to the dirt floor. Blood bloomed from his nose and a cracked lip.

  Shade followed, wytchfire crackling from his fists. But Fadarah sent his voice into Shade’s mind, as sharp as an arrow and louder than anything mere ears could suffer. Shade winced. Another man might have doubled over in pain, but Fadarah could tell that Shade had no intention of giving Brahasti that satisfaction.

  I trained him well. Fadarah felt a pang of pride—tinged with guilt at having to strike his own son—but he forced a withering scowl onto his face and glared at Shade until the man stepped back. Fadarah stood before Brahasti. Instead of offering the fallen general a hand, he gestured and wrenched him to his feet with magic. Fadarah pressed one great, tattooed hand to Brahasti’s face.

  I could kill him. I could send raw fire into his eye sockets and burn that cruel brain of his into scalded porridge.

  Fadarah conjured healing energies to repair the wound inflicted during Shade’s magical assault. “I trust you will forgive my second-in-command. Young men often act rashly. If you will repeat your request, I will listen.”

  Brahasti felt his now-unbroken nose. “If it pleases you, Sorcerer-General, I would enjoy acquiring a number of female Sylvs. All young, all able—”

  Fadarah slapped the man so hard across the face, utilizing the full brunt of his half-Olg strength, that the general collapsed to the earth again, momentarily unconscious. Fadarah saw a glint of elation on Shade’s face but silenced it with a scowl. He turned back to Brahasti. He gestured, and a wisp of magic jolted the man awake.

  Brahasti pushed himself onto his knees. Though blood streamed down his face again, he smiled. “It seems I owe you an apology. I should have been more sensitive to your condition.”

  Fadarah raised one eyebrow. “My… condition?”

  “I hear that Olgrym routinely rape Sylvan captives. Your own mother—”

  Fadarah gestured, wrenching Brahasti onto his feet. Fadarah’s fists became maelstroms of wytchfire. “To the hells with your usefulness, Human! I will make candles of your fat before I let you speak to me that way again.”

  A spark of fear flickered in the general’s eyes. The rush of satisfaction was enough to calm Fadarah. “You want Sylvan prisoners. Sylvan women. Why? Is it just to warm your bed?”

  Brahasti’s smirk chilled Fadarah to the bone. “Not quite. I’ve lowered my guard, Sorcerer-General. Feel free to pluck the answer from my brain, if you like.”

  Fadarah did just that. What he saw left him momentarily speechless. “Is that… is that truly possible?” he asked when he finally found his voice.

  Brahasti’s smirk broadened into a wolfish grin. “I believe it is. You, yourself, are my proof. I merely ask your permission to test my theory.”

  Shade tensed, as though he meant to invade Brahasti’s mind, as well. Fadarah stopped him with a look then faced Brahasti again. “You will have what you ask. But tell no one. And check your cruelty, Human. I’ll not have them suffer more than is absolutely necessary.”

  “As you say, Sorcerer-General. I am moved by this compassion for your enemies.”

  Enemies… “The Sylvs are merely those born without magic. In that sense, we Shel’ai are their cousins. We fight them, yes, but only because we must. Rape and torture are Human sins—ones we abhor.” Fadarah felt his own face flush as he spoke. By the Light, who am I trying to convince—him or me? “Enough of this. Leave.”

  The Dhargot bowed and went on his way. Fadarah saw the question on Shade’s face. “Brahasti has a lust for commerce now. He wants to sell Sylvan women to… certain like-minded parties in Dhargoth.” Though it pained him to lie to Shade, he knew his second-in-command would object if he knew the truth.

  “We must prepare to assist the Olgrym in their great offensive. Afterward, I will trust you to see to it that Doomsayer’s female prisoners are transferred to Brahasti. Enemies or no, I’ll sleep better with them under the care of anyone but the Olgrym.”

  Shade hesitated. “The Olgrym already have some prisoners, I believe. If he’s going to take them, Brahasti will need guards.”

  “He can hire his own. Like that new sellsword captain. What’s his name?”

  “Dagath. He’s no better than a Dhargot. Worse, if truth be told.”

  Just the kind of man Brahasti wants, anyway. “Release him from our service, but make Brahasti pay him. Gods know he can spare the coin.”

  Shade said, “It will be done.”

  “Doomsayer won’t like us taking his prisoners. But he’s not stupid. If he challenges you on it, it will just be to save face with the other chieftains.”

  “So don’t kill him, you mean.”

  Fadarah touched the tattoos on his face—the names of Olgish warriors and chieftains he’d killed—and wondered if he should add Doomsayer’s name as well. While he intended to be close by when the Olgrym launched their ultimate attack on the Wytchforest, for the moment, he left the actual command of the Olgrym in Shade’s hands. “No, don’t kill him. We need him. He’s the only chieftain who can unite all the clans. But if he protests, you can’t let it go unanswered. If you have to, choose one of his warriors, the biggest you can find, and burn him alive—right in front of everyone. Tell Doomsayer and the other chieftains that’s what happens when someone questions your orders.”

  “And Silwren?”

  Fadarah sighed. Since Lyos, he had hardly thought about her. “If she and her pet Knight truly mean to carry Fel-Nâya before the Sylvan king, they will be in for a surprise.”

  “Perhaps. But Fel-Nâya is still a great prize. Maybe we should take it now, rather
than let it fall back into the hands of the Sylvs.”

  Fadarah scrutinized Shade’s stony expression for a moment before he sat down. “You’re asking me for permission to approach your wife, even though you didn’t ask my permission the last time you went to her.”

  Shade flinched but made no effort to defend himself.

  “No,” Fadarah said after a moment. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “I know you still love her. So do I. But she’s our enemy now.”

  “But she’s getting stronger. She’s probably even stronger than the Nightmare was by now. If—”

  “If we don’t help her, she’ll destroy herself. Or our enemies. Or us.” Fadarah shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. I know it’s hard, but put her out of your mind… at least for now.”

  Fadarah felt a wash of guilt. So much wasted… and all my fault. I should have known that what we’d unleash would be too hard to control. El’rash’lin warned me. But I didn’t listen.

  Shade said, “Something else, Father. A piece of good news I’ve been saving.”

  Fadarah glanced at the war map again. Strange. So many victories, yet I feel like I haven’t heard good news in years. “Tell me.”

  A slight smile tugged at Shade’s lips. “Another Shel’ai has been saved. A child. She fled Sylvos two nights ago. Zeia found her and took her to Coldhaven.”

  Fadarah forced a smile. “Good. Good. See that she is taken care of. I’ll speak to her soon.”

  He sensed that Shade was about to divulge more details—the child’s name or perhaps something of her story—but Fadarah did not want to hear it. He waved again, and Shade left without protest.

  Another one saved, but how many killed? How many infants left to starve or killed outright? How many unnamed? And all because Loslandril refused our offer of peace!

  That, he knew, should have filled him with wrath. He sat back down in the great chair and stared at the map. He stared for a long time. Then he cursed. He touched the map and sent a spurt of wytchfire racing across the dry parchment, burning it to cinders.