“And I trust these men aren’t Isle Knights.” Brahasti seized a Dhargothi-style silk fighting robe and slipped it on, followed by a sword belt. Seeing that the scabbard was empty, he held out his hand. Dagath reluctantly handed over the shortsword. Brahasti sheathed it. “Did they say anything?”
“Just to bring you before they burned the whole fort to ashes. The shorter one killed Lem just by pointing at him.”
Brahasti stopped pulling on his boots. “You said they weren’t Shel’ai.”
“Wasn’t wytchfire that killed Lem. He just kind of”—Dagath grimaced—“turned him inside out. Surprised you didn’t hear him screaming.”
I was busy. Brahasti finished dressing. “Captain, remind me to have you flogged. In the meantime, bring all the men to the front. Arm them with crossbows. If this goes bad, tell them all to shoot at the one who sent our valiant friend Lem to the gods. Is that clear?”
Dagath nodded. “Yes, Excellency.”
Brahasti glanced back at the dead Wyldkin girl. He sighed again then hurried out into the night to greet his guests. The night air made him shiver, but he rushed across the narrow bridge over the dry moat. His men stood at attention. Brahasti passed what he guessed was Lem, covered by a stained cloak, and faced the newcomers.
One of them, a tall bald man dwarfed by the cloaked immobile figures standing around him, stepped forward and grinned as if Brahasti were an old friend. Brahasti noted his black, rotten teeth.
“Here is one worth saving. A clever one. Mortal, weak, not brave, exactly… but clever.”
Brahasti frowned. “You have the advantage over me. I don’t see purple eyes or pointed ears, but my captain tells me you did something rather interesting to one of my men.”
“So I did.” The man bowed, though there was something mocking about the gesture. “My apologies, but I needed to prove a point. Now, I will prove another.” The man cast off his cloak and burst into flames.
Brahasti screamed. To his relief, he was not alone. Several sellswords even fired their crossbows. Some shot wildly, but a few managed to aim for the burning man threatening their lord. The crossbow bolts blurred past him then withered to ash before they could strike their intended target.
The flames vanished. The tall man stood unharmed, though his plain, Human features began to change. His jaw narrowed, his ears tapered, and his eyes turned to purple fire. The purple flames encircled pupils that were white, like icy moons. The man had not stopped smiling.
“I trust I have your attention. Now, I don’t mean to question your knowledge of history, but at the very least, you should have guessed by now that despite some of my more prominent features, I am not a Shel’ai.”
In the glow of torches, Brahasti saw a great shadow spreading behind the man. A moment later, he realized the man’s shadow—just his shadow—had grown wings. “A Dragonkin…”
“So I am.” The Dragonkin bowed. “My name is Chorlga. And I’m talking to you here, in front of your men, because I want everyone to hear what I have to say.” He raised his voice. “I have walked among you for a thousand years. I have killed more people than any plague your mother ever told you about. And I know what you’re doing here.”
He stepped forward with the speed of a striking serpent. Brahasti jumped, but Chorlga only squeezed his shoulder. “Lucky for you, I’m here to help. There are fertility potions that will quicken the process. With my assistance, what might otherwise take months and only work once in a thousand cases will yield lucrative results every time.” The Dragonkin raised one hand and seemed to produce a book from thin air. He handed it to Brahasti.
“By working together, my… particular hungers will be sated. And in return, you—all of you—will hold rank in my new empire. So long as you follow my orders, of course.” Chorlga gestured, and his three companions cast off their cloaks. Brahasti’s eyes widened. He heard the other mercenaries swear but resisted the impulse to draw back a step.
Chorlga said, “In the meantime, I will leave these here for your protection. In my absence, Dhargot, they will obey your commands. If you know what I am, I trust that you know what they are, too. When I return to check on your progress, I trust you will have the results I’m looking for.” Chorlga shimmered then vanished.
For a long time, no one spoke, though Brahasti eyed the blackened grass where Chorlga had stood. The charred grass formed the shape of wings.
Dagath turned and spat on the ground. “Am I cracked, or did that really just happen?”
Another sellsword answered, “If you have to ask, lift up that cloak and take a look at what’s left of Lem.”
Brahasti said, “Get back inside.” He glanced uncertainly at the three metallic figures looming over him. “You three… guard the prisoners.” He pointed.
Brahasti half hoped that nothing would happen. But with just a faint metallic creak, the three Jolym started forward. As they shambled across the bridge, the other sellswords dove out of the way. Brahasti noted that each of the Jolym’s hands ended in a weapon.
Brahasti was the last to enter the villa. He replayed the Dragonkin’s words in his mind. It seemed impossible that so much could have happened so quickly. Then he remembered the book. He stood beneath a torch and opened it. To his relief, he recognized the language: an ancient form of Dhargothi, said to have been a precursor to Shao. He could not read more than a few words of it, but he knew Dhargots who could. He could bring them to translate it.
That will take time. Time, and a great deal of money. But I can afford it. Besides, what choice do I have?
Nearing the bridge that led back toward his villa, he paused beside Lem’s corpse. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the cloak but almost immediately let it fall. He covered his mouth to keep from retching and eyed the three Jolym in the distance. They loomed over the pit where the prisoners were kept. Brahasti smiled.
Sooner or later, Karhaati or Fadarah will send for me. They’ll need me. Maybe they’ll even come to get me themselves. He hoped they would. He glanced behind him, out into the dark and endless night. He wondered where the Dragonkin had gone. He had the feeling that whatever the man had gone to do, it would involve actions that even Brahasti would find disquieting. He shuddered. Then he hurried back inside, shouting for Dagath to bring him another prisoner to play with.
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APPENDIX
THE CODEX LOTIUS (CONTINUED)
XXVI. Those who crave revenge will never know peace.
XXVII. Doubt is the seed of wisdom, but if ignored, it will choke all it touches.
XXVIII. To be a Knight, be half crane and half dragon.
XXIX. Legends are like laws: when they cease to function, change them.
XXX. Fortune and misfortune are not opposites but the same priest in two differently colored robes. To attain wisdom, heed not the priest but learn well his religion.
XXXI. Good fletchers are known by the straightness of their arrows. Like this, know a Knight by his enemies.
XXXII. One should not enter a privy and expect the smell of roses.
XXXIII. To learn a proud man’s true nature, knock him off his horse.
XXXIV. In the next life, the lamb rules the wolf.
XXXV. Let the accused face the accuser. Let the verdict end the trial, not preface it.
XXXVI. All are bound by law, or else none are bound by law.
XXXVII. Many a fool has followed a wise man off a cliff.
XXXVIII. Slay your enemies without pause, mourn their deaths without pretense, and brood long on the contradiction. This is the path to honor.
XXXIX. Impatience leads to death. Prudence leads to death. Honor leads to a good death.
XL. Speak and act justly, but to shame one’s enemies is to shame oneself.
XL
I. Fish yearn for the sunlight, only to be lured into the fisherman’s net. Like this, men yearn to be ruled.
XLII. One should not become a Knight if one desires a long life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There aren’t enough words in any of the languages of Ruun to express my deep gratitude to all the readers, editors, friends, and fellow writers whose support and passion helped make this book a reality. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Meyerhofer grew up in Iowa where he learned to cope with the unbridled excitement of the Midwest by reading books and not getting his hopes up. Probably due to his father’s influence, he developed a fondness for Star Trek, weight lifting, and collecting medieval weapons. He is also addicted to caffeine and the History Channel.
His fourth poetry book, What To Do If You’re Buried Alive, was recently published by Split Lip Press. He also serves as the Poetry Editor of Atticus Review. His poetry and prose have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Brevity, Ploughshares, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Rattle, and many other journals.
He and his fiancee currently live in Fresno, California, in a little house beside a very large cactus.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Appendix
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) Page 41
