Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  A leering smile replaced the sellsword’s irritation. Within moments, the uncultured brute’s mind was probably awash in lusty thoughts of exotic, golden-haired maidens trembling and crying beneath him. So long as the Sylvan women were kept in ample and ready supply, Dagath would be the most loyal captain Brahasti could ever ask for.

  The general decided to tell him nothing more right then. But as he continued issuing orders to the suddenly attentive mercenary, Brahasti could not suppress a wild grin of his own. More than the thought of the forthcoming crop of Sylvan prisoners pleased him. Brahasti was no stranger to exotic women—willing or unwilling made no difference.

  Instead, he thought of Fadarah. Brahasti had been serving the Shel’ai long enough to learn a bit about how the sorcerers worked—and more importantly, how they were made. Once, he’d overheard Fadarah and Shade discussing how a Sylvan scholar had calculated that every child born to Sylvan parents had a one-in-a-thousand chance of being born a Shel’ai. Beyond that, there seemed to be no further rhyme or reason to the odds, except that they increased fantastically if one or both of the parents were Shel’ai. Except for a handful of children born to Shel’ai that Fadarah had saved, all those whom Brahasti had ever known had been born to Sylvan parents.

  All but one. Fadarah was a half-Olg. It was so obvious. Yet so many men had completely missed the fantastic importance of that fact. Brahasti doubted anyone in all the long, bloody history of Ruun had ever stopped to consider the implications. Shel’ai could be born even when one of the parents was not a Sylv.

  And before long, Brahasti would have hundreds of poor Sylvan girls at his disposal. All he had to do was let the sellswords have their way with them—as he would—and sooner or later, the girls’ bellies would swell. After that, he need only be patient. Any child without violet eyes could be disposed of easily enough, and as he amassed more and more captives, the breeding odds would increase.

  Brahasti felt the afternoon sun on his face, watching it turn his wretched villa into gold. He knew that Shel’ai powers did not manifest until adolescence, and Shel’ai aged more slowly than Humans. That meant it would take years for his crop to bear fruit, but eventually, he would have Shel’ai of his own, to raise in his service. They would protect him and magically extend his life, or he might sell them to whoever wanted them. In time, his wretched villa would become an empire.

  Emperor Brahasti…

  He continued giving orders to Dagath, but suddenly, he felt like laughing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  BREACH

  By sundown, for the first time in as long as Essidel could remember, his men were running out of arrows. The earlier death tolls paled against what he saw. From great platforms not used since the days of the Shattering War, the Sylvs had rained death upon the advancing Olgrym, trying not only to slow the rampage but also to provide cover for General Seravin’s routed men.

  Armed with pikes and curved Sylvan swords, the general’s men had attempted—against Essidel’s repeated urgings—to stall the Olgrym’s charge and hold them on the plains. By then, Que’ahl had fallen and Essidel’s surviving host of Shal’tiar and Wyldkin had been fighting the Olgrym virtually nonstop for three days.

  “Fall back to the forest,” Essidel had pleaded. “Use the trees. Give every man and woman a longbow and have them attack from above. Arm the children, too. By the time the Olgrym reach Shaffrilon, they’ll be in tatters. The Shal’tiar can attack them from behind while our reserves keep them out of the city.”

  Essidel had been proposing virtually that same plan for months, ever since the Olgrym had begun pouring out of Godsfall in unprecedented numbers. He had even written to King Loslandril and Prince Quivalen—as had the chieftains of many beleaguered Wyldkin villages, most of which had since been destroyed—trying to find anyone in Shaffrilon who would listen.

  But Shaffrilon was practically another world. Majestically hewn into the living, incomprehensible heights of the World Tree, Shaffrilon was nearly as different from the Ash’bana Plains as Godsfall itself. Its citizens were soft, too accustomed to relying on the Wyldkin and the Shal’tiar to keep them safe, as they had for centuries. Even the hasty army of Sylvan fighters levied by General Seravin and sent to reinforce the front had been almost more of a hindrance than a help.

  Like most Sylvan generals throughout the ages, Seravin was mostly a bureaucrat. And Essidel’s cousin had no intention of being recorded in the history books as the general who allowed the enemy into Sylvos. Still, Essidel had appealed to him one last time, recounting all he had seen. He described the blood, the howls, the dying.

  But General Seravin had merely eyed him with revulsion. “By the Light, cousin, are you truly proposing that we let the Olgrym into Sylvos? Is that your brave solution?”

  Fighting to contain his temper, Essidel wiped the blood from his face and answered, “I am proposing that we save our realm through the only strategy left to us. I would think that would appeal to you as well.”

  That had been a mistake. Seravin’s captains were there, and the general blushed at the public insult. “Need I remind you, Captain, that Sylvos faces these dangers because you have failed to hold positions maintained by generations of your predecessors.”

  Essidel continued arguing until the situation nearly came to blows and Seravin ordered the captain removed from his war tent. Left with no choice, Essidel had gathered what remained of his fighters and gone off to the Ash’bana Plains to fight and, presumably, to die.

  As sundown bled through the trees, Essidel was surprised he was still alive. The Olgrym had crashed into General Seravin’s lines of frightened, mostly untested men like a thousand battering rams assailing a fortification of twigs and twine. Essidel’s remaining Shal’tiar hit the Olgrym in a flanking maneuver, inflicting heavy losses, but nothing could stop the inevitable. Soon enough, Seravin’s forces fell back, and the Olgrym howled through the wytchwood trees. The general must have had taken Essidel’s advice after all, except that by then, they’d lost too many men.

  Essidel had thankfully had time to redeploy his remaining Wyldkin to the trees, and enough of Seravin’s troops had reached the twenty-foot platforms before the ladders were hauled up. The Olgrym were too bulky to scale the trees and too impatient to chop down the huge trees, and everyone knew that wytchwoods were impervious to fire. So the Olgrym drove onward toward Shaffrilon, passing beneath a canopy of devastation.

  Rope bridges allowed the Sylvan archers to keep pace with the Olgrym, maintaining a continuous hail of arrows, while Essidel attacked them from below. But their quivers were not inexhaustible; before long, runners were forced to go back to Shaffrilon for more arrows. But in a surprising act of cunning, Doomsayer ordered the Olgish tribes to scatter once they were in Sylvos. They spread out, too numerous to track, and descended like wolves upon the other Sylvan villages dispersed throughout the forest.

  Bloody and exhausted, Essidel followed on the ground, shadowed by the now-empty platforms above. He slowed to catch his breath and scanned his surroundings. He heard the sounds of battle coming from a dozen different directions at once. He leaned against the nearest tree. Then he realized a dead Sylv had been pinned to that tree by an Olg’s spear. He straightened. He turned and saw three Olgrym lying facedown in the leaves, their backs full of arrows.

  “Captain, which way?” one of his men asked.

  Everywhere. Essidel waved at the dead Olgrym. “Retrieve these arrows.”

  His Shal’tiar, the dozen men and women who had not been killed or scattered, rushed to obey. He was glad to see most still had their bows. Essidel sheathed his sword and checked his own quiver. He had three arrows left. Fitting one to his bowstring, he scanned his surroundings again.

  They could climb the trees and follow the rope bridges all the way to Shaffrilon. Surely, the king needed them at the capital. Defending Shaffrilon and the king was their chief priority. He gritted his teeth. But the Olgrym are too scattered now. We won’t be able to kill more than one or
two from that high up. And the Olgrym are still attacking villages—

  As though on cue, a fresh chorus of screams, the cries of the slaughter, reached his ears.

  “That way,” Essidel said. Then he ran.

  By the time Essidel’s party reached the Sylvan village, all its inhabitants had died or fled. But there were still Olgrym there, blood drunk and despoiling the dead. Essidel leapt over the bodies of a mother and child. He took aim at the nearest Olg and loosed his arrow. The tip passed into the Olg’s brain through the ear. The Olg jerked, then his great bulk crashed to the forest floor, a bloody axe spinning from his grasp.

  Essidel fitted another arrow and fired as his Shal’tiar fanned out behind him, their bows sounding the song of vengeance. Three more Olgrym fell. But six remained. Essidel put his last arrow in the throat of one of them then drew his sword and waited for the first enemy to come within range.

  Two more Olgrym fell, their bodies feathered by arrows, but the rest were too close. With disciplined speed and precision, half his Shal’tiar backpedaled to keep firing their bows while the rest drew swords and formed a skirmish line.

  The battle was brief but furious. The Sylvs slew the three Olgrym but lost four comrades in the process. Essidel dragged his sword from an Olg’s jaw. He knew the names of each Shal’tiar who had fallen. They were his friends. He had fought beside them for years.

  No time to mourn. We have to keep moving.

  He saw no sense searching for survivors. They would find none there. His remaining fighters retrieved their arrows and pressed on, sprinting toward the next chorus of screams, hoping they would not be too late.

  In a clearing, they encountered a knot of desperate Sylvan fighters locked in a pitched melee with an equal number of Olgrym. Unlike the Shal’tiar, most of the Sylvs wore the leather brigandines and forest-green cloaks of General Seravin’s men, though some wore plain clothes and fought with weapons they surely must have taken off the dead. Essidel counted at least twenty Olgrym.

  Too many. For a split second, he hesitated. If they tried to relieve their kinsmen, they would be killed. Essidel thought of Shaffrilon and King Loslandril. He pictured the Olgrym running amok through the ancient palace, painting the walls with the entrails of the royals. He knew he should press on toward the capital, still a full day’s travel on foot. He could not save the fighters, anyway. Better he try to save the king.

  However, Essidel raised his bow, drew back the string until the feathers touched his cheek, and let the arrow go.

  For awhile, fortune favored them. The Olgrym, so intent on slaughtering the Sylvs right in front of them, did not notice the Shal’tiar firing hastily retrieved arrows into their backs until four of their number had fallen. Then they divided their force. Half charged the Shal’tiar, their long strides and powerful legs rapidly devouring the distance between them.

  The Shal’tiar scattered. Some who had already hidden behind trees emerged, slashing or firing on the Olgrym from behind. Others ran, hoping to force the Olgrym to further divide their forces. Suddenly, Essidel found himself fighting alone. An Olg came at him like a mountain.

  Essidel felt his pulse quicken but waited until the last possible second then tucked his shoulder and rolled, narrowly avoiding the powerful but clumsy thrust of the Olg’s spearhead. He rolled closer to the Olg and swung his sword with both hands. He made contact just below the Olg’s kneecap. Sylvan steel sliced through tendons and sinew, glancing off bone. Essidel wrenched his sword free and rolled. Howling, the Olg stabbed at him again.

  The tip of the Olg’s spear caught Essidel’s leather spaulders, slowing him down. The Olg ignored the pain from his ravaged leg and threw himself forward. Somehow, the Olg had a dagger in his free hand. No time to dodge. Essidel lunged. The tip of his sword caught the Olg’s wrist and sank deep. The arm kept coming, and Essidel wondered for a moment if the dagger would find him after all. Then it stopped a finger’s span from his chest.

  The Olg abandoned the spear and tried to punch him instead. Essidel lowered his jaw and raised his shoulder. The Olg’s fist struck his shoulder—hard enough to shock all of his senses and drive him to the ground. Essidel’s sword, its blade still buried in the Olg’s other arm, broke with a shrill crack. Essidel threw the hilt blindly and groped for his own dagger.

  But a Sylvan arrow struck the Olg’s shoulder. Another struck his thigh. Then a daring Sylv charged and drove a spear into the Olg’s throat, shoving the spear until it shattered. Essidel rose and turned. His savior was a woman. Her hair, a darker shade of gold than that of most Sylvan women’s, was tied back in a long braid splattered with blood. She wore a brigandine and forest-green cloak. A pair of shortswords hung at her belt. She drew one and offered it to him. Essidel accepted it and turned to gauge the rest of the battle.

  His heart sank when he counted three black-garbed bodies lying nearby, cleaved and still. A fourth Shal’tiar was badly wounded and being supported by two Sylvs in green cloaks. Essidel didn’t see any more Olgrym. Most of the original group of Sylvs had been killed, but another force had arrived in the midst of the fighting.

  Essidel could hardly believe his eyes. Before him were at least fifty green-cloaked fighters, some on horseback. Leading them was General Seravin.

  The general was only twelve years Essidel’s senior but looked twice his age. He sat low in the saddle, as though wounded, though Essidel saw no blood on him. “General.”

  “Cousin,” Seravin answered tersely. “We make for the capital. You may follow us or conduct your wounded to the village of Jen’hanai.” His tone made it clear that he hoped Essidel would choose the latter.

  “Jen’hanai still stands? I thought all the villages—”

  “It stood when we left. Two dozen wounded but capable archers were guarding it. They have clerics and healers there. Farewell.”

  He turned his horse as though to ride away, but Essidel grabbed the horse’s bridle and held it, despite the general’s scowl and the horse’s cry of protest. “General, what news from the front?”

  “All of Sylvos is now the front, Captain. How do you think we’re faring?”

  “I saw Shel’ai on the plains, fighting with the Olgrym. I lost two whole squads to their damn wytchfire. But I haven’t seen any since. Are they all dead?” Though Essidel doubted that could be true, he’d ordered his men to target them first. He’d already personally cut down one while she was busy burning another Sylv to cinders.

  Seravin shook his head. “About twenty of them ride with Doomsayer toward Shaffrilon. Even they can’t burn the trees, but their wytchfire is wreaking havoc with my men. I sent a hundred riders to intercept them.”

  Essidel could tell by his cousin’s tone that the general did not expect his riders to be victorious. He rubbed his shoulder and tested his arm. To his relief, he felt no errant shifting of bones. “They can’t take Shaffrilon in a day. The Olgrym are scattered all over the forest. That means they’ll have to set up a fortified camp somewhere. If we can guess where—”

  “Guess all you like, cousin. We ride to Shaffrilon to protect our king.”

  The general jerked the bridle from Essidel’s grasp and rode off, his riders trailing after. Most of his footmen followed, but some lingered, seeming uncertain. They made a show of gathering the wounded. Essidel wanted to curse them, but he understood. They know he’s leading them to a slaughter. If Shaffrilon is going to burn, better they not be there to see it.

  He shook his head. The Olgrym had broken through the Sylvan lines, but sprinting all the way to Shaffrilon would only leave them too exhausted to fight. He might expect that kind of brash action from Doomsayer or the other chieftains, but Fadarah was not that stupid. He had to realize that a realm as huge as Sylvos could not be taken in a single day. He would halt his forces somewhere, fortify his position, and recoup his strength.

  Unless he just means to use up the Olgrym against us… He remembered what Silwren and Rowen had said about the Dhargots. Could another army even now be marching o
n Sylvos? If so, when would it arrive? He tried to remember the particulars of what had seemed, at the time, too implausible to believe.

  As he helped one wounded man onto his feet and another bandage a slashed arm, he thought that, for the moment, it did not matter where the Dhargots were. The Olgrym and the Shel’ai were already in Sylvos. The Olgrym could not be driven out; they would have to be tracked and killed down to the last man. But the Shel’ai were another story. For all their scheming and murder, they were also cautious—perhaps to a fault. If he could deal them a serious blow, they might withdraw and leave the Olgrym on their own, trusting that they could always renew their siege of Sylvos once the Dhargots arrived to help them.

  But how do I hurt the Shel’ai? He thought at once of Silwren. Briel had surely led her and the Knight of the Crane to Shaffrilon… but how had King Loslandril responded to them? He had received no word. Essidel trusted Briel to get them safely to the World Tree, but what happened after that was up to the king.

  Of course, even if they were alive, Shaffrilon was still a full day’s march, at the heart of the forest. And if the king did agree to accept their help—he had little choice—Silwren would be needed there.

  No, I’m on my own… Essidel glanced down at his new sword. The woman who had given it to him knelt nearby, stone faced, holding the hand of a man whose belly had been opened. The man whispered something to her. She whispered back. He nodded. Then, with an iciness to put any of his Shal’tiar to shame, she drew her sword and stabbed him.

  Essidel had seen fighters put their comrades out of their misery before, but the sight still unnerved him. He went to her.

  Wiping off her blade, she glanced up at him. “A fine war you’ve lost here, Captain.”

  Essidel bit back an angry retort and scrutinized her garb. She wore her armor like a soldier, but most of General Seravin’s host had little or no training. Who is this woman? “Why didn’t you follow the general?”