Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  One of the guards pointed at him with his sword. “Speak with respect, Human! You address Quivalen, crown prince and son of the king!”

  Rowen narrowed his gaze at the shaking, gaunt figure before him. “Apologies, Prince. I wish we’d met sooner. I’ve been hoping—”

  The Sylvan prince charged him. Rowen sidestepped, dodging a wild stab from the knife, which seemed made of black, nonreflective glass. He broke his wineglass against the wall but backed up. “Wait, Sire, let me—”

  The prince turned and slashed again. He missed by a foot, but Rowen felt a strange coldness glance across his chest. He feared the guards would rush to the prince’s aid, but they stood in the doorway. The prince waved his glass knife in Rowen’s face. “Where is she? She’s not in her room. Tell me where she’s gone or—”

  Rowen tossed the broken wineglass at the prince’s face. When the prince dodged, Rowen stepped forward, grabbed both the prince’s wrists, and drove his knee into the prince’s groin. He twisted the prince’s limbs so that Rowen was behind him, even as the glass knife, still in the prince’s hand, hovered dangerously close to the prince’s throat. Rowen pressed his back against the wall, holding the Sylvan prince like a shield.

  “I just ran out of patience. Get Briel, or I’ll cut your damn prince’s throat.”

  The prince whimpered. The guards had already started forward, but at Rowen’s threat, they froze. They glanced at each other. One turned and rushed out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WISDOM AND JUSTICE

  Briel pulled a stained rag from his pocket and quietly wiped the blood from his curved shortsword. Illuminated by moonlight spilling through the branches of the World Tree, some of the Sylvan warriors were doing the same. Others gathered the hulking corpses of the few Olgrym who had managed to scale the World Gate. Slashed by arrows and swords alike, the bodies were barely recognizable. Rather than dispose of them by dragging them down the steps, the Sylvs simply heaved dead over the battlements so that their corpses created a grim testimony to what had happened there—and a warning to the next band of Olgrym that attacked.

  A vanguard… this was just a vanguard, one hundred fey Olgrym with ladders and hooks, and it took everything we had to kill them!

  Briel surveyed the fortifications. Most of the Shal’tiar had perished days earlier in the fighting, but the World Gate had been reinforced with Shaffrilon’s reserves, plus nearly every man and woman who could draw a bow. He saw a few children, too, and knew the need was too great to dismiss them.

  Technically, General Seravin was in command, though the man’s haughtiness had been replaced by a woefully discouraging timidity that made Briel wish more than anything that Essidel were with them. But Briel was certain that the legendary Captain of the Shal’tiar lay among the slain—and with him, whatever faint hope they had for victory.

  He glanced up the Path of Crowns to the smaller but still imposing fortifications of the Moon Gate. King Loslandril was supposed to be up there, inspiring Shaffrilon’s defenders with his presence, but the monarch had yet to make his appearance. Instead, they had General Seravin, pale and shaking, with a cup of strong wine sloshing in his sword hand.

  I am in command—or near enough. Briel shuddered. He had never wanted to be in command. Only days before, he could have named a dozen men and women who would have been better suited for the task. But all of them were dead. And I will be, too, in another day or so.

  A horrible, reeling thought came to him. He had long since ceased to fear his own death, but the image of the mighty World Tree burning, magical flames licking the platforms and scouring the bones of countless dead, forced him to steady himself. No. Not yet. We’ll find a way. Somehow—

  He heard a commotion and turned. A scout was pushing frantically through the ranks to reach him.

  Something’s wrong in the city. Fire? A riot? Or— He thought of Silwren and cursed. “Let him through,” he shouted. He faced the scout. “Report.”

  The scout gasped for breath. “It’s Prince Quivalen, Captain! The Knight is trying to kill him!”

  Briel winced at his new title, even as a ripple of unease swept through the ranks, and scowled disapprovingly at the man’s loud tone. “What are you talking about?”

  “The prince found out that the wytch escaped, so he questioned the Human, but—”

  Briel seized the man by his leather jerkin and shook him. “What do you mean, she ‘escaped’?”

  The scout looked ill. “She’s not in the House of Questions. We’re searching the city, but the Human said you have to come, or he’ll cut the prince’s throat! The king is safe, but three guards were found dead in the palace. Burned. The prince is… shouting something about a Dragonkin threatening the city. Does he mean the wytch or someone else? Have the Dragonkin come back?”

  Gods, did Silwren turn on us? Did she try to kill the king? The man had lowered his voice, but Briel could already hear the alarm spreading. “Are they still in the House of Questions?”

  The scout nodded. “The king has already gone there with more men.”

  General Seravin was descending the walkway from the Moon Gate, flanked by bodyguards. Briel glanced southward, over the battlements, at the already-bloodied field beyond. “Report this to the general. He’s going to wonder what’s going on when I walk right by him. Tell him I’m going to the House of Questions to sort this mess out myself.”

  As he raced up the Path of Crowns, Briel could see that the prince had already caused quite a panic. The citizens of Shaffrilon, those too young or old to fight, flooded the streets. Some had armed themselves with bows and makeshift clubs. They were joined by hundreds of refugees from the other settlements throughout Sylvos that had already been ravaged.

  A few recognized Briel by his uniform, and soon, a throng of Sylvs surrounded him, plaguing him with frightful questions. Some asked if Silwren and the Dragonkin mentioned by the prince were one and the same. Others insisted that they’d heard from guards, who had heard the prince directly, that the Dragonkin was someone else—a man.

  Ignoring the questions, Briel shook a young corporal of the city watch. “You want the king to see this? Rally your men and get these people back in their houses. If these streets aren’t cleared in half an hour, I’ll personally toss your severed head over the World Gate!”

  The corporal blanched and nodded.

  The guards outside the House of Questions appeared no less frantic than those outside. Pushing through two whole squads of guards crowding the hallway, Briel found the king in the doorway of the room where Rowen Locke had been secured. As the king turned, the glow of the luminstone highlighted the scar below the king’s eye. Briel wondered how Loslandril had received that scar then pushed the thought from his mind.

  The king entered the room, Briel right behind him. Despite all the guards outside, only three stood inside the room, swords drawn. Briel figured that was the king’s doing, and he was glad for it. The smaller the audience, the better.

  The Isle Knight stood with his back against the far wall, both arms wrapped around Prince Quivalen, who was red eyed and crying. The prince held a strange knife with both hands, though Rowen had his hands over the prince’s, using his superior strength to keep the edge pressed to Quivalen’s throat. The Knight looked angry but composed.

  The most dangerous kind of man.

  Briel turned back to the hallway and pointed at the highest-ranking officer. “I’ll handle this. The king is safe, and the prince will be, too, in just a moment. Meantime, there’s a crowd outside. Go out and see that they return to their homes. Then help the others search the city for the wytch.” The officer opened her mouth to protest, but Briel said, “I want this hallway empty before I turn around again, or Captain Essidel will know the reason why.”

  He turned his back on the sound of rushing footsteps. He gestured for the three guards inside the room to follow the rest. When they were gone, he glanced at the king, wondering if he meant to address Rowen himself. Though
his face was taut and his unblinking gaze was fixed on the glass knife hovering at his son’s throat, the king said nothing. Briel closed the door. The only sound was the prince’s ragged sobbing.

  “Want to tell me what this is about, Knight?”

  Rowen said, “Silwren didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me where she is, and I’ll ask her myself.”

  Loslandril touched Briel’s arm. “The Knight is quite correct. His wytch didn’t kill my men, though, for now, that does not leave this room.”

  One of the king’s hands was freshly bandaged. Briel gave Rowen a scathing look. “Sire, did this man—”

  “An accident, nothing more. I am sorry we have not spoken sooner, Isle Knight. Perhaps one day, you will understand why. For now, release my son, and we can talk.”

  For a moment, Briel thought that the Isle Knight would actually lower the knife. Instead, he said, “Apologies, Sire, but your son seems intent on killing someone I care about. I think I’ll keep him like this for the time being.”

  Loslandril’s gentle facade fell away. “This is my city, Human! I command thousands of men—”

  “But not the knife at your son’s throat.” Rowen shook the Sylvan prince for emphasis.

  Quivalen whimpered.

  “I don’t want this any more than you do, Sire, but until I get some answers…”

  For a long time, no one spoke. Then the king sighed. “Very well. I’ll begin with tonight. My son speaks the truth. A Dragonkin did visit us this night. He killed three of my men, for no reason other than to demonstrate his power, I think. But killed is not the proper word. He drained them, as the Dragonkin used to leach off the dragons of old.”

  Briel wondered for a moment if the king had concocted the bizarre story to cover up Silwren’s murders or in attempt to confuse the Isle Knight long enough for Briel to disarm him. He started to reach for his sword, but the king touched his arm again.

  “This Dragonkin has visited us once before… though I will not speak of that. This time, he offered ten years of peace in exchange for driving off the Shel’ai, the Olgrym, and the Dhargots. And in return, all I had to do was stick that”—he pointed at the black knife—“into the wytch’s body and turn it.”

  Silence filled the room again. Briel wondered if he looked as stunned as the Isle Knight did. Then Rowen said, “Silwren said she felt something, but she didn’t know what it was.”

  “His name is Chorlga. Have you ever heard that name?”

  Rowen shook his head.

  “This one moves in the shadows, I think—scheming, sowing conflict. I think he has done so for centuries. But I’ll say no more with a knife to my son’s throat.”

  Rowen was still for a moment, then he lowered the knife but kept one arm wrapped loosely around Quivalen’s neck.

  Loslandril nodded slightly, pulled up a chair, and sat. “It seems you speak our language—probably the first man since Fâyu Jinn to do so. I’m told this is a result of a spell cast by El’rash’lin, Fadarah’s one-time second-in-command.”

  Rowen said, “He turned on Fadarah and died saving us from the Nightmare.”

  But Loslandril hardly seemed to hear him. “I am told also that your Order is not our enemy, that the past reports of Isle Knights fighting alongside Olgrym were Shel’ai illusions. I am inclined to believe that. But it makes no difference. Chorlga is a bigger threat than Fadarah—or anything else, for that matter. I have to do whatever I must to protect my kingdom.”

  Rowen gave the monarch a derisive smile, even as Quivalen struggled feebly to escape. “As you’ve protected it so far?”

  Briel tensed, but Loslandril faced his accuser, unflinching. “I have done far more than you know, Sir Locke. But I’ve not come to argue. I just need to know where Silwren has gone.”

  “So you can kill her?”

  “Yes.”

  The king’s honesty seemed to catch the Knight off guard. “I have a better idea. Let’s all just wait here like good little madmen until Silwren returns. I’ll keep the knife. Then, King, you can decide whether you want her to turn you into ashes or ask her to save your whole damn kingdom. If you’re lucky, she won’t make you give it up in ten years.”

  The king stood, fuming, but Briel touched his arm. Facing Rowen, Briel crossed his arms. “We both know you aren’t going to kill him, Knight. So put down the knife. If you don’t, I’ll fetch a bow and put an arrow through your eye.”

  Rowen tightened his grip on Quivalen’s throat, causing the young man to whimper again. “Careful. This one makes a good shield.”

  “Not good enough.” Briel ignored the scathing look from his king and took a step forward. “What will it be, Knight?”

  Rowen felt as if the muscles in his arm were on fire—though he had the odd sense that the glass knife was also slowly freezing him. He could not tell whether he had been standing like that for minutes or hours, pressing the glass knife to the Sylvan prince’s throat, but he knew one thing for certain: he could not keep it up much longer.

  Briel seemed to sense it, too. The Shal’tiar fighter still had not called back the guards or made good on his threat, but Rowen knew it was only a matter of time. As the minutes stretched on, Briel only grew calmer. His cold, unshakable gaze reminded Rowen of Captain Essidel’s.

  This one won’t break. He’s calling my bluff. He’s sure I won’t kill this squirming bastard—and he’s right!

  The Sylvan king was another matter, though. Loslandril glared and trembled while pacing the room, growing more agitated by the moment. Rowen considered issuing a fresh round of threats on the prince’s life. But that opportunity vanished a moment later when two worried guards entered the room. One held a bow. Briel took it. With deliberate slowness, Briel took one long, dark arrow from the guard’s quiver and fit it to the bowstring. In the unwavering glow of the luminstone, the arrow’s steel tip gleamed.

  The king opened his mouth as though he meant to stop it, then he turned away.

  Briel said, “Time’s up, Human. Make your choice.” He drew back the bowstring until the fletching touched his cheek.

  No courage without fear, Rowen thought. He remembered something his brother used to say: Hard to fight when you’re dead. He cursed. Then he lowered the glass knife and shoved the Sylvan prince away. The king caught his son and helped him into a chair.

  Briel trained the still-drawn arrow on Rowen. “Now the knife.”

  Rowen tossed it to the floor, hoping it would shatter. Instead, its blade left a crack in the stone floor. Briel kicked the knife away. Then he relaxed the bowstring and drew his sword. Both guards leapt forward, seizing Rowen by the arms.

  King Loslandril retrieved the glass knife and came forward. “You attacked my son, despite being a guest in my kingdom. Whatever else happens in regards to Silwren, you must pay for that.”

  Rowen tried to fix a brave expression on his face. Then, in his most careful Sylvan, he said, “I surrender to your wisdom and justice.”

  King Loslandril regarded Rowen again. “Guards, step away from the prisoner but keep your swords drawn. Stab his legs if he makes any move other than what I order.”

  The guards reluctantly stepped back.

  Loslandril stepped forward and offered Rowen the glass knife, hilt-first.

  Stunned, Rowen took the knife. A chill raced up his arm. Over the king’s shoulder, he saw Briel’s eyes widen. Quivalen rose to his feet, opening his mouth to protest, but Loslandril stepped back, raising one hand to call for silence.

  His eyes never left Rowen. “Draw that knife across your right cheek, deep enough to bleed like a battle wound.”

  Rowen looked from Loslandril to Briel. The captain had recovered from his shock. He met Rowen’s gaze and nodded slightly. Rowen recalled something from El’rash’lin’s memories: a rarely employed ritual wherein a person accused of a crime was allowed to harm himself in return for a commuted death sentence.

  He’s still going to use me to try to get to Silwren. But ev
en if I had Knightswrath, there’s no way I could get past Briel and the guards. The best he could do was play along. Still, he flinched when he raised the knife and felt the cold edge against his cheek. Reflexively, he moved his hand away. He saw Briel half draw his sword, moving to flank the king in case Rowen decided to attack.

  No courage without fear. Rowen shut his eyes for a moment then opened them. Gods…

  He fixed his gaze on the king again, watching for some reaction as he dragged the knife across his face—a rush of cold, then heat, then stinging pain—but the king did not so much as blink.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CRACKS IN THE WALL

  Essidel lowered his shortsword to prevent a glint of errant light from splashing down the curved blade and giving away his position. He peered through the blue-black foliage. Ahead lay a scattering of stone ruins overgrown with grass and moss. He frowned. “You think Fadarah’s in Ish’kana?”

  Khi’as whispered, “Either here or the World Gate. If the latter, it won’t make a damn bit of difference, because we’ll never get there in time.”

  She’s right. Essidel had never seen the place before, but he had read about it. Ish’kana, the City of Friendship, had been built during the twilight of Shigella’s reign to commemorate the alliance between the Sylvs and the Isle Knights, intended to serve as both embassy and home to dignitaries from the Lotus Isles, Stillhammer, Ivairia, Atheion, and half a dozen other realms.

  Essidel almost laughed, surveying the ruins. See how well that turned out. He wished Rowen Locke were there to see the sight, then he felt a pang of guilt, realizing the Isle Knight was probably dead. He took a deep breath and let it go.

  He understood what Khi’as meant. Though relatively close to the capital, Ish’kana had been abandoned for centuries. No Sylv would come there. That meant that if Fadarah needed a home base inside Sylvos to plan his attack, the place was as good as any.